Author's note from 29.11.22: after a recent reviewer informed me they had no idea a sequel was being written (with 17 chapters already in at this point in time) I thought it might be beneficial, and hopefully acceptable, to do a little advertising. At the same time I'd like to point out that a rewrite of this story is in progress as well, featuring many improvements to the writing and the plot. Feel free to visit my profile to find these stories.
Thank you so much for reading, and I hope to see you over at the second book for the continuation of this story.
Happy reading!
DR
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Excerpt from The Legend of the Twilight Princess - Book 2, Chapter 2
His heart began to pound hard along with the gentle warmth that came from his left paw. Three golden triangles glowed and rang in unison with the gentle singing of the blade. White light coated it, drew him in like a beacon, and laid itself upon his beastly body. Link felt the power that surged through him like a mixture of pain and delight. His eyes stared at the dark blue hilt that brightened to sunset purple in the shine of its own glory.
The ringing became a deluge of sound and light that pulled him in, engulfed him, and pierced his wolf body like a bolt of lightning. Link cried out in both agony and ecstasy as the darkness was ripped from him.
His voice died down bearing the deep baritone of his Hylian chords. He stood, arms and legs shaking, before the pedestal that held the magnificent blade, his hands curled around its warm, firm grip.
Take it. Draw it. Claim it.
Every cell in him vibrated with the yearning of the sword, demanded, commanded, urged him to pull. His newly formed muscles flexed with the motion, hands tensed to feel every single ripple in the handle's supple leather wrapping. Voices of heroes past echoed from the sword as it had witnessed its bearers' calls and commands and battles that unfolded at their feet. Power pulsed within it, power cultivated from the wicked lives of the monsters it had claimed. And Link drew upon that power, felt it course through his veins and muscles and nerves as it compelled him to do nothing but pull.
Pull the blade out of its stone. Pull the power into his body. Pull the world a little closer to freedom.
And his arms gently began moving the handle skyward. His ears heard the soft scrape of metal as it was lifted out of the stone.
But the blade did not yield.
Link realised something was wrong when his body was instead pulled towards the ground, his knees sagging beneath him. His mouth opened in a silent scream of disbelief while his hands held onto the hilt. The world began to spin.
Every bit of strength gifted by the sword left him like a slow, withdrawing wave. The bright light that had surrounded it faded into darkness, its voices of ages past relapsed back to eternal silence. The blade returned to its dormant state, being nothing but a cold chunk of rusty, dull, forgotten metal.
Then the pain caught up with him.
He moaned, his weight slumping against the sword. The ache was slow and deep, but every move – every breath – intensified it. He gasped for air, half crumpled on the pedestal, still holding on to the handle with one hand, the other pressing hard against his left side in a vain attempt to alleviate the pain. His hand felt cold moisture on his tunic.
A sudden growl escaped him as he forced himself once more to stand. His bloodied hand joined the other upon the hilt and stained the old leather with sticky red. His growl turned into a raucous scream as he summoned up every last bit of strength in his body to pull on the blade again. And the sword began to glow with expectation, whispered its yearning into his ringing ears, begged him to pull.
But he could not.
A sob burst from him as his knees hit the pedestal, and its cold, grey stone bore his tears with mourning silence. But Link knelt before the blade for just a moment; his pain, his exhaustion, his ragged breathing, forced him to a stand.
Slowly, he dragged himself through the glade, across the threshold and back into the ruins. He felt the sword's vibration pull on him, trying to grasp his body and turn it around. But the penetrating pain of his wound drowned out its call, overtook his mind completely.
Near the alleged entrance of the cathedral he found a set of stairs that led into a half-sunken cellar room. The sun illuminated it enough for him to see it was small, dry, and filled with windswept leaves. He collapsed to his knees at the base of the steps and began pushing the leaves to the back left side of the room. There was no wood for a fire, but the sun gave him enough light to see and remain warm.
Kneeling on his makeshift mattress, he called for his companion with a shaking voice. ''Midna, are you okay?''
But she did not answer. He looked down at his shadow, waited for her black hand to appear and lay itself over his hand. But nothing happened.
Wincing, he felt for his stab wound, and tried again. ''Midna, I… I need the chest with the first aid kit.''
A sudden ruckus of his pot and burner colliding with the wooden chest made him jump and dissolve into a coughing fit. The bronze spoon he had brought from Kakariko settled before his knees. Staring at it, Link felt more tears roll over his cheeks.
Midna had witnessed his failure to draw the sword. She did not even bother to appear before him.
Desperately holding back the sobs and coughs that wanted to burst free and dip him into more shame, he spread out the blankets over the leaves and wrapped a bandage around his middle. The stab wound was deep and bleeding profusely, and he hoped he had applied enough pressure to keep in the blood. But he was beyond caring.
All he felt was exhaustion.
As he lay in the dark corner of the lonely cellar room, he called for his companion again. And staying true to her disappointment, she ignored him.
''I'm sorry…'' he whispered, his breaths ragged. ''I tried…''
Suddenly, a tremendous clanking echoed from the staircase. Link bolted up, his breath hitching, as he watched her twenty rakes tumble down the steps to land in a heap in the sun. And following them was a small, black body that crumpled onto the stone stairs and sluggishly tilted over to land on the step below. Link let out a wail, bolting from his seat, and hobbled towards her. His bloodied hands wrapped around her arms, brushed against her moist strands of hair, lifted her from the stairs and held her to his bare chest. He lost his footing as the stab wound flared with pain, and he could just straighten his back in time to prevent her from slipping through his arms.
''Midna…'' he sobbed, cradling her against him. ''No… no, please…''
He looked at her silent face, brushed a thumb over her closed eyes. His body gently began to shake.
''Please, Midna… Don't leave me now… Not now…''
She lay still in his arms.
She was not breathing.
Link buried his face in her chest and wept freely, his weak cries echoing across the old cathedral pillars that stood strong against the years and the elements, awaiting their time of collapse.
000
