A/n: Sweet Jesus on a bagel, this chapter took forever to chug out. Real life sucks (ironically) the life out of you.
Regardless, I am now done with this chapter, and due to a recent re-obsession with Brawl and Nintendo altogether, I'm super hyped to get the story moving. It helps that your reviews have been absolutely mind-blowing. I read them every time I hit a slump, and though I don't respond to them (because I am overtly shy like that), I love and appreciate every one of you!
This chapter in particular is dedicated to my dearest beloved Jen who drew me the first ever The Flames fanart and for asking, time and again, "Yeah, what happened to your story?" I love you, sweetie! :3
(On a side note: this is the longest chapter to date, having been completed at a whopping 6,000+ words. Holy damn, I outdid myself.)
Revisions: 3/14/14
The Flames
Chapter Four:
The Jungle
She had been dressed in her Sheikan armor, twisted in a sort of pretzel yoga pose on the oval rug of their room—trying her hardest to not think about a certain obnoxious sword-wielding dictator who had suddenly made her life a living hell—when Peach barged in without warning. The door flung open, hit the ornate mirror that hung on the wall near it, and then promptly ricocheted back to smack the blond princess in the face.
There was a brief milli-second moment of shocked silence (in which Zelda contemplated in her upside-down state whether or not the figure which had just entered the room so ungracefully, so un-Peach-like, was, in fact, Peach at all) before Zelda untangled herself to spring to her friend's rescue.
"Peach!" she gasped, mortified, hands already reaching for the emergency tea kit that lay on her roommate's desk. "Are you okay?"
Peach, for her part, looked completely undeterred by the fact that her nose was now red or even that her favorite mirror now had a crack in its center. "Never mind that," she huffed in turn, brushing aside a misplaced lock while trying to regain her breath. In fact, when Zelda gave her friend a good look over, she was wholly surprised at the sight of her—hair a mess, dress wrinkled, and face flushed, as if she had run a mile and over several obstacles and through perhaps even a dragon to get to their room.
Zelda's intrigue and worry peaked tenfold.
Did Samus do something scandalous again?
"What's going on?" she asked cautiously.
Peach's eyes glinted with insurmountable excitement in the kind of way that warned the Hylian that something profound was afoot, a sort of unmistakable beacon of mischief as bright and twinkling as one of Mario's precious gold coins. "Today's brawl competitors have been announced."
"And?"
"And," Peach repeated, grin widening, smile practically bursting at the seams, "Bowser is fighting."
For all her wisdom and no matter how many times she looked at it from different angles, Zelda failed to recognize the significance of this particular bit of information; brawls were publicly posted on the announcement board everyday, and she had seen it on her way back from the target arena yesterday, tacked to the wall in a bright, elegantly bordered letterhead. Other than the well-placed and utterly expected surge of anger she felt course through her at the mere sight of Bowser's printed name (and resisting, albeit only slightly, the urge to scribble some offensive rumor next to it), there was nothing out of the norm about the match.
Must be a slow news day, Zelda concurred if this was all there was behind the mad rush to their room. At the brunette's clear expression of confusion, though, Peach sighed in exasperation like she had just come across someone applying the wrong shade of eyeshadow.
"My dear, obviously naive roommate," the blond princess began in a slightly chiding tone, hand grasped sympathetically (pityingly, even) within her own, "clearly, if you spent half the time you spend cooped up in here outside in the marvelous spacious world among our socialites," Peach paused to breathe or perhaps for dramatic effect (either was likely with a person like her), "you would know that Ness, his original opponent, had to drop out due to some uncompromising situation regarding his hat."
Kirby must have eaten it again, Zelda thought automatically (as was a recurring event with Kirby) before arching a skeptical brow at her friend. "So? I don't see how—"
"And you would know," Peach cut her off without skipping a beat, "that Link—quite eagerly, I may add—just stepped up to the plate and volunteered to fight our favorite evil turtle instead."
Presicely at that very moment, a jingle from the Smash manor's various speakers began to play, the words muted as slowly, like the trickle of hot lava down the expanse of a mountain, comprehension sunk in.
"Oh..."
"And you would know," Peach continued, this time guiding Zelda towards the door as she spoke, "that Link just left his room for battle, looking like he was out for the blood of a certain reptilian brawler who is, should I remind you, twice his size and easily snapped the arm of his girlfriend no less."
Zelda inhaled sharply, mortification effectively rendering her wide-eyed. "Oh my Goddesses, Bowser is going to kill him."
Peach nodded sagely. "Most likely, dear."
The battle, she realized in hindsight, was going to be a victory on Link's part long before it even began and despite any misgivings she might have had. He had motif, after all—had, in a sense, something particular to regain—and was all the more persistent in attaining victory. Even Zelda could see from her spot in the crowd the dead-serious expression on his face, could feel, even from her remote distance, his determination come off in awe-inspiring waves.
It left Zelda a little breathless.
There was a loud thud when Link's sword plunged downward and narrowly missed Bowser's large, scaly foot, Bowser having dodged just in the nick of time by falling haphazardly to the side. Having failed to hit the intended target, the sword was now wedged deeply within the concrete flooring of the arena. Link, regardless, pulled it out so fluidly it was as if he had just unwedged his weapon not from concentrated rock but rather butter.
There was now a gaping indent in the ground, as deep and black and wide as Wolf's penchant for pranks—a blatant token of Link's power, of his resentment.
The audience around her collectively oh'ed.
Peach, seated nearby on her cushion and under a pink, frilled umbrella, tugged on the sleeve of the brunette's dress enthusiastically. "My goodness, Zelda. You never told me Link could be so unthinkingly harsh!" She aired herself briefly with a feathered fan. "I've never seen him like this."
Zelda bit her lip. Truth be told, very rarely had even she seen Link act so aggressively and she knew him for years (maybe even centuries, if the Hylian legends were anything to go by). He was quite possibly the sweetest man she had ever met, oftentimes shy and bashful and even borderline geeky when he wanted to be. Insults slid off him like water against a wall of titanium, as if harmful comments were nothing but balls of cotton against his invisible armor of good humor.
Quite unlike every other man I know, she admitted with a certain level of pride.
Seeing him so angry now, though, reminded her acutely of the very few occasions Link had been driven to the point where even his happy-go-lucky attitude could no longer withstand it. The destruction of Hyrule was on that exclusive list of generators, as was bug squishing and animal cruelty and now, apparently, the breaking of Zelda's arm.
Angry Link, she decided as she tried following Link's swift swings of his sword with her eyes (and found it startlingly impossible to do so), was like a different Link altogether, one who seemed to forget where he was and who he was as if none of that mattered.
Somehow, for some inexplicable reason, this was oddly troubling.
She watched with an increasing sense of worry as Bowser broke through his opponent's defenses and landed a coiled fist straight into Link's face. The green-clad elf fell back (nose gushing blood) and, having been surprised by the swiftness of the attack, lost grip of his sword as it skidded several feet behind him with a dreadful, echoing shudder of metal against cobble. The turtle grinned a smile all sharp teeth and malice, a smile so familiar and nightmarish that Zelda actually felt a terrifying sense of deja vu course through her like one of Pikachu's electric shocks.
Without a hitch and to her immediate relief, however, Link was quick to react; before Bowser could even grasp the given opportunity to grab and harm his opponent, Link, with a level of preparedness Zelda had never seen, swiftly kicked the oncoming threat with the heal of his boot, right in the chin and with a force that caused a few teeth to fly.
The reptilian brawler lost consciousness and rolled off the edge like a lifeless log faster than Zelda could have blinked or breathed or counted the number of times Falco had ever eaten chicken (which was zero, for the record, that one time when Wolf had tricked him notwithstanding). The speed of the retaliation left her stunned if not a little mystified; when did Link get so good? How did he get so good?
And, most importantly, was he always this good? Her Link (the Link she thought she knew) never really trained, was prone to declining brawl challenges, and on the whole seemed more interested in protesting the misuse of animals with the Pokemon crew ("Liberate our furry friends! Ban the use of pokeballs!") then care where he stood in the ranks.
And yet, here he is, holding ground against an opponent I had major problems against. There is a certain irony to this all.
She felt admiration and jealousy simultaneously nip at her toes.
Her shame was short-lived, however, for the victory melody flourished all around them and the audience erupted into loud applause as the match came to finalized, definite end. Zelda berated herself for feeling so down when her boyfriend had just won and clapped enthusiastically instead, watched as the harsh lines on Link's face slowly melted away, much like the melting of ice, to an expression of mild surprise. He was glowing with post-battle pride, scratching the back of his neck with his usual shyness as he got up and retrieved his sword and was then offered a wreath designating his win.
As soon as his fingers touched the trophy, he turned towards the crowd, eyes earnestly darting left and right in a manner she immediately recognized as a search for her face. When their gazes finally locked, she grinned at him, waved timidly, and observed with wonderment as his whole expression brightened tenfold to a sheen as brilliant as the sun that beat down at them, as if her acknowledgment and that alone was the true prize for his successful duel.
"This one is for you, Zelda!" he hollered, waving the wreath excitedly in the air, practically jumping in his spot.
In an instant, several eyes were gazing at her remote location at the top of the audience bench, some in amusement, others in confusion, and one (Samus) with a thumbs up. Zelda could only laugh awkwardly before sinking into her seat, embarrassed and touched and only slightly mortified at the sudden attention.
Before Link could even pause to breathe, her socially oblivious boyfriend continued to proclaim from the stage in an equally loud voice that her "honor was now reclaimed" and that, thus, he was going to "treat her for lunch at Olimar's new restaurant."
"And I hear it's green!" he added, almost as an afterthought, glittering in the sunlight with the sheer happiness of such information.
Somewhere in the crowd, Olimar and his Pikmin clapped in glee.
The restaurant was green, perhaps even overly so; the walls were a deep, forest shade, lined with curling vines and tropical flowers the likes of which Zelda had never seen or read about and thus could not identify (which was saying a lot since Zelda spent most of her time reading and increasing her knowledge of all things intellectual). Wooden tables were draped with green sheets and seats were lined with matching cushions and the Pikmin that led them to their reserved spot all wore matching bow ties of a similar shade.
Olimar really went all out, Zelda observed humorously but bit back her laugh when she noticed the look of pure bliss on Link's face.
Their space-trekking friend had taken the liberty of ordering the special for them, and it appeared (carried and then lifted onto their table by several Pikmin) only a few minutes upon their arrival. It was a large, mushroom-like thing with two thick legs and wiry antenna-esque eyeballs and an odor the likes of which made Zelda's nose crinkle. Despite how her stomach wanted to all but leap out of her abdomen and flee at the prospect of digesting such a unpleasant meal, propriety dictated that she suck it up and thank her host, which she did when Olimar swung around to see how they were doing.
"It is quite the exotic looking meal, Olimar," Zelda supplied.
"We are honored to have such a fine specimen as our lunch," Link added with a nod before, to Zelda's horror, inhaling the dish as vigorously as if it was the finest slice of Orden meat and not a foreign alien that smelled vaguely of rotten eggs.
The Hylian princess had to sip her water daintily to hide her discomfort, silently appraising Link all the way. He must have had a digestive track that of a beast's to even consider eating their lunch.
Which kind of makes sense, when I think about it.
Olimar left beaming, and as she was contemplating whether or not to take a bite of what looked like (and she ultimately hoped was) lettuce, Zelda felt the undeniable weight of Link's gaze fall on her being as heavy and unavoidable as the fallen head of a hammer.
She touched her cheek slowly. Was there perhaps something on her face?
Completely horrified by such a breach of etiquette, Zelda dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin in an effort to dispel whatever was currently motivating Link's intent, unwavering gaze and the never-ending pool of silence that came with it. When he broke into a goofy grin a second later, laughing at her feverish antics, she became a little peeved in her growing sense of self-consciousness.
"What?" she asked, eyes narrowed.
His grin morphed into a soft smile, and Zelda promptly felt her own smile grow as he cupped her face from across the table with his warm, gloved hands. Lunch long forgotten in between them, Link gently skimmed her cheeks with his thumbs as delicately as one would handle a priceless, adored artifact.
"You look tired," he finally confessed, and then added with a chuckle, "Doing something late at night I should know about?"
The gentle grin on his face belayed that he was joking (What strenuous activity could one do, anyway, after the dorms were placed in a state of perpetual lock down?), but she could tell all the same that there was a serious underlying concern to his inquiry.
Zelda sighed and parted her lips to say what was going on when she remembered—
I'm training illegally in an arena that is supposed to be secret to only me, my busybody roommate, and apparently a good-for-nothing swordsman who somehow conned his way to into the directions.
—and promptly ended that detrimental confession right there. How could she even begin to justify the lawless path she had taken recently? How could she explain her reasons to her boyfriend when she struggled with the repercussions with herself on a daily basis?
She couldn't.
To make matters worse, she couldn't even deny that it had helped her improve, that it was necessary, and that she needed it more. Even if she could, by some miraculous loophole, tell Link, he couldn't keep a secret any better than anyone could keep food from finding itself in Kirby's mouth. In his honesty, her hero would have probably told the whole world about it and then Zelda would be lacking a private area to train.
A private area sporadically visited by a certain someone, Zelda amended, but those "spars" were still far in between.
And not the reason she needed to lie to Link.
No, definitely not.
Link tilted his head in concern. "Zelda?"
Realizing she was just sitting there with her mouth agape, poised as if to say something, Zelda impulsively took a small forkful of the bizarre bug before them, bravely tossed it into her mouth, and then swallowed her daring escapade despite the bitter flavor that virtually raped her tongue.
Finally, she cleared her throat and threw out the first thought that entered her mind. "Peach snores."
Crap, she thought.
Link blinked with shock, doe-eyed and uncomprehending, as if the idea of Peach making a brash sound in itself (during sleep or no) was hard to believe. Zelda was inclined to agree, for she saw every night exactly how obsessed Peach was with her genteel appearance; why else would she apply her usual gloss and blush whilst in bed?
"Must always be prepared," she would chip seriously. "You never know who might drop on by."
Zelda decided long ago not to question exactly what kind of nocturnal visitor Peach had in mind.
"I just might have a solution to your roommate issues," Link offered.
Zelda arched a brow. "Oh?"
"Earlier this week I was informed by a letter that there has been a massive swarm of primids on the Island, particularly near the jungle where consequently Charidotella sexpunctata are known to reside." He blushed then, before ducking his eyes and idly running designs on the tablecloth with his finger, if he was suddenly embarrassed and shy by the path this conversation was now trudging. "Due to my lack of brawls, I have been assigned to track the primids down. It's an overnight mission and I need to pick a team of five or so..."
The minute the words primids and mission escaped his mouth, Zelda jumped on the opportunity like Snake during happy hour at the Halberd Pub or Jigglypuff at the mention of karaoke or Rob when someone in the boys' dorm wing blasted techno late at night. The last time she had been up against a swarm of primids, it had been with Peach, some long while ago, and even then they had been caged almost immediately like a pair of helpless damsels, thrown about as if they were no more precious than sacks of produce later to be skinned and eaten.
Zelda intertwined a hand with Link's and squeezed with all the earnestness of an excited child. This was perfect; a secret assignment would be just the thing she could use to prove to herself that she no longer needed to train into the nocturnal hours in ambiguity.
That she would no longer need to lie to Link and hate herself a little every time she did.
"When do we leave?"
They left that evening, duffel bags in tow, journeying towards the team's meeting ground as the sun dipped towards the horizon and painted everything in the light outer brush of the jungle with an eerie, almost holy glow. A mixture of dead leaves and broken branches crunched beneath her boots, and excited as she may have been, Zelda wondered exactly why it was they were beginning the mission now, so late in the day.
Upon voicing her concern, Link paused to laugh awkwardly, as if he had been just caught stealing a cookie.
"You see," he began, glancing at the ground apologetically, "I was supposed to be here a little after sunrise, but certain opportune situations arose—" the fight to regain Zelda's honor, he meant "—and then there was the simple matter that I forget..."
Zelda stared, for nothing else seemed more apt given what had just been said. "Link," she uttered slowly in complete disbelief, "do you mean to tell me...that your teammates...have been waiting in the middle of a forest for more than five hours?"
Maybe telling him about the Training Room wouldn't have been a mistake, Zelda realized. He'd likely forget if this is any indication.
The color drained from his face. He twiddled his fingers nervously. "It's been that long?"
"Possibly more."
Link's shoulders slumped. "Oh, Zelda," he mourned, "they're going to kill me! They deserve to kill me!"
"There, there," she cooed gently, linking arms with him and sympathetically patting his hand. "I doubt they'd be that...zealous in their retribution." This was a lie, of course, but she couldn't have necessarily told him that. "And in any case, I'll be there."
As if just realizing this, Link's head shot up. "That's right!" he cried before turning swiftly to stand in front of her, reeking of a sudden protective aura of near-choking magnitude. "Zelda, you have to leave! So you don't get caught up in my mistake!"
She only minutely resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
"Link," she berated mock-seriously, "I am not going to flee and let you fend for yourself. If that how you think I am than you certainly don't know me at all." Then, deciding to roll with this self-righteousness just to tease him, Zelda made a show of walking past him on the dirt path, in an angry, how-dare-you-underestimate-me sort of gait. A giggle threatened to burst from her lips and it took every bit of self-control to maintain her facade.
Sometimes, he just made it so easy.
Consider it revenge for making me think I had something on my face, Hero.
Before she could take even two steps, however, a hand on her upper arm stopped her in her tracks so suddenly it was like a perpetual iron chain had been just lassoed around her torso. Link's expression, when she turned to look, borderlined pure and absolute panic. "I didn't mean—" he started, eyes wide.
"I know," she interjected, touching the front of his tunic reassuringly. "I was joking, silly."
A smile and a touch was all it took to sooth him; relief washed away his anxiety like a cleansing tidal wave, and the grip on her arm loosened as he beamed, ear to ear, sparkling with an inner light that could undoubtedly light the darkest of caves and even tan the most absurdly palest of creatures (i.e. Mewtwo).
"Good." He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "For a minute there, I was almost worried."
Almost was an understatement. "I can never be mad at you," she said with the utmost certainty. "You have nothing to worry about, Link."
This was as true as the sky was blue and the grass was green and Wario's underpants were purple, for she couldn't remember a time when she had ever been really angry at him; it was almost impossible, considering how gentle he was, both to her and nearly everyone (and everything) around them.
It was for this reason, in the large but highly selective expanse of Zelda's heart, she held him in the highest regard.
It was why she was with him.
After all, she concluded, it isn't every day that you, your father, and your country can all approve of the same man all at the same time.
Despite her assurance, Link's smile wavered for a split, heart-shattering moment. "I'm not too sure," he uttered then in the strangest, saddest voice and looked at the hand currently resting against his chest (his heart) with the strangest, saddest expression. A shiver sizzled down her spine voilently, even though by no means was it a chilly day, and her gut tightened as he tenderly lifted her palm and kissed her knuckles and squeezed her hand as if he was trying to grasp for something far-reaching.
She blinked slowly, confused—at his words, at his actions, at the guilt-churning knot in her stomach—before squeezing back. "Link..."
And then, as if a switch had been hit, he was grinning again. "Just kidding!" he laughed, any trace of the gloom that had existed on the planes of his face evaporating in the span of a second. Zelda was caught so off guard by the change that she openly gawked (Gawking! In public! How unbecoming.) before altogether recovering and punching him in the side.
"Jerk," she huffed.
"I'm sorry." He sobered instantly, hugging her in apology.
Though she embraced him back and replied with an affectionate tone of voice that it was okay, pressed against his shoulder and hidden from his sight, Zelda allowed herself to bite her lip in mild fear, couldn't prevent the questions from rising, clawing their way into her heart and planting a seed of doubt.
Because what if...what if he hadn't been joking?
And why did she feel so guilty?
"If the reason you are so horrendously late is because you were too busy snogging in this romantic—granted wet—ambiance, I will be sorely disappointed in you, Link," a voice interrupted, cutting through the misty afternoon fog (as well as her thoughts) like the sharp swing of a knife. Link stiffened before turning a bright shade of red.
"M-Marth!" he cried incredulously, whipping around in the direction of the remark. "We weren't—I was simply—"
"Right, and I'm not a natural blue-head," was the sarcastic and highly amused reply.
The image of Marth with a hair color other than navy flashed in her mind briefly as she peered around Link to see the Prince of Altea further along the trail, leaning against a tree and picking at imaginary dirt and smirking as if he had just discovered a secret. Upon noticing Zelda, Marth bowed to greet her, bending at the waist a little too flamboyantly and with a little too much flourish to be taken seriously but was, ultimately, in complete and typical Marth-esque fashion.
"Zelda."
"Marth," she acknowledged sardonically but unable to stop from smiling back and giving a little bow of her own.
As Marth rose, he turned an accusing gaze at his blond friend. "Link, you dog," he scolded, hand pressed against his chest in an effort to display how utterly hurt he was by the Hylian hero, as if some grand and dark betrayal was afoot, "you never told me you were bringing her along! Had I known, I would've brought my own female companion as well."
Link ducked his head, flustered. "Well, Peach's snoring was causing problems for her and I thought—"
"Wait," Marth remarked suddenly, a hand raised in a sort of cease-and-desist signal and eyes as wide as the opals decorating his person. "Peach snores?"
Behind Link, Zelda rubbed her forehead in the shame of having successfully spread a false rumor. Forgive me, dear friend.
"Er, well..." Link faltered, looking around briefly, as if the Mushroom Kingdom Princess herself was hiding in some nearby bush, ready to pop up any second with a war cry and stab him should he reveal such a startling splotch on her reputation. As much as he avoided the social rings, Zelda could tell that even he knew one needed to tread carefully when it came to spreading anything that tarnished Peach's grand countenance. (There was a reason, after all, Dr. Mario did not return this season.) "Zelda said—"
Marth was in front of Zelda so fast and resting his hands on her shoulders that Sonic would've been jealous of the sheer speed with which the blue-head had crossed their distance.
"Zelda, my darling," he began in a tone of voice that Zelda knew, from years of being friends with Peach, irrevocably meant trouble.
"Not a chance," she replied in a clipped tone, coolly walking around him and continuing on the path.
Marth pouted. "But—"
"If you continue to ask," she continued confidentially, "I shall tell Peach how it wasn't Dr. Mario who put green dye in her shampoo the last Smash campaign but rather a certain Altean noble with a penchant for women."
There was silence—choking, prevailing silence where even the birds, upon hearing this profound revelation, halted in their chatter to speechlessly stare.
Link's clueless expression suddenly morphed in understanding and surprise. "It was you—"
Marth quickly placed a hand over Link's mouth. "We should get going. To that mission." He gave the blond swordsman a look to remind him of today's purpose and how that wasn't to openly discuss Marth's closet of secret jokes, one of which, if brought to light, could undoubtedly end his life in the most horrid way possible known to the male species.
I can confidently say such a death would involve stilettos and copious amounts of pink lace, Zelda nodded to herself.
"You're late."
Zelda stopped so suddenly that Link walked right into her and then Marth right into him before toppling backwards and falling not-so-gracefully on his butt.
"Ow," Marth whined loudly, as if a serious injury had been just attained and that it was not simply his bottom and pride currently bruised. Link turned to help his fallen friend, leaving the Hylian princess alone and unattended at the end of the path where it subsequently merged into green and then opened to a clearing before them, a clearing that was the rendezvous point, a clearing as wide as one of Mario's soccer fields and as empty as Diddy Kong's head.
A clearing from which Zelda heard the voice of the last man she had wanted to be present on an over-night mission.
She shivered, daring not to say his name, as doing so would only confirm how Fate had a cruel sense of humor.
He's just an apparition, Zelda, she coached herself, refusing to move her gaze from the grass beneath her (the grass was, after all, so beautiful in the waning sunlight; it would be a shame not admire it). A ghost. A figment of my imagination. If I just ignore him, he'll melt and disappear.
"Sorry," Link laughed, rubbing his forehead. "I'm quite the knucklehead."
"I don't accept your apology," said he-who-should-not-be-named, words oozing with such arrogance and acidity that she imagined they caused all life in a one foot radius of him to shrivel up in agony, "but I do admit to your knuckleheaded-ness."
At this, Zelda's resolve to bore holes into the ground suddenly snapped with the vengeance of a vigilant girlfriend, and she lifted her face to venomously glare at the offending creature that was Ike. Said swordsman stood sturdily right in the middle of the meeting ground, arms folded, a nastily displeased expression on the planes of his countenance. Pit and Yoshi stood wide-eyed behind this looming mentor of hers, but she barely registered them over her boiling fury and Ike's annoyingly flapping cape.
"How dare you—" She stepped forward, a finger extended to readily point with indignation. Or perhaps poke him to death.
"How dare I what?" he repeated, a brow arched, the hints of a smirk just twitching at the corner of his mouth.
Realizing that she was quickly losing control of her anger and there were indeed people watching (Link was watching, most importantly), Zelda quickly sent a prayer to the Goddesses above her lest she did something she would ultimately regret doing in front of so many witnesses. O' Nayru, she began with extreme desperation, please grant me thy knowledge, thy strength, and thy vigilance so I can stop myself from shoving a stick down Ike's throat and my knee into his groin.
Lucario, as if on cue, took it upon himself at this moment to glide out of the shadows of a tree like a harbinger of peace, flipping mid-air in a stray beam of sunlight, before landing majestically on his feet. Zelda would have clapped at the grand display of gymnastics had she not known that Lucario quite disliked such modes of appreciation and that currently he looked as pissed as a wet cat.
"Why were you late?" the Pokemon's deep voice echoed, not as normal voices did in the space between them but in the minds of all who were supposed to hear. "Furthermore, why is she here? I was told this was only a six-man hunt."
Zelda's finger deflated. She looked around, counted, and then, like the flame of youth had been just snuffed out of her, paled as white as Boo.
Six men. And me. In a forest.
Her first venture into the training room (where she had been nearly trampled on by a hairy ape and sniper who didn't have the decency to wear proper undergarments under his super-tight uniform) flashed back to slap her in face, a reminder why she avoided mingling with more than a handful of guys. She imagined herself camping with her newfound team and could not handle the mere thought of the numerous shenanigans she was about to witness.
What, in all that is my sanity, have I gotten myself into?
A/n: More Zelink in this chapter than a non-Zelink story should have + very little Ike = I fail as an Ike/Zelda writer. D:
Also far as the characterizations go, I figured, hey, since I'm twisting around everyone's personalities, why not mess around with Link's? And, hey, while I'm at Link, why not toy around with Marth too?
Hope it's to everyone's liking because now I'm in the process of working on a side story to The Flames involving this new Marth and Peach and a third person who shall not be named for the sake of suspense. I'm not sure where to post it, when to post it, or even to post it at all, but I'll figure that all out once I figure out the plot of said new project.
Anyway, I'm going to have a blast writing the next few chapters. Primids and trees and angry Ike, oh my!