A/N: What if the mask didn't take the Skull Kid into its evil clutches, but, instead, took the Hero of Time? Enjoy :)
Cover image from Tiffany-Tees on DeviantArt.
Disclaimer: The story below contains intellectual properties from Nintendo Co., including, but not limited to, The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask and The Legend of Zelda franchise, and are in no way owned by myself, nor do I claim ownership of any of the events that directly correlate with previous installments made by Nintendo Co. in the franchise The Legend of Zelda.
Reaper
By: Selphie Kinneas 175
.:.
In the darkness looms a threat.
A threat by which you will not recognize. A threat which at first seems too unthreatening.
He can see where you cannot. He can hear beyond the silence.
This fate befell such a day when all was otherwise at peace. When all was otherwise succumbed. When all was otherwise not as it is now.
How small a boy does seem when wandering the infinite. Even when his destiny is great, his courage greater, his legacy greatest of all. He is but a speck in the void created by gods.
All too curious strayed the hero. When into the wood his soul it did borrow. No chance to escape, no flitter nor flurry. Into dreamland his mind went weary. It saw an opening, to take as it wished. It saw his bright light all wrapped up like a gift. What a pleasant surprise, the demon discovered. And before he could wake by its evil he was smothered.
He gapes mouthless. He watches watchless. How can such heavenly benevolence by cloaked hands be brought asunder. How, when the deities claim to protect their children, can one such vital pawn left to monsters be. Now he is the monster from whom the monsters flee.
A story can be told of a mask. Though, who remains yet to retell it. Its eyes glow and see your very spirit beneath your bag of flesh. You lose control when the bells dance like wings aflutter in your ears. Your body does not obey you for you are not your body. You feel the flames burning from the inside out until you scream with all that is permitted for you to keep.
It is nothing. You are not permitted to keep a thing, for there is no longer a you for you to possess.
The neck creaks and the colors blind your sightless eyes. Red, yellow, purple. You think you see a hand but you remember that you cannot see. Then there is only the field and the sky and a single tree.
This is what takes the boy.
The boy, so good in all things. So good to his very core. So good that his good shines brighter than the stars against the gloom. The mask snuffs it out like nothing more than the quiet flicker of an abandoned campfire. The flame in his chest now sparks the blackest black. He is corrupted. He is not he. He is the mask. He is the reaper.
He takes from those foolish enough to wander the infinite as he once did. There is no memory of this he. He is changed. He vanishes in clouds of dusk. He appears in wisps of that blackest black that consumes all. Consumes everything. Consumes the nothing that is left over. Consumes. Reaps.
The cloak disguises what remains visible of the boy that no longer exists. The dagger in his left hand cuts the heart from those that fall like wriggling flies into a spiderweb. It wants to consume everything. He wants to consume everything.
In green and gold he flickers past. In red and purple gleams the mask. Once a hero, now the villain. By his grasp comes death most chilling. When aimless wander addles the mind, tortured cadence sounds like rhyme. Brave not the forest at your feet, lest a fate so terrible you will meet.
He came for a purpose that is long since passed. He came searching for a friend, now he will never leave. He is one with the forest. The fog obeys his command. It thickens and thaws as he approaches. It settles and sets as he departs. He is always there. He is always watching. A fate so terrible he met before and he meets again and he meets forever.
The mask was searching for the perfect host. Someone to take. To reap. To consume. To do its bidding and wreak destruction. Its power only recognized by an anchor most suitable. A mischievous child turns devilish. A fierce warrior turns wicked. The mask amplifies. The mask corrupts. The mask consumes.
Manipulating masquerade. Such elegant decay. The children come – they want to play. What is your true face? Does it obey? Who are your friends? What kind of people are they? What makes you happy? Does it abate? What is the right thing? Is it so plain?
They want to play with you. It rumbles from beneath. It rumbles from above. You do not want to play with them. It rumbles in your chest. It rumbles in your head. You do not have a choice. There is no you left to make a choice. The mask is you and you are the mask. There is only the mask.
You cannot take it off. It seeps into your being. Its sadistic desires taint your own. Its heinous appetite exaggerates your own. It cannot be stopped. There is no stop. There is no end. It takes you. It takes the boy. The boy takes all. He is the perfect puppet.
It never suspected such a powerful host. It would have taken any idle being, as it has taken for centuries and takes now and takes unending into a time where time does not constrain. But the pawn it found happened to be more glorious than it could have ever imagined. The power of the gods at its fingertips. Courage so limitless. Strength so boundless. Foolishness so bottomless.
The child from the trees was merely a guppy compared to the hero of legends. It would never relinquish him – he was too good a prize to misplace.
He destroys everything in his path. He is a ghost. He is a phantom. He is destruction. He is right beside you but he makes no sound in the dense trees. He follows behind you but he leaves no footprints in the impressionable dirt. Not a twig snaps. Not a bird flits away. Not a leaf rustles. The wind stills, the trees turn to stone, there is nothing. Then you hear the faintest laughter. It sounds distant, until you turn around and the eyes stare through you. Red and orange and yellow they burn. His head cocks and his bones crack. Silver glints from the side of his green tunic. The last thing you hear is laughter echoing, reverberating, repeating eternally.
The mask laughs and so he laughs too. The mask is he and the he is through. What grander purpose it did find. What great mastery of devilish divine. What splendid bells did ring. What voracious suffering. What stirring power from the deep. What marvelous machination to reap.
You should not have gone into the forest. You should not have danced with devils. You sit now on a field with no end beneath a sky with no end. You sit with the other children. They want to play with you. Then more arrive. And more. And more.
The mask is he and he is the mask. The mask wants to consume, destroy, reap.
And he would keep on reaping.
The mask demands it and he is the mask. The mask is he and he is the mask.
He is the reaper.
End.
A big thank you to the following for helping me get this one-shot out there!
Big Jake, Taki23, Lee Glerum, Jared Thomason, Moonfairy, Jacob Peachey, Owen Reilly, Anonymouse, Ivalee, Lotus Eater, Ethan Carney Fesler, Silvia Delgado, Emily Zuber, Sabine, wingdesire, Brandan Saldaña, Rob Walters, Yami No Nokutan, Mandelbrot, Jessie, Gabby-J, Claudia, Chloe Rose, SonadowKokoro100
You guys are amazing!