Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
They located the hero.
He even had the legendary sword in his possession. The soldiers who found him said they saw the mark of the Triforce light up on his hand, so he must have already been successful at attuning to its divine power. How fortuitous.
This should be a joyous moment. And I am genuinely glad that they’ve found him. But I can’t help feeling ill at the thought of it all. I haven’t even met him, and I already feel like I’m stuck staring at his back as he walks towards fulfilling his role with grace and dignity, all while I continue to stumble from behind him.
He’s to arrive at Hyrule Castle in the coming weeks. I don’t know much about him yet, but I was told his name is Kazuma Asogi.
I’m sure Elder Impa would lecture me about the importance of reserving my judgment until after meeting him, so I will try to cast it out of my mind for the time being. Perhaps he’s been struggling with his fate just as I have.
When he hears that the hero has arrived at the castle gates, Ryunosuke demonstrates his best run-walk though the castle halls, as to not be too unsightly in his nervous anticipation. He breathlessly leans over the parapet overlooking the courtyard, grip clenched tight over the brick railing.
Attendants and members of the Royal Guard greet the hero swifty, fortunately stopping to talk in the area below where Ryunosuke is peering down from. Even from his advantageous angle, it is difficult for him to decipher much of anything—the bustling activity as people go about their daily business drowns out the sound, and the crowding of the hero in order to get him situated provides no clear sight line. His frown tugs deeper.
“Did you hear that another big name Field Knight was killed last night?” Ryunosuke overhears one of the Royal Guard passing behind him. It’s an intriguing piece of news, sure, but the scene happening in the lower courtyard proves to be much more compelling. With an irritated sigh, Ryunosuke strains his ears to listen to anything below him.
The other Royal Guard with her laughs—loud. “Those cocky idiots… Think they’re invincible and can go around fighting anything by themselves. Wasn’t he the one they found out was pocketing the rupees he raised for charity?”
“I think so. A bit weird with the frequency these deaths have been happening, though. Do you really think it’s just normal monsters picking th…” Their conversation trails off as they head out of earshot.
Ryunosuke breathes out when they’re finally gone. Now he can’t be distracted from his real goal: futilely attempting to pick up any of the talk from beneath him. One of the Royal Guards shifts to the side a bit and gives him the clearest look he’s seen thus far. He makes a mental list of his observations: a lot smaller than he had imagined, dressed in nondescript clothes, raven-black hair cresting into an unruly peak at the back of his head—
His thoughts are interrupted by a full, mirthful laugh from behind him, jolting him so severely he nearly topples over the railing. “Might I suggest offering less cavillous comments about the young man when you are in his presence?” Elder Impa offers, wearing a chiding smile.
The color drains from Ryunosuke’s face. “Did I—I didn’t speak that out loud, did I?” His eyes dart rapidly around.
Elder Impa laughs once more, then places a warm hand on his arm. “Even if you did not, your face oft betrays your thoughts, my child. Come now, we must get back. You will be introduced to him after his audience with the king.”
He nods and starts to follow her. After a few steps, he slows and lingers, turning back to look at the scene below. He furrows his brow as he watches them all—feverishly hovering around the Goddess’s Chosen Hero like bees to nectar—usher him towards the Sanctum. The hero begins his stride, then lifts his head up, towards Ryunosuke’s direction. In the briefest of moments, he catches his gaze before disappearing from sight.
When Ryunosuke was told about his counterpart who bore the Triforce of Courage and who would one day wield the fabled Master Sword to strike down the threat of Calamity Stronghart, he envisaged a fully-formed warrior. He didn’t know what to expect exactly, but the iconography of the legendary hero in the historical texts seemed like an appropriate place to base assumptions on: an experienced knight, aged and hardened from years of adventure, unwavering courage apparent from their perpetual, brave smile.
He most certainly didn’t expect the person standing in front of him: a boy, his same age and around his height, that clearly isn’t a trained knight at all. He wears neither armor nor confidence, just an ordinary shirt and pants held up with suspenders and a withdrawn demeanor. A sword is fashioned to his side, but it looks incongruous—awkward in its length compared to the size of the boy wearing it, and resting on the ground when he’s not actively holding it up.
He isn’t hardened from a lifetime of battle and hasn’t fought armies of monsters, but it’s unmistakable that he is currently fighting some sort of battle of his own. This is obvious for Ryunosuke to deduce, as the alleged hero makes it easy to perceive—the heavy, dark circles under his eyes emphasize the exhausted and faraway look plainly evident on his face, no courageous smile in sight. He continues to stare down at some point on the floor past the direction of Ryunosuke with an air of melancholy to him that leaves Ryunosuke on edge.
The courtier that escorted the hero in nudges him a bit on the shoulder, then softly says alongside a small flourish of the hand, “You should kneel before the Royal Highness.”
“O-Oh, right,” he replies before quickly scrambling down on a knee with little grace. The clumsy thunk of bone on tile makes Ryunosuke wince. “Sorry.” His eyes stay trained to the floor; from Ryunosuke’s angle, it almost looks like they’re closed shut.
The attendant gives Ryunosuke an apologetic look. “Forgive him, Prince Ryunosuke, he’s still yet to learn about proper etiquette.”
Not at all like he expected—not a knight that’s well-versed in royal protocol, in any case. Ryunosuke feels a bit envious of his ignorance. He always felt the formalities were suffocatingly stuffy.
“N-No, it’s quite alright,” Ryunosuke says, shaking both his hands in front of him. “You, um, may rise now.” The hero complies, still not making eye contact.
“I’ll leave you both to it, then.” The courtier gives a small bow, then exits the room.
They’re alone, confined within those four walls: a person who has trained his whole life to master a necessity that never materialized, and a person who stumbled upon success, wholly unaware of his significance.
There’s a painful moment of silence that lasts for what feels like hours. The hero continues to lethargically stare far off to the floor, mouth pulled down in a sullen frown. In the stillness, Ryunosuke’s mind runs blank—knowing the hero isn’t staring at him, but feeling scrutinized nonetheless. He goes through his etiquette lessons again: introductions seem like a logical place to begin.
“Um, Kazuma Asogi, is it?” The preceding silence makes his words seem that much more amplified. He cringes at the harshness in volume. The hero nods. “You may call me Prince Ryunosuke. Pleased to make your, uh, acquaintance.” He gives a meek smile.
The hero lifts his gaze to him for a moment—dark brown eyes seeming peculiarly dull and worn out—before falling once again. “The pleasure is all mine,” he mumbles, like he doesn’t want to be there. At least it’s something they both can relate to.
Ryunosuke gulps, fingers fiddling with the arm guard on his left hand. He doesn’t know how long the attendants are going to make them stay there together for, but the quiet feels like little pinpoints pricking him relentlessly the longer it goes on. He had all sorts of inquiries in his mind about who the hero was before this, but standing here now in front of him, he realizes he can’t remember a single one. He needs to find something—anything—to fill the silence before he combusts.
He finally fishes something out from the murky waters of his mind: “So, ah, where are you from?” This seems like a safe enough question.
A pause. “Hateno Village,” the hero says flatly.
“Hateno Village…” Ryunosuke muses. He cups his chin with his left hand in thought and tries to recall his geography lessons with Elder Impa. “In East Necluda, um, known for its agriculture, if I’m not mistaken?” The hero nods. Ryunosuke is relieved—the only reason he really remembered that much was because he once overheard the kitchen staff say they often import apples from there to make his favorite Fruitcake dessert. “Are your parents farmers, then?”
He sees the hero visibly tense, lips pulled taut into an intense grimace. “No, my mother is an artisan and my father is—was a knight.”
Ryunosuke’s heart skips a beat at the awkwardness of the phrasing; he pushes the anxiety down, hopes he means that he’s merely retired from service. “Oh, I-I see…” He watches as the hero clutches the hilt of his sword with a trembling hand. His eyes grow wide. “Is that the Master Sword?” Ryunosuke asks, mouth suddenly feeling dry.
The hero seems to startle at this a bit and he looks towards Ryunosuke before focusing back down to the sword. “Karuma,” he snaps back.
“Sorry?”
“She’s Karuma,” he replies, tone dripping in solemn reverence and expression firm. “If that’s what you all would like to call her between yourselves, fine, but her real name is Karuma.”
Ryunosuke swallows and gives a careful nod. “Karuma,” he repeats. He clenches his fists, steeling himself for what lies ahead of him. “May I?” He extends both his hands out, diffident.
The legends spoke of the relationship between the sword and the Goddess Hylia: it was believed that the goddess fashioned both the initial sword and the spirit dwelling within it in order to assist her Chosen Hero. If the goddess was the one to create the sword, he figures, then maybe interacting with it will incite a reaction within him.
The hero’s face scrunches up, reluctant. A beat, then he hesitantly removes the sword from his belt and places it carefully in Ryunosuke’s hands—tight grip lingering before finally releasing his hold on it.
Ryunosuke wraps his hands around the legendary sword and his fingertips accidentally brush the hero’s in the motion. Ryunosuke suppresses the instinct to pull away when he sees it: brilliant, golden light shining from the back of his hand. The mark of the Triforce illuminates through his arm guard, bottom left triangle fully filled—a phenomenon he’s been told had only happened once, when he was born, and something he hasn’t seen a single time with his own eyes.
When the hero fully removes his hands, the glowing fades away. And so does the brief flicker of hope in Ryunosuke; he still doesn’t feel any different, doesn’t hear anything out of the ordinary, despite interacting with the other Triforce wielder and exposing the divine insignia. But, he can’t tear his eyes away from the back of his hand, gaping down at it as if staring would embarrass it enough to reappear.
“The Triforce, correct?” the hero asks with an airy calmness that Ryunosuke believes is not befitting such a tremendous moment. “That’s…what the king said it was called, I think. What causes it to glow like that?”
Ryunosuke’s face falls slightly. “I…I think when it harmonizes around something related to it.” He remembers Elder Impa reading a passage theorizing that the Triforce wielders’ marks would glow in the presence of one another. “Maybe it had something to do with our hands touching?”
The hero sets his jaw, countenance adopting a serious expression that belies his age. He steps forward and places his palms over Ryunosuke’s hands once more. The boldness startles Ryunosuke, but any normal flustered feelings are quickly smothered by his desperate curiosity. They both intently stare at the back of their hands for an excruciating moment of time, but to no avail. Ryunosuke gasps in an inhale of breath, not realizing he had held it sometime in the interim.
“Interesting,” the hero says, mild, as he releases Ryunosuke and the sword once again, taking a step backwards. “It glowed when I first held Karuma and then again when I…” His voice wavers and Ryunosuke watches his face drop even further. “...Became her rightful owner.”
Ryunosuke blinks down at the Master Sword—no, he mentally corrects himself: Karuma. In the excitement of it all, he had nearly forgotten that he was holding the legendary sword in his hands—a sword constructed by the Goddess herself. Another chance. He needs this to work.
The weight of the sword in his grasp is heavy—unfamiliar. Ryunosuke was never someone with a future as a front-line fighter, but even if he had that talent, he never could have entertained the thought with his father’s insistence on focusing solely on prayer. A sword in his hands feels wrong, like he could still somehow injure someone even with it fully sheathed.
“And have you heard it yet?” Ryunosuke’s voice cracks with the question. He tightens his grip around the sword. “Legends state that there’s a spirit within the sword—have you heard it?”
“Yes.” Ryunosuke’s wide eyes shoot up to meet the hero’s. “She…sings every now and then.”
Ryunosuke bites his lower lip. He has not only attuned to it—no, Ryunosuke corrects himself again, her—but he has such a profound connection with her already that he can hear the sword spirit inside? Ryunosuke’s stomach feels heavy as he tries to concentrate on the sword.
He calls out to her in his mind, only to be greeted with nothing in return. Nothing, nothing, always nothing. No sword spirit, no goddess, no powers, no anything.
He hands the sword back with a dejected sigh, letting his arms fall limply back to his side after. He casts his eyes down, sight going blurry—eyes swimming in the tears that have formed in the corners of his vision.
It’s not fair, he thinks. It’s not fair that he’s been working so hard to make any progress at all—to get any sort of confirmation that he’s even the right person in the position, that it isn’t just some cruel fluke giving him the mark of the Triforce when in actuality, he has no sealing power inside of him—only to end up with nothing to show for it. It’s not fair that this hero—and he’s not even a hero, really, he’s a boy, just like he is—has never worked towards deliberately synchronizing with the sword and, yet, the sword spirit reached out to him so effortlessly. Ryunosuke only wishes he could be accepted so readily.
The awkward silence descends upon the room like quick fog rolling in—thick and difficult to navigate. The room is dead quiet; Ryunosuke can hear each individual breath that passes from their noses. His pulse quickens in his chest and he prays that the hero can’t hear it too.
It’s wrong for him to think this way about the hero, Ryunosuke recognizes. It’s wrong for him to be bitter about someone he just met—who hasn’t done anything wrong, except be unwittingly born into a destiny much like his own. The hero’s just a boy from Hateno Village. He knows nothing about the centuries of legend, about the depth of responsibility that stems from that. He doesn’t even know he’s expected to bow in front of him. It’s not his fault.
Ryunosuke looks at the hero out of the corner of his eye for a quick second, careful to not get caught. A knot wrings deep in his stomach when he sees him. Insecurity and envy twist within him—twin serpents coiled around him, eager to suffocate and squeeze until his bones are ground to dust. The hero is like a mirror held up to Ryunosuke, displaying all his failings in plain view.
The hero simply stares back at him, a scrutinizing expression on his face that he can’t quite decipher.
Ryunosuke swallows down the dry scratch in his throat. “Swift Sheikah swords swipe silently sideways,” he mumbles to himself, low, words flowing fast and smooth from his tongue, “swinging shields, surrendering sloppy soldiers susceptible.” It’s instinctual, without thinking.
“…What?” the hero asks with wide, confused eyes.
Ryunosuke meets his enrapt stare and his cheeks flare, quickly rearing back with his hands held in front of him. He looks away. “Oh, erm, sorry, I do that when I’m nervous sometimes…”
“Another royal tradition?” The question seems earnest and without malice, but, to Ryunosuke, it feels mocking in a particular, sharp way. Embarrassment burns his face and insides.
“N-No…” he says, shakily. “Speaking fast is just my hobby—something that makes me feel better. Um, I know it’s a bad habit…” He squeezes his eyes shut, prepares for the ridicule that follows.
It doesn’t come. Instead, the hero tries to repeat the words: “Swift Sheikah shwords—ah! Wait, can you do that again?”
Slowly, Ryunosuke cracks open his eyes. He’s tentative, but he recites the phrase once more, words still just as effortlessly quick despite the way his pounding heart drowns out his thoughts: “Swift Sheikah swords swipe silently sideways, swinging shields, surrendering sloppy soldiers susceptible.”
The hero blinks at him. It’s an excruciating moment of silence before the hero’s lips twitch. He lets out an unseemly snort, slaps a hand over his mouth. “S-Sorry, I—” Another laugh slips out from between his fingers; his shoulders shake from trying to suppress it. “What…?”
Ryunosuke’s chest tightens. It was simply delayed, then, not acceptance, after all. How he could hope for anything but that, when he’s been told time and time again it’s an unsightly, childish pastime, is a wonder to even himself. He curses his naïveté, his foolishness. He clenches his fists.
Finally, the dam bursts; the hero’s doubled over, clutching his stomach, as the laughs pour out. “That, that’s incredible!” Ryunosuke startles, sucks in a disbelieving breath. When the hero raises his head, there’s tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. And when Ryunosuke looks again, more focused, there’s something shining in those dull brown eyes—the first genuine glimmers of life from out of the dark clouds of melancholy.
It’s not ridicule, no, he realizes. It’s joy.
Ryunosuke just stands there, gawking, as the hero tries to enunciate the phrase again. Thoughts swirl erratically—confusion?
The hero stumbles on his words. He furrows his brow and pulls his mouth into a tight frown. Another attempt: “Shwift Sheik—” A sharp inhale of breath, frustrated. He pointedly lifts his gaze to Ryunosuke, a determination sparked bright within his eyes. “You must tell me, how did you do that? And so fast?”
“W-Well, it’s not generally something you can do easily on your first try.” Ryunosuke gives a shy smile, scratching the back of his head with his left hand. “You have to practice, of course.” He feels his heart thrum quick in his chest, the fearful embarrassment melting into something else—relief? Acknowledgement? Delight?
“That one’s a bit difficult to start out with,” he continues, holding up a pointer finger and giving him a smirk. “It, it’s a bit morbid, but try this simpler one: red Dead Hand, tread quicksand, dead cowhand.”
The hero tries to repeat the words and stumbles over the sounds. He starts again and again, tenacity and frustration shaping his countenance like clay.
Ryunosuke feels the fingers of smug self-satisfaction begin to stroke his ego—he is better at something the hero completely fails at—but it feels like a hollow victory in the end; Calamity Stronghart won’t be bested by him reciting tongue twisters, no matter how fast he does it. He lets the feeling flow through him and be replaced with a sort of giddy joy over the sight in front of him instead: this display of persistence—indicative of that virtue of courage within him, Ryunosuke supposes—over a passion he was chastised for as being merely a trifle. It makes him feel seen, in a way, to be taken seriously.
“Gah!” A sharp cry from the hero brings him back to the moment. He sees the hero grimacing, tongue sticking out slightly from between his teeth, and hand hovering in front of his mouth. “Ow, bit my tongue…” he mutters.
Ryunosuke blinks at him slowly. Maybe all heroes do have their own weaknesses.
“Um, don’t exhaust yourself over it,” Ryunosuke says with a nervous smile. “You’re going to want to be able to fully enjoy the dinner coming up. The chicken curry is delicious!”
The color drains from the hero’s face, expression twisting in surprised disgust. “They’re serving what?”
Ryunosuke’s Journal
It’s been a week now since I’ve met the hero that holds the Triforce of Courage, but I can’t quiet the unease in my stomach I feel whenever I think of him. I know full well that comparison is the thief of joy, but I fear that I’m a willing accomplice to its robbery.
I heard his family had possession of the sword (Karuma, he was adamant about calling her, and did so with much veneration) for generations… I’d like to say that his successes have meant nothing—that he didn’t work to locate the sword or to be able to access its powers—but is that luck not incredible in and of itself? To be able to attune to the sword as if it was as natural as breathing, is that not the exemplification of his innate talent?
I was blessed with no such talent, and I still make no progress. I believe that if he was born with the Triforce of Wisdom, he’d be able to manifest his sealing powers with ease… Maybe he should’ve been blessed with both pieces of the Triforce instead.
I feel as though I’m a fraud in a role I’m not meant to hold. What good is a substitute if they can never hope to live up to their predecessor’s achievements?
Our paths don’t cross often around the castle. Elder Impa said he now lives in Castle Town and he has to attend The Knight Academy to gain formal training before he can officially become my bodyguard in the future. Occasionally, I’ll see him being led around the castle and each time, without fail, he quickly makes eye contact as though he somehow knew I was looking at him. It’s the same each time: he shoots that fierce glower at me that makes my stomach drop, like he’s trying to pierce me with his stare from across the halls. It’s awfully terrifying.
It only makes sense, I suppose, now that he’s had enough time to truly understand the situation we’re in: he’s upholding his end of the bargain destiny has dealt him and I’m failing to fulfill my own. The way he looks at me…
He must despise me.
…Another curious thing I noticed: not long after he arrived here, he started wearing this red headband across his forehead that seems to flutter about even in the absence of wind, as if possessed. I’ve wracked my brain for what it could possibly symbolize, but I haven’t the faintest clue. Odd.
Ryunosuke’s Journal
The most bizarre thing happened to me today. A few weeks ago, I wrote about the peculiar red headband the hero has become accustomed to sporting.
Well, today I saw him straight ahead of me in the halls and he gave me that exact same scathing look he always does, before quite obviously changing direction and walking right towards me, with all the tenacity of a predator chasing down its prey! I immediately turned heel and went back the way I came, speeding along as fast I could, all the while feeling his murderous leer boring into the back of my head as he got closer and closer.
In my haste, I somehow took the wrong turn and found myself staring at a wall in front of me with no other exit in sight. And when I turned—there he was, face mere inches away from mine! Believe me when I say my heart nearly leapt out of my chest at that moment. I was fully convinced this was my last day on this planet.
This part’s a bit of blur, but I must’ve jumped backwards and slammed my back against the wall (the ache still persists as I write this). All I remember was closing my eyes and praying as hard as I ever had to the Goddess Hylia, and, for good measure, to the Golden Goddesses of antiquity, Nayru, Farore, and Din, too.
Here’s the strange part: instead of cutting me down, he repeated a short rhyme of some sort. Something to do with a red headband. But, he tripped over his speech after a few words of the phrase and, after cursing and generally looking flustered, promptly turned and left without any further explanation.
Writing this now, I wonder if whatever that cryptic rhyme he said has to do with his wearing of the red headband. Not that I understand it at all. I’ve never even heard whatever phrase he spoke (or should I say, tried to speak?) before.
Perhaps it was some incantation… Does the hero know how to perform cursed magic too?! Maybe I should hope this to be the case, as it would finally put me out of my unending misery!
Either way, I still don’t know what to make of this new hero. Very odd, indeed.