Hero of the Zonai

by bladeofthebookworms

A brutal war between the Zonai and Sheikah peoples sends ripples throughout the kingdom. In the midst of the violence, a young Zonai warrior discovers a mysterious ancestor, who urges him to see beyond the plight of his people. For peace is elusive, and Hyrule's greatest threat has yet to emerge. T for violence.

1. Tournament of Din

Chapter 1: Tournament of Din

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Hello everyone! I hope you're all doing great!

This story will follow the hero and princess from 10,000 years before Breath of the Wild. It relies heavily on ideas I've come up with about the Zonai tribe, various alterations of lore from BotW, and hypothetical tweaks on the technology level of the time.

This story is based heavily on the idea I had that perhaps the Zonai were descendants of the Hero of Twilight and the people of Ordon, who lived in Faron Woods and had significantly different customs from the people of Hyrule, such as a lifestyle focused on ranching. In this idea, the Zonai have both human and Hylian bloodlines. I understand that this doesn't match Tears of the Kingdom; please understand again that we knew practically nothing about the Zonai until the final trailer.

I have some concept art for this story, as well as a hypothetical map of Hyrule 10,000 years before BotW, up on Tumblr under the same username, bladeofthebookworms. I also have a LOT of notes on the way I've designed Zonai culture, the linguistics my husband and I have come up with for the various cultures of Hyrule, and other details about the story.

I'm working on the final chapters of the story now. Hopefully I will have it all done either by Friday or Saturday, at which point I will post everything on Archive of Our Own for those of you that like to binge read. ( : If you'd like to keep with the daily schedule, I will continue posting one chapter a day on FFnet so that you can pace yourselves; I know some of my chapters are pretty dang long and it's tough to read all in one go!

I hope you continue to enjoy this story! Thanks for all of the comments and favorites! Have a great week!

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Link

Garlands of dried autumn leaves from before the winter hung across the massive arena in Mokhtis, around the necks of the stone boars carved into the pillars framing the entrance. The mud from the recent melting snow was a deep red – red like blood, red like the flames of Din, whose Day of celebration it was.

Filling the steps rising up around the arena itself stood at least a thousand people cheering and screaming, sending forth a wall of sound that had Link stopping in his tracks the instant he reached the boar pillars. Were there this many people at th'Day f'Nayru? he wondered, thinking back to the last tournament he had competed in. The crowds were always the worst part of competing, because they made his losses that much more public, but he was certain this was the largest gathering he'd seen in his ten years of fighting.

"Y'made it t'th'last round," a rough, but kind, voice came from behind, and Link turned to find one of the two shamans of his village walking towards him – Frokar, of Lohsitho. Sharp gray eyes peered out from beneath a headdress made from a badger's pelt draped over the antlers of a blacktail buck. "No matter what comes f'this fight, know that you've brought th'Tribe f'th'Dragon honor."

Link released a tense breath, glancing back into the arena. He could see his opponent across the pit, a massive warrior of the Boar Tribe streaked in red paint that looked ominously like blood, clad in nothing but the same broad belt and loincloth that Link himself wore.

"He's bigger than me," he said, unable to keep the nervousness from his voice. Link was not the tallest, nor the brawniest. He had fairly average height and build, and though he had worked hard to hone his body to be combat-ready, he had never achieved the bulk that so many of the Boar Tribe warriors developed. Year after year, he threw himself into the tournaments on the Days of the Goddesses, and it seemed that every time, the opponent that finally knocked him down was another one of those big, burly warriors of the Boar Tribe. And just as the crowds today seemed larger than usual, so too did the warrior across from him. He's even bigger than Groose!

"You'll do fine," Frokar chuckled. "Your ancestors watch over y'today, Link."

An elderly, but still fairly fit man clad in the green robe and paint of the Dragon Tribe stepped out into the middle of the arena, raising his hands for silence. Farstok, the head shaman of the Zonai capital of Orthon.

"This's it," Frokar whispered, clapping Link on the shoulder. "May th'Guardian protect you."

Link tightened his grip on his hardwood sword, heart hammering. The shaman of Orthon was speaking, but he found it difficult to focus on anything but the warrior across the arena from him. The proud, almost arrogant grin; the chin lifted in determination. The man was the very picture of a mighty warrior, and certainly had the stature to match.

"Link f'Lohsitho, Champion of the Dragon Tribe, step forth!" Farstok roared from the center of the arena, beckoning. Link swallowed thickly and squared his shoulders, a fire burning in his chest. He ignored the jeers from the Boar side of the stands. I've made it so far this time – I can win this!

"Gotvin f'Durnfala, Champion of the Boar Tribe, step forth!" Farstok went on, calling his opponent from the other side, and the warrior walked forward, a good two heads taller than Link himself. "Fight, and show your ancestors how y'have prepared yourselves for th'great last day!"

The shaman stepped aside, and the Boar warrior rushed in at once with a hearty roar. Link sidestepped quickly out of the way, adrenaline singing through his veins with each beat of his hammering heart. Gotvin attacked again, and again Link dodged, wary of trying to deflect such powerful blows.

"Coward," the warrior taunted, and Link's lip curled as he fought not to rise to the jibe. He ducked inside another powerful blow and then lashed his own blade forward, striking the crosstree of Gotvin's sword at what he hoped was an unexpected angle – something to loosen the massive warrior's grip. Gotvin made a surprised sound but didn't drop the sword and responded almost instinctively with a heavy blow to Link's bare chest with his fist. Link stumbled back with a grunt, winded for a moment as Gotvin thrust his sword forward again. Link rushed backwards to get out of range, needing a moment to catch his breath.

Opponents in the Days of the Goddesses tournaments were of course forbidden to kill each other, and highly discouraged from dealing serious injuries. The goal was to disarm and get the opponent on his back. Bruises were generally the worst – and most common – injuries seen.

Link straightened, sucking in a deep breath and testing the freshly blossoming bruise on his sternum, and waited as Gotvin charged him again. He ducked to the side and aimed a fierce kick at the back of the Boar warrior's knee, successfully knocking him forward with a grunt. Link followed through by ramming into the small of the man's back with his shoulder before he could regain his balance, and Gotvin's top-heavy bulk became his weakness as he fell face-first into the mud.

But he was rolling over at once, elbowing Link hard in the jaw and swinging his blade in an arc behind him. Blinking away stars from the jarring blow to his head, Link didn't jump back as fast as he should have – the tip of Gotvin's blade carved a thin line across his left arm and half his chest and he hissed, teeth bared in a grimace. Certainly not a fatal wound by any means, but a painful one, sending crimson blood dripping down his chest and mingling with the green paint there.

Gotvin was back on his feet now, muddied and favoring one leg over the other but otherwise unharmed and ready for more. He slashed towards Link's blade and Link stepped to the side, but this time Gotvin was ready for it – he turned quickly and his fist slammed hard into Link's stomach. The breath left his lungs in a pained grunt and he staggered backwards, unable to keep from doubling over, fighting to stay standing.

Gotvin hurried forward, the calm confidence in his gaze revealing that he already saw his victory. With a roar he struck the side of Link's sword while he was still struggling to regain his breath, sending it flying from his grip to land in the mud yards away.

A surge of fresh adrenaline shot through Link's blood as Gotvin advanced. His only weapon left was his body, and he was well aware that hand-to-hand fighting was not his strong point. He sidestepped Gotvin's fist and jumped up to try and lock his arms around the big man's throat –

Only for the pommel of the Boar warrior's sword to strike him powerfully in the gut. Link doubled over, a choked gasp escaping his lips as he fought for the umpteenth time to get breath back into his body. And then Gotvin's fist struck his chest; he stumbled backwards and fell, hard, onto his back, winded all over again.

He saw through blurred eyes the Boar warrior looming over him – No! – and he forced himself back to his feet, managing a shallow gasp as his vision darkened and threatened to black out completely. One more hit from Gotvin, this time to his face, sent him tumbling back down again. A wave of cold and darkness washed over him; when he came back to himself the warrior of the Boar Tribe had a foot on his chest, keeping him down for good. Link allowed himself to go limp, exhaling heavily, letting his eyes drift towards the sky as the crowd cheered the victor.

Another loss.

Gotvin stepped off of him and held out a hand. Link took it, allowing the Boar warrior to help him to his feet. "Good fight," he said, his voice deep and gruff but not hostile. "Y'got some real fire in you. Didn't expect y't'keep getting up. Keep fighting, lad."

"Thanks," Link said, his voice a rasp as he fought to catch his breath at last. His heart was racing, but beginning to slow. The adrenaline was starting to fade, leaving him to feel the full pain of his fresh bruises and the cut across his arm and chest. He walked back to the edge of the arena where Frokar waited, smiling widely.

"That was well done, lad," he said with a light chuckle. "Well done, indeed! Y'make your ancestors proud, putting up a fight like that."

"Thanks," Link said again, managing a smile this time. With the rush and blur of battle fading, he was beginning to feel a lightness in his chest despite the pain. He… he had done well, he thought tentatively, looking back. Didn't win or anything, but that's th'furthest I've ever gotten in a tournament, and I lasted a fair while before getting knocked down.

Frokar's gaze drifted to the cut on Link's chest, and his thick eyebrows furrowed. "Meet me back at our encampment," he said, eyeing the wound critically. "Best t'get that patched up sooner rather than later. Guess th'tournament swords have more bite than bark, eh? I'll grab a few herbs from Farstok, and then I'll be there."

Link nodded, and then the shaman was gone, disappearing into the crowd now getting up from their seats, returning to their camps – if they were of the Dragon or Owl Tribes – or homes, if they resided in Mokhtis. Link's smile widened as a familiar figure trailed by a large black and white dog pushed towards him through the vast press of people.

"Well, y'lost," huffed the young girl, rolling her eyes, her dark golden hair just a shade darker than her brother's. Absently she ruffled the thick fur behind the ears of the large black and white dog trotting beside her. "Again. Did it feel as good s'y'thought it would?"

Link grinned sheepishly, falling into step beside her as they walked towards their encampment. "I lasted longer this time. That's something, isn't it?"

Azrun merely rolled her eyes again. At fourteen springs old, the gesture had replaced sticking her tongue out as her favorite way to express exasperation with her brother. "T'least camp's not far. Thank th'Dragons Frokar brought along medical supplies!"

"It's not that bad," Link protested, glancing over himself. The cut across his upper arm and chest stung fiercely, but the bleeding had slowed, dark crimson mingling with the green paint and crusty mud across his arms and chest.

The Champion of the Boar Tribe had represented his people well, and fought like the beast they held sacred. Link was fairly sure that he had encountered Gotvin at prior Days of the Goddesses as well, but hadn't faced him in combat until now, since Gotvin almost always made it to the later rounds of the tournament and – until the last year or so – Link didn't. He could still hardly believe he'd made it to the final round at all, after competing at the Days of the Goddesses tournaments for nearly a decade now. I've come a long way from being that scrawny twelve-year-old who barely lasted a single round, he thought with a small grin.

Hurried footsteps sounded behind them, and a hulking shadow blotted out the sun. "Congratulations!" Guthric of Guthtwin beamed, slapping his shoulder. "Y'almost did it – next time, for sure!"

"Don't let th'other Boars hear y'cheering, Groose," Link teased. Guthric had earned the nickname in his fifteenth spring, when he decided to try and train roosters to fight alongside him. Guthric the Rooster – Groose. "Don't want 'em t'think y'turned Dragon!"

Groose waved his massive hand with a scoff, his unruly crimson hair bobbing as he shook his head. "They wouldn't dare – I'm still getting glory from my discovery f'that explosive powdery stuff! And I've almost got a working model f'an even better weapon that uses it…"

"So y'gave up on the roosters?" Azrun asked with a raised eyebrow, smirking.

"Never," Groose assured her. He paused in the road, hands on his hips, and whistled loudly through his teeth. After a moment and a distant fluttering of wings that drew steadily closer, a fluffy gray rooster landed proudly on Groose's head. Feathers went all the way down to his feet, creating the illusion that he was wearing boots.

Link laughed. Groose's shoulders slumped in dismay. "Aww, Boti," he complained, looking up in the direction of the bird on his head. "We've been over this! It's th'shoulder, not th'head!"

Boti merely clucked disapprovingly and fluttered down from his master's head to peck at the ground near his feet. The great dog at Link's side studied it curiously, wagging her tail.

"Least he came when called," Azrun pointed out optimistically. "That's more than any f'us thought possible when y'started!" She bent down to give the fluffy bird a pat on the back. She remained the only person Link had ever seen to touch Groose's war-birds without suffering nipped fingers; he suspected it was simply how their ancestors' magic manifested through her.

"Yeah, but they've still got a long ways t'go before they'll be battle-ready," Groose huffed. "I won't fail, though! Maybe I can just borrow y'for a week, Link, before the herds go up for th'summer. If y'can turn a wolf into a sheepdog, surely y'can turn a rooster into a battle bird!"

"A wolf actually has a mind t'work with, though," Link protested. "And she's part dog, anyway." He scratched the dog's head – she seemed to know he was talking about her – and moved his foot out of Boti's reach only for the bird to follow with an indignant ruffling of feathers, pecking at the sturdy lynel leather of his boots. "Fine. I'll give it a shot."

Any Zonai in good standing with their ancestors could call upon the spirit magic, but what abilities they had depended heavily on their bloodline. Link's father and grandfather, and possibly others further back in his line, had possessed great skill with animals. When Link stretched forth his right hand to touch a beast, or even a person, and called upon the magic, his arm glowed green down to his fingertips and he could reach the soul of whatever it was he was contacting. He could feel its emotions, its vitality; he could use that to communicate, to an extent.

During a winter years past, one of Lohsitho's sheepdogs was bred by a wolf. The beast was slain, but the dog didn't survive long after birthing her litter of two mongrel wolfdog pups. On a dare from Groose, Link reached out to one of the pups with his ancestor's magic. The other pup didn't survive, but Link's pup, as he raised and nourished her, grew into a hulking black dog with a white belly, legs, and face, and the build of a wolf. For an embarrassing month Link had been the talk of the Dragon Tribe, as an absolute bear of a dog trailed his footsteps everywhere he went.

If only befriending wolfdogs could do something about those deadigging Sheikah, he thought bitterly. Men should be renowned for great deeds of valor, not… not cheap tricks.

Not that Beira was a cheap trick, he admitted to himself, glancing down at the beast at his side and stroking her brow fondly as she gazed up at him with all the unwavering loyalty and affection only a dog could have. Lohsitho had never before seen such a loyal and effective sheepdog; she looked up at him with her usual deep fondness, unaware of the worries that plagued her master's mind.

"You're frowning again," Azrun noticed worriedly, her hand on his uninjured arm startling him from his musings.

"Y'alright?" Groose added. "We should get t'celebrating – you made it t'the final round; that's something t'be proud of!"

"I'm just glad th'Day f'Din is even happening this year," Link muttered bitterly. His arm was stinging; he resisted the urge to cover it with his other hand. Anything red was a sign of good luck during the festivities for Din, although Link wasn't sure how much that applied to one's own blood. Frokar would know, as the shaman of their village.

His sister and friend were silent beside him as they made their way to the Camp of Farosh, set up on the outskirts of Mokhtis. The Sheikah threat hung heavy over them all, though they did their best to ignore it on this day. First those smoke-spewing machines – abominations in th'eyes f'th'Goddesses! Then their lust for th'spirit flames, th'very souls f'our dead! And they have th'Hylian King's ear – we don't.

Groose's forced laughter and another slap on the back drew him back to the present. "It's not th'time for those worries," he said, his grin just a little less bright than before and his hair seeming to droop. "We're having th'festival according t'plan. And come summer, we'll celebrate th'Day of Farore in Orthon – and on th'ground blessed by th'Dragons themselves, you're sure t'win! By th'Day of Nayru, you'll be known throughout th'land! We Boars have won every major tournament this past decade; everyone'll be relieved for someone else t'win…"

"I'd take a victory from th'Boar tribe any day f'we could put th'Sheikah in as opponents," Link scowled. "Hang them all and leave their bodies out t'rot! They have no right t'come after our Grafensteda!"

"Link, calm down," Azrun urged, frowning at him. She clasped his hand and gave it a squeeze. "I know you're worried – we all are. But th'Sheikah haven't actually done anything yet besides ask. And we've turned them down, and we'll continue t'turn them down. What's th'worst they can do?"

Link stiffened at her response, and she winced, instantly realizing the implication of her statement.

Groose's forced chuckle was more strained this time. "If they do try anything, we'll beat their droopshield butts so hard they'll run all th'way t'Tabantha with their tails between their legs!" He smacked his fist heartily against his palm to emphasize his words.

Link bit back a growl, in no mood to be cheered up. His loss today hadn't bothered him before; he'd taken heart in lasting for so long, and fighting better than he ever had before. But now the ache of his many bruises and the sting in his arm seemed to press in around him, testifying only of weakness.

I won't keep losing forever. Especially f'it comes t'war with th'Sheikah. I won't lose when it really counts.