Hi there and welcome to chapter 2. I apologize for the wait! I hope you all enjoy what's here and I really can't wait to hear your thoughts.
I'll be updating this and Time - Part III as regularly as I can, so there's a little bit for everyone's tastes.
Thanks to all who have added this to their favorites, followed, reviewed, etc. Please keep in touch because it keeps me motivated and makes me super happy.
Enjoy!
His eyes flutter open to a canopy of twisted trees, the view rocking slowly back and forth. His body, he notices, is limp and his arms have fallen back, dangling in the air. He tilts his head to the right and notices the figure carrying him, one not of much stature but armed in weathered iron - the breastplate piercing into his side - and a face covered by an antiqued helm with nothing but a narrow slit for eyes. There is dried blood on the shoulder plates, and a strange black ooze creeping up through the chainmail underneath.
Link grunts softly and tries to move, but the figure tightens its grip around him as it continues its trek through the forest. His eyes open wide as he realizes he has not the strength for escape.
"Don't move," it says, a soft, muffled voice from beneath the metal.
His form tightens, apprehensive. "I couldn't if I tried," he answers.
The heavy boots of the figure slosh through the swamp like terrain, stepping deeply but carefully through the murkiness as if something were to come out and tangle itself around the ankles. In the distance, Link spots a small hut, lit by a torch on its perimeter, flickering like a beacon in the dismal horizon. He figures he is either to be killed, eaten, or to be saved and fed. He hopes for the latter.
Finally he is placed to the ground, and his legs give way, betraying him as his knees pummel to the ground below. The figure comes under him and lifts his left arm around its shoulder.
"Walk," it commands, and it begins to move, supporting Link onward. Stepping up to the doorway, the figure pushes the entrance open and balances him inside, setting him down beside a fireplace and a pot of boiling something. There is not much here besides a table in the center, a few chairs and blankets toward the other corner, and the scent inside this place is reminiscent of moldy earth and extinguished candles. It is quiet except for the crackles of flames, the occassional rustle of something unseen outside in the forest. A dead body lay across from him, slightly decayed, its smell unpleasant. It has been taken care of even after its passing, propped up against some pillows, eyelids closed from the world.
"He was not so fortunate, I take it," Link observes aloud, his cautious eyes glancing to the figure near the fireplace and back to the lifeless form beside him.
The figure walks away from him, fingertips trailing along the slightly dusty surface of the table. "Not all who wander here are men," the figure says, and its helm is then removed, and beneath it spills a long ponytail of chestnut. The female face turns to him, looking disdainfully, amber colored eyes watching, ridiculing. There is a slight hatred there, behind the irises, distrusting. The expression then changes, softness being swept over her features.
"I suppose not," Link says, eyebrows raised. "My apologies." He coughs and then winces in pain, as the wound on his chest reopens. He brings his palm to it, and there his blood lingers.. there is always blood on these hands, he thinks, but it is rare that it is my own.
The girl rushes toward him and kneels beside him. With a clean cloth she gestures to him, "You must take this off," she says hurriedly, and begins to unfasten the many belts across his tunic. She fumbles, not knowing where to start.
He dismisses her gently with a wave of his hand, "Let me do it," he says, and hissing through his teeth from the injury, he takes the first buckle on his chest and unfastens it. He removes two belts total from across his body, one for his quiver and the other for his sheath. They fall to the ground behind him. He lifts the hooded cloak from over his head, and lets it tumble from his shoulders. The tunic next, he takes from its hem and pulls up, but as his arms reach up, another jolt of pain races down from his shoulder to the wound on his chest. The girl reaches for him and gives him a most serious look, and he relinquishes as he lets her tug the fabric up over his head. The chainmail she addresses as well, trying ever so gently to remove it without hindrance.
She stares at him, shirtless, exposed. "You're not what I was expecting," she states softly. Her eyes roam his form, the red liquid glistening off his pectoral, delicious almost like strawberry jelly. She reaches out to touch it, finger pressing through to warm skin underneath. He wonders if she may taste it.
He glances at her, through long lashes, the pain from her touch somewhere in between excruciating and pleasant. "I'm bleeding," he reminds her, "quite a bit, if I might add."
"Oh!" she exclaims, quickly removing her finger and presses the clean cloth to his chest. "Hold this," she says before running to a drawer on the other side of the room. As she returns with healing ointments, flasks of potions, and begins to dress the wound, Link notices something very odd about her hand. Darkened is the skin upon it, rotten and no longer alive. The potions she uses works quickly, and relief swells upon him.
"My sister," the girl begins as she continues tending to his wound, "she would have wanted me to help you. You see, she was a very kind girl. She was slain, just the other day, her soul stolen from her. I have never seen a light fade so quickly.. her eyes, so dark.. her skin.. decaying in moments before me!" She speaks very quickly, almost crazed as she finishes his sutures. "I could not leave her there near the temple! I'm all alone now. What do I do? I'm going to die." The last stitch she pulls tightly, causing Link to wince as she ties the knot. "Those monsters in the woods.." snip from the dagger as she cuts the thread, "they're going to pay. I will take all their souls and make them rot in hell!" And she begins crying, the dagger falling to the floor.
Link quietly takes the dagger and tucks it beneath his left leg. "What is your name?" he asks softly.
She lifts her head not, but speaks to the ground, tears falling in little droplets to the stone. "Celadore," she answers.
"Celadore," he repeats, "thank you."
She sniffles.
"Celadore," he says again, "you mentioned a temple, did you not?"
She shakes her head, not wanting to comply.
"If you show me the way, I will help you avenge your sister's life."
She looks at him not. "You.. trust me?" she asks. Her eyes search for the dagger she thought she had placed on the ground beside her.
Link finds said weapon beneath his thigh, and brings it out slowly, nearing her face. Pointing it towards her, the crooked tip aiming between both her eyes. "Looking for this?" he remarks.
"Your eyes are too kind to use it," she says, studying.
"You know nothing of what I've seen," he replies.
She stands slowly. "I could say the same to you."
Lilith, Celadore's sister had yelled as the pair ran through the tangled sanctuary, cuts adorning her cheeks from the thorned fingers of the branches. Behind them Wolfos snarled and jumped at their backs, about five or six tailing them as a pack.
The white wrapping dangled in her grasp, and she knelt amidst the stones and dead grass and focused her mind. "Help us, those of the shadow," she willed aloud, and Celadore braced herself against her sister's back, braced herself for the onslaught that she saw snarling, running toward them, teeth bared and salivating.
It had only taken a moment or two - the white wrapping disappearing from Lilith's hands and a white fog replaced it - one which grew larger and larger until it stood and took the shape of a person. The figure materialized completely and bowed elegantly, and the summoned one from the Company of Shadows then spoke aloud, "run," and it took neither of the girls a second to move, scrambling, tripping over the terrain.
The summoned Sheikah brandished two daggers, one which glowed a sickly green; dripping like an ooze from the walls of those old, diseased temples. She ran with the sisters, falling to the back, and lunged at the closest Wolfos, the poisoned blade slicing through fur, flesh, and whatever had started to rot beneath to give Lilith and Celadore a chance for escape.
When Celadore had managed to gain enough ground, she turned around, brought out her longsword. It gleamed in the night, freshly polished, and she ran toward the monsters, her sister Lilith screaming behind her, "No!" but she joined the Sheikah, gave a little nod, and the two went at it - blades sweeping through the air, the whoosh whoosh of dancing metal, the moist slick of contact.
And that was when the large bird, a crow of disproportionate size, flew down from the angry trees and set its sight on Celadore - squawking, its form narrowed, wings collapsed, ready for the kill.
The Sheikah turned around suddenly, but before she could get close enough to fend the beast off, Lilith had come running and did not stop until she was in front of Celadore; her face in anguish, tears so heavy they could be seen drip, dripping as she ran. And it was such a bad idea, and the summoned Sheikah knew all too well her fate.
The giant crow landed atop Lilith's head, pecking and thrashing wildly. The poor little girl screamed and flailed her arms wildly, and even though Celadore was stricken with fear she ran her longsword through the bird's body, the red liquid so lovely atop the shiny steel.
She knelt down before her sister's form, and stupidly touched the reddened flesh that remained there - the Sheikah's quick "don't!" was a bit too late.
No matter.
The two then finished the remaining beasts off, and with the final one vanquished Celadore could see the wispy tug on the summoned Sheikah's form - the pull that would bring her back to whence she came before. But before she could return home, she said with melancholy, "you've touched her.."
And Celadore said, "I know."
With the tainted blood absorbing into her fingertips, she knew very well her fate, but she grasped onto her sister's still body anyway, and carried her out of the woods.
The temple could wait. There was no refuge for them there anymore.
It was in the little hut that she lay Lilith down, laid her atop some pillows and covered her in a blanket. The blood coursed through her, made her think funny, feel dizzy. And in this state she went outside, blindly searching for anyone at all, anyone who could help, though she knew the truth and no help could be had.
"So do not accuse me of not knowing the hells of this world," Celadore says, grabbing the weapon from Link's grasp. She points it at him, hand shaking. "The hells of this world took my sister.. she was all I had left."
He waits for a moment, watches her and says, "then we have some things in common." He relaxes in his seated position, wounds sewn but stinging nonetheless, and continues to observe her with eyes half-open, for he could never trust a soul.
Solari returns, kneeling to the ground, reappearing inside a small chamber inside the Shrine of Nayru. She is alone here, trembling, covered in splatters of red from the monstrous crow.
She stays like this for a while, for the tremendous guilt of not protecting her summoners plagues her heart. Yet she had taken it anyway, the sister's glowing orb, the soul that had departed from the little girl's motionless body as life had escaped her.
Removing the hood from her head, she lets her hair fall free - dingy amber locks sticking to her skin - and she prays to Nayru even though the goddess has left her with silence for a long while. The stinging in her eyes is only a reminder of being alive and having a soul, a reminder she feels less than worthy to have after having collected one.
And later when she finally exists the chamber and walks the moonlit paths, she circles right around the Tree of Rutela - its glowing petals though eerily beautiful are not enough to bring any joy to the night. The slight chanting from the temple above the perimeter not enough to ease her anxiety; her fellow Sheikah's whispers penetrating her heart with foreboding.
And past the tree, the statue of Nayru, eyes of dispassionate gray leers like a beacon from across the way - probing her, deciding if she was worthy enough to kneel before her. Yet Solari gathers her courage and walks closer ever still, the only sounds are her footsteps across the stone, the distant chimes dinging, the voices.. so far away now.. so far away.
As she nears the statue's base, she looks to her left and realizes she is not alone.
There is another, praying, hair of radiant gold and braided, breath so light that none could hear.
She lowers slowly, kneeling too, and a delicate voice ushers forth from beside her,
"Was it your first?"
The silence hangs in the air after that, and following the pangs of guilt she feels swell through her gut, she responds, "It was."
She eyes the other, trailing over the soft features mixed with hardened symmetrical angles, and asks, "You are Impa's son?"
"I am."
For some reason she feels her curiosity pique, and she knows well that most would remain in silence around the young man, however the fear and the taboo situation compels her, and she continues to speak to him as if her tongue were a snake with a mind of its own. He looks to her, his eyes like the blood from that poor little girl flicker and there is a stillness in him and she wonders how someone so lovely and unsettling can exist.
"Have you ever..?" she asks.
"No," he says and after a moment, "did the summoner survive?"
She returns her focus to the stone at which she kneels upon, brings out her hands from beneath her cloak. The crimson stains still present smeared across her palms, she reaches them out and he looks knowingly, nodding insignificantly.
"There were so many of them.. I could not fend them off.." she whispers.
He tilts his head slightly, curiously. "There are always too many of them," he says.
And she wonders why he says this, for he said he had never been summoned himself, but she has heard the stories of his unmercifulness and remembers he has killed before - the blade he wielded that danced through the necks of others - saving them all from the rampage that ensued years ago. But a hero he is not, she senses, for his demeanor shows no empathy and it is almost selfish in a way.. yes, she knows of his unbridled loyalty to Nayru - everyone speaks of it - and he has loved no one so intensely but her.
A true warrior, she would argue to herself, for one who is true to the blade feels not at all.
Something she could never fathom.
"I lost my sister to a summons, in the desert wastelands. You knew her well," Solari says.
He sighs visibly, his chest rising a great deal and falling.
She moves closer to him boldly, reaching into her cloak and in her hands as she reveals them again is a blue shining orb, pulsating, flickering like candle's flame, beating like a heart.
"I offer this to you, Sheik, " she begins, "in exchange for your wisdom, your strength. I.. wish to avenge my sister's death, to make her proud of me.. for her to have died knowing I did not come into this world as a weak failure."
She remains with her palms to him, and he is motionless too but thinking very deeply, the ethereal blue casting its light across his features like a fairy's glow from so long ago.
"It is a soul," she says softly. "A soul from a little girl. I know you seek to procure souls for the goddess Nayru to help bring peace to this world, and this soul was onced housed in a particularly brave Hylian girl. I am sure Nayru would be pleased to have it."
Her eyes tremble, quivering and begging and she is insistent. "Guide me to the temple in the desert wastelands, advise me as much as you can along the way. That is all I ask."
"What do you plan to do there?" he asks.
"Find anything that remains of my sister. Find clues as to who summoned her."
Sheik stands, brushing his knees off lightly. "There is nothing left," he says quietly.
"I do not believe that," she says standing as well, and in a quick motion before turning around to go, she places the soul in his hands and with a soft, "thank you," she exits into the night.
He watches her form fade past the Phosphor Trees, and he shakes his head at the thought of the naive poor girl and her preposterous plan for revenge. Yes, he could lead her and protect her to the best of his abilities, but she has no idea what is out there.. past the fields.. she does not comprehend the horrors there, the death, the beasts, the perpetual wretchedness.
She will die, most likely.
However, his plan to set out soon for his own journey complemented her's very nicely - the timing just right -and even though most everyone knew him as somewhat stoic, cold hearted.. they were wrong. Inside he too wished for a better life.
The music he played that night in the temple hall was somber.
It was an elegy to many things - to the dead girl's soul, to the decline of the goddesses, to his own possible death.
His fingers strummed along the strings, each note plucked vibrating everlasting. He did not care who listened, he did not even know who was there. With eyes shut to the world, he played a song just for himself.
He did not trust Nayru. He believed and hoped that the terrible beings the goddesses had manifested into could be reversed, that he could fill each one with enough souls to cleanse them of the poisons that had clouded their previously good-natured ways.
He would slaughter the creatures, the lesser beings for souls. He would take the giant souls from the temple guardians, and if rubbed particularly the wrong way, he would kill a man for one too. For some reason he was chosen for this and he did not know why, did not remember when he could begin hearing Nayru's words or when the desire grew inside of him to do her bidding.
The many candles around the perimeter of the hall continued to burn and their wax continued to melt, the incense strong, cloudy smoke circled through the air and hovered on the ground. And a red-headed girl walks up to him now, sitting carefully on the ground and she closes her eyes as she listens to him play.
He senses her there, opens up his eyes, and he observes a faint smile there upon her lips.
"Don't stop," she says.
He slows his fingers, but continues, watching her carefully.
There is a fresh scar, large and across her right cheek, just below her eye and downward to her jawline. Her hair, although washed is not styled in any way. Her posture is relaxed, not elegant or poised. Her shoulders slouch and she sits with her legs crossed over one another, and she takes a deep breath that looks like one she had been holding for a long while.
"It's so nice," the girl named Malon continues and her smile fades, wetness forming beneath her eyelids. She does not feel ashamed by it though, does not wipe the tears as they fall down her cheeks. And she opens her eyes now, and her right one, the one just above the scar is reddened, blood-stained. Injured.
In a strange way, Sheik thinks this makes her appear lovely. Her bravery apparent.
And she notices him looking, and raises a hand to cover her eye. "It's terrible, I know," she says.
"Not at all," he says from beneath the white cowl he wears now across his nose and mouth, the words coming out hushed and breathy.
"I didn't realize it was so bad until I looked in a mirror," she laughs gently, awkwardly.
"There are worse ways to look," he says and adds, "at least you are alive." He reaches to his side, a small pouch fastened there, lifts the leather flap, and pulls from inside it a thin piece of parchment, longer than it is wide. He kneels on one knee beside her, places the parchment in his hand. "Would you like it to go away?" he asks.
"I.." she begins, hesitant from both his question and his close proximity. He smells of an herb she can't quite place, masculine, strong but pleasant. Pretty. Clary sage, jasmine, sandalwood. He looms a bit and she feels confused, a tingle in her thighs elicited, a little bit of fear rising in her chest. And he touches her, his left hand trailing over her forehead and down her brow, and she closes her eye in response. He continues down, and keeping his index and middle finger placed lightly over her eyelid, he uses his right hand to grip the parchment, and with a quick squeeze - a reflex so instantaneous - the paper lights up and then burns away.
"A Healing Miracle," he says, "magic that heals all wounds."
And his hand drifts away from her and she opens her eyes.
"Is it gone?" she asks.
"Of course," he says. And now, an eye for an eye, or so they say. "Tell me more about the man who saved you."