IN MY HANDS
By Phantwo J Fou

A/N: AHHHH!!! THE RAIN IS GONE AGAIN!!!! (Revision, 15 Mar: It's back. I'm happy.) Yes, anyway, onto matters of the story. . . . Um, I'm sorry if the ending note was a little misleading to anyone, since I got a few reviews telling me this story had wonderful ending effectiveness and I should write another. However, I'm not done with this one yet! I can't kill Link; he's the one narrating, after all! Besides, I'm hopelessly in love with him. I guess I can't kill him anyway.

Chapter Eight
What I Do to Monsters with Stupid Names

Navi was simply too stubborn to permit me to die as peacefully as I could when I was paralysed with intolerable pain. I hated that fairy.

Yes, there I lay, ready to die a completely ignoble and cowardly death—seeing as I had no other choice—at the hands (and what hands they were!) of Bongo Bongo. And even as I would have lain, dying that ignoble and cowardly demise, I would have enjoyed the respite from my journey, from my misery, from the Shadow Temple of Death and Despair. But, no, dear Navi refused to allow me to drop off into that eternal sleep, and instead pulled my hair and tickled my nose until I sneezed.

Somehow that sneeze restored my mobility. Momentarily I was on my feet once more, prepared to fight this beast in all my weakness. And I did feel indeed quite drained. However, being the stubborn fool I have always been, I decided to continue the battle with the fiend with the name I absolutely shall not write down again. So, even though my legs argued with my decision heartily, I stepped out and tried to look menacing. Of course, my face had become purple with bruises by that point and blood ran freely from my nose and lips from where I'd been very nearly crushed underneath Bongo Bongo's hands, but I still tried my very hardest to be an imposing foe.

Bongo Bongo was very obviously quite threatened and offended by this gesture, for in response, he lifted one powerful hand and flicked me off the drum like a speck of dust. And I flew like a speck of dust, too, straight off the drum and onto the ground. Thank the goddesses I managed to turn around and land on my feet and my boots absorbed the shock of the fall. Otherwise, I don't like to think about what could have happened if I'd . . . but all unpleasant thoughts aside. Hurriedly I climbed back onto the drum and worked to stand with the clumsy appendages that most people call legs.

But my knees refused to cooperate, and momentarily I found myself on my back again. My lips opened to release a curse, but the curse caught in my throat when I opened my eyes and saw the monstrous hand passing just inches over my head—where I would have been, had I still been standing. I felt the rush of air as it passed over me, so close to my face that I very nearly screamed. But I felt only air. Holding my breath for a moment in disbelief that I had so unwittingly and unintentionally cheated Death, I felt around for my bow.

Since I have at least a faint shred of intelligence in my hero's head, it did not take me a long time to figure out that I didn't have it with me.

Apparently I don't have the best grip on things, for this was the second time I'd dropped the bow—for the same reason, in nearly the same place. For a brief moment I pondered the idea of tying it to my hands, but I decided against it and ran to pick it up. Thank heavens Bongo Bongo didn't notice that I was on my feet and not on the ground! If he had, I have no doubt that he would have prevented me from ever reaching my last useful weapon or drawing my last useful breath—and this record would certainly not exist.

I placed my hands around the bow firmly, planting a haughty but uneasy simper on my face, and then reached for an arrow to blind my nemesis sufficiently. That is to say, I reached—and reached, and reached, and . . . reached. And reached.

I never did find the arrow I sought; I suppose I didn't have any more left to use.

And so, as any sane hero would do, I panicked.

How could I have exhausted my arrow supply without noticing? Certainly I should have perceived, upon pulling my last arrow, that there were no more to draw—but then, I reflected, I could not have claimed that I was in a sound state of mind when I had drawn it. And yet still it paralysed me with shock—a sudden revelation . . . that I had already known. Such things could only be possible in this terrifying darkness.

Darkness again.

How often I had blundered here, how often I had entangled myself in my own snares in here . . . all because of a little darkness!

And suddenly, I understood—so suddenly that I wondered why I'd never understood before.

The darkness, the abyss, the mist, the hidden monsters and walls—these were merely tools, merely devices used to scare any visitor brave enough to enter into running away. But they did no lasting damage to the courageous ones who were not hindered by grotesque imagery. Wounds would heal; blood would clot; scars would fade and eventually disappear. No physical torment is eternal—and whoever designed the Shadow Temple knew that. No, the very real terror of the Shadow Temple was simply in one's mind . . . the aforementioned displays only served to worsen that mental anguish. The inability to see and the knowledge that a wrong step could mean the end twisted the traveler's perception of reality beyond recognition.

The rest was left to imagination. One's eyes were never trustworthy, and after a time, so the Lens of Truth became dubious. The temple sights lost all effect after a time, for at least they could be seen. No, an hour was all that was needed for any traveler to abandon the fear of icons. It became what he inferred to be in the darkness that frightened and confused the strongest of men. Questions that would remain unanswered for eternity plagued me each time I looked into that darkness. Even if I were to escape alive and well, with barely a scratch, I would remain scarred for life. . . .

Peering through the darkness of the temple and the haze of the burning pain that still coursed through my body, I began to ponder how, with my lack of arrows in mind, to deliver justice to the creature with the most laughable title in Hyrule's history. Throwing the Master Sword would avail me nothing; I couldn't throw bombs that far and would likely blow my hands off in the process; and it was out of range for a Deku nut. Curses be upon curses! In disgust I cast the bow down and thrust the quiver from my back.

The quiver did not agree with being tossed so ungracefully, however. It landed on the currently-still drum head with a vexing clonk and spat out a trail of my paraphernilia that I had shoved in there—including the Ocarina of Time! In a frenzy I dove to rescue all of my valuables, grabbing first the Ocarina and securing that before hunting for any others.

Lying on my stomach and reaching for my lost possessions, my searching fingers caught a small bag and I glanced back to the quiver to toss it in. But the rattle of small seeds inside the leather pouch stopped me from throwing it. Inquisitively I trained my eyes back on the pouch for a moment; then I trained them on an object barely protruding from the edge of the quiver.

It could work, said Link the Hero. A bit risky, of course—but it shall work!

Impossible, argued Link the Realist. You are much too old for that kind of nonsense. Forget this foolishness and accept defeat.

Or am I? said Link the Hero, also known as Link the Optimist (and Link the Fool). How old am I, really?

Stupid child, chided Link the Realist. You're quite obviously—

Seventeen? Link the Hero interrupted. Oh, yes. So any man can observe. Seventeen! But am I really? Maybe I look it . . . but I am still but ten!

And Link the Realist retorted. . . .

Actually, Link the Realist had no answer, for Link the Realist understood Link the Hero—for once. Link the Hero took advantage of his silence to ensure that he had no answer, for he wasted no time in grabbing his slingshot and pouch of Deku seeds and leaping to his feet to ward off the evils of the Shadow Temple.

The renewed determination to win the battle strengthened me wholly, and my pain began to fade as enthusiasm slowly took control of my body. Of course! Perhaps it would be a mite challenging to work a slingshot at my age, but it was entirely preferable to running around like a crazed and raving Tektite, simply waiting to die and counting my remaining time in seconds. With a little difficulty I strapped the bullet bag to my belt and reached for a seed.

"Link," said Navi, startling me into dropping my seed, "if I may ask, what in the name of the goddesses are you doing?"

Bending down and retrieving the seed, I replaced it in the band of the slingshot. "Only saving myself, Navi." I proceeded to take aim with full intentions of blinding my victim, and, drawing a breath and hoping for the best, I released the string.

A tiny projectile sprang out from between the points of the stick I clutched in my hand, which flew a rather unspectacular flight straight into the eye of a rather unspectacular but hatefully powerful entity with two very large, very ugly hands. In response, that unspectacular entity dropped its guard (as well as its body) and raised its hands. Deku seeds proved to be quite the eye irritant, for those very large, very ugly hands reached up to rub at its eye quite violently even as the drum shook beneath it. For a moment I faltered: disbelief that such a small object managed to evoke such a response slowed the hand resting on the hilt of the Master Sword. Then I freed it of its scabbard and rebuked myself for possibly wasting a good opportunity to attack, running to the occupied Shadow Beast with confidence I liked to pretend was unwavering. I often failed at pretending.

Navi trailed behind me with an astonishing slowness, but for all the thought I gave that matter at that moment, she could have been Princess Zelda and I would have taken no more heed. My first and foremost thought remained Death to the monster. My first action, upon reaching that monster, was to swing my sacred sword wildly at the beast's right hand, with a lack of grace that surely put the sword to shame.

I drew a breath and held the sword over my head for exactly two seconds and fourteen milliseconds. Releasing that breath, I lashed out with a staggering force and slammed the blade into one of Bongo Bongo's busied hands. I wasted no time in tearing the sword out of his punctured flesh and getting out of his way when he ripped his hand from his eye and twisted it back in an attempt to cast me off. But the damage had been done. His filthy right hand was injured, and I was to blame.

I grinned at the thought.

Stepping back, I reached for the slingshot that I had apparently strapped in my belt (which was strange, for I had absolutely no recollection of putting it there) and jammed my hand into my seed bag to fish for a bullet. As I fitted the bullet into the bed of the slingshot, I watched Bongo Bongo writhe in agony and whispered sadistically, "Oh yes, that hurt, didn't it? I'll wager it did!" That said, I promptly let loose another bullet. And I smiled.

The seed met its intended target, bringing him to his knees once again—supposing he had knees. With the smile still broad on my face, I rushed forward with my sword tightly clutched in my left hand, aiming to cripple his left hand as quickly as I'd taken care of the right one. And since the stupid creature was sitting on the head of the drum and rubbing at its eye frantically as if his very life depended on it, little doubt existed in my heart that it would be much more of an effort.

As if his very life depended on it . . . I almost stopped to ponder that. Perhaps it did.

Making a mental note to test that theory as soon as I delivered a deathblow to his left hand, I swooped forward and struck out with all the power I could muster. The beast also struck out, but the being his pierced palms sought had jumped out of the way after removing his sword from the hole that the being had created. Since I was that being, I'd made sure I was a good distance away after driving my sword into the monster. Bongo Bongo rather pitifully flopped his hands about for a minute or two, trying to play his drum, trying to lift his now-useless appendages; but eventually he gave up the fight and turned to me, and then . . .

And then he disappeared.

That isn't to say he vanished; that is to say that I collapsed under the strain of my own depleted magic power. I dropped the Lens of Truth from my right hand and fell to my knees rather suddenly. I heard, faintly, my own ragged and highly audible breathing as I trembled. What a fool I was! Did I not remember how much energy it took to draw the magic to use the Lens of Truth? Nay, I had not remembered . . . and here was I, paying the price for forgetting!

Dragging myself on all fours, I sought refuge from Bongo Bongo's anger and regretted provoking it. And now that I had Navi back, I didn't need to imagine her reproach.

"Link!" she shouted, her obvious irritation blending with also-obvious fear as she scolded me. "Get up, you nitwit! You're not going to defeat Bongo Bongo by pulling yourself along like a disabled snail! You're going to die, Hero, unless you do something about it—"

"I know," I interrupted weakly.

"Then do something!"

I hobbled to the edge of the drum and dropped down off the side, murmuring, "Very well." With a clonk I landed, and with a strangled oath I mourned the unexpected pain that burned where my head had struck something hard and sharp. I reached back to remove the object from the back of my skull, continuing to mumble truly unheroic phrases in nearly-silent breaths, and clutched something long and wooden in the palm of my hand.

Surprise overtook annoyance. Something long and wooden? How very peculiar . . . I drew it forward. And lo! The Hero shrieked with delight, for there, in my hand, was an arrow!

"Thank you, Nayru! Thank you, Din! Thank you, Farore! I love you all!" I screamed joyfully, shaking with happiness so intense that I had previously considered that kind of pleasure unattainable by human beings.

Navi swooped down and dropped a stone on my head for my wild behaviour, but I was far too thrilled to care. The blood on the nape of my neck from where my head had been impaled on the tip of my arrow failed to alert me. Ganondorf could have killed Princess Zelda and destroyed Lon Lon Ranch and I would still be purely mad with elation.

And I would have remained thoroughly drained of magic. The Lens of Truth, that hateful instrument, being the bloodsucking parasite that it was, had sucked out every drop of magical blood in my body. Now I was nearly assured of losing the fight. Slowly, just like the Lens of Truth had sapped my magic, my happiness dissipated. Ah, what a sound mental state I was in, to be sure!

With a rueful glance at Navi, I took a brief moment to pity myself; then, releasing a pitiful sigh, I allowed my figure to go lax with despair. I pressed my head against the side of the drum and drew my hands up around my knees. At last I took a deep breath and closed my eyes to think.

And what success a man has when he attempts to think with his head against a vibrating drum! Bongo Bongo, apparently angry at having his prey slip away from him—although I can't necessarily say I was trying very hard to escape—began to beat his drum fervently. But then what a horrible, nervewracking sound emanated from his mouth! (Did he even have a mouth? I hadn't bothered taking the time to observe.) Placing my hands over my ears, I inferred that his agonised screaming was in response the wounds I had bestowed upon his hands, and I could scarce blame him for reacting so vehemently—and who could, when placed in that situation?

He? Did Bongo Bongo even have a distinct gender?

The beating stopped, but the sound did not. I leant forward to evade the heavy rattling and decided that no, Bongo Bongo was neither male nor female. And anyway, I am always right until I'm proven wrong.

Eventually the sound evanesced, as well as Bongo Bongo's anger. Now, with his mental stability returning to him, the concept of tact seemed to take hold of him and transform him. Instead of slinging his hands around like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum, he began to pan round the room, his muscles taut as if the idea of looking for his victim were particularly clever—which it was not!—and his hands trembling, almost imperceptibly. For a moment I watched this, captivated by the most intelligent display any monster had ever put on for me, ever—the act of looking.

And for some strange reason, I decided to, at that moment, release my arrow into the centre of the emptiness between his hands. There had to be a body somewhere, after all, and I had seen all of him before! I knew his shape! And I had every reason to believe that I might, perhaps, with some luck and prayer, shoot my arrow into his body and strike a critical blow. Aiming nervously, I breathed in deeply and let go of the arrow.

Thwak!

His fists clenched. My heart beat faster. Then I saw the arrow.

It was embedded in midair, about halfway between Bongo Bongo's hands—and what could be supporting it, I knew, but an invisible entity . . . an invisible entity called Bongo Bongo?

He dropped his hands and for a moment there was an incredible silence. And then there was a terrifying, resounding crash of the mighty drum. Then that penetrating silence descended upon us once more.

Tentatively I hoisted myself onto the drum, hardly daring to hope . . . and yet wondering, what could I have to fear? I knelt down to lessen the strain on my weak knees and closed my eyes for a moment to catch my breath. Then I raised my head—and stared in disbelief at the sight that materialised before my eyes.

Bongo Bongo lay in ruin on the gruesome head of his sinister drum, visible to all in his glory—the glory that came only with death. A beast of myth, a monstrous killer, reduced to this wreckage. All with one lucky shot with one lucky arrow.

I began to laugh. It was the greatest moment of my entire life.

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Did you all know the original title for this chapter was 'In Which His Worship the Hero of Time Bringeth Death and Ruination to the Evil Shadow Being of Doom, Despair, Destruction, Dissolution, and . . . Curses, I Can't Think of Any More Synonyms Starting with 'D''? Heh.

I am SO sorry this chapter was so long in coming, but you see, I was on vacation, for a portion of the time, at least. I was out of the country for nearly two weeks in the middle of this writing. This was obviously long enough for me to get some new reviews, including a full set of flames. But for any of you who actually enjoy this story, don't hold it against my dear Ametenshi; there's a long and complicated personal story behind those flames, we've worked it out, and there's no hard feelings.

Of course, that's not the only reason it was so long in coming; I also had a particular personal tragedy, with one of my best friends, and I can't say life has been particularly easy. I'm not over it yet, my friend isn't over it yet, and I can't conceive at this point in time that it'll ever be over, but I'm trying to be hopeful . . . even if my friend has taken steps to make sure my life is miserable.

Last but not least, I dug myself into a hole writing this chapter: I came up with a problem without a resolution, and it took me months to resolve. I changed my situations and my resolutions suitably; I pray I succeeded. Anyway, I know this didn't follow the exact process for defeating him, but I wanted to be a little different—and a little less repetitive.

I'm not sure when the next chapter shall arrive, but don't get your hopes up for anytime soon. I don't think I'll be able to write more until I have my life in hand. This story can't be too much longer, now that Link's finished the Shadow Temple, but I could always go on and finish the game. Or I could stop here. It's up to you reviewers.

So go ahead and review, but right now I just am not up for flames. My life's already in shambles; my writing needs to be the least of my insecurities. My friend has already made me question the merits of every other aspect of my character.