Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
Not a day goes by when I’m not reminded of how utterly inadequate I am. Again and again, I pray at the sacred springs and feel absolutely nothing. Father is growing more frustrated at my lack of progress, but no matter how hard I try, nothing ever seems to work.
I’ve been so desperate, I’ve been trying to read the heavy tomes in the Royal Library when I have time, in hopes that there’s some information there that can help in some way. I found a passage in one of the books that mentioned ancient Sheikah technology being used as a tool to fight in the past. I can’t help but think it’s related to the odd relics that have been recently excavated, that no one knows what they are or what their purposes may have been. But, when I tried to broach the subject to Father, he shot down the conversation entirely. He keeps saying that the reason why I haven’t been able to activate my powers is because I’m not taking it all seriously. How am I the one who isn’t taking this seriously?
I’m not like those who had the Triforce of Wisdom before and were able to so easily control their powers. I’m not like Mother, who was able to use magic even without help from the Triforce. In the end, I’m just me. Am I really the person who should even be in this role?
I am sat here, writing this, holding the one-eyed daruma doll Mother gave me in my lap. Its eccentric, sapphire-jeweled eye, surrounded by all sorts of peculiar markings, stares at me as always, as if all-knowing in its vision. If only it could show me what it sees.
I wonder if the hero holding the Triforce of Courage, wherever they may be, has been faring any better. Or are they just as cursed with this destiny as I am?
“O-O, divine G-Goddess H-Hylia, apotheosis of w-wisdom, holy s-sovereign of light and t-time…”
Ryunosuke clasps his interlaced hands tighter, pulls them closer to his chest. It’s a vain attempt to try to retain heat, he knows, but he can’t stop himself from trying anything to help brace the frigid waters of one of the lesser sacred springs located in the Tabantha Frontier. Unlike the Spring of Courage and the Spring of Power, there is no Goddess Statue overseeing the site, but King Naruhodo gave him the directive to begin prayer at all springs with any ounce of divine power emanating from them.
Ryunosuke is fourteen now; all his previous endeavors to awaken his sealing powers have been utterly fruitless. This current one has been much the same.
“I-I am Ryunosuke N-Naruhodo, the one who h-harbors your spirit. I h-humbly beseech you for y-your audience.” He dips his head down in supplication and tries to grit his teeth, but their ferocious chattering does nothing to help him regain his composure. His thin ceremonial robes and flimsy sandals offer little protection from the elements. He feels his heart hammering in his chest.
Here, in the gelidity, he struggles to determine how much time has passed—to determine how long he’s been praying to a goddess that won’t even do so much as acknowledge him, the heir to her divine powers. No matter how long it’s been, however, he feels as though it’s paradoxically been too long and yet still not long enough.
It’s never enough.
“This is ridiculous,” Ursavra mutters as she watches from the snowy bank of the spring behind him, clad in her thick winter garb. “King Naruhodo must be mad to think this will accomplish anything.”
“Patience, Ursavra,” Elder Impa warns as she pulls her scarf closer to her face. “The records indicate that being exposed to extreme conditions can often encourage the access of one’s innate abilities.”
Ursavra crosses her arms and scoffs: “There will be no accessing of his innate abilities if he dies of hypothermia before then. It’s cruel, more like it. The least we could’ve done was get someone to concoct a less-potent cold resistance elixir.”
Elder Impa frowns as she looks on. “Yes, I am inclined to agree.” She hugs the thick, quilted blanket and the change of clothes draped over her arms closer to her. “But the king urged for the attempt to be made.”
“And there’s been no progress on finding the holder of the Triforce of Courage?” Ursavra asks.
Elder Impa shakes her head and sighs out a big puff of air. “No. None of the search parties have located the sword and there has not been so much as a hint at a lead on who the hero might be.”
Ryunosuke is thankful this recitation has become perfunctory—the prayer an automatic response of rote muscle memory rather than conscious effort—as his thoughts begin to go hazy. He feels himself stop shivering at the end of it, at the very least.
What isn’t welcome is the all too familiar routine of it all—of the memorized prayer leading to silence, over and over again, never enough.
He tries to start his prayer anew, but his head starts to loll down like a stone being dropped into the water, and he finds he’s struggling to raise it up again. His breathing becomes labored—difficult to fully oxygenate his lungs.
“I can’t watch this anymore,” Ursavra says as she sees his upper body go heavy. “Ryunosuke!” She wades through the icy water to him, but he doesn’t respond. “That’s enough.” She places her hands on his shoulders and turns him to face her. “You must stop.”
Still no answer.
“Ryunosuke?” He just stares forward, eyes glazed over, as if he’s seeing right through her. She curses under her breath, then cups his face between her hands. “Little mouse,” she coos, gentle.
With a small jolt, he blinks and is able to focus his sight somewhat. “Ursa…” he murmurs. His skin is a grayish blue.
“It’s time to stop.” It’s both soft and assertive.
“N-No, I can’t,” Ryunosuke’s words slur out. It feels like it takes all his energy just to speak. “I haven’t… I need to…”
Everything feels numbingly fuzzy around him, but he can still feel it deep within him, gnawing at his insides even now: he needs to fulfill his duty. It’s not a choice for him; he must succeed. He must carry the will of his mother. He must follow in the footsteps of the previous wielders of the Triforce of Wisdom. He must not disappoint his father, his people, the entire kingdom of Hyrule. He must—
He sees Ursavra’s mouth move and the world tips around him.
Everything goes white.
.
.
.
He can only barely crack open his eyes, but the brightness of the room immediately stings on contact. He feels every breath, every slight shift of his body with a keen, laborious precision. Simply attempting to move his arm feels like it takes all the strength he has. A small grunt escapes his lips.
He sees a blur of a figure move into his sight, hears muffled murmuring around him. Like frost on windows thawing, his view begins to clear. It’s Ursavra hovering over his bed, saying something to him, a look of relief plain on her face. Behind her, at the foot of the bed, is Elder Impa, likewise reassured.
Two wide, dark eyes peek around from behind Elder Impa. A young child: Lady Susato, her granddaughter. She must be shadowing her again today, diligently learning how to perform her own duty laid out for her.
Something sour and unfair twists inside him. The weakness he feels amplifies itself—even now, even with the overbearing lethargy—and he can’t help from wondering: has she been more successful with her training than he has thus far?
“Little mouse,” Ursavra’s voice brings him back to attention again. “Are you okay?”
He blinks at her and his vision goes cloudy yet again—wet, this time. He feels the tickle of tears cascading down the length of his cheeks and he swallows the lump lodged in his throat.
“I couldn’t do it,” he rasps out, creaky. “I-I’ve failed again. I—”
Ursavra gently shushes him. “Come now, it just merely wasn’t the right moment. There's still plenty of time to figure it out, yet.”
Ryunosuke shakes his head. His voice rips and shatters. He grips at the bedsheets. Becoming distraught: “E-Everyone’s counting on me. I’m, I’m supposed to replace all the people that held the sacred power before, but—but—” He squeezes his eyes shut. “How could I ever compare to them?!” he chokes out.
The knock at the door makes Kazuma look out of the kitchen window. Outside, he sees two Knights of Hyrule escorting another man whose attire is embellished with traditional Sheikah accoutrements. He was still quite young when he last interacted with this man, but he recognizes him all the same: Dr. Mikotoba, a field medic and his father’s good friend. And, most importantly, he is a member of the same squad mission as his father.
Him being here now can only mean that their mission has been completed. There’s a giddiness that bubbles in his chest as he rounds the corner into the foyer and he can’t help the smile forming on his face. His father is surely coming home at any time that very day—
There’s an earsplitting shriek from his mother as she reels back from the doorway, knocking over a vase onto the ground in her struggle to maintain her balance. He watches with wide eyes, smile instantly dropping, as she clings to the wall with wobbly knees and hears the pained, guttural sobs wrenching out from her body. Dr. Mikotoba tries to steady her as she collapses to her knees.
“M-Mother?” The words come out quiet, strained, as he peeks out from the kitchen door frame. His eyes move from his mother and Dr. Mikotoba to the soldiers outside. Between them: a wooden trunk. Strapped atop the trunk: a humming sword.
Karuma.
Dr. Mikotoba looks up, expression twisting in anguish. “Kazuma… I’m so sorry. Your father…” His voice falters at the end, but Kazuma doesn’t need him to finish his sentence to know that something’s gone horribly wrong.
The knot in Kazuma’s stomach wrings itself violently, unyielding in its ferocity. “Where…” he gasps out, the words like sandpaper against his throat. “Where’s Father?”
Dr. Mikotoba casts his eyes down and looks off to a spot on the floor a ways away. “I’m, I’m sorry, but your father has sadly passed away.”
The air escapes from Kazuma’s lungs in an instant. Every sound around him seems muffled, like being too close to a firework going off during the village’s festivals—just a dull ringing in his ears. He doesn’t even feel the urge to cry; it’s just all-encompassing numbness. He tastes something bitter in his mouth.
Another vicious wail comes out from Kazuma’s mother. “How?!” she’s pleading, fists bunched up against the hardwood floor. “There was danger in the mission, yes, but he was with an entire team of highly trained monster hunters! How did this—”
There’s something dark that passes across Dr. Mikotoba’s face at this and he stiffens. “No, it was something else, I’m afraid…” His eyes shift around, hesitant. “A potent disease swept through the entire camp. The other medics and I tried all we could to treat them, but they all succumbed to the illness before we could get close to a settlement for further support.” He screws his eyes shut. “My sincerest apologies.”
“Oh Goddess…” Kazuma’s mother murmurs, head drooping further.
Something ignites inside Kazuma—a ferocious bonfire of light in the dark, vast emptiness. His fists clench, so tight it makes both of his arms quake. “So he got sick?” It feels like a cruel joke, like something too mundane to possibly be true. His father felt larger than life—a highly decorated hero that came out victorious no matter the challenge, a paragon of peace and justice and good in the world. It feels ridiculous to even entertain the thought that something as simple as illness would kill him. He mutters the words between clenched teeth: “That’s it? He got sick and now he’s dead?”
Dr. Mikotoba looks back up at him with a deep grimace, expression twisted in pain. “…Yes, I’m sorry.” Kazuma sucks in a sharp breath.
The two soldiers shuffle the trunk inside and set it down next to them. “His belongings, ma’am,” one of them says, like it’s nothing.
It’s not a deliberate decision when Kazuma starts staggering towards Karuma; he doesn’t even realize he’s moving at all. The melody emanating from the sword is no longer the beautiful lilt he once heard, seven long years ago—it’s now discordant and shrill. She’s crying, he deduces. Karuma’s crying. Why does no one notice?
His fingers gently wrap around her hilt and he slides her free from her bindings. It’s then—it’s only then—when he hugs Karuma tight to his aching chest, that he feels all the little threads precariously holding himself together come unraveled. And he gasps out—thick, heavy sobs racking his whole body as he curls himself around the sword.
Something bright pierces through the darkness of his closed eyes and he slowly opens them, vision obscured by the pooling tears.
“Wha—what?!” he hears one of the soldiers sputter out as they stumble backwards, almost tripping on the treshold.
Kazuma follows the source of the light to the triangle shape on the back of his hand, radiant and imposing in its resplendence. Under his touch, Karuma feels to almost tremble—her frenetic energy like a long-awaited reunion, buzzing with an excitement that seems as though to have lasted for centuries. It feels cosmically right, here, the heft of her held in between his hands. Like it’s familiar. Like he’s held her before a million lifetimes over.
“Oh, Kazuma…” his mother’s weary voice snaps him out of his reverie. He looks over and sees two sets of stunned eyes staring back at him. His voice sticks in his throat and all he can do is gape back.
“That’s, that’s the Triforce!” the other knight sputters out, incredulous. “W-We have to report this to King Naruhodo at once!” The two knights exchange panicked looks.
Kazuma hardly registers what they’re saying. In this moment, he can only see the deep fear set in his mother’s eyes and can only feel the visceral lurch of his stomach.