Three years had passed since Link, Zelda, and Groose's fateful encounter with the guardian serpent. In that time, Skyloft had transformed, with new structures dotting the floating islands arches and domes of stone littered the once small roadway of the Angel Way.
The morning sunbathed this changed landscape in amber, its light glinting off the freshly hewn cloud. For Link, each new building was a reminder of how much had changed, and how far he still had to go.
'Link! Your training starts now!' Ganfar's gruff voice echoed through the trees, a familiar sound in a landscape that had evolved to meet the challenges of a changing world.
Link's feet found the training ground's worn paths before the sun touched the sky. Fresh blisters from yesterday's session had hardened to calluses overnight, each one mapping his progress in paths of toughened skin. Where other children's footprints ended, he continued - past the basic forms, through advanced stances, into patterns even Ganfar had yet to teach.
The morning mist hadn't lifted when he started his first drill. By the time Groose arrived, Link had already worked through his basic forms twice, the surrounding ground swept clean by countless pivot turns. His wooden sword bore fresh marks - not from combat, but from striking the same spot on the training post until his aim found perfection.
.
Ganfar watched as Link scaled trunks, never faltering. A rare, approving smile creased the old knight's weathered face. 'Watch closely, boy!'"
Ganfar's blade whistled through the air. The mossy log split with a thunderous crack, its halves toppling to reveal fresh, pale wood beneath the green. Link's eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat as awe and admiration washed over him. He imagined himself wielding such power one day.
Chuckling under his breath, Ganfar tossed the blade into the air, the steel catching the morning rays. "One day that'll be you, if you train hard enough."
Link seized the hilt as the sword arced downwards. Though the blade dwarfed him, he didn't flinch under its weight. In that moment, an ethereal glow seemed to emanate from within the boy's slight frame, like a glint of courage stirring to life.
Ganfar nodded with approval, a surge of pride swelling in his chest as he motioned to the targets painted on the trees. "Now, let's see if you can replicate those sword forms I showed you last week. Don't hold back!" His voice carried a blend of challenge and encouragement to his grandchild.
Link's sword sang through the morning air, striking each target with uncanny precision. Ancient muscle memory seemed to flow each stance and strike echoing techniques lost to time.
Bark chips and leaves scattered in his wake as he flowed from one stance into the next - the Piercing Strike, the Whirling Cyclone, the Skyward Strike. A fiery aura cloaked the blade as it carved glowing trails with each dizzying arc and thrust. Link's movements flowed like water, each strike precise and purposeful. As he completed the last form, a sense of rightness settled over him. He turned to Ganfar, expecting criticism, but was met with a rare smile of approval. Link's chest swelled with pride, a newfound confidence taking root. 'Maybe I really can become a true knight,' he thought, gripping his sword tighter.
Ganfar's eyes widened, his heart pounding as he sensed something extraordinary in Link's aura. With a final cleave, Link sent a shockwave through the trees, the sword biting into the mossy earth with a hollow clang.
"Well, I'll be..." Ganfar's whisper barely carried over the whistle of Link's blade. The boy's last strike hung in the air like captured lightning, an echo of power older than steel itself.
Ganfar's weathered hand found Link's shoulder. "Exemplary work." His grip tightened - the same grip he used for knighting ceremonies. "But we've only begun."
Link's next practice swing came faster, higher, surer. Each cut, carved through his old boundaries, his blade singing a melody three years in the making. When his wooden sword finally stilled, it pointed true north - just as Ganfar had in every tale of the legendary knights. He caught his mentor's subtle nod in the blade's reflection and held his stance a heartbeat longer, committing this moment to memory. The afternoon sun turned the training ground into a furnace. Most students had retreated to the shade, but Link's sword kept its rhythm. Each strike cost him two labored breaths in the heat, yet his blade never faltered. When his arms trembled, he switched hands, teaching his left what his right had mastered.
Ganfar watched from the sidelines as Link repeated the same complex form for the twentieth time. The boy's tunic was soaked through, his shoulders drooping with exhaustion, but his eyes never left his target. Each attempt brought him a fraction closer to the perfect strike Ganfar had shown days ago.
Groose grunted, his broad shoulders tensing with effort. 'C'mon, you unruly mop!' he bellowed. Groose strained against his wild mane, muscles bulging from years of hair-taming.
Groose gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his brow as he struggled to control his unruly hair. He caught sight of Link effortlessly executing a complex sword maneuver and felt a familiar pang of jealousy. 'Why does everything come so easy to him?' Groose thought bitterly. But as his hair whipped out of control again, knocking him off balance, a flicker of vulnerability crossed his face.
One rogue lock snapped out, catching Link's ankle mid-stance. The young swordsman yelped as he went tumbling head over heels, his sword clattering to the ground. Groose gritted his teeth as another rogue lock slapped his cheek. No matter how many times his hair rebelled, he'd never stop fighting - just like he'd never stop chasing his dream of becoming a knight.
"Sorry! My bad!" Groose grimaced, struggling to contain the frenzied mane which snapped at the surrounding air.
From a nearby alcove, Ganfar shook his head in a mixture of exasperation and amusement. "Keep your focus, boys! Groose, rein in that savage mop before Link loses more than just his footing!"
Groose growled low, frustration bubbling beneath the surface as sweat stung his eyes. Summoning every ounce of concentration, he visualized iron shackles binding his rampant tresses. For a few blessed seconds, he reigned supreme, a flicker of hope igniting within him.
Groose's hair whipped around him like a swarm of angry hornets, obscuring his vision and stinging his face. Groose's eyes bulged as his rampant mane took on a mind of its own, thrashing with wild abandon and laying waste to everything in its path.
One thick lock coiled around the boy's ankle like a striking viper, effortlessly hoisting his bulky frame into the air in a tangle of flailing limbs.
"Whoa, hey! Who's the master here?!" Groose floundered helplessly as strands whipped about his face, effectively blindfolding him.
He pinwheeled through the air in a slapstick dance of chaos and embarrassment before crashing unceremoniously into a thorny bush. Leaves and twigs stuck out from his ever-expanding hairstyle in a grotesque parody of camouflage.
Groose emerged from the thorns, twigs jutting from his expanded crimson mane. 'That freaky fruit...' he growled, yanking leaves from his hair
. As Groose emerged from the bush, leaves and twigs sticking out from his ever-expanding hairstyle, Link couldn't hold back a snort of laughter. 'You look like a walking forest, Groose!'
Zelda held her composure, added, 'Maybe you could be our camouflage expert?'
Groose, initially scowling, caught sight of his reflection in a nearby puddle. His lips twitched, fighting a smile. 'Well,' he said, striking a pose, 'I always wanted to branch out into new styles.'
The three friends burst into laughter, the tension of their training momentarily forgotten. Even Ganfar, watching from afar, couldn't suppress a chuckle at the sight of his leaf-laden pupil.
Ganfar watched Link's blade slice through the morning air, each revolution precise as clockwork sharp eyes tracked every minute gesture, silently assessing the boy's form for the slightest flaw.
Satisfied for the moment, Ganfar's steely gaze shifted to the still-grumbling Groose. Clearing his throat loudly, he barked, "If you're quite done with the theatrics, recruit! Double time!"
At the command, several targets popped into the air around Groose, hovering almost tauntingly. "Meet your new sparring partners. Use that mop to take them down - efficiently!"
Groose blinked in bewilderment; his overconfident bravado returned in a cocky smirk. "Seriously? That's all you got for me, old-timer?"
Groose's metallic locks sliced through the first targets with surgical precision. Then the control slipped, his hair transforming from weapon to wildfire, consuming everything in its path.
Groose's eyes widened in panic as he lost control yet again. His violent mane with a mind of its own lashed out with indiscriminate ferocity, sparing neither target nor unfortunate tree in its path. Ganfar and Link scattered, narrowly avoiding being battered by the onslaught of whipping tresses.
When the maelstrom finally subsided, the once serene training grounds more resembled a war zone of shredded terrain and pulverized targets. Groose stood alone in the epicenter, chest heaving as he surveyed the surrounding wreckage.
After a long silence, Ganfar's gruff voice emerged from the bushes: "I hope you have more control in actual fights, lad, or you'll take your own head off."
Amidst Groose's struggles, Link noticed Zelda standing apart, her bow raised, and eyes narrowed in focus. He paused, watching as she loosed an arrow with a fluid grace that seemed almost supernatural.
The arrow streaked through the air, finding its mark with uncanny precision. Link blinked, trying to process what he'd just witnessed.
"Zelda," he called, jogging over to her. "How did you do that?"
Zelda lowered her bow, a slight furrow in her brow. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "It's like... I can sense things before they happen. Like a picture in my mind."
Link's eyes widened. "Like with the guardian serpent?"
Zelda nodded, her fingers tightening on her bowstring. "And other times, too. It's like... a power, growing inside me." She looked up at Link, her eyes shadowed with uncertainty. "Do you think it means something?"
Before Link could respond, a yelp from Groose drew their attention. He was tangled in his own hair, his face red with frustration.
"Hold on, big guy," Link called, hurrying over to help untangle him. Zelda followed close behind, her brow still creased with thought.
As they worked to free Groose, Link couldn't shake the feeling that Zelda's powers were a sign of something bigger. A destiny, perhaps, that they were all hurtling towards.
"You okay, Groose?" Zelda asked softly, her hand resting on his shoulder.
Groose managed a tight nod, his jaw clenched. "Just peachy," he grumbled. "Not like I need to see or anything."
Link exchanged a glance with Zelda, a silent understanding passing between them. They would need to keep a close eye on Groose, to make sure his curse didn't become too much to bear.
"Well, good thing you've got us to watch your back," Link said, forcing a grin. "Can't have you going all hairy on us in the middle of a fight."
Groose snorted, but Link could see the gratitude in his eyes. They were a team, for better or worse.
As Link watched Groose wrestle with his unruly hair, he couldn't help but think back to the day they first realized the true cost of Groose's newfound power.
They had been at the lake, daring each other to jump in. Groose, always the first to prove himself, had leaped off the dock with a whoop of glee. But instead of resurfacing with his usual bravado, he had vanished beneath the waves.
Link's heart had seized with terror as he realized something was wrong. He had dived in without a second thought, Zelda close behind. They had found Groose sinking like a stone, his body rigid and unresponsive.
It was only later, as they sat shivering on the shore, that they made the connection to the strange fruit Groose had eaten just days before. A devil fruit, Zelda had called it, her voice hushed with a mix of awe and fear.
From that day on, Link had made a silent vow to always watch out for Groose, to be there to pull him back from the edges of his own recklessness. It was a promise he intended to keep, no matter how strong they all became.
Link awoke to the sound of low voices. Blinking sleepily, he realized Ganfar and Shura were still awake, huddled by the dying embers of the campfire. Careful not to wake Zelda and Groose, he crept closer, straining to catch their words.
"...dance in your dreams, don't they, old friend?" Shura's voice was rough, like a blade scraped across stone.
Ganfar's response was too low for Link to make out, but he caught the word "Shandorians" and the phrase "cycle of bloodshed." A chill raced down his spine. He knew of the ancient conflict between their peoples, but to hear it spoken of so rawly...
Shura's next words were sharp, bitter. "Save your peace-words for the children. We both know what blood tastes like."
Link's breath caught in his throat. He had always known Ganfar and Shura as warriors, but to hear them speak of such violence...
Their voices dropped lower, and Link could only catch snatches: "Valley of Tears", "hatred", "ancient divide". But it was the pain in their voices, the weight of unseen scars, that struck him most.
As the night stretched on, Link found himself praying to the goddesses for guidance. If warriors as great as Ganfar and Shura couldn't find peace, what hope did the rest of them have? He vowed then, staring into the dying coals, that he would do whatever it took to bridge the gap between their peoples. For all their sakes.
Link awoke to Crimson's soft trill, a sound that still echoed their first meeting in the ancient woods. Dawn painted the sleeping forms of Zelda and Groose in gold as Link slipped from his bedroll, weapon belt jingling softly. One look between boy and bird was enough - time for their morning flight.
They burst through the cloud layer, emerald canopy shrinking below. Here, three years of trust showed in every movement. Crimson's wings caught sunlight like polished copper as they banked, each feather responding to Link's slightest shift. When they plunged into a spiral dive, Link's heart soared with the same wild joy he'd felt that first day, suspended between sky and earth.
The wind's song took him back to early mornings with Ganfar, mist clinging to the training grounds like a second skin. His mentor's sword had caught first light as he demonstrated forms Link now knew by heart:
"Balance flows from center to edge," Ganfar had said, blade singing through the dawn. "Like ripples in still water."
The weight of Ganfar's gift - sword and shield - pressed against Link's back now, grounding him even as they climbed higher. His fingers found the worn leather grip, traced the empty setting in the crossguard where a jewel should rest. The shield's triforce emblem blazed in the morning light, its sea stone edge a reminder of powers yet untested.
Crimson banked sharply, responding to a tension in Link's posture he hadn't even registered. Their bond had grown beyond conscious thought - like the way his body now flowed through Ganfar's forms, finding balance even without wings. Below, the first traders were setting up their stalls, wing-blessed and wingless alike beginning their day's dance.
They landed as the sun crested the horizon. Crimson's feathers were warm silk beneath Link's palm as he dismounted, his muscles humming with remembered flight. Training awaited, but for now, this moment was enough - this proof that different worlds could become one, through trust and time and patience.
Five years later
The practice yard's banners snapped in the wind, marking time with the clash of training swords. Above, young knights moved through their forms, small wings catching light as they pivoted. Link sprawled in the dust for the seventh time, phantom pain burning where wing-buds should have been.
"Again." Shura's voice cut through the watching students' silence.
Link's back muscles seized where the scars pulled tight. Every traditional form felt wrong, built for bodies that could find balance points he'd never know. "The forms weren't made for—"
Steel flashed. Link rolled purely on instinct, practice sword rising to block Shura's strike before conscious thought caught up.
"Watch my center, not my wings." Shura pressed forward, each attack forcing Link to adapt. "The forms are about balance, not birth." His scar caught morning light as he moved, a story written in old wounds.
Link studied deeper now - the slight shoulder tension before overhead strikes, the weight shift preceding lateral attacks. Things hidden beneath the obvious flutter of wings. When their sequence ended, his blade stayed steady despite burning muscles.
Shura lowered his weapon, satisfaction breaking through his stern mask. "They read the sky's language." He tapped Link's chest with his sword pommel. "You must learn to read deeper dialects."
As the sunset painted the yard in gold, they rested on its edge, legs dangling over endless blue. Below, Shandorian traders moved through the market, their wingless backs straight with different pride. Shura cleaned his blade with methodical care, but his eyes tracked their movements.
"The Shandorians," he said finally, voice rough with unspoken history. "Their forms developed with the weight of cannons even with wings they had to compensate. Ancient, grounded techniques." His fingers brushed the scar over his left eye. "Perhaps... there's wisdom there we've overlooked."
Link's breath caught. Such words bordered on heresy in some circles. "You really think their ways might have value?"
"A knight uses every tool." Shura's wings settled into ready position, but something haunted flickered behind his eyes. "Even perspectives others fear. Tomorrow, we'll study their stances. For now – that last sequence. Again." Through the gathering dark, they forged something new from old forms.