In the dungeon of the castle, Miles paced, and he wished something would distract him from his thoughts. There was so much going on, so much running through his mind…

As he paced, his wrist caught on the clawshot at his belt. He yanked his arm away, and the claw came to rest on his wrist. He was about to bat it away when he was struck by an idea. The weaponsmiths had come up with the hookshot first, then the clawshot… what about a wristshot? There were several tools in the workrooms of the castle. Invigorated by his idea, he raced up there, passing many confused servants that were cleaning up the halls and retiring for the night. The need for distraction drove him.

Once in the workroom, he tossed the clawshot on the table, bringing together the tools to examine it. The tips of the claws were very sharp, which gave him another idea. Writing it down, he focused on the creation of the wristshot. The clawshot used a spring loaded chain launcher, which spooled in a circle in front of the user's hand. Obviously, the wristshot would not have the same range, as the chain would need to fit into a gauntlet of medium proportions. Unless… what if the chain was thinner? He had heard the smiths marveling at a metal they had purchased mass quantities of from the eastern neighboring kingdom. They called it Mythril, and said it was unbelievably strong and light at the same time.

The fighter nodded. His training with the Sheikah spurred him into action, finding the chunks of raw ore in several large barrels. Luckily, the forge possessed chain molds of varying size. His mind's troubles draining away, Miles fired up the forge, taking a few minutes to lay out his materials: ore, smelting tools, a half-inch chain mold, and more. When he finished, the forge was burning hot. He figured Mythril would have a higher melting point, and he was right. Stripping off his shirt once again, he slipped on the heavy blacksmith's apron and the thick gloves that protected him from the heat of the forge. He then prepared the ore in a tiny pouring vat, and stuck it in. The metal was difficult to melt, but he was able to liquefy it in no more than a minute. Drawing the red hot pouring vat out, he dripped it carefully into the chain mold. Setting the vat into a coal bay, he grabbed the mold and submerged it into a water barrel – a metal with this high of a melting point wouldn't need all of the usual tempering methods. When he drew it out, he dumped the mold's contents onto a blacksmith's towel, which lay on a large table away from the burning forge.

Slipping off the gloves, Miles held up the link. It gleamed in the firelight, its top end slightly open. It was perfect. To attach more links, all he needed to do was slip one inside another, and heat it slightly while it was in the vise. Of course, the new link would be moved to the closed side while the open side was heated and squeezed. Then another link could be added to the new link, and so on and so forth.

Miles continued pouring links until he had enough links for a thirty foot chain. The links had come out a bit on the thin side, and though that worried Miles, he remembered that it was a new metal, and so he did not know his limits.

The fighter strung all of the links together within the space of fifteen minutes, and held in his hands a thirty foot Mythril chain. The metal felt nearly weightless, and had a great snap to it. He wondered how tensile it was. Looking around, he found a heavy-duty set of hooks in one wall, meant for holding whole sets of armor. Wrapping one end of the chain around a hook, he climbed up the wall. Two or three feet up, he yanked backward with all of his might.

Not even a creak.

Miles hopped down, inspecting each and every one of the links. They hadn't bent in the slightest, each one in the same shape and form they had been in when they were created and strung together.

The fighter gathered the materials used for a traditional scout's gauntlet – metal plating and leather, with an awl and metal spikes. He fished around and found some materials that, when worked on, would produce suitable chain compartments.

Miles examined the clawshot, observing the mechanisms that made the claws open and close as well as the joints of the claws themselves. They attached to a triangular plate via hinges. Easy enough. Of course, the wristshot's claws would be smaller, but that would increase their gripping power. They would also fold up and slide inside of the chain compartment when not in use.

The firing mechanism was a little trickier. For the wristshot, he wouldn't be able to use triggers like the clawshot had. So how would he fire it? He considered triggers on the back of the gauntlet, but reaching over with his other hand in combat would be impractical. Then he hit upon an idea.

The gauntlet was to be for the left hand. A gauntlet, by ritual, usually only extended to within an inch of the meat of the hand. But what if he added a lever that extended an inch further that, when he snapped his hand to the left, would fire the tool? It was more practical as well, because the wristshot would end up shooting through the gap between his thumb and index finger. It was perfect.

Miles got to work, putting together the gauntlet and firing the blades. After affixing the blades, he threaded the chain into the winding compartment he'd made, a forearm-long, two inch wide, rigid scabbard like the ones the assassins used for their hidden blades.

After the wristshot was complete, Miles slipped it on, strapping it to his forearm. It fit

snugly and comfortably, with no movement whatsoever. Excited, he dashed out to the castle courtyard.

The moon was still out, though he'd been working for several hours now. Miles leveled the wristshot at a tree twenty feet away. It sailed out, the musical clinking of the Mythril chain breaking the night silence. The claws latched precisely around the branch; it was as if the tool was an extension of his hand. As they latched, he suddenly remembered something; how would he get it to retract? Unintentionally, he released the lever, and the winding mechanism continued working, vaulting him into the tree. It was much faster than the clawshot, too. Hopping down, he experimented. The wristshot locked onto a small log, and Miles wrapped his hand around the chain, grabbing it. The wristshot was silent, not attempting to retract the chain. Perfect. He let go, and the chain whipped back into its compartment, the log flying into his hand. He started laughing. It was absolutely perfect!

Miles rushed back to the forge to begin his second idea, his right gauntlet: the bladeshot. It would be the same concept as the wristshot, except that it would have a groove in the chain bay where the forearm-long blade folded in on a locking-hinge hilt.

The fighter worked for a couple of hours, streamlining the process with what he had learned while making the wristshot. After a sweaty ordeal, the bladeshot was finally complete. The chain was much shorter than the wristshot's chain, only seven feet long, but the bladeshot was designed with combat in mind; any longer than seven feet presented a risk to himself. Slipping it on, he tried it out.

With the flick of his wrist, the blade sprang open from the underside of his forearm, the hilt secure at the edge of the chain bay in perfect range for his hand to grasp. From there, he could either launch it forward or grab it like a normal sword. While fighting, he would also be able to release all of the chain without launching the blade, turning it into a distance weapon. The seven foot chain served as a handhold so he could swing the small blade around. He had carved his own mold for the blade; it had a three inch combat handle and the blade was six inches long and an inch and a half wide. The blade was very thin, but that made the edge very sharp. A normal knife would have broken at that thinness, but multiple whip-style strikes against the stone walls without so much as a bend proved Mythril to be well worth his while. Looking closely, he could see that he had actually damaged the wall. Incredible.

Tired, the boy sighed. Now that he'd completed this weapon, there was something he needed to do. Flipping his wrist, he folded the bladeshot back under his forearm in gauntlet position before cleaning the forge up. It took a while, as he had to quell the fire and clean the instruments, but within a short time everything was back in its place, the smith's apron and gloves hanging in their usual spot.

Slipping his shirt on, he wondered what he was going to name his new weapons. His first thought was Grabby and Stabby, and the thought caused him to double over in laughter. He was becoming almost as retarded as Akrir. Almost.

Silently, he tiptoed up the steps, passing Link's lodgings, his guest apartments, Zelda's royal chambers, Tanizau's quarters, until he finally stood before Archaea's door. Hesitantly, he knocked.

The door opened after a few seconds, the assassin clad only in the sheet from her bed. It was very thin, and Miles forced himself to look only at her face. She frowned, and looked down.

In his hands, he held Thorn it its scabbard, parallel to the ground.

She looked at him again, trying to discern if this was some sort of cruel joke as she wrapped the sheet around herself.

"Do you come here to taunt me?" she sneered.

"If I was guilty," Miles sighed. "This doesn't belong to me."

Archaea took the sword from him, caressing it lovingly. Stepping back, she drew it, running her finger down the flat of the blade.

"There are no marks," she marveled, "no chinks or scratches. But you fought with it."

"I honored it as I honor the man who once wielded it," he told her. "None of my weapons have scratches on them save Wrath, and those were only sustained recently."

"When?" She was confused. "With skill such as that, it would take immense power to… Link?"

Miles nodded. "Ragnarok. My battle with Link damaged Wrath a little bit."

Before he could react, she drew Wrath from over his shoulder and examined it.

"But this just looks like normal wear and tear."

The fighter shrugged, and she returned the blade.

"It's damage to me."

Pulling him inside the room, she shut the door, sheathing Thorn.

"You really fought him to protect me?"

Miles looked down. "I couldn't let you die. I've already failed you once."

Archaea paused. "…thank you."

She set the sword down, embracing him. He felt awkward as he hugged her back.

"I'm sorry about everything," she reflected. "None of this was your fault. I just… I don't understand…" She paused, head against his shoulder, somehow finding comfort in his embrace. "I don't feel the way I used to, but I don't want to lose you. I hope that we may maintain a friendship." Releasing him, she looked at him. "Do you think that will be possible?"

Miles deliberated within himself. Part of him wanted to scream NO and run away, and the other realized that this friendship could be valuable to both of them, not to mention Link and Zelda, and Tanizau. Eventually, mind won out over heart.

"It will work."

She smiled. "I'd hoped you would say that."

"As it is," Miles added as he stepped away, toward the door, "I may need some… time."

She nodded. "I'm… sorry."

"The fault is not yours." He looked back at her. "Take care of the sword; it is the last piece of Torig the Selfless that remains in this world."

The door shut softly, and Archaea was surprised to find a tear on her cheek.


Notes from HylianShield: So yeah. Wristshot and bladeshot awesomeness. Grabby and Stabby? No, I was too tired when I made that up. Ha ha. Anyways, hope you like the idea. You'll get to see them in action soon...