Chapter Text
❝ It is something that grows over time...a true friendship. A feeling in the heart that becomes even stronger over time... The passion of friendship will soon blossom into a righteous power and through it, you will know which way to go. ❞ - Sheik, Ocarina of Time
“Though the texts of yore have not been properly preserved over the course of time, the prevailing consensus reached is that the sword of legend takes on numerous appearances depending on the hero who wields it.”
Elder Impa scrapes her long, bony finger across the book in front of Ryunosuke, its path along the page weary yet still resolute in its intent. Ryunosuke blinks hard and tries to stifle a yawn. He is seven and history lessons with Elder Impa are dry and difficult to concentrate on, but he knows if he yawns in front of her, he’ll be scolded for being improper. He much prefers spending time with her outside of lessons when she reads him the books meant to be said aloud fast and they both can laugh when they end up saying silly sounds in their haste. He doesn’t know what this sword of legend is even really supposed to be, other than it sounding important.
“When the Goddess Hylia shed her divine form following the great war with the Demon King, Demise, and assumed the body of a mortal, her chosen hero courageously forged his blade into the Master Sword. No matter its appearance, there are two constants that always accompany its reunion with the hero of legend: one, the manifestation of the mark of the Triforce upon the back of the hero’s hand, and, two, the spirit of the sword’s resonance with said hero.”
Ryunosuke can feel his eyelids drooping. He recognizes that name, the Goddess Hylia—he’s been told over and over that supposedly he was once her, millennia ago. She was very powerful and he holds her sacred power within him, if he can just access it properly. That’s why they make him wear the uncomfortable white robes to go visit the springs and why he has to pray at her statues and why he has to learn all this boring history about someone who doesn’t even look the same in any two pictures in the books.
He’s her—or she’s him? It’s all very confusing and Ryunosuke doesn’t really like the idea of him actually being someone else or someone else being him. And he doesn’t like spending hours in cold water praying at creepy statues while the attendants stare at him like they’re waiting for something to happen. And he definitely doesn’t like their sad faces when nothing does happen (nothing ever happens). And he doesn’t like boring history lessons.
“Prince Ryunosuke!” Elder Impa’s voice reverberates like thunder.
He starts, then straightens his back like a ruler, with eyes wide and flittering around. “Y-Yes!”
Elder Impa frowns at him. “Please try to pay attention. This is important.”
“Yes, Elder Impa,” Ryunosuke exhales and he feels guilty. He tries to focus by opening his eyes as wide as he can and staring at the page—maybe if he doesn’t blink, it’ll help him concentrate better and he won’t be tempted to fall asleep. He hates getting scolded, but he hates disappointing Elder Impa even more than that. She’s strict, but fair, and Ryunosuke loves her very much.
“The Master Sword is the sword that seals the darkness and it is—”
Oh no, he blinked. He needs to try harder to focus on not blinking, so he can listen better.
“—Calamity—”
Ryunosuke lost his mother the year prior, but Elder Impa and Ursavra (the Gerudo chief and his mother’s once close friend) are like his other mothers. Or maybe Elder Impa is more like a grandmother—he doesn’t have one of those, so this conclusion feels more satisfactory. He loves them both and he doesn’t want to disappoint either of them. Even though they told him it’s not true, he still worries that the reason why his mother died was because he disappointed her too much.
“—sealing powers—” He’s focusing on not blinking so he can focus on what she’s saying.
And Elder Impa is old now, even for a Sheikah with their long lives. There’s even another Sheikah baby just recently born, named Susato, that’s in line to study under Elder Impa so that one day she can replace her. He still doesn’t fully understand all this talk about birthrights and replacements, but he does know it makes him feel awfully uncomfortable—how can you possibly replace someone else?
(His father says he’s going to have to replace his mother, now that she’s dead. Even though she wasn’t born with the mark of the Triforce, she still had traces of the goddess’s magical power that often accompanied members of the Royal Family. He’s a replacement for her, just like she was a replacement for her mother before her. And her mother’s father before that. And he’s a replacement for all the previous wielders of the Triforce of Wisdom reincarnated before him.
Shortly after he was born, a well-respected fortune teller foretold of Calamity Stronghart’s resurrection sometime after his twenty-third birthday, and that the sacred sealing power is needed to defeat him. That’s why his father still curses her, even in death, for not teaching him how to access his sealing powers quick enough, and instead wasting too much time coddling him and fooling around with a bow. His mother first awakened her powers at age five, without any guidance. He can’t feel any sort of divine power within him, even when given all the attention in the world and with the extensive trips to the sacred springs that use up valuable resources.
He knows he disappoints his father, for he makes it known often.)
“—The Goddess’s Chosen Hero—”
What he knows for certain is that he has some destiny already decided for him and everyone is expecting him to fulfill it, whether he wants to or not. And that no matter how scary it sounds, there’ll come a time when he’s to face Calamity Stronghart, and he doesn’t want to disappoint anyone when that happens. So, he tries to do his best.
And he knows that there’s another person somewhere out there whose destiny is intertwined with his, holding the Triforce of Courage. He just hopes they’re nice and they can become friends.
“—the three wielders of the Triforce—”
He tries to do his best in the role given to him. But he fears his best isn’t good enough.
A yawn escapes him. He blinks.
“Hiyah!” With a loud snap, Kazuma’s wooden sword makes quick work of the small branches he’s laid out on a rock. After his finishing slash, he jump-spins his body around and does a simple flourish. He fumbles a bit with the final twist, but catches it before it can fall out of his hands and concludes the performance by thrusting the sword skyward in a wide stance. The red ribbon tied around its hilt catches in the breeze.
“Well done,” his father says with a sharp smile, applauding him.
Kazuma is seven and the moments when he can practice using his sword with his father are the ones he treasures the most. With the recent uptick in monster sightings, his father is to be deployed as the commander of a specialized squad of knights in the coming weeks for an unknown amount of time. But any span of time his father is gone is much too long in Kazuma’s eyes, so he wants to make the most of the time he has left with him.
“I’m going to work hard on my training every day!” Kazuma exclaims, resting his fists on his hips with his chest puffed out and a determined grin stretched across his face. “So that when you come back, I’ll be ready to become a knight, just like you!”
He loves the feeling of accomplishing something, but he loves the pleased look on his father’s face even more than that. He can be strict, but his judgment is fair, and Kazuma loves him very much.
“Is that your resolve, then?” His father laughs, a gravelly rumble. “But I don’t expect to be gone quite that long. You’d be the youngest knight in the history of Hyrule, I’d wager.”
He wants to make his father proud, in any way possible. He already knows he is proud of him, for, despite his reticence, he makes it known often through his actions.
His father waves him over with a “Kazuma, come here.” He holds up his prized sword, the treasured heirloom of the Asogi clan, as Kazuma watches the sunlight reflect off the lacquered finish of her scabbard with wide eyes. “Remember this, your sword is your soul. And one day, you will inherit this very sword, just as I have from my father before me. Mighty Karuma, she compels her wielder to slice evil in two.” Kazuma tracks his gaze firmly along the length of her. She feels… Alive, in some way.
“But for now”—his father lowers the sword and points to the wooden one fastened to Kazuma’s sash—“you must take care of that one as if it’s your soul, as well.”
Kazuma nods, but he can’t take his eyes off of Karuma. He’s well acquainted with the blade and this is hardly the first time his father has shown him her, but, here, something feels different about her. As he focuses, it starts to become clearer: he can hear a faint melody.
“Will my sword begin to sing just like Karuma does?”
His father gives him a quizzical look. “What do you mean by that?” He lifts Karuma again to look at her more closely.
“Can’t you hear it?” Kazuma asks, face going lax in wonder. “Karuma’s singing. Listen.” The light flit of the flute mixing with the non-organic-sounding, yet still pleasant vocalizations make him feel like he’s floating high above the clouds.
He reaches up with his right hand towards her. His fingertips graze the hilt, and the back of his hand becomes illuminated in brilliant light. There: a larger triangle comprised of three smaller triangles, each outlined in a glowing gold—the bottom-right triangle the brightest of them all and fully filled. The light is mesmerizing and he can’t look away. It feels enthralling. It feels warm. It feels—
“Ow!” Kazuma cries as his father grabs his wrist and yanks his hand away. Horror stains his father’s face, skin pallor as white as Cucco feathers. “W-What?” His father grips his wrist tight and it hurts. He stares up, dazed, at his father’s crazed eyes.
“No, this can’t be…” his father mutters, voice low. “Not him. No, he’s much too young to be wrapped up in all this…” He squeezes harder.
“F-Father, stop! It hurts!”
His father releases his grasp with a start. “I’m, I’m sorry,” he says shakily, then places his hands on Kazuma’s shoulders. “Kazuma, listen to me. This is of the utmost importance. Don’t speak of this to anyone else. Your mother and I, we are the only ones to know. Do you understand?”
Kazuma shakes his head and he feels like he’s about to cry. He can’t cry—not if he’s to become a knight. “What, what happened?”
His father shakes his shoulders lightly, yet with an intentional force behind it. “Cast it away from your memory and make no mention of anything that happened here. Do you understand?”
Kazuma swallows the lump in his throat and nods, even though he doesn’t understand what’s going on at all. Then, he watches his father get up and briskly walk towards their house.
“I need to speak with your mother. Stay out here and play.”
He waits until his father is inside to look at the back of his right hand again. The mark is gone and so is the singing.
Notes:
This idea came about while I was playing Tears of the Kingdom while thinking about TGAA (as one does), and realizing just how many similarities existed between botw Zelink and Asoryuu: Kazuma and Link both wielding a sword, dealing with immense pressure, experiencing amnesia; Ryunosuke and Zelda fighting with self-doubt and feeling like they have to fill the shoes of another, being associated with light, having dragon motifs, etc. The concept wouldn’t leave me alone, so here we are!
Some housekeeping notes:
- This fic is already fully written. I will update Chapter 2 this Friday, then updates will come each Friday.
- Additional trigger warnings will appear at the beginning of each chapter under the spoiler toggle:
Click the toggle to view
Warnings will go here- Knowledge of the Zelda franchise isn’t needed, but the following Zelda games will be referenced and will include some spoilers: Skyward Sword (including the prequel manga), Ocarina of Time, Majora’s Mask, Wind Waker, Twilight Princess
- Please keep in mind the Ambiguous/Open Ending tag and manage expectations accordingly. While I don’t believe it’s an incomplete experience, please be aware that not all narrative threads get resolved here.
After about a year and a half of working on this, it is finally released to the public. Thank you to anyone who reads it! :)
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.
Notes:
Ryunosuke and Kazuma will meet next chapter, promise!
Chapter 3: Fourteen: Encounters
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.
Notes:
Ryunosuke: -says tongue twister-
Kazuma: I think I'm obsessed with youI've uploaded cover art for this fic on my tumblr here: https://absollugia.tumblr.com/post/778100742534938624/link-asoryuu-botw-au-m-for-violence-in-later
I'll be uploading a few sketches I've done for this story to tumblr as well! :)Chapters will be getting longer from this point on!
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
Every day, more and more progress is made towards excavating the ancient relics. Though there’s much we still don’t know, the consensus of the research teams is that the numerous Octorok-like relics uncovered are Sheikah-made constructions, much like the giant, weaponized Divine Beasts that have been discovered in the past couple of years. No one has yet to figure out what their purposes were, but I still maintain my hypothesis that they were also ancient weapons. Father is still not convinced; he’s of the mind that they were totems of some sort to ward off evil. Nonetheless, he has ordered large crews of researchers to continue investigating these relics to see if there’s any breakthroughs. I’ve offered my assistance, but he still isn’t keen on me shifting my efforts away from prayer and overseeing the Champions that will pilot the Divine Beasts once we’re able to activate them.
It had been the hero’s twenty-second birthday a couple days ago, thus officially enshrining him as a fully-formed knight, graduated from The Knight Academy. As it so happens, the title of the Goddess Hylia’s Chosen Hero turned out not to be a fluke at all and was quite befitting of the man—he apparently soared in his studies and swordsmanship, and came to be regarded as quite the living legend around The Knight Academy’s illustrious halls. As if that weren’t evidence enough, he even earned the honor as the winner of the games hosted at The Coliseum, victorious over the other top-ranked new graduates and bestowed with a much-coveted Hylian Shield as a prize. I’ll admit that it was quite exhilarating to watch him defeat the gauntlet of other knights with little obstacle—though, I felt for the bruise in ego dealt to his opponents. If anything, it was a small solace to know I’m not alone in the bitter inferiority his presence brings.
As such, Father had approved of his ascension to the role of my appointed knight today, much to my chagrin. We still have been seeing very little of each other around the castle and it’s been many years since I had any sort of conversation with the hero; our roles have kept us with little time for idle chit-chat as we work steadfast towards our goals—despite our successes, or lack thereof. One thing that hasn’t changed over time is that fervent stare of his he still shoots me, no matter how far away I am. It makes me feel as though I’m withering into myself each time. Needless to say, I wasn’t (and am still not) eager to have him assigned as my personal knight. To make matters worse, Father is no doubt entrusting him to act as an extension of himself—to surveil my movements outside the castle and entrust that I’m following his narrow guidelines for what I should be doing to unlock my sealing powers.
Champion Jigoku happened to be taking care of business around the area, so he stopped by to discuss next steps regarding the Divine Beast Vah Rudania near Goron City. I’ve had the pleasure of his company a couple times now, but each time I’m around him, I can’t suppress the chilling sensation that runs down my back. He’s the true epitome of an accomplished Goron leader: boulderesque in his appearance, with the commanding presence to match it.
He had heard of the hero’s newly elevated position and suggested (well, suggested is putting it lightly—I don’t think he can do a single thing without overbearing passion) a sort of impromptu ceremony to go along with it, arguing that it was a historical moment that deserved all the pomp and circumstance we could allow. Father didn’t fully see the need for it all at first, but, under the pressure of the Goron’s unrelenting persuasion, finally acquiesced to making it a brief, private ceremony—the pomp and circumstance starting and ending with a hastily-written, honestly quite cheesy speech I was to perform in front of a small crowd consisting of the hero, Father, Champion Jigoku, Elder Impa, and Lady Susato.
Champion Jigoku must’ve really been of the opinion that this was a moment of great significance, as he conspiratorially pulled away the hero from our group and, I assume, personally congratulated him before we could begin, wrapping a giant, crushing arm around his shoulders as he usually does. I had to stifle a laugh when the hero returned to us all with a ghastly, ashen face—despite the infrequency of our correspondence, I know all too well how Champion Jigoku’s suffocating joviality can overwhelm you.
To give the rite, I was to hold my hand outstretched and the hero was to place his atop mine as he kneeled into a bow—customary, a passed-down tradition enshrined in antique art pieces. It felt ridiculous, all of it: the speech, the supplication, the posturing. His touch felt burning—searing all his hatred into my palm. The end of it couldn’t have come quick enough.
But after an excruciating period, it finally did. And later, we learned that the newly designated Rito Champion—Champion Herr Lock Sholmes, I believe was said—had found an exciting new relic during his explorations that he believes could be something of great significance, and is making his move from his lab in the Akkala region back to his old lab in Castle Town. I’ve never heard of him before, but if he was residing in Akkala, it makes sense that the Rito took some time to track him down to request his cooperation. I look forward to meeting him and seeing whatever this new relic is he’s procured.
…Ugh, my fingers still burn.
The hero is waiting for Ryunosuke at the bottom of the stairs.
Ryunosuke keeps his head down low, eyes trained on the ground as he walks, only nodding towards the hero’s direction as he passes him. If he acts like he isn’t there following him, he reasons, then the anxiety might just abate. It’s a foolish endeavor to attempt to ease the disquieting nature of the hero’s presence; he can feel the hero’s relentless stare the entire time, burning a hole in his skull. There’s a flickery heat to the air around the hero, like the warmth before a storm—impossible to fully ignore, no matter how hard Ryunosuke tries. The flit of his bright red headband infuriatingly catches in Ryunosuke’s periphery.
“The Sage Temple. Near Mount Daphnes,” Ryunosuke says brusquely as they reach the Royal Stable and begin to mount their horses.
In the midwest of Central Hyrule, hugging the Regencia River, sits a small settlement of clergypersons that maintain a temple honoring the various elemental Sages spread throughout history. The legends are inconsistent and fluid in their depictions of these Sages (Were there seven Sages? Six? Did they personify fire, water, forest, spirit, light, and shadow? Or perhaps fire, water, wind, lightning, spirit, and time?), but in every written and spoken tale, they were connected to the wielder of the Triforce of Wisdom—and by extension, the Goddess Hylia herself. The residents established their temple within proximity to the Ancient Tree Stump, the remnants of a large tree once blessed by the forest spirits thousands of years ago, and its modest divine energy lent itself well to becoming a location of a lesser sacred spring.
The ride there unsettles Ryunosuke. The hero does not speak the entire trip; Ryunosuke leads the way and the hero follows—silent, vigilant, unwavering in his gaze. Having a retinue accompany Ryunosuke to the springs always felt awkward to him, but traveling with just one instead feels paradoxically worse, like the attention is all of the intensity of the Sun focused on a single point on his back. It melts his insides into a sticky puddle of self-consciousness.
Despite it, something twitches within him: there’s a sense of opportunity there, in that moment. The hero is just one man and while Ryunosuke would never describe himself as the most exceptional horseback rider, there’s an opening there to escape—to ignore the useless praying routine and ride to one of the relic research posts instead.
He takes a deep breath and the thought escapes along with it. On the infinitesimally small chance that the hero doesn’t already completely detest him, he surely will after a stunt like that. And his father will be beyond livid once the hero obediently tells him what has happened. Ryunosuke was already pushing boundaries enough by studying the relics in secret in his downtime. In the end, he has never been one to fight against what he was told.
Lost in the miasma of his thoughts, they reach their destination quicker than expected. Ryunosuke greets the group’s leader and is left alone with the hero inside the temple.
“I’m going to get changed,” Ryunosuke says hastily, tugging off his small bag. “Um, stay at the entrance, please.” He shuffles to a side room, making sure to not make eye contact as he passes.
It’s a relief, as he peeks out from the doorframe after changing, that the hero is facing towards the doors. Ryunosuke regards him for a moment: stature stiff and exuding confidence (as no doubt conditioned by years at The Knight Academy), hand resting on the legendary blade, poised to attack if a threat were to arise. He has grown into the hero role with aplomb—the perfect model of someone stepping up to fulfill their destiny. If only it were so easy.
Ryunosuke refocuses himself and walks towards the altar, the slap, slap of his sandals reverberating loudly between the temple’s quiet walls. This spring is the most odd of them all—an intimate residential space instead of the isolated, concealed nature sites he’s most used to visiting. The benches of the temple are worn from sustained use, the small Goddess Statue at the pedestal pristinely maintained. At the foot of the Goddess Statue sits a medallion—symbolic of those the Sages supposedly possessed in the legends—with intricate details carefully carved into its polished stone surface.
Ryunosuke wades in the shallow waters encircling the altar; the stream of crisp, clear water flows directly from the Ancient Tree Stump’s lake to the temple. He assumes his position of prayer and repeats the routine orison, each sound an uncomfortable echo with just him and another in attendance. His supplication falls hollow and mechanical—the by-product of years of repetition leading to nothing. Once, he felt each of these words deeply, every phrase escaping his lips dipped in heavy reverence and desperate fervor, but now they’re meaningless—hope since withered away like dying leaves in autumn.
There are many myths regarding the Goddess Hylia. Some paint her as a pure, benevolent deity—the holy protector of the Triforce and her people, sealing away the Demon King Demise and restoring peace to her besieged land after a horrific war. Others suggest of a more harrowed history transpiring prior to that: of a deadlock of swords between Demise and the Fierce Deity—the trio of deities once close comrades—and Hylia’s unilateral decision to sacrifice the courageous god for the sake of banishing the powerful god, with a single arrow of light piercing both the Fierce Deity and Demise while the two were preoccupied in battle.
Was she guilty or innocent? It was hard to defend someone without any evidence, without any testimony from the accused. However, her power has been instrumental in facilitating the quelling of great evil for much of recorded history, and allegedly flows through Ryunosuke, so perhaps the belief in her and her sacred energy is the most important factor, and will then illuminate the truth thusly.
Ryunosuke wants to believe in her—wants to believe that she’ll show up and come to his aid (to all of Hyrule’s aid), as fickle as gods can often be. But almost a decade of entreating to a silent goddess has caused that trust to fracture and weaken; he doesn’t trust her and he doesn’t trust himself, either.
He shuffles his feet in the water after repeating the memorized prayer. The Goddess Statue stays the same—polished and well cared for, its gaze unrelenting and cold. And Ryunosuke stays the same—self-conscious and unfulfilled, adding another failure to the list of his disappointments.
“We’re running out of time, you know?” he whispers out to the nothingness, eyes falling to the water below. “It is said that Calamity Stronghart is to return and begin its deadly rampage on our land after my twenty-third birthday. There’s only a couple months until I turn twenty-two.” He swallows down the lump in his throat. “I don’t wish to come across as being insolent, but…is that what you want? To see all your people suffer?”
Behind him, he hears the slight sound of movement—of boots shifting their position—and it registers in his attention like water slipping between his fingers. He exhales again, shaky. “I apologize,” he says after a pause. “I’m just… I’m trying,” he pleads, the syllables elongated and marked with emphasis. “Please help me. Please. Anything you can offer, I’ll be grateful for.”
But anything seems to still be too much charity. Defeated, Ryunosuke steps out of the water, dries his feet off with a towel, then goes back to change out of his dripping ceremonial robes.
It’s a quiet ride back towards the castle—somber in its atmosphere, much like it always is after another unsuccessful reaching out to the Goddess Hylia. Ryunosuke keeps his head low, his shoulders drooped as they travel closer to yet another look of disappointment and barely-hidden disdain from his father. Despite the frequency of the belittling remarks after coming home empty-handed, the bitter sting never quite gets any easier to swallow.
As they traverse through the Passeri Greenbelt, something catches Ryunosuke’s eye in the distance—a glinting light with all the pull of a magnetic field, cutting through the span of trees and thick foliage. There’s an intensity to it, like something refracting the sunlight, but much more concentrated than a mere reflection off water. Something metallic, Ryunosuke deduces, and steers his horse over towards it. It’s still in the general direction of their route and he tries to make the slight adjustment in direction as inconspicuous as possible to not draw protest from the hero.
“Is that…?!” The words come out giddy and breathless as Ryunosuke scrambles off his horse to investigate once he gets close. “One of the relics?!”
He crouches down, frantically pulling away the undergrowth surrounding it and brushing the accumulated dirt and grime off its mechanical surface with his jacket sleeve. It’s similar to the Octorok-like relics being excavated, but in miniature—unlike the towering, imposing relics currently under research, this one sits to about his knees. The top of it is rounded, with a curved crown sticking out, in contrast to the more elongated plant pot shape of the others. The pattern of raised markings across its bulbous surface is reminiscent of the rest of the relics uncovered; its three metal-paneled legs are identical to its six-legged cousins. An artifact left forgotten to be buried, or unearthed by erosion over time.
He hears the hero dismount his horse behind him; his shadow looms over Ryunosuke’s shoulder as he approaches and silently observes.
Ryunosuke runs his fingers across the relic’s exterior, tracing the coarse ornamentation like they’re its veins. If only there was a way to activate the blood within, he thinks—a way to bring whatever this was back to life in the present and allow them all to understand its purpose. Curious, he scans the surrounding forest, but sees no indication of more of its kind around. The research crews have been focused elsewhere—camps sensibly located at sites where there were multiple of the large relics discovered—but, here, this singular relic lies untouched, unknown to anyone else but him and the hero.
“This can’t be found out by the research crews,” Ryunosuke says through a wide smile, though he feels the burgeoning knot in his stomach over hiding it in secret. It’s close to the castle and out of sight to those who are on the main path. Permission has not been given to him to view the research progress up close, but this provides an exceptional opportunity: a hands-on chance to inspect the object without resistance. Here, he allows himself to follow his instincts.
“These relics were made by people,” he mutters to himself, hovering around it from different angles and putting his hand to his chin, “so there must be a clue somewhere that’ll reveal what exactly they were created for.”
The sapphire-colored, smooth gem at the center of the top of it reminds him of an eye of some sort—a familiarity poking at the webbing of his memories, though he can’t place it. The silver metal ring around the gem looks particularly discolored, burnt.
His eyes grow wide. “Scorch marks, perhaps?” He feels his heart thundering quick in his chest as the pieces start forming together in his mind. His speech becomes faster: “This residue here seems similar to the scorch marks found outside the muzzle of a cannon, I think. So, if this gem is actually a mechanism for some explosive force…then it would substantiate my theory of these relics all being weapons!” He breathes heavily through his stretched grin, feeling the electricity in his bones. He begins to pace back and forth in thought—left hand cupping his chin, right hand supporting his elbow underneath. “Then, the logic follows: if they were human constructions with the purpose of being used as weapons, then we should also be able to figure out how to use them to our advantage, don’t you think?”
“Yes, that seems likely, Your Highness” a voice asserts behind him, intense in its projection.
Ryunosuke yelps, springing up in the air in terror. He feels his face flush as his heart batters within his chest—he had forgotten he wasn’t alone amidst all the fervor. “S-Sorry?” he sputters, voice cracking, as he wheels around to look at the hero.
The hero stands there, back straight as an arrow, with his arms crossed. He wears the same stony look as always, but quirks up an eyebrow slightly at the response. “I said, I agree with you, Your Highness.”
Ryunosuke quickly closes his mouth to stop from gaping. “N-No, not that… You spoke?”
The hero’s eyebrow raises more, forming little distinct creases between his eyes. “Generally speaking, when you’re asked a question, you’re expected to answer. Is that not the case?”
“No, that’s not—I-I mean, yes!” Ryunosuke’s stammering now—a nervous habit that was attempted to be stamped out of him when he was younger. He takes a breath to recenter. “What I meant was: you haven’t said a single thing this entire trip. I just assumed…” His eyes flick down and he grabs his left wrist. He remembers the glares around the castle over the years, keen in their judgment. He feels the same piercing eyes watching him now, cutting him to shreds like the divine edge of a destined sword that purifies the unworthy and abhorrent. Why would he take any interest in him or his ideas outside of what’s required of his escort duties? “I figured you weren’t even listening to me prattling on in the first place…”
The hero shifts position, resting one hand on the hilt of Karuma and the other on his hip. He frowns. “You scarcely acknowledged me since we left the castle, Your Highness, so I took that to mean you weren’t interested in conversation.” Waiting for permission to speak, was the tacit explanation.
“Oh.” Ryunosuke dips his chin down and swallows. His chest feels tight with realization—yet another mistake made today. “I apologize. I-I didn’t mean to offend you with such inexcusable rudeness.” He squeezes his eyes shut and bows deep, limbs stiff in the motion.
“It’s fine,” the hero says, and Ryunosuke flinches at the mild tone. “I’m just glad to have come to an understanding. It’ll make things easier going forward.” Pragmatic.
Ryunosuke lifts his head and blinks. The hero has a sort of amused smile on his face, not the resentful look he was expecting. Ryunosuke straightens, but he feels thrown.
The words catch up to him late. “Wait,” Ryunosuke manages after a moment, “you agree with what I said?”
“Yes,” the hero says. He waits for a beat, almost gauging if he’s allowed to elaborate further. Then, clearly satisfied, he continues: “Not that I’m well versed in all of this, but the research teams have been digging up such large quantities of these relics, it seems hard to believe they didn’t serve any sort of crucial purpose beyond mere ornamentation. It makes sense if they were once weapons, especially if they all exhibit that same scorching like you’ve observed… And, as you suggested, Your Highness, I also think that means we can use them much in the same way if we can just understand how they work first.” He pauses and tilts his head, eyebrows knitting slightly in contemplation. “Pardon me for saying this, but to be able to glean that from just that brief examination… It’s quite the astute deduction, really.”
Ryunosuke holds no concern about the impertinence of his mouth hanging agape at that moment. The words were frank, without any duplicitous mockery or incoming admonishment. After calling out for so long and being met with only silence and rebuke, it feels bizarre to finally receive a response.
Ryunosuke swallows thickly. “I-I see…” He rubs his thumb against his arm guard. “The conclusion I came to wasn’t anything extraordinary, though. I’m sure anyone would have thought the same if they noticed it.”
“But no one has noticed, is the very thing,” the hero offers sternly. “Tell me, with so many researchers tasked to investigate these relics, how many have perceived this detail, exactly?”
“W-Well…none that I know of.” Ryunosuke’s eyes flick towards the rest of the forest. “It’s an easy thing to miss, after all.”
“But you didn’t.”
The breeze picks up; it feels warm on his skin. He looks back down to the relic.
“You… You won’t mention this being discovered to my father, will you?” Ryunosuke speaks low, balling his hands into shaky fists at his sides. “It will immediately be sequestered by the research crews if he finds out… And I’ll lose all access to being able to investigate it myself. I know this is quite an atypical request—to obstruct the official channels like this—but I-I—” The words catch in his throat, clawing and desperate. “This is the only way I can personally contribute. To help. So please…”
The hero regards him for a moment, face unreadable as ever. Then, he raises a fist to his chest, drops to his knee, and dips his head low. “I won’t. I promise you, Your Highness.” And the breeze feels that much more balmy.
Ryunosuke nods and lets the warmth of relief wash over him. He exhales, “Thank you.”
Notes:
Lore...and a new friend!
The three deities Hylia, Fierce Deity, and Demise lore is part of an au I've mused over called The Knights of Hylia which I don't think I'll ever fully write anything substantial for, but I like the idea of the three of them being essentially immortal except if the other god they're weakest to (Hylia is weak to Demise, Demise is weak to the Fierce Deity, and the Fierce Deity is weak to Hylia) kills them. They used to be close companions until Things Happen and it's Demise vs Hylia and the Fierce Deity.
Anyway, thank you again for reading! :)
Chapter 5: Lightning
Notes:
Warnings - click to view
- Ryunosuke's father shows up briefly - warning for verbal/emotional abuse
- Slight gore warning for monsters being stripped of parts. It's not super detailed, but just in case
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
It’s been a few weeks since I discovered that small relic in the forest of the Passeri Greenbelt. I’ve had my hands full with meeting with and preparing a couple of the Champions, as well as visiting the nearby lesser sacred springs, so I unfortunately haven’t had a moment of respite to investigate it further. No matter, in the brief snatches of idle time during the day, that curious little relic occupies my thoughts. I know there’s something extraordinary there to be found, if I can just figure it out.
Champion Wilson, the Champion of the Zora, had visited the castle and we discussed the Divine Beast Vah Ruta. He’s quite the enigmatic figure—reticent in his personal matters, but well-regarded for his adept magical healing abilities and his way around a trident. He was here with one of his assistants, a female Zora that cut quite the striking figure with an elaborate swan hat and dress ensemble.
Peculiarly, despite being described as having a generally pleasant disposition, he seemed noticeably agitated and on edge during the meeting, complaining about the slow progress in finding a way to activate the mechanisms within the Divine Beasts. I tried my best to explain to him that there are many skilled researchers working tirelessly with the limited information we have and to be patient, but he huffed off, grumbling about an ongoing stomach issue or some sort he’s been having recently that he assured me wouldn’t affect his ability to pilot Ruta when the time comes. He was quite the joy… This is one of the many reasons why I’m not too keen on doctors…
After he departed Castle Town, I left to go see Ursavra in Gerudo Town. As I’d hoped, she formally accepted my request for her to be the Champion representing the Gerudo. It’s always an exciting and enjoyable time whenever I can see her. I’ve missed her dearly.
She even let me see inside the Divine Beast Vah Naboris! It was incredible to see the intricacies of the engineering up close—I wish I could’ve been able to stay there forever and take in every last detail. It feels almost unbelievable to think these relics were truly made by people, but that thought is what spurs me forward to solve the mystery of how to activate the Divine Beasts and how all the other relics fit into the puzzle.
We discussed my theory about the excavated relics being weapons and she was largely supportive of it. She encouraged me to speak with Father about it, but I described his continued resistance to me talking about the relics and she seemed to bristle at this. She had a faraway look to her then, and said it was times like this when she missed Mother, for she would have listened and knew what to do. I didn’t know what to say. I barely remember only small memories of her. It’s an odd feeling to not truly know what your own mother was like.
But, I do know what Father is like. He won’t want to hear about it, but after Ursavra’s insistence about how significant it could be to pursue further, I have to at least try.
Anyway, like always now, the hero continued to trail me everywhere I went. A vigilant community, outsiders not related to the Gerudo are typically barred from entering the town due to a long history of violence and discrimination directed at the tribe, but special circumstances are made after thorough vetting by the Gerudo leadership—the Royal Family’s close retinue, and, therefore, the hero, included.
I’m still not quite sure what to think of him. After we spoke about the relic, the tension between us seemed to ease just a bit—mostly polite small talk while traveling around, but not as strained as before. It’s subtle, but I can tell there’s an intensity to him that mirrors the fierce look in his eyes that he’s keeping tamped down for some reason. Maybe it’s from the years of training at The Knight Academy to maintain propriety that he doesn’t unleash his true feelings—to fully voice his frustrations at me and speak of my inadequacies. Perhaps courage is being brave enough to still offer some benevolence to those you loathe, even if it’s a mere simulacrum.
Either way, the hero was true to his word: he didn’t tell Father about the existence of the small relic. Small graces, I suppose. I’m grateful for it.
Ryunosuke walks in silence down the long halls of the castle, the hero following close behind—the only sounds are the echoes of muffled footsteps upon the lavish ruby rugs under their feet. He turns the corner to find King Naruhodo walking towards him, each of the king’s strides full of purpose and commanding composure even where no public eyes are around to watch him. He jumps at the sight, freezes as the king passes by without a word. He hears the slight thump of the hero’s knee hitting the ground before the king.
He draws a breath. Wiry, anxious energy courses through him and it gives him pause—grounding him to the spot and making him waver in his resolve. He brings his hands up and gives a swift slap to his cheeks. The sting temporarily suppresses his trepidation, ushers him to act.
“Father, may I discuss something with you?” Ryunosuke whirls around, voice surprisingly level despite the wild jumble in his head.
The king stops and turns to him; his face wears an unyielding veil of displeasure. “You may speak.”
“I-I have”—Ryunosuke threads his fingers in front of him and lifts his head high—“reason to believe that the many-legged relics may have acted as a form of weaponry in the past. If my suspicion is right, then the outside of the blue jewel—”
“And how is that of any concern to you?” The king’s voice booms, seems like it surrounds Ryunosuke from all sides. Ryunosuke’s pulse spikes. “The researchers are solely tasked to determine the purposes of the relics. Your speculation is useless to them.”
Ryunosuke flinches. “Sorry, it’s, it’s…merely a lead to consider…” His voice trembles; shame stains his cheeks a deep crimson. His eyes begin to dart around, frantic and uncontrollable in their movement. “I-It’d be harmless to simply check… Um, it could potentially be helpful and I already consulted with Ursavra—”
King Naruhodo scoffs and Ryunosuke can almost see amusement in his expression. “That woman knows just as little as you about this matter,” he snarls. “I can see why your mother was so fond of her—they both enjoyed coddling you and entertaining your ridiculous whims.”
Ryunosuke tries to speak out—to what end even he doesn’t know, for it’s neither in protest nor in defense of himself—but all that comes out is an embarrassing little whimper of a sound that leaves strangled at the end. His mind drains empty, replaced by a buzzing blankness and the sound of the thunderous pounding of his heart. “I only—”
“Enough. You’ve wasted my time blathering on about an issue that is neither any of your business nor something you know anything about. The magic of your birthright evades you because you keep indulging in these ludicrous flights of fancy instead of putting in the effort to rouse it!” The king narrows his eyes and curls his lip. “Your sole duties are simple: awaken your powers to seal Calamity Stronghart away and organize the Champions that will pilot the Divine Beasts to assist you. Nothing more. Are we clear?”
The mixture of fear and shock roots Ryunosuke to the spot where he’s standing. “Y-Yes.” His tongue feels swollen and foreign in his mouth. “I’m sorry.”
Voice roaring: “If you fail in this, the ruination of our land will rest solely on your shoulders.” He inspects Ryunosuke for a beat, brows knitting further—scanning, scrutinizing. “And cease with that incessant, indolent slouching already! Have you no shame in representing the Royal Family with such tawdry presence?”
Instinctively, Ryunosuke immediately jolts as tall as he can stretch himself, back ramrod straight and arms folded behind him. The king leaves him without a second glance, turning the corner at the end of the hallway.
Only then can Ryunosuke release his breath. With wide eyes and shaky legs, he finally gains control of his body enough to turn around. Mortified, he catches the sight of the hero down through his dark bangs—head no longer bowed in his kneeled position, face contorted in a gnarled and vehement expression Ryunosuke’s never seen before, trembling hand clutching the hilt of his sword. He doesn’t allow himself to question what it means; he tears his eyes away from his gaze and scurries past him with haste, humiliation engulfing him and leaving him adrift.
The shame lingers even hours later—effusive and suffocating like thick chimney smoke. Ryunosuke exits out of his study, past the hero watching guard outside. He’s his eternal shadow—the evidence of the spotlight put on Ryunosuke, drawing focus to his own deficiencies. The hero has seen the illuminated truth and Ryunosuke’s failures now: pleading to a goddess that doesn’t respect him enough to acknowledge him, and shrinking to a father who respects him even less. The hero, with all his successes, will never respect someone who always falls short, who can never compare.
“You really don’t have to follow me everywhere,” Ryunosuke says, like he has any authority anymore. He can’t find the courage to look him in the eye. “I’ll be fine. You’re relieved from duty today. Please go home and rest.”
“No,” the hero simply says. Of course he would defy him, right now, after everything. “You’re planning on going outside Castle Town, aren’t you, Your Highness?” He motions with his thumb towards the traveling bag slung across Ryunosuke’s chest. Ryunosuke had hoped he wouldn’t notice. The hero crosses his arms and gives him a skeptical look. “It’s quite a large bag. It seems like it’d be more of a feat to not notice,” he says, as if reading Ryunosuke’s thoughts.
Ryunosuke stiffens. “Haah…” he breathes out. Maybe clairvoyance was another gift imparted to him by the Triforce of Courage. “You’re correct, but it’ll only be a brief trip.” He begins to walk down the pathway towards the underground tunnel that circumvents the bustle and judgment of Castle Town. The hero is in lockstep behind him. “I have business to conduct with the relic I found earlier and I’ll return immediately after.”
“Even so,” the hero says, “it’s dangerous to go alone, no matter how short of a time. There’s been an inordinate number of monster sightings closer to settlements recently. If it’s as quick as you suggest, then you shouldn’t have any objection with me escorting you for the duration.”
Ryunosuke lets out a sigh. He can’t fault the logic. “Suit yourself. I just figured you, um, had better things to be doing.”
This gets a small laugh from out of the hero—a quick ring of a pleasant melody and it’s gone as fast as it came. What follows is less welcome: “You’d visit the relic despite what the king said?”
Ryunosuke can’t fully parse the tone; it doesn’t feel particularly accusatory or charged in any discernible way. A simple question clarifying a fact.
Ryunosuke purses his lips, tries to swallow down the tension that constricts within him. “I’m merely retrieving the relic to bestow it upon the research team.” Though he doesn’t see anyone else around, he feels a jolt of paranoia of being watched, and he quickly ducks into the stone tunnel entry.
“Your Highness… You said you would lose all access to it if they were to take possession of it. And you’re fine with allowing that to happen?” The hero’s words are barbed now, laced with a sharp displeasure. Ryunosuke secretly yearns for the uncomfortable quiet between them from before.
Ryunosuke’s grip tightens on the strap of his bag. He lets the question hang in the air, the sounds of their footsteps filling the expanse of the tunnel they’re traversing through. “I-I still believe it to be useful,” he murmurs after a lengthy pause. “Just because I’m not the one to inspect it doesn’t mean someone else can’t. Besides, I’m not even supposed to be the one looking into it all…” Sorrow pools heavy in his stomach, weighing him down and leaving him sluggish. “Father was right: I’m merely playing at being a scholar, after all.”
“You’re going to give up that easily?” the hero questions, voice taut with irritation. Not content with having seen him be chastised, now he was mocking him. Ryunosuke feels his blade of condemnation twisting into his back, full of scorn.
“It’s…more sensible to let the experts look at it,” Ryunosuke says low, though the words feel obstructed by the knot in his throat. “I fear if I push the issue any further…” He sees it, clear in his imagination, the incarceration: all his private research prohibited and seized, his father confining him to only the permitted rooms of the castle and the springs of prayer—a warden much less lenient than the hero monitoring his every step. To him, it’s a fate akin to a prisoner being sent to the gallows. “No, it’s better to drop it altogether.”
“Pardon my saying this,” the hero says slowly, careful, but still just as rigid, “but it’s of my personal opinion that you’re making an error in judgment, Your Highness.”
Judgment. No matter what Ryunosuke does, there’s always judgment.
Ryunosuke winces. “And does that make you hate me more?” he grumbles, but it’s as clear as a clarion sounding in a silent room. And he freezes immediately. It’s his inside voice spilling out again, but this time it’s different—he notices it as soon as it happens, words escaping his lips as effortlessly as exhaling a breath.
The hero stops short behind him as well. “…What do you mean?”
Ryunosuke turns around to face him, steeling himself for the confrontation. It’s a conversation he always expected to happen at some point, but not in this way, not at this moment. It’s too late to take back what was said; he figures he has no choice but to address it now with finality.
He pushes his chest out, arms folded behind him, and lifts his head high—trying to project self-assurance, as was taught to him. Despite it all, he can’t rein in his darting eyes. “I may not be overly adept at a great many things, but my powers of observation are one thing I’m sure of and know I can count on.” He draws in a deep breath—a full-body motion that brings him to focus. “But, I don’t need to rely on that to see that you obviously harbor a deep-seated hatred of me. There’s no one else around—you may speak freely here. As your prince, I compel you to tell me the truth.” He tries to evoke confidence in his speech, but his voice betrays him and falters, words shaky and pitched at the end. He has never felt good when trying to weaponize his royal status to his advantage, no matter how often it was drilled into him as being important.
The light from the torches lining the tunnel cast deep shadows across the hero’s face—each contour of his countenance striking and imposing in the contrast. “I—what?” His eyes widen beneath his scrunched brows, blinking furiously. “I’m not sure I follow. I don’t hate you at all.”
An irritated flame sparks deep within Ryunosuke. “Deceit isn’t well looked upon for a hero, especially not when a member of the Royal Family commands your honesty.”
Deep, dark, narrowed eyes bore into his, and the hero draws himself closer, just a step. Ryunosuke feels himself shrink under it. “You don’t need to invoke your status as royalty for me to tell you the truth, for I’ll give it to you freely. Whatever it is that makes you believe I hate you is incorrect. Those aren’t my feelings towards you.” The ties of his red headband whip behind him, erratic.
“The glares!” Ryunosuke points at the hero’s intense expression. “You are constantly giving me that same look like you’re imagining tearing my head off—and you’ve been doing it for years now!”
The fierce look melts away from the hero’s face, replaced with a dazed stare. “Huh?” His headband seems to go limp, slowing to a weak wave in the breeze.
There’s a lengthy pause, then, the hero holds a fist to his chin as his eyes drop down in contemplation: “Years you say? You don’t mean…” A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, then yanks out like a thread being suddenly unspooled by deft fingers. “No, it couldn’t be…” A laugh spills out, and then another, and another—unbidden, with a cascading intensity as he throws his head back. The boisterous sound ripples through the tunnel.
“Couldn’t, couldn’t be what?” Ryunosuke feels his cheeks flush with embarrassment as he gapes at him. “What, what are you laughing at?!”
“Sorry, I must apologize,” the hero breathes out through laughs, his hand clutching at his side. “I think there’s been some sort of big misunderstanding here.” He cracks open his eyes and gives Ryunosuke a smile—bright and vivid, even in the dim light. “It’s the tongue twister, I believe.”
It’s an answer that only brings Ryunosuke more questions. “The…” Ryunosuke’s face twists into an exasperated grimace, his shoulders slumping forward. “...Tongue twister, you say?”
The hero nods. “Yes, well,” he says as he rests his hands on his hips, a smile still stretched wide across his face, “you remember when we first met, surely?”
How can Ryunosuke not? No matter how convoluted the chaotic criss-crossing of roadways in his head can get and how often thoughts will get lost in their journey within his memory, he will never forget meeting the one person who broke the buffer of time he had to unlock his powers before it became obvious to everyone that he was falling behind.
“Yes, of course. And there was a tongue twister…?”
Well, he will never forget the most important parts of that meeting, at least.
“Yes, and you spoke it to me a mile a minute, Your Highness—word perfect the entire time,” the hero says, enthusiasm swelling with each word. His energy is like an instant flash flood—impossible to not be pulled into its current and swept away. “That cursed incantation burrowed its way into my brain and sunk its claws as deep as it could.” He pulls up a fist and leans forward; determination molds his expression. “But try as I might, I could never say it correctly! What an admirable challenge it was! I practiced and practiced for hours on end—even until my tongue bled under its might.”
Ryunosuke straightens with a start. “B-Bled?!” Do all knights have the same level of self-sacrificial dedication to their goals, no matter how trivial the subject?
“It wasn’t as bad as it sounds.” The hero’s gaze falls slowly. His voice grows softer: “The repetition became something of a solace during that chaotic time, I suppose…” He trails off, focus going somewhere far-off where Ryunosuke can’t follow. He rests his hand over Karuma.
“Anyway,” he recovers, clearing his throat in the process, “whenever I saw you again, I was instantly reminded of how eloquently you spoke those tantalizing words to me with such a rapid pace, as if I was in a dream. And I repeated that tongue twister in my mind each time.”
The way he speaks invokes authority—commanding attention as a leader would. The emotion imbued there elevates speaking about tongue twisters—about Ryunosuke’s ability to enunciate them, as though it’s some high honor—from a triviality of a pastime to something inspirational. Something enough to galvanize troops to fight alongside him, even. The hero is compelling, he is heroic—
The hero tugs Karuma out of his belt holster and holds the sheathed sword across his chest. He wears a fierce frown. “But, it turned out my mind was as much a traitor as my mouth—I still couldn’t think that damned phrase correctly!”
—He is human, despite it all, just like Ryunosuke is.
Ryunosuke feels himself slump down a bit, face falling with it. “You… You couldn’t even think it?”
The eccentricity of the hero blindsides him—he was expecting to finally get confirmation of his hidden disdain for him, not uncover some hidden weakness he apparently spent years obsessing over. Even he, himself, had abandoned practicing tongue twisters, though not by choice; it was emphasized enough to him that it was a childish hobby not befitting a prince, after all.
Ryunosuke tries to connect the dots. “So, you’re saying that you weren’t glaring at me because you secretly wanted to end me. It was because…” He can’t even get himself to finish the sentence—to fully acknowledge the innocent reason behind something he was convinced for years to be true. Something he had constructed his whole understanding of the hero around—unfairly.
“Because I was focused on mastering the tongue twister, yes.” The hero gives a swift nod. “I even made an oath to never let myself forget the trial of endurance I had to overcome, and the shock you gave me back then. Which is why I wear this”—he points to the cloth wrapped around his forehead with his thumb—“my red hachimaki headband, so that I’ll always be reminded of it no matter where I go.”
Ryunosuke swallows, disoriented by the hero’s sudden whirlwind. It’s overwhelming; he’s never spoken to him this long before, nor with so much emotion. It’s nothing like he ever imagined. “I-Is that so…?”
“However!” The hero’s voice booms against the stone walls. He slides his sword back into her holster and crosses his arms. “In the end, I finally conquered it!”
“O-Okay… Well, congratulations…” Ryunosuke gives a shaky smile. He’s not quite sure what to say—years of royal etiquette training never prepared him for a conversation like this. “But, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t quite understand the link between your headband and this oath you swore.”
He leans towards Ryunosuke conspiratorially, mischief flickering in his eyes—distinct even in the low light. He grins. “I’d been meaning to track you down sometime before, but I think it’s time you finally heard this. Listen carefully, Your Highness: red headband, lead headband, dead headband.”
Ryunosuke blinks. The hero continues to stare at him with a maddening grin, like he’s laid out all the evidence in plain sight and is just waiting for him to come to the obvious conclusion.
“Well, I suppose that is a tongue twister…of some kind,” Ryunosuke says, squirming. “It’s, erm, not one that I’m familiar with, however.”
The hero’s smile falls. His red headband stops dead in the air, dropping like lead to drape over his back. “Huh? Whatever do you mean?”
“I’m afraid to be the bearer of bad news, but I don’t think the tongue twister I said went quite the way you remember it.” He scours his mind for the phrase he could’ve confused it with. “Ah! If I’m not mistaken, the tongue twister I probably said was a famous one: red Dead Hand, tread quicksand, dead cowhand.”
“Huh? What?!” the hero stammers. “Reddead and—ugh! Dead red—augh!”
The murky light can’t obscure the manner in which the hero’s face twists with frustration. The way the light paints his face with deep shadows emphasizes the exaggerated ways his expression quirks this way and that, like a character out of an old flip book cartoon Ryunosuke once saw. Laughter comes to Ryunosuke easily, bubbling up within his chest in an instant—deeply warm and impossible to stop.
Ryunosuke laughs out from behind his hand, though the hero doesn’t seem to notice as he continues to fumble around the words. “I, I apologize!” He inhales a big breath. It feels like a reset of all that came before it in the day. “Tongue tied as tight as your headband, huh? Do your best with it. I’m rooting for you, Hero.” He awkwardly pats the hero’s shoulder.
The hero’s head shoots up. “Please don’t patronize me, Your Highness,” he hisses through clenched teeth, though his tone betrays any genuine anger towards Ryunosuke. Ryunosuke quickly withdraws his hand, like touching a hot cooking pot.
“I-I’m not—I’m being sincere!”
The hero trudges forward, shoulders sagging with irritation and defeat. “Let’s just go and get your bad decision over with,” he grumbles.
“H-Hey!”
The afternoon sun is stifling as it beats down on the open Hyrule Field. Dancing heat waves play tricks on Ryunosuke’s mind, leaving impressions of distant objects that don’t exist. It’s not just once that he swears he sees movement trailing behind them, though nothing is there when he turns to look.
Despite what he said before about the brevity of the trip to the relic, it takes them an hour and a half on foot (Ryunosuke reasoned that inconveniencing the Royal Stable’s grooms to prepare horses on such short notice was too much trouble and much too conspicuous) to reach the Passeri Greenbelt. The field was quiet along the way—clear of monster activity.
“We’re finally… Haah… Here… Haah,” Ryunosuke manages through labored breaths. The shade from the trees is a welcome respite from the heat. He crouches down to clear the brush concealing the relic. “Hello again… Haah… Little one,” he coos. “Pardon me, but I’m going to have to—”
“Your Highness, behind you!”
Ryunosuke’s heart sinks. The hero’s yell barely sets in when Ryunosuke sees the blurring lunge out of the corner of his eye, hears the whistle of steel being unsheathed and sliced against something else. He drops to the dirt, scrambles onto his backside.
In front of the hero, something leaps backwards. The creature is reptilian, but wears plated armor on its head and back. Its coloration is wrong, unnatural—shifting from a deep green to silver with purple patterning. Camouflage, he realizes.
The monster hops on its hind legs, then pounces with a blinding speed to the hero’s side, reaching for a forked, metal-tipped spear that he must have disarmed initially. He doesn’t give it the chance. He swings in an upward arc, slashing across its exposed belly. It cries out, before once again jumping back and away. Its red, bugged-out eyes flick around, as if sizing up its next move.
“It’s fast,” the hero hisses. “Just stay behind me.”
Ryunosuke gasps in a breath as his heart pounds in his ears. He watches the hero: his broad shoulders squared yet still relaxed, feet planted in a near-L-shape, sword held forward from his hip. Karuma, fully exposed, reflects in the light dappling through the trees, but she’s much more resplendent than mere gleam against metal—she’s luminescent with divine power. The hero’s body shifts with a deep breath. He wears confidence like a well-fitted tunic.
The creature springs forward again, slithering low and serpentine to the ground. It rears back in front of the hero and lashes its tail out like a whip. The hero shifts Karuma to block it, then adroitly forces the momentum back to slash upwards, followed by another thrust forward.
It leaves Ryunosuke in a dazed trance, watching him move so—the hero maneuvers, nimble on his feet, engaging in a dance of steel and reptilian tail across the undergrowth. Like a lionhearted warrior.
Each pierce of Karuma the monster takes seems to not phase it—it teeters back, then lurches forward again, no matter the amount of blood spilling out from across its body. Ryunosuke has heard of the reports from knight commanders after their raids against monster camps: even the most fearsome monsters reach a point where their self-preservation instinct kicks in, where they fear for their survival and alter their behavior. There is no fear present here, only the desire to destroy, no matter what it costs it in the process.
The hero goes to stab it once more, and his foot jerks under him. It’s only a few seconds, but the opening it affords is enough—the monster opens its mouth and lashes out a brightly colored tongue, wrapping around the hero’s ankle and yanking him supine.
“Guh!” he chokes out, the wind knocked out of him with the impact.
The monster uses the opportunity to leap for its spear on the ground, then springs into the air—forked tip centered directly down towards the hero.
Ryunosuke’s eyes grow wide as he feels dread freeze in the pit of his stomach. He has no weapons; there’s nothing around for him to even grab to attempt to use as a distraction. His cry wrenches out: “Champion Kazu—!”
“Haiii-YA!”
It appears like a bolt of lightning: a whirl of pink descends on the monster with a swift flying kick, slamming the monster into a nearby tree. Pink bounces off the ground, light-footed and agile like a swift rabbit hop, and jumps to seize the monster by its abdomen, before slamming it into the ground with a loud crack. The monster’s body lies still.
“Champion Kazuma, are you alright?” asks a graceful voice, like chimes in the wind.
When the dust settles, Ryunosuke sees the figure bending over, arm outstretched—a teenage girl, dressed in light pink Sheikah garb with a cherry blossom pattern adorning the fabric.
“Yes, thank you. I had it under control…” the hero grumbles as he’s helped up. She pulls him to his feet effortlessly, as if he weighs nothing.
“Is that quite so?” The girl turns, hiding a small smile behind her hand. Her dark silver hair, pulled back into an elaborate updo with two loops on the side of her head, instantly sparks recognition.
“L-Lady Susato?!” Ryunosuke gasps out. Being Elder Impa’s granddaughter and training to succeed her eventually, she is a transitory fixture around the castle—often bustling around to and fro with purpose. They have only spoken in brief, polite snatches and Elder Impa rarely brings up much of her personal life, but he knows she is quite skilled even at her younger age. But this? He’d never have guessed the extent of her physical prowess.
“Oh!” She jolts up in shock as she turns to him, open mouth still hidden behind her hand. “My apologies, Prince Ryunosuke,” she says amiably as she bows. “Hello. You weren’t harmed, I hope?”
“No, not at all.” He rises to his feet and dusts off his pants. He stares with wide eyes. “Thank you, truly—that, that was amazing!”
“Oh no! It was nothing at all, really.” She lightly shakes her head. “As Champion Kazuma has said, I’m sure he would’ve handled it readily. He already wore it down, after all. I merely incapacitated it after it was thoroughly weakened.”
A huff comes from behind her as the hero crosses his arms. “You’re selling yourself short,” he begins. She turns to look at him. “The truth is: were it not for your quick action, we would’ve been in trouble.” His eyebrows furrow as he purses his lips, eyes growing darker. “My mistake would’ve been costly had you not been there. Thank you for your assistance.”
Her reply is more subdued: “Yes, of course.”
“But, are you not also selling yourself short, Hero?” Ryunosuke adds quickly. “I mean, your entire fight before that point was incredible! I’ve never seen anything like it—it was as if you were dancing on air. It was just a result of unlucky footing underneath that even gave it a chance to—”
“No,” the hero snaps. He tightens the grip on his tunic’s sleeve, staring at the husk of the monster on the ground. He snarls through fangs: “Insufficiencies aren’t caused by luck, they’re caused by a lack of skill. Adept swordspersons can compensate for any terrain—it’s no excuse. I was careless and it never should have happened.”
Both Ryunosuke and Susato stare at him. The hero squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath in, then releases a measured exhale.
“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment through gritted teeth, attention towards Ryunosuke. He sets his feet together, brings a fist to his chest, and bows. “It wasn’t my intention to lash out like that, Your Highness, not to mention it being terribly inappropriate. I appreciate the sentiment, truly.”
Ryunosuke swallows, thrown. “O-Of course. It’s fine.”
The hero straightens and looks back to Susato. Despite the still stern look on his face, Ryunosuke clocks the almost imperceivable shift in his expression—a softening of sorts in his eyes, barely. He nods to her. “Your form’s improved nicely.”
Ryunosuke blinks at the comment. It wasn’t implausible for them to know each other—Susato was active around many areas of the castle and beyond, and the hero surely had considerable business to attend to before he was appointed as Ryunosuke’s guard—but they had trained together, too?
She smiles and ducks her head in a quick bow. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
“Ah, Lady Susato, if you don’t mind my asking,” Ryunosuke says, “but how exactly did you know where to find us?”
She threads her fingers in front of her and casts her eyes downwards. “Oh dear… Well, in actual fact, Your Highness, I saw you earlier slinking around with quite a large bag—”
His mouth quirks down. Slinking?
“—Yes, slinking. Quite suspiciously at that, I must say. Your eyes were darting around rapidly, even more than usual…” She frowns, tilting her head. “So I took it upon myself to keep an eye on what you were up to, lest you were attempting to dispose of a dead body in the Regencia River, or some such.”
“D-Dead body?!” Ryunosuke flinches back with his hands raised in front of him. His face twists with exasperation. “Lady Susato… I worry that the image you have of me inside your mind is awfully unflattering…”
“That’s impossible,” the hero says. “I was around him all day. If he was carrying a corpse inside his bag, I would have noticed.”
Ryunosuke’s mouth twitches. “I didn’t have a corpse—”
“Yes, I considered that as well,” Susato replies as she rests a palm along her jaw. “I concluded that it was nothing of nefarious nature, but I…still wanted to sate my curiosity on the matter and investigate further, I suppose. Please accept my sincere apologies for following you both.” She bows again.
“No, no! It’s no trouble at all,” Ryunosuke says. “Thank you again for your help!”
“Royal Advisor Susato”—the hero gestures with his thumb towards the monster’s body—“will you assist me in taking care of this Lizalfos?” He crouches down and begins stripping the Lizalfos of its armor.
“Yes, of course.” She quickly nods and gets to work.
Ryunosuke peers over their shoulders and gulps. “So, that was a Lizalfos, was it?”
He has heard about them before in books: fast and agile in their movements and highly intelligent compared to other monsters—capable of adapting mid-combat, and applying metallurgy practices to produce their own weapons and armor. They tend to dwell in groups, camouflaging themselves as they lie in ambush, but close examination can help discern the irregular way their outlines distort their surroundings. Ryunosuke sweeps the perimeter with his vision, but he can’t see anything out of the ordinary. He figures if there was another one waiting, it would’ve pounced by now.
“Yes,” the hero responds, “although…” He sets its metal headpiece down with a huff, then glances at Susato. “These colorations… I’ve never seen one that looks like this before. Have you?”
She finishes unbuckling its shoulder piece. “Hmm…” she muses for a second. She pulls a thick, heavy-looking tome out from a pouch much too small to possibly accommodate it. It’s lovingly worn—various ribbons of different sizes marking numerous places within it, and Ryunosuke can see the flash of pages upon pages of careful notes written in pristine handwriting as she quickly flips through its contents. Her brow furrows when she scans the page, slapping the page with the back of her hand when she finishes. “No, the only recorded information regarding Lizalfos are the common green and the rarer, stronger blue varieties. This one is silver… Curious.”
“That’s what I thought,” the hero exhales as he pulls the remaining armor off it.
“Albinism, perhaps?” Susato offers.
The hero shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s just that… It was much faster than any Lizalfos I’ve faced before, as if it’s been augmented in some way.”
Ryunosuke’s mouth goes dry. “You don’t suppose it’s been put under Calamity Stronghart’s influence, do you?” he asks. His stomach wrings itself with worry in an instant.
Ryunosuke’s mind flashes back to some of the history lessons with Elder Impa. One ancient text theorized that shortly after the creation of the world, the Demon King Demise created monsters alongside the animals and various living species the Goddess Hylia and the Fierce Deity made to populate the planet. It was said to be a harmonious exchange—the monsters filled an ecological niche that was needed to maintain balance of the environment. Other texts describe of a supposed betrayal between the gods that led to Demise’s sealing, and of the subsequent consequences of his declaration of war against the Goddess Hylia when the seal he was under waned—leading to hostile monster forces scattered across the land, forever vengeful on their creator’s behalf.
In the present time, these monster encampments tend to live away from civilization and are in a tenuous truce with the other living species, so long as they stay within their own spaces. When the monsters begin to encroach near settlements or become more aggressive, specialized knight squads are dispatched to protect the towns. Every year, Ryunosuke hears that the occurrences of monster sightings are increasing—that the monsters are encroaching closer than before. If Calamity Stronghart, a manifestation of Demise’s curse of hatred and lust for power, is fortifying the strength of its monsters, then that can only mean they’re losing time before it awakens.
The hero frowns as he reaches back into his pouch and pulls out a large sheathed knife. “I think it’s a possibility we can’t rule out—at least not until The Knights Counsel investigates further.”
Ryunosuke scrapes his palm against his perspiring forehead. He is right: the counsel consisting of the kingdom’s highest-ranking knights and commanders will need to be alerted of this anomaly so they can formulate strategies to combat any future incursions.
“Shall I…?” Susato motions to the Lizalfos armor.
As if in perfect understanding, the hero nods with a, “Yes, you’ll be able to get it to a smelter faster than I can.”
Ryunosuke closes his eyes and sucks in a deep, shaky breath to try to calm his nerves. When he opens his eyes, all of the armor is gone. Susato has now procured her own knife—the size of which, Ryunosuke notices, seems as though it’d fit quite snugly within her small pack—and they both carve the Lizalfos in an efficient tandem. They work quickly and smooth—a wordless routine that seems well rehearsed.
“What are you two…?” Ryunosuke questions, eyes transfixed on the scene before him. It makes him a bit queasy, but he finds he can’t look away.
The hero holds up a dripping horn. “Monster parts,” he answers nonchalantly, then returns to his work.
“They have special essences that can be extracted by a potion maker in order to create certain elixirs,” Susato supplies.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Ryunosuke says. He cradles his chin with his hand and hums. “They…can amplify someone’s physical capabilities when combined with the right ingredients, correct?”
The replies come simultaneously: “Yes.”
The hero and Susato finish harvesting the salvageable parts and clean their hands with swift precision. Thoughts flood Ryunosuke’s mind over the opportunities these enhancements can bring: if squads can adapt their training to account for the stronger monsters, if the soldiers can supplement their abilities with elixirs, and if the researchers can determine how to activate and control the relics as weapons, then, then—
Ryunosuke squeezes his hands together. There might be hope; there might be a way they can suppress Calamity Stronghart—with or without his sealing powers. For this ephemeral moment, he allows optimism to settle within his bones.
“If you don’t mind me asking this,” Susato says carefully, rousing Ryunosuke from his thoughts in the process, “but what exactly were you two planning to do out here?”
Ryunosuke and the hero exchange a quick glance.
Ryunosuke runs the calculations in his head; Susato may be but a polite acquaintance, but he feels she’s someone he can trust. “W-Well, you see…” He hesitantly points to the small relic nestled next to a tree and Susato lets out a small gasp of delight. “I spotted this relic one day after a trip from a sacred spring. I was…planning to collect it and turn it over to the research team—”
“And I was trying to convince him it was a bad idea,” the hero growls, gripping Karuma tight. Ryunosuke releases a weary sigh in response. “The prince is brilliant. His observational ability is unmatched, yet the king refuses to listen to his ideas about the relics’ purposes. We need as much help as we can and be willing to be open to all options if we want to be proactive against Calamity Stronghart.” He crosses his arms, face scrunching up into an acrid scowl. “If the prince relinquishes the relic, he’ll lose any chance of being able to examine it further. The research teams have their hands full already with the ever increasing number of large relics they’ve been excavating. This one relic will more than likely be ignored in their possession—it would be more advantageous for us all if he is allowed to continue his crucial research.” He levels Ryunosuke with another fierce glare.
Ryunosuke feels his cheeks grow hot as his mouth hangs open; he realizes it’s unbecoming of him, but he’s too stunned to wrangle his expression back to maintain a semblance of decorum. He can hardly fathom the words he just heard—the hero believed in him? Believed in his ability to find something useful?
He thinks of when they were here earlier, when the hero voiced his agreement in his theory, offered his praise about his deduction. No matter the heady feeling that accompanied the memory, he had since casted it away as private pity—a compassionate show of sympathy to a struggling prince in a place where no prying eyes could observe. But to watch him here, so unabashedly lauding his abilities to another person—even suggesting to defy the king’s orders over it—feels inconceivable. At best, Ryunosuke considers, he’s painfully average; at worst, he’s a liability. He tries to reconcile the images of himself and the person the hero spoke of, and he finds he can’t.
He forces himself to tear his eyes away from the hero and swallows down the bafflement left lingering on his tongue. “It’s, it’s not a simple matter of personal choice,” he mutters. “Father forbid me from studying it further…”
“Oh dear…” Susato tilts her head with a frown as she regards them both, but her eyes keep flicking back to the relic with keen interest. “I must agree that Champion Kazuma strikes a compelling argument—”
“Thank you,” the hero quickly adds, snippy.
“—But if King Naruhodo is adamant against it, then… Hmm…” Her eyes drift back to the relic. “In any case, may I inspect it before you come to a decision?”
“Yes, of course—” The words barely slip out of Ryunosuke’s mouth before she eagerly glides down to look at it from all angles. He points out the scorch marks and she scribbles down notes in a small notebook with fervor, eyes glinting like the sapphire eye of the relic.
“So small,” she croons. “Word is, the Sheikah researchers are tentatively calling the relics of this variety ‘Guardians.’ Oh, what’s this here?” She traces her finger along the paneling on the back of the so-called Guardian.
Ryunosuke peers over her shoulder, watching how her finger bumps slightly against the metal. The depressions are tiny, barely noticeable. “Small screws?” Ryunosuke asks.
“Not quite the same as we use now, but I believe it’s something of the sort,” Susato’s eyes burn with eagerness; she pulls out a small tool from her pouch. “Then that means it can be opened!” She dives in, diligently unscrewing the backing with precision.
“I suppose it’s fortuitous that we have the infamous tinkerer with us, then,” the hero says with a light tone.
“Ah, yes, well,” Susato replies with a small smile, still focused on the Guardian. “As a child, I used to take apart my father’s watches to see the mechanisms inside. Not to come across like a braggart, but I’ve gotten a fairly moderate amount of experience opening things up over the years.”
And an equally fairly moderate amount of experience putting things back together again, I hope? Ryunosuke thinks as he makes a pinched face. The hero barks out a brassy laugh.
“There we go.” Susato removes the back panel of the small Guardian and her eyes grow wide in wonder. “Champion Kazuma, a torch, if you’d be so kind?” she asks.
“Your wish is my command,” the hero replies. There’s a sort of snarky twinge to it—neither bitter nor unkind, but with a sense of underlying familiarity in a way Ryunosuke once again can’t quite place. He obliges, pulling a long torch from a much too-small-pouch with a flourish. He then pulls out a Fire Fruit and smashes it under his foot to light it. After snuffing the small leftover flame on the ground out with his boot, he lifts the torch towards the exposed back of the small guardian, and Susato eagerly peers inside.
The torch, the tome, the knives… Ryunosuke blinks as the pieces connect in his mind, and the realization feels obvious in hindsight. “You both…have enchanted pouches,” he says. It’s both a statement of fact and a leading question.
“Yes,” the hero says, intently staring at the internal components being prodded by Susato.
“Those are quite rare, aren’t they?” Ryunosuke asks.
Susato looks up towards him and smiles. “Oh yes. My father received them from a dear partner of his a while back. He figured with the line of work Champion Kazuma was to be a part of, it would serve much more utility than having to stow items within a normal bag. And it has been very practical for my uses, as well.”
Ryunosuke purses his lips and he can’t hold it in any longer. “I don’t wish to be intrusive, but how do you two know each other?” It’s been a question lingering on his mind the whole interaction, clinging like the stickiest of Chuchu jellies.
They both pause and exchange a look. The hero answers, laconic: “Our fathers were close friends.” He offers no further details and the uncomfortable air left between them makes it obvious to Ryunosuke to not probe further.
“O-Oh, I see,” Ryunosuke babbles out. He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. The words spill out quickly: “Um, so what did you find, Lady Susato? W-Without the help of the torch to light the inside, I assume investigating it would be a lot more torch-urous.” He gives an uneasy laugh.
There’s a pause, strained for a moment. Then, a loud snort cuts through the tension, followed by an explosive guffaw by the hero—throwing his head back with each quake of a laugh, vibrant and wholly uninhibited. Ryunosuke returns a nervous chuckle, relieved the atmosphere has tempered; his heart thrums erratic in his chest.
Susato blinks at them, then her face grows brighter again. “Look here!” She points to a spherical, amber-and-taupe-colored fixture set in the middle of the interior compartment, affixed with various cables and wires and gears to its metal casing. All three study the object, enrapt. It’s no mere totem, that is certain.
The hero brings a fist to his chin in thought. “I assume this would be what powers it, then?”
“Most likely,” Susato agrees, tilting her head.
A detail in the crystal-like ball catches Ryunosuke’s attention: a round, protruding port of some kind, like a connector you’d plug something into. The socket is small, like a syringe needlepoint, but the reinforced casing around it betrays its importance. He surveys the interior mechanics, fails to see any loose wires that might be the culprit. Something nags at him further—the port is facing direction towards the Guardian’s back, unobstructed by the other wires around it, as if its path required clearance.
Susato and the hero poke and prod at the inner workings and discuss theories on how it operates. Ryunosuke picks up the metal casing, turning the panel over in his palm.
“There’s a few options here,” the hero begins. “Physical activation with a weapon or a striker object seems unlikely, as the crystal is unexposed and protected. It could also potentially resonate with a nearby source that acts as a trigger. Magic is also another possibility, but…”
“We’ve confirmed these relics were, in fact, ancient Sheikah constructions,” Susato replies. “To my knowledge, the Sheikah weren’t ever particularly adept at magic… Of course we have our skill in the martial arts and some of the tribe display moderate magical capabilities, but to utilize magic in that capacity? …Though, of course, we know very little about the tribespeople from tens of thousands of years ago, especially after the devastating fire of the Kakariko Library burned away much of the records from those times…”
Ryunosuke ducks out from under the shade of the trees and holds the panel out towards the sun and sees it: a pinprick of light in its center. The placement of the hole lines up linearly with the inside socket.
“I’m inclined to agree,” the hero says. “Considering the sheer number of the Guardians that’ve been unearthed, along with their massive size, I think it’s reasonable to assume these were powered some other way. These relics seem mechanical in nature; magic wouldn’t necessitate all these wires and gears to keep it running. Maybe if there’s—”
“A direct port of entry! Yes!” Ryunosuke heaves out through a wide smile, holding up the Guardian’s backing. “Take a look at that!” He points to the pinpoint and then to the socket within the Guardian. “If something’s inserted through the back, directly into this crystal, it could be fueled by it. See right here”—he positions the metal panel up to where it slots in—“these holes align perfectly.”
“Oh yes! You’re quite right, Your Highness!” Susato jerks up with wide, engaged eyes, fingers splayed out in front of her face.
“Brilliant find, Prince Ryunosuke!” the hero exclaims with a marked enthusiasm. There’s a keen glint to his eyes, like flint sparked, brimming with something—pride?
Ryunosuke feels himself squirm under their bright gazes, feels the inside of his chest bloom with appreciation—warmth like a burning fire igniting within his ribcage. Despite it, he can’t contain the nervous smile forming on his lips. “I-I can only deduce that they used some sort of thin needle”—a small shudder courses down his spine at the thought, memories of physicians giving him injections coming to the forefront of his mind—“to pipe in whatever fuel energizes it. The only problem is…I haven’t the faintest clue what that fuel could be.”
He rubs his thumb across the back of his arm guard. “When I was younger, I remember finding a book in the Royal Library that mentioned something about the relics. I noted the name of the book and the section it was found in so I wouldn’t forget but…I ended up forgetting where I had placed the note.” He winces. “I wish I knew where to retrieve it… It maybe could’ve given us some leads.”
The wind blows a chill through the trees. “Well, it’s a mystery for another day,” the hero remarks as he looks towards the sun hanging low on the horizon. “It’s not particularly safe being out here when night falls. We should head back soon.”
Ryunosuke nods, content with the progress. He hands the backing panel to Susato, who is fortunately able to fasten it back on. He watches the Guardian with longing in his heart and an ache that roots itself deep in his stomach like an incessant weed, trying to search within himself for which path to follow. He draws a shaky breath.
“Um, Lady Susato, if you’d please…” he begins.
He finds he doesn’t have it in him to remove the small Guardian—not here, not now, when it feels like they’re on the precipice of a breakthrough. The relic will stay here, untouched, and waiting for his return. There will be other chances to hand the Guardian over to the researchers, other chances to heed his father’s warnings. For now, it is enough for it to exist in secret a little longer.
He bows deep, face screwed in apprehension. “Please make no mention of the existence of this relic. I’d appreciate passing along the information about the fuel source to the researchers, but I’d like to be able to investigate a little longer before I have to give it away for good.”
“Oh!” Susato’s eyes grow wide. “Yes, of course,” she says easily with a swift nod, “you have my word.” And Ryunosuke breathes a sigh of relief.
“Thank you for your understanding, Royal Advisor Susato,” the hero says, arms crossed tight across his chest. “It would’ve been best if you weren’t wrapped up in all this to avoid you becoming culpable by association…” He heaves a heavy sigh. “But I suppose it can’t be helped.”
Susato gives a small, warm smile that she quickly hides behind her hand. “I may not have any real authority within the research teams, but I am set to be the liaison between the Royal Family and Champion Sholmes on these matters, after all. It can be viewed as just an extension of my duties, I’d argue.” She holds a finger up to her jaw. “Just a bit more…secretive than initially expected.”
She shifts her weight, quickly becoming more fidgety. “I don’t wish to be too forward,” she says then, “but speaking of that… May I perhaps assist you in your research as well? I-If I wouldn’t be a burden, that is!”
Ryunosuke’s eyes grow wide. “Wha…? Oh, y-yes! Absolutely! You already were such a great help—I would very much be in your debt if you would!”
Susato claps her hands together in front of her, smile wide and eyes sparkling like the stars emerging above. “I’m in your debt for allowing me such a marvelous opportunity!” She balls her hands into fists and leans forward with a sudden fierce determination. “Leave it to me to find the information you seek, Prince Ryunosuke. It will be but a small feat—I simply have to scour the entire Royal Library, compile notes, and then cross reference the information I can find in the Kakariko Library. I will have it done in no time!”
Ryunosuke’s blinks rapidly. “S-Small, you say?! But please don’t push yourself too—” The words barely leave him when Susato utters a quick goodbye with a swift bow and darts off into the shadows, as silent as a rabbit. “There she goes…” he murmurs. “Well, I suppose we should—”
Ryunosuke turns to see the hero watching him sidelong, jaw set stiff and eyes sharp. His pulse jumps in that moment—he believes the hero when he said his looks were not with contempt, but years’ worth of strengthened neural pathways are engraved within his mind like water carved through rock, and apprehension sits heavy in his stomach. The hero doesn’t flinch when he’s caught in the act, merely pinching his brows together an infinitesimal amount, like he’s trying to reach a conclusion in his scrutiny. Ryunosuke can only hope it’s a satisfactory one.
“What is it?” Ryunosuke cautions to ask.
After a pause that feels like an eternity, the hero casually glances away and turns to move. “Nothing. Let’s get going, shall we?”
Ryunosuke frowns. He scrambles to grab his bag and takes a final, lingering look at the small Guardian before scurrying to catch up with the hero to head back to the castle.
“Thank you for earlier,” Ryunosuke says outside his chambers. His eyes flick between the hero and the stone flooring. The emergence of twilight lays a tawny shroud over the vicinity. “Um, would you like to stay for dinner? I’m sure the cooks would be more than willing to accommodate you.”
The hero shakes his head in a swift, fluid motion. “I appreciate the offer, but I must return to my training before night falls. Thank you, Your Highness.” He holds a fist to his heart and bows.
Ryunosuke furrows his brow in dismay. “You aren’t tired? You’ve been out and about all day. Your training can wait until tomorrow, surely?”
“No, it can’t,” the hero bites out. He stands rigid, arms locked behind him. His lips form a tight, grim line. “My performance earlier was completely unacceptable. I can’t possibly indulge in something that hasn’t been rightly earned—not when the consequences are so dire. I’ll do better. I have to.” Each word is fanged, caustic. His left hand goes to clutch Karuma and he sucks in a sharp inhale. “Thank you for your generosity, but I must take my leave.”
Ryunosuke’s face falls. “I—ah, I see…”
“Have a good evening, Your Highness.” The hero nods again, then turns to leave down the hall.
“Good evening…” Ryunosuke watches as his figure grows smaller and smaller, until he’s out of sight completely. In the solitary silence, he feels the dull pang of disappointment.
Chapter 6: Confrontations
Notes:
Warnings - click to view
Extended scene with Ryunosuke's father - warning for verbal/emotional abuse
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
I met with the renowned Champion Herlock Sholmes today at his quaint lab tucked away in a secluded section of Castle Town. He has been a staple figure of the talk around the royal court in recent weeks, but this was the first time I had the pleasure of engaging with the Rito in person since he arrived from his lab in the Akkala region.
And what a sight it was! His eccentric reputation truly proceeds him; the lab was filled ceiling-to-floor with all manner of trinkets and curiosities, and his personality was just as explosive as the potions he was concocting. (Literally. He was showing us a demonstration of a new elixir that would supposedly increase one’s strength capacities ten-fold and it nearly singed off the hero’s eyebrows when it blew up in his face. He was beyond livid.) Lady Susato was absolutely smitten with it all. She said she had been reading the research journals he published articles in for years, so it must have been a true meet-your-heroes moment for her. I’m sure she’s elated to be in position to work closely with Champion Sholmes as the Royal Advisor.
But, I now understand what all the fanfare was about. Along with his various potions, he has been doing extensive research on the ancient relics—and so much more than I was previously led to believe. I felt as though my heart nearly leapt out of my chest as he showed us the numerous artifacts that were uncovered during his research expeditions.
One of which was this curious tabular piece of slate bearing the Crest of the Sheikah. Even curiouser was Champion Sholmes’s associate introducing us to it, Iris. She was a young Sheikah girl, but beyond brilliant in her knowledge, with the kindest smile imaginable and silver rose hair curled like ribbons. Sholmes called her his research assistant, but by all measures except appearance, it felt more like she was his daughter (though, it could be argued about which was more the adult at some moments).
She reminded me much of when Lady Susato was her age and they took to each other immediately. (As it turned out, Iris was the one to actually pen Champion Sholmes’s research articles, despite her age; Lady Susato was equal parts astonished and enchanted.) Together, they almost seemed like sisters, in a way. Even the hero took well to Iris’s cheery disposition—it came as a bit of a surprise that he was good with children. Considering how intense he always looks, it was quite endearing in a way, I’d say.
Iris had named this Sheikah tablet the “Sheikah Slate” officially, but affectionately referred to it as “Slatey.” They haven’t been able to figure out how to activate it or even what it was used for, but it fascinates me to no end. I’d love to have an in-depth look at it sometime.
We discussed our theory regarding the Guardians’ purposes and Champion Sholmes and Iris took to it readily, expressing their eagerness to examine one up close. It was quite a lively affair: Champion Sholmes would flit and dance about as he shot off rapid-fire suppositions (some fairly more realistic than others…) and he would invite all of us to join in when we had an idea. I hate to commit it to paper, but…it was quite a delightful experience (don’t tell Lady Susato or the hero I admitted to it, though).
There was a feeling in the back of my mind nagging me after it all and I decided to follow my instincts on the matter. I disclosed the existence of the small Guardian. There was something about the candor and the maverick way Champion Sholmes conducted himself, and the duo’s overwhelming hospitality and passionate drive for finding the truth regarding their research that made me feel like I could trust them with this issue. They were charmed at the idea of another type of Guardian existing, and Iris postulated that what fuels the Guardians might be the same thing as does the Sheikah Slate. Hopefully us all working together can get us closer to an answer.
Champion Sholmes, of course, is also the Champion of the Rito. When asked about why he lived in Akkala, he merely said that all Rito had to “fly the coop someday” (which didn’t really answer the question…) and that when the time comes for him to pilot the newly excavated Divine Beast Vah Medoh, he would simply “learn it on the fly.” One word comes to mind when describing him: flighty.
Champion Sholmes further regaled us with some absurd tale about a winged Hinox that rains down rupees in its wake, which is so patently far-fetched, even Lady Susato snapped out of her enrapt spell to (lightly) question its veracity. The hero seemed almost at his wit’s end and I was inclined to agree with him. The Rito seems undoubtedly a genius, but I know now to take some of his more outlandish theories with a grain of rock salt going forward.
Ryunosuke balls his ceremonial robes into a messy wad and shoves them into his bag after yet another uneventful attempt at praying at another sacred spring.
The Temple of Time, an imposing cathedral-like structure set atop the Great Plateau in the southwest of Central Hyrule, is a site rife with rich history and the location where many sacred ceremonies are performed. Its lofty, ornate walls extend skyward, each sound made within them reverberating like the echoes of time itself. A towering Goddess Statue, much like those found in the Springs of Courage and Power, sits atop the central staircase pedestal and is surrounded by a ring of miniature Goddess Statues at its base. This sacred spring houses no spring at all, but the sentiment as a highly sought-after site of prayer remains the same.
Rumors around Castle Town state that the lilt of an ocarina can be heard if the one praying is within Goddess Hylia’s good graces—the plangent tune plagued with the yearn of nostalgia. It’s considered to be an urban legend, as there’s never been any corroboration from multiple people within the chapel at the same time. Several witnesses to an act is reasonable evidence; self-reported testimony from one begs further cross-examination. In either case, Ryunosuke doesn’t hear anything except the hiss of the wind tunneling through the nave.
“Let’s get going,” Ryunosuke says to the hero as they take their leave, a shiver running down the length of him, “this place gives me the creeps.” He hugs his arms around himself, eyes darting every which way like a Warm Darner dragonfly in flight. “You… Y-You didn’t see the g-g-ghost d-did y-you?”
The Temple of Time is also considered to be haunted, despite the divine nature of it. It's said that sometimes you can see the figure of a young boy, dressed in green and wearing a pointed hat, wandering the grounds around and inside the temple, forever staring up at the sky. He supposedly meanders around lethargically—like he’s lost, looking for something he can’t seem to ever find. It’s also been reported that, in the dead of night, an apparition of a Stalfos clad in thick armor can be found slumped against the outside walls of the temple. Even in his skeletal form, his right eye seems absent, deteriorated, just like the rest of what’s left of him. A shade of a long-gone hero, weary and weighed down by his regrets; some hear a wolf’s howl in the distance.
The hero’s mouth quirks up in amusement. “No, of course not. Those ghost stories are just that: stories. Poes don’t truly exist.”
Ryunosuke slumps forward, teeth gritted. He should’ve reconsidered asking the person wielding the Triforce of Courage about fears.
The hero huffs out a mix between a sigh and a laugh. “Being considered courageous isn’t about never feeling afraid, you surely realize? I’m not some godlike being that never—”
Something shifts in his periphery, nimble and willowy, and Ryunosuke jumps forward with a loud yelp. He clings to the hero’s arm, hiding behind him as he peeks over his shoulder.
A stray leaf falls limply to the floor. The hero lets out a full-body laugh.
“Ugh,” Ryunosuke groans as he pries away his grasp. “Sorry…” He tries to straighten himself, regain some ounce of dignity.
The mirth of the hero glints in his eyes, a lingering, crinkled stare studying Ryunosuke even when the laughter dies from his lips.
Ryunosuke swallows and turns away. “C-Come on, let’s go.” They leave down the massive stone staircase.
“I’ve been thinking,” the hero says. They’ve taken a break under some much coveted tree cover near Windvane Meadow. The trek across Central Hyrule is a tiring affair—doubly so with the early autumn’s sun beating down on an open field. Ryunosuke sits on a felled trunk, legs grown weary, yet the hero remains ever vigorous: leaning back on a tree with his arms crossed, barely showing any signs of fatigue.
Ryunosuke drinks from his waterskin. “Hm?”
The hero closes his eyes. “It’s my personal opinion that you should carry a weapon for self-defense, Your Highness.”
It draws a chuckle from Ryunosuke, water spilling down his chin. This has become a sort of now semi-regular occurrence with the hero, he’s found: he’ll say something with a coarse bluntness that always seems to surprise him. It’s so far away from the manner in which others who interact with him around the castle equivocate their opinions, always taking the winding road in their words as to not draw offense. Always othering, never equal.
Ryunosuke raises an eyebrow, still grinning. “You seem to have quite a lot of those…personal opinions, Hero.” He keeps a light tone, dyed with inquisitive amusement. Probing for a response that will no doubt put him on his toes.
The hero exhales a short laugh through his nose. “Yes, well”—he opens his eyes and tips his head back, watching the leaves shift above—“when you’re merely a blade, you get an awful lot of time to think while training… Allows you to see a lot of injustices, too, often hidden in plain sight. Too many people get particularly lax when they believe no one’s listening.” His grip tightens on his arm. His voice grows serious, taut with determination: “I want to bring about change in Hyrule—help stamp out corruption, rectify the inequities, in any way that I can.”
Ryunosuke shifts nervously in his seat, mouth suddenly gone dry. It’s a statement that doesn’t seem necessarily pointed at him, but the association is self-evident. “That’s, that’s quite the goal befitting a hero,” he says, voice thin. “I’m not—I don’t have much sway over policy decisions or truly any influence at all, in fact, over those matters, but…” He feels the flush creep over his neck, feeling small in an instant. “Whatever it is you’re speaking of needs to be addressed, I believe. I could possibly relay any grievances you have to the proper channels, though I doubt my words would be given much credence…”
“That’s ridiculous,” the hero scoffs, furrowing his brow. He pushes off the tree, bristling in irritation. “Aren’t you in line to assume the throne after the king? And you’ve been given no responsibilities at all? How are you supposed to be prepared?”
Ryunosuke scrapes a hand through his hair and looks away. “I-I mean, I greet the leaders that arrive for meetings with Father…and, and I receive briefings on the happenings every once and a while—”
“Every once and a while?” The hero’s face drops into a scathing scowl of exasperation.
Ryunosuke can feel the sweat beading on his brow as he slumps forward. “Father doesn’t trust that I won’t foul up relations outside of the Champions…” he mutters under his breath.
“How frustratingly short-sighted.” The hero unfurls his posture and leans back again. His hand drapes over Karuma. “Change is coming, whether those who’ve become conceited with age and blinded by power recognize it or not—I truly believe that. And I’ll help make it happen, I swear it. We can’t be forever shackled by an inflexible, antiquated system marred with injustice and paralyzed by hubris.”
The self-assuredness rocks Ryunosuke off guard. He lets out a feeble laugh. “Maybe we should swap places then… You can be the prince with all the noble ideas on how to run the kingdom…and I can be the one swinging the big sword everywhere.” He weakly motions jabbing a sword forward in the air.
The hero looks at him with a grin. “Well, not exactly what I was getting at, but that brings us back to my initial point… How long have you been training your swordsmanship skills for, Your Highness?”
Ryunosuke’s hands fall back to his lap. “Ah, erm… Never, actually.”
“Really?” The hero’s eyebrows lift. “I just figured, with how you always wear that arm guard around. Is it not a type of forearm protector worn under bracers for training purposes?” He lifts his right arm, motioning towards the deep red sleeve under his leather bracer.
Ryunosuke’s eyes fall to his arm guard. He runs his thumb over the back of it, feels the grooved pattern stitched into it. “It was my mother’s. Supposedly, she was very athletic and engaged in a great deal of disciplines, swordplay included, before I was born…” He looks up, expression lightening as he watches the birds fly overhead. “I truly don’t remember her much, but it’s something I’ve worn even when it was still too large for me. It makes me feel more connected to her somehow.” He takes a breath, then returns a smile. “Besides, it’s very warm when it’s colder out.” A pause. “…I also tend to forget to take it off,” he adds sheepishly, scratching at the back of his head.
The hero is silent, eyes downcast. “…My condolences,” he says, voice low. He tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword. “I can understand the sentiment. I feel the same with Karuma.” He pinches his eyes shut for a moment, exhales, then continues, “Despite her place as the blade of legend, from all recent memory, this sword has only been passed down through the Asogi clan for generations.” His words are careful, a deliberate and strained balancing act. Ryunosuke listens intently—the hero’s never spoken about his personal life like this before.
“My father always said ‘your sword is your soul’ and as much as she houses my own soul, I feel she houses his, as well. I can’t be parted from her. Karuma…” He lifts the sheathed sword from his belt; the specks of sunlight cutting through the trees glint off her polished surface. He holds her to his chest—to his heart—and shuts his eyes in reverence. His voice is gentle, yet never wavering in its conviction: “Her name compels her wielder to slice evil in two. Karuma guides me—I truly believe that with all my heart.”
“‘The Blade of Evil’s Bane’…” Ryunosuke recalls the moniker. The sword gleaming with a sacred luster that can cut down any evil—even with a different namesake, her purpose remains evident. He sits with the significance of the hero’s words, holds the weight of them in his palms. “If you don’t mind my asking,” he starts, cautious and patient in breaching the subject, “what was your father like?” The hero visibly tenses; his shoulders draw upward, posture as stiff as the set of his jaw. “I’m, I’m sorry if that’s too personal to ask. You don’t have to—”
“No, it’s fine,” the hero says, shaking his head. “He was an incredibly skilled knight—exceptional. I was told he could even take down a Lynel single-handedly.” He lets out a soft laugh, a sentimental warmth buffing his features ever so slightly as he reminisces. “But, above all else, my father was deeply kind. And that kindness demonstrated itself in his unswerving sense of justice. That’s what I’ll always remember most about him.” He clutches Karuma closer once again, hand trembling with the force. His eyebrows knit together, mouth forming a hard line. It’s almost a whisper when he speaks: “…He was a good man, taken from this world far too soon.”
The wind sweeps through the trees; Ryunosuke shivers. He feels his heart beat dully in his chest—a stark reminder of life, and of the fragile impermanence of it all. He wrings his hands in his lap. “Yes, it seems so… I’m truly sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
The heavy moment sits between them and the trees, the sounds of rustling leaves and scurrying animals the only thing tethering them to the present. Ryunosuke knows nothing about the circumstances surrounding the hero’s father’s death besides the fact it happened, but the reminder of mortality looms heavy over him like the oppressive shadow casted by a stony, celestial visage sitting high in the clouds. He thinks of the generations of the Triforce of Wisdom wielders before him who’ve long since passed, leaving him to fill their shoes as their replacement. He thinks of the lives saved in the future, if they can utilize the ancient Sheikah relics. He thinks of the lives that will still perish even with their assistance, even with all their greatest preparations—a non-zero amount that is still too substantial, no matter how small the number ends up being.
He thinks of the unthinkable number of casualties if he can’t harness the sacred power to seal the Calamity away—of the crimson stain of blood and viscera on his hands, indisputable evidence of the consequences of his failures.
Death everywhere, inescapable.
The hero clears his throat afterwards. “Anyway,” he says, vestiges of emotion still tattering his voice, “back to the point: have you ever tried using a sword before?”
Ryunosuke breathes deep, pulls himself out of his thoughts. “No, never.” He releases a shaky laugh. “Um, I’m so clumsy, I once pricked my finger just holding this one elaborate ring I was looking at. To wield a sharp sword like that seems unthinkable… No doubt I’d injure myself before the enemy even got close.” He rubs the back of his head, expression twisting into a grimace. “I…don’t really like blades much, either way. I don’t know how all you knights do it, honestly.”
“Well, knicks and accidents are to be expected, of course”—the hero holds a fist up to his chin, brow creasing in contemplation—“but with a proper trainer, they can teach you how to handle a blade safely. Not every person at The Academy was what you’d describe as being particularly dexterous, you know.” One corner of his mouth tugs down, as if recalling an exceptionally salient memory. “…What about a spear or a halberd?” he asks after a beat, and Ryunosuke shakes his head. “A bow?”
“Oh, erm,” Ryunosuke begins, squirming, “my mother showed me a few times.” He remembers a scant few memories of her, but this is one of the clearest: her galant stance, strong shoulders drawing back the bowstring with fluid grace; the rush of adrenaline within him as he watched the arrow fly true and hit the very center of the target, definitive in its authority; the wide smile painted on her face as she looked back at him, as golden as the streams of sunlight falling around her. He could never forget it. “It was with a beginner’s bow and I was still quite young at the time, so I wouldn’t say I recall much of how to do it… I haven’t attempted it since.”
The memory of King Naruhodo’s enraged face blights those rosy thoughts, sours them with shouts of time wasted and damnation of the kingdom due to the lack of focus on magical abilities. Ryunosuke purses his lips and feels the knot in his stomach tighten. “After she died, Father forbade me from practicing again so I could concentrate wholly on my training in the springs…”
The hero huffs out a frustrated noise. “The most skilled fighting instructors in the kingdom, and he didn’t let you learn from any of them? Didn’t even try? Threats from the Yiga Clan are ramping up; how does he expect you to defend yourself if something were to happen?”
The Yiga Clan: a militant group fiercely loyal to Calamity Stronghart. Surviving information from the time following the end of the Great Calamity 10,000 years prior is spotty, but what has been passed down through Sheikah oral history outlines the events of the Sheikah Schism.
Having seen the great power the Divine Beasts contained, the then-King of Hyrule ordered the seizure and burial of all Sheikah-made inventions, paranoid that even the most inconspicuous of objects produced by Sheikah hands could become a potential threat to the kingdom. Deranged with paranoia, he then exiled the Sheikah, scattering them across Hyrule. The tribe broke into two main factions: those who steadfastly adhered to their tribe’s history as the Goddess Hylia’s chosen guardians and maintained their devotion to the Royal Family by abiding by their wishes despite the oppression, and those who vehemently resisted against the abuse they faced. Over time, the latter group splintered further, swearing a vengeful allegiance to the very force they had once helped quash: Calamity Stronghart.
As history ran its course, reparations were made and relations were reforged between the Sheikah and the Royal Family. However, the Yiga Clan retained their hatred both towards the Royal Family over their mistreatment and towards the rest of their former tribe over the belief that they were betrayed by them for not siding with their cause.
Once bolstered by ideological motives, over thousands of years their movement became chaotic and desultory—now, resentful towards all Hylians for a reason so far removed from its root source, most members are no longer cognizant of the initial conflict. They have since become a cult worshiping Calamity Stronghart and assist in carrying out its will to purge the world of what they describe as inveterate lawlessness, engaging in vigilante terrorism against all who oppose it. With Calamity Stronghart’s reemergence forthcoming, the Yiga have been scaling up attempts to destabilize the Royal Family’s efforts to contain it. More and more ambushes on knights and castle officials have been reported in recent times.
Ryunosuke deepens his frown. “He doesn’t. I always had the Sheikah attendants accompanying me to and from the castle before you. He doesn’t think it’s necessary for me to do anything not related to acquiring the sealing powers—he only tasked me with organizing the Champions solely because they’re needed to weaken Calamity Stronghart before I can seal it away.” Ryunosuke grits his teeth and folds forward, forearms resting on his knees. “Everything else is just a waste of time, in his opinion.”
“Just like the relics?” It’s barely a question.
“Yes,” Ryunosuke breathes out.
“And do you agree with that?” The hero lifts an eyebrow; the intense spark is back in his eyes again. “That it’s all a waste of time—that you shouldn’t do these things?”
Ryunosuke swallows, wilting a bit. “Well, no, but—”
The hero doesn’t allow him to finish. “I will protect you, I swear to you, but imagine if we get separated somehow. Wouldn’t you want some way to protect yourself if the worst comes to worst?”
Ryunosuke’s heart thrums quickly in his chest. “W-Well, yes,” he admits shakily. “I doubt I’d be able to do much if it came to an actual fight, but, yes, I suppose I would feel more at ease…” His eyes flick from the ground, to the hero, then back down again. “Not to say I don’t trust you, though.” He gives the hero a tentative smile. “My first choice in any altercation would be having you and your fighting prowess by my side, of course.” He notices the hero straighten.
“I just…” Despair catches Ryunosuke abruptly, sweeping his feet out from under him. The thought of disobeying the king’s orders still makes him wary. “…My responsibilities were clearly laid out by Father, and this wasn’t one of them. I don’t have a choice in the matter, is all.”
The hero’s words are blunt: “You always have a choice.”
Ryunosuke’s eyes grow wide. He opens his mouth and promptly closes it, swallowing down an objection. The hero’s confidence always makes things seem so much easier, like his courage could be contagious, even for someone like him. “…A-And you?” he ventures to finally ask. “We’re both bound by destiny to our roles. Do you also have a choice?”
The hero inspects him for a moment, little creases forming between his eyebrows. He sighs, then shuts his eyes. “I made my choice a long time ago. Destiny or not, my role in all this aligns with the very dream I’ve set out to accomplish. I’m not bound by it—I shape it myself.”
He says it like it’s that simple, like it’s a mutable block of clay rather than unyielding iron shackles. As if bearing the responsibility of the entire world on his shoulders is some sort of opportunity instead of a debilitating burden—a gift instead of a curse. How could Ryunosuke ever view himself to be on an equal level as him?
“I-I see…” Ryunosuke releases an unsteady exhale and rises to his feet, shaking out the jittery energy from his legs. He lightly paces about, footsteps heavy with each stride. He mumbles, “…Can’t use a weapon, can’t use the sealing powers… You must think of me as a pathetic fool.” He says it like a joke; he says it like a condemnation of his guilt, plain to see.
“Why do you keep speaking like that?” The hero’s voice snaps through the trees, cracking like a whip strike. Ryunosuke jolts to attention with a start, finds the hero’s glower melting him down to the grassy floor below.
“W-What?” Ryunosuke feels that jittery energy return in an instant, electric.
“Why do you continue putting yourself down like you’re some sort of lost cause, willing to lie down and passively take whatever is thrown at you without any resistance?” Frustration drips caustic off his tongue. “And, furthermore, why do you keep implying that I would ever agree with those ridiculous notions?!”
Ryunosuke feels his nails dig into his palms when he balls his hands into fists. “It’s only the truth, isn’t it?” he asks ruefully, pitching up a corner of a weary, crazed smile. His bulging eyes flit about, avoiding the hero. His words become rapid: “I, I’m not like you. I’m not like all those other Triforce of Wisdom wielders that came before me. I’m not some talented swordsman and I don’t have some innate talent in me that lets me use my powers—and I’ve tried, I’ve really tried praying at the sacred springs and every day at the castle like Father said to do. But it’s like some cruel cosmic prank that I have absolutely nothing to show for it, like I’m not the one who’s supposed to even be in this position in the first place!” The laugh that escapes him is primal, hysteric in its pitch. “I can’t just mold my destiny like you can; either I succeed or we all fail—there’s no other option for me! To be tied to someone like that, who’s just dragging you down as you work tirelessly to fulfill your role to perfection time and time again”—he squeezes his eyes shut tight—“it’s, it’s pitiful, is it not?”
Ryunosuke doesn’t even hear him when the hero closes the gap; he’s met with a face like thunder in front of him when he opens his eyes—blustering and volatile. Ryunosuke instinctively retreats a step back, feels himself shrink down.
“After all that, if you sincerely want the truth,” the hero growls, voice projecting loud against the rustle of the wilderness, “then yes, I do think of you as a fool. A fool that lets anyone and everyone walk all over him without even so much as a protest.” Ryunosuke’s eyes grow wide. “The king’s had ample time to formulate a backup plan and he’s squandered it, irrationally staking everything on a gamble of the whims of a divine power that’s shown no signs of even existing. We may need the sealing power, but even I can see these trips of prayer are a waste of time—nothing more than futile endeavors to appease a king that’s trying to set you up as a scapegoat for his own incompetencies. And you’re complicit in it all—crumbling to every bumbling order the king commands of you!”
Ryunosuke’s mouth grows dry. The highest knight in the kingdom, speaking this way of the king, of the prince, is almost unfathomable—seditious even. No other official would ever speak this out loud, let alone directly to a member of the Royal Family, even if they privately thought it.
He steps forward; Ryunosuke steps back. The air around them feels blazing—a single pop of ember away from the brush around them igniting into flames. “Do you know how the members of The Knight Academy feel about you, Your Highness?” the hero asks.
A cold chill runs down Ryunosuke’s spine. “N-No,” he chokes out, much more feeble than he’d hoped.
“They’ve lost faith in you. They don’t believe you can help lead them to victory—that you’re willfully shirking your duties and abandoning them all. The very same narrative the king is pushing to place all the blame on you.”
“But I’m not—” The world begins to spin around Ryunosuke. His hands grip at his upper arms, crossed in front of him as if trying to hide behind a shield. He feels his legs shaking underneath him. “I’m trying—I’m trying to do all I can to help, I swear—” The words catch in his throat.
The hero sets his jaw. “And after what I’ve seen, I believe you. Even within the limited time I’ve spent around you, I’ve already witnessed your dedication and your desire to help. I’ve already seen flashes of your brilliance firsthand—your deductions with the Guardians’ purposes chief among them. There are people that believe in you, Prince Ryunosuke. I believe in you. Royal Advisor Susato believes in you.” The hero grips Karuma at his side, scowl widening deeper. “Yet it seems, despite all that, you don’t actually believe in yourself, and are willing to throw that trust right back in our faces. Are you truly just going to give up on yourself like that?!”
“S-Stop,” Ryunosuke murmurs, shaky. His vision goes cloudy when he blinks.
The hero looms over him, now close enough to almost touch. “Do you wish to prove them all right by not standing up for yourself? By allowing yourself to get captured or killed because you refuse to learn how to protect yourself out of meek obedience to the king? By coming home empty-handed yet again after more pointless efforts praying to a deaf goddess, with no progress made to assuage anyone’s fears?” The scarlet of his headband flicks erratically in the wind behind him. “When you left that Guardian in the forest, I thought it was some sort of turnabout, but I’m beginning to fear that I was wrong!”
“Enough!” Ryunosuke cries out with an assertive force that even the hero startles back from. Teeth bared and heart pounding, he ducks out from under the hero’s shadow. He wraps his arms around himself, back turned to the hero.
He hears the hero draw out a long, deep sigh from behind him. “How I see it,” the hero starts, both voice and disposition now tempered, “above all else, the only way to know if you can truly effect change comes down to whether you have faith in yourself. If you don’t believe in yourself, how can you possibly hope to succeed at helping others?”
Ryunosuke sits with the words, lets them soak into his bones until they’re so saturated, the weight roots him to the ground. He thinks again about those around the castle that would never dare to be this candid with him—no matter how easy Ryunosuke could observe their veiled dissatisfaction. How vile it began to feel for him to watch people appeal to him while walking on eggshells as if he was above them purely because of what family he was born into, never voicing their true opinions to him. The hero’s words stung him, but it was merely a warning graze, not a death blow laced with malice—no, it wasn’t a denigration, but a challenge.
Another person tied together with the same thread of destiny as him—what a novelty to feel like they could speak at an equal level like this.
Ryunosuke squeezes his eyes shut, digs his fingers into his sleeves. “You’re right,” he finally says, low. “I don’t want to give up.” His breath hitches, voice thick with emotion. “I want to try… I want to try.” He repeats it like a litany, each word enunciated with precision—more earnest than any prayer he’s spoken in years.
When he meets the hero’s eyes, the fire that was there before still burns bright, but it's been subdued—a crackling hearth rather than a raging wildfire. A smile hangs on his lips. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” He turns away and slings a pack over his shoulder. “We should get going.”
It was a restless time the night prior. No matter how much Ryunosuke tried to relax, he couldn’t quiet the cacophony in his brain: a jittery soup of the hero’s words, imaginings of the gossip between the knights at The Academy, and thoughts of the lingering ghosts from The Temple of Time all mixing together into the perfect amalgamation of anxiety.
It’s the morning after; he’s curled around the one-eyed Daruma doll that rests on his lap, trying to focus on the report in front of him. His eyelids slip low, heavy with imminent sleep. Try as he might to stay awake, it’s a losing battle.
“—Ryuno—” a lilting voice calls out from the webbing of his half-sleep drowse, distant and abstract. He makes an attempt to lift his head—to regard the speaker—but it feels like a ripe Hydromelon sitting on his shoulders, plump and heavy. “—rinc—” the voice says again, closer.
The slam that hits his desk is like a whip crack in his ears. “Agh!” Ryunosuke springs up straight to attention, knocking the Daruma to the floor with a weighty thump. It rolls across the wood until it knocks against the table’s leg and stops to rest. He hears a poorly contained snicker from a ways away, drowned out as the door to his chambers shuts closed.
“Oh dear… My apologies, Prince Ryunosuke.” It’s Susato to his left, frowning and apologetic. Her hands are resting upon a stack of small books, each leather-bound. “I tried to wake you without frightening you, but my efforts were unsuccessful. I wished to get this to you right away: my notes on the relics. Would you be so kind as to cast your eye over it?” She hands him the top book.
He blinks at her, trying to gain footing in the situation. “A-Already? Ah, Thank you, Lady Susato.” It is bewildering, her tenacity. He looks through the pages of pristine handwriting—diligent notes compiled meticulously, each passage cited with book volume and location within the library.
“The information was quite lean, unfortunately,” Susato says with a dejected sigh, “and I couldn’t go quite as in-depth with my research in the Kakariko Library as I had hoped. I have asked my friend for further assistance, so I hope this will suffice for now.”
“N-No, of course!” Ryunosuke stammers, eyes wide from the display in front of him. A single question rattles around in his mind: How did she do all this so fast?. “This is… This is incredible, Lady Susato! Thank you!”
She makes another displeased sound as she rests her palm along her jaw, expression drooping. “Sadly, there wasn’t much definitive evidence in the texts I could find. There were mostly vague references of the ‘Sheikah technology’ being used as tools to prepare and fight Calamity Stronghart, but many excerpts were incomplete and pages were torn out—consequences of the censorship ordered by the king of that time, I suppose.”
Ryunosuke’s face falls; disappointment leaves him feeling leaden. He thinks about the fickleness of kings, of their bullheadedness, enduring through history—they would be so much more prepared if they didn’t have to capitulate to the whims of shortsighted rulers time and time again. And he is expected to inherit this role in the future? It feels absurd to think that day would ever come, but he hopes if it does, he’ll be a more sensible leader.
“I…” Susato starts, then snaps her mouth shut like a clamp. She furrows her brow, a pensive look flashing across her face. “I have no doubt you’ll be a competent leader if you keep sight of that wish, Your Highness.”
Ryunosuke flinches at her mind-reading capabilities. She truly is terrifying. “Oh, um… Thank you, Lady Susato…”
She gives a small smile and continues, “As I was saying… The biggest discovery was this!” She reaches over to the book and flips a few pages ahead.
What rests in front of him is a drawing encompassing the entire two pages, crude in its quality, but not lacking in its heart. Susato explains that it’s a depiction of the very battle against Calamity Stronghart 10,000 years prior. The Divine Beasts and their commanders sit at each corner. In the middle, enormous and imposing, is the very beast of Calamity Stronghart itself; flanking it: a princess clad in white utilizing magic and a hero with a mighty sword. Surrounding them is a field of automatons, filling the entire expanse of the page. Hundreds litter the paper so densely, they begin to blur into an ocean of ink when Ryunosuke tries to focus on the illustration as a whole.
“Do you see what this means?” Susato asks with a buzz in her voice, and Ryunosuke swears she can hear his heartbeat hammering in his chest. “This is a painting of the active battlefield! The Guardians were directly in the fray!”
“Then…” Ryunosuke manages to say, though his mind is spinning from the implications. “Then, I was right! This is, this is direct evidence that the Guardians were active weapons alongside the Divine Beasts and the combatants!” His face begins to ache from smiling. Surely, Susato had to have been a blessing sent from Goddess Hylia herself.
“Yes, Your Highness!” She returns his smile. “And, further, examine this!” She points with a sharp clarity to a scene at the header: Sheikah interacting with a rectangular object that’s connected to an overhead, stalactite stone. Even in this illustration, he can recognize it clearly.
“That—that’s the Sheikah Slate Champion Sholmes and Iris found!” He can’t stop himself from gawking. He runs his finger along the picture. “And this stone… Do you suppose it’s somehow connected to powering the Slate?”
“I think it’s a very strong possibility.” The excitement in her voice can barely be contained—she’s practically shaking. “Please, take these,” she says hurriedly, setting another copy down on his desk. “I must report these findings to Champion Sholmes at once!” She gives a brisk bow.
“Thank you, Lady Susato. I can’t begin to express my—” And she’s bounded out of the room like blossoms carried by the wind.
Releasing a giddy sigh, he takes one more look at the page before ducking under the table to retrieve the Daruma. The red paint has chipped slightly around its sapphire eye where it hit the ground, exposing shiny silver underneath. He holds it close.
When he looks up again, he sees the hero peeking over his shoulder from outside with a tight grin, and Ryunosuke finds he doesn’t have the urge to immediately look away when he returns the smile.
Ryunosuke rests his arms on a parapet of Hyrule Castle, peering over the site below: Sheikah researchers have carted one of the giant Guardians into the courtyard for further study. The sun beats down warm, but the breeze cuts a crisp chill when it descends down the rampart allures. It’s a transitory period of weather, indecisive in its identity—the inception of autumn. With the turn into October, Ryunosuke’s twenty-second birthday is approaching; the weight of it encumbers his background thoughts. Looming, endlessly.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Ryunosuke asks as he stares with wide eyes, utterly enrapt at the machinery below. “I know everyone said they were large, but to see it in person… Even from the view up here, they’re utterly massive—I can’t imagine what it’d be like at face-level.”
“Well,” the hero drawls as he steps closer, “you don’t have to imagine it if it’s right there.” Ryunosuke’s eyes flick over to him and see the mischievous glint in his eyes, in his smirk. He holds his pointer and middle finger up to his temple, resting on the red fabric. “Say you have some business to attend to across the courtyard and the spectacle drew your attention along the way. It won’t be a problem—we are headed to the opposite side of the castle, after all.”
Ryunosuke laughs. “Yes, I suppose so.” He looks back towards the Guardian again. “That mural Lady Susato found… They must be weapons—just look at that imposing form. And the eye of it”—he points down to the large blue crystal, then turns back to the hero with an excited smile—“imagine the force of a blast something that size could emit! Once we find a way to activate all these relics, then we’d surely have the advant—”
“What are you doing out here, Ryunosuke?” The sound of a heavy door scraping open and a deep voice cuts through the peace like a porcelain teacup being shattered on the ground. Ryunosuke’s blood runs cold, the world stilling around him in an instant. He watches the hero quickly withdraw from his side, genuflect, and lower his head. He whirls around to see King Naruhodo, shadows filling the many creases of disapproval etched deep into his face.
“I-I was…” Ryunosuke prays that his voice doesn’t fail him. “I was assessing the progress of the examinations of the Guardians. I sincerely believe that we should focus our efforts—”
“Did I not make myself clear when I said it was none of your concern?” His words are as stern as the harsh draw of his brows, the deep pull of his scowl. Ryunosuke strains to hear over the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. “I grow tired of endlessly repeating myself: the relics are the responsibility of the researchers, and the researchers alone. You have your own unfulfilled responsibilities to your kingdom, yet you stand here now, wasting your time. When will you stop treating this as some sort of childish game?!”
Ryunosuke freezes. “I’m not—” He has to bite back the scoff of disbelief. After everything he’s put himself through, after all the sacrifices—years of his life wasted to this singular goal—his father still accuses him of not taking this all seriously? “I’m, I’m doing everything I can! Just yesterday, I visited The Temple of Time and offered every ounce of my prayers to the goddess and still: nothing. I don’t know what you expect me to—”
“I expect you to try harder,” King Naruhodo growls out, lips curled back into a barely-reined-in snarl. It’s a balancing act: an expression of anger by a man who simultaneously has so much status that he has to maintain decorum, and has so much authority he has never been challenged to keep his rage in check. “If the Goddess Hylia isn’t recognizing you, you’re clearly not putting in enough effort for her to respect you. How could she, when you can’t seem to grasp the basic concept of not slouching about?” He sweeps an iron-fisted hand across in front of him.
Ryunosuke pulls his shoulders back straight without thinking. He tightens his grip into fists, trembling with indignation. Rapids surge inside him; they strain against the dam of his trepidation.
The king continues, “You must dedicate every moment you have to your training, instead of gallivanting around, indulging in these puerile pursuits! Put in the work instead of squandering your time in this fantasyland of yours and you will see results! Try harder.”
The whirlpool inside him keeps swirling, anger boiling the tumultuous waters within. He thinks of the hero’s words: that others believe in him—even he himself, the one who’s taken his heroic duty in such stride, believes in him—and to not let them down by giving up without a fight. He thinks of Lady Susato, of Champion Sholmes, of Iris—who engaged with his deductions with sincerity and respect instead of dismissal, who supported his theories. He thinks of the tangible progress towards breakthroughs with the relics, of the lack thereof with prayer no matter how hard he’s tried.
He tried. Even when he never could hope to fill the role he was thrust into, he still tried; he’s always tried. The accusations contradict the evidence and it floods him with as much fury as the great Veiled Falls of Zora’s Domain.
“Enough running from your responsibilities and return to the next spring to pray—”
The waters rage on, churning, churning, and he can’t stop the rush that overtakes him in the moment.
“Can’t you see? The prayer is useless!” It lashes out like a viper strike, dripping in venom. The two Royal Guards posted behind the king flinch at the outburst, but if the king is surprised, he doesn’t react. “Fifteen years it’s been and nothing has ever happened, not even a flicker or a voice or anything suggesting it’s working!” Ryunosuke’s lungs heave, burning with each breath he takes. “But this?” He throws a decisive pointer finger out, straight towards the Guardian below. It’s the most self-assured he’s felt interacting with the king that he can remember; it feels like light welling up inside him—bright and fierce. “This could actually be something for once—if you would just listen to me!”
King Naruhodo waits, eyes scrutinizing him yet again; his jaw is set firm as he makes his inspection. “Well?” he finally asks after an excruciating moment. “Go on, make your argument.”
An opportunity to turn this all around. Ryunosuke swallows. “The, ah, the sheer quantity and the considerable size of the Guardians that have been excavated suggest that they served some great importance during the Great Calamity. We also know for a fact that the Divine Beasts were expressly created with the purpose of being used as weapons.” He takes a sharp breath, steeling himself to continue. “I-I have recently met with Champion Sholmes—who has been studying the relics himself—and we discussed the very real possibility of scorch mark residue on the ring around the blue gem that sits on their heads—direct evidence of a combustion of some sort. And I have reason to believe the energy source lies inside its encasing—I can’t confirm without being about to examine myself, but there should be a panel on the Guardian’s back, held together with the tiniest screws, and a small entry port that can connect directly to the energy chamber from the outside, manually supplying fuel.”
He takes a deep breath, drawing himself up to his full height again. “And, and I have this to prove it.” He pulls out Susato’s notes from his pouch on his hip and shows King Naruhodo the page of the mural. “Ancient art, found by Lady Susato in one of the tomes within the Royal Library, that depicts the Great Calamity’s battle itself. This shows that the Guardians were on the front line during the battle. All of the evidence leads us to one conclusion: these Guardians were a mechanical army made to fight Calamity Stronghart all those years ago!”
The king’s eyebrows lift ever so slightly. He studies the art in front of him carefully. If he questions how Ryunosuke knows so much about the details of the construction of the Guardians, he doesn’t express it, but Ryunosuke knows better—whatever calculations the king is doing, he’s taken it into account, surely.
“With, with them at our side”—Ryunosuke points down again at the Guardian in the courtyard—“we can defend ourselves readily. So, please, let me assist Champion Sholmes with his research so that I may actually contribute something to the cause!” He folds his arms behind his back.
King Naruhodo regards him for a moment, then casts his eyes towards the Guardian below. “Tell me…” he says, slow and methodical. “Is the Goddess Hylia the goddess of machinery? Of research? Of archeology?” He keeps his sight fixed on the Sheikah researchers scrambling about below.
Ryunosuke’s eyes are blown wide now, flitting about. “N-No…”
“I will see that this information makes it to our researchers and that they will procure the book this painting came from for further examination.” He snaps Susato’s notes closed like a lashing. “But will you becoming a scholar appease the Goddess into awakening your sealing powers?”
Ryunosuke swallows, mouth suddenly going dry. “W-Well, I don’t know, but—”
“You make these arguments, but you’ve done nothing to address the issue at the crux of all this: your sealing power is imperative in defeating Calamity Stronghart.” His eyes narrow, now boring directly into him. “Suppose what you say is true, and you become part of the research team, what then? We’ll have an ongoing war alongside this ancient army—the slaughter of an unfathomable number of lives—with no end in sight because we have no way to contain Calamity Stronghart without your magic. You say that prayer—the only thing we know to be closest to the Goddess—is useless, yet you seemingly have no plan to replace it! So tell me again: how is it that this is any different than you running away from your obligations to your kingdom?”
“But, but it’s clear that praying at the springs hasn’t gotten us anywhere closer!” Ryunosuke’s fingers dig into his sleeves behind his back. “So, it’s illogical to continue to—”
“That’s enough, Ryunosuke.” The king’s voice resounds against the castle walls, a dominating echo, and Ryunosuke jumps at the sound. “No more excuses. Despite it all—despite how often it’s imparted to you the significance of your role—you still seem to fail to grasp the severity of the situation before us. You avoid your duties, clinging to this fantasy when it’s not your place to be in.” His eyebrows knit together even further.
“The gossip mongers out there,” the king starts, more hushed, “whispers all around Castle Town, stretching out to the furthest points in the kingdom…they all speak of the washout, incompetent Prince of Hyrule.” The last words are enunciated with a rolling oscillation of pitch—mocking. Ryunosuke flinches, feels his heart drop. He rips his gaze away from Ryunosuke as if he’s too repulsive to continue to acknowledge and rests a hand on the parapet—a paragon of dignified confidence looming over his loyal subjects. “…A dark stain on my legacy, all that I’ve worked so hard to build… The accursed child that doomed us all to this wretched fate—still true to this very day.”
Ryunosuke can’t see his face, whatever expression he has twisted upon it. It’s a small blessing; he’s glad he isn’t able to. Ryunosuke’s arms have fallen limply to his sides, cheeks grown hot with shame. The storm inside him has petered out to a weak drizzle, resolve extinguishing out in an instant. He tucks his chin to his chest, gaze focused low to the ground. His heart threatens to smash out of his rib cage.
“All the resources in the world, all the attention, and, yet, nothing. And you ask me to support you, out there, running around with those researchers—all just to humiliate me further?” A light scoff. “They talk and talk amongst themselves. Are you even aware of how they refer to you? They say that you’re an heir to a throne of nothing—nothing but failure.” His grip tightens on the stone railing. Voice gnarled: “There isn’t a single person that believes in you out there, and for good reason.”
Ryunosuke balls his hands into shaky fists beside him. Despite how much he wanted to believe in the hero’s faith in him to stand up for himself, it’s a futile endeavor after all—useless just like the prayers to the goddess, useless just like him.
The hero’s faith in him… He had said he believed in him, Lady Susato and Champion Sholmes and Iris said they believed in him—but could that possibly have been true? Was it purely pity all along? Surely, he thinks, they didn’t really believe in him—not completely, at any rate. The embarrassment of it all eats at his insides. He truly was a fool to ever think that—
“Pardon my interruption, Your Majesty…but if I may?” a voice asks from behind him. The hero. Ryunosuke whirls around, wide-eyed, to see him still kneeling with his head now raised high, steely gaze trained squarely on King Naruhodo.
“You may not.” The king has released his grip from the wall, anger plain in his voice at the outburst. “No one has given you permission to speak, Champion.”
The hero doesn’t flinch, doesn’t seem to react or back down at all. Dread claws into Ryunosuke.
“Then I humbly apologize in advance for my insolence,” the hero continues to speak anyway, voice tense without an ounce of sincere apology in the tone, “but, I have to raise an objection.”
Mortified, Ryunosuke chokes out a “Ch-Champion Kazuma, what are you…?”
“Your primary goal, Your Majesty, is to awaken the sealing powers in order to maintain the peace and safety of all of Hyrule, is it not?” The hero speaks fast as to rebuff interruption, but in a controlled tempo that begets confidence instead of nervousness. It’s reckless, it’s foolhardy—it’s courageous, above all.
The king’s glare narrows. “Yes, you are correct. And I hope for your sake that you would never think otherwise.”
“Of course not,” the hero replies flatly. “I merely asked to establish the fact that we’re all on the same side. I wish for the prosperity of the kingdom and its people, just as you do. With that, I implore you to hear me out.”
The king crosses his arms, grip still tight on Susato’s book. “Very well, continue,” he spits out, unpleased but offering an olive branch of clemency for now.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” The hero dips his head low, then returns direct eye contact. Impudent, Ryunosuke worries in his thoughts, sacrilegious—to stare directly at the king past initial introductions is seen as, at best, disrespectful, at worst, a form of intimidation. “From my understanding of the situation, there’s been no concrete record of what awakens the sealing power in a person.” His words are slow, deliberate. “If fifteen years of incessant prayer hasn’t been producing results, is it not reasonable to attempt something different, to see if something else can resonate with the magic?”
The hero clenches the fist resting on his knee. He continues, “Perhaps involvement in the research efforts will appeal to the goddess in an unorthodox way—show the prince’s wisdom in forgoing an approach that isn’t working, and display his conviction and devotion in the matter by implementing a new strategy.” He pauses. “…If you truly cared about your people, I would imagine you’d be desperate to try anything that could provide the necessary results, surely?”
Ryunosuke can’t stop his mouth from hanging open, facial muscles gone slack in the daze. The hero is out of his mind.
King Naruhodo grits his teeth as he draws himself even taller. His face flares a dull crimson. “Don’t think for a second I can’t recognize a thinly veiled threat when I hear one, Asogi.” He pronounces the name with a particular disdain—acrid. “I can have you taken to the gallows for speaking with that sort of implication!”
Ryunosuke’s heart stills. He feels a brisk chill sweep through his body, freezing him through his core. “F-Father, please, that’s not—!”
“My apologies, Your Majesty,” the hero’s words slice through Ryunosuke’s dread, “but I believe you know better than anyone that you’re not in any position to do so.” He sets his jaw firm, mouth drawn into a determined and bleak frown. “Monsters that are getting stronger every day, an army not equipped for the massive scale of attack incoming, the Divine Beasts not yet activated, not even the sealing powers on your side—you don’t have the options to be ridding the hero who can solely wield The Sword that Seals the Darkness to its full potential. Public confidence will plummet, replaced by fatalistic hopelessness, and there will be no path to victory then, for everyone will have given up. Is that what you desire?”
“Quiet!” the king snaps. “You will hold your tongue!” The hero ducks his head low again. The king quakes with rage where he stands, nostrils flaring as he stares down his nose at the hero. He takes a few heaving breaths through bared teeth and Ryunosuke holds his own.
The seconds that pass drag with all the quickness of trudging through the muddy quagmires of the Bottomless Swamp near Hylia River. “Fine,” King Naruhodo finally hisses. He’s proud and mulish, but he’s not malevolent enough to willfully doom his kingdom over his bruised ego. Despite it all, he genuinely wants to save them all from Calamity Stronghart’s destruction. “…I’ll allow it.”
Ryunosuke exhales a shaky breath. “What?” It’s unsteady, hesitant. He can’t trust himself to have heard it correctly.
The king’s eyes lift from the hero back to Ryunosuke. “I’ll allow you to aid Champion Sholmes in his investigations into the ancient relics,” he says sternly then, emotions flattened. “However, you must not shirk your duties in prayer. You will still continue your pilgrimages to the springs”—a hand comes up to his chin, stroking his thin beard—“but a change in our approach might not be an unwise decision.”
Ryunosuke can hardly process it all. “I—yes! Th-Thank you, Father!” He stands straight, arms locked behind his back, and bows.
“I expect results this time.” The king wears a dour expression. He goes to leave, but stops short when he reaches where the hero is kneeling. “And you…” he growls, narrowed eyes like daggers down towards him. “I’m disappointed in you, Asogi. The instructors at The Knight Academy warned me that you had a…reputation for sticking your neck out. I had hoped your newfound responsibility would have led you to become smarter about your behavior.” He lets out a small sound of derision. “There is such a thing as being too ambitious; it’d be in your best interests to learn your place.” A beat, then: “…Though, I suppose it’s not surprising, considering the vile rabble you came from.”
The hero still hangs his head low, but his fist is flexed so tight, Ryunosuke can see his arm tremble. “Yes, Your Majesty.” The words come out through gritted teeth.
Ryunosuke waits with bulging eyes until King Naruhodo has exited through the door down the allure to retreat into the one opposite, with the hero close behind him. Only when they slip into the hallway and the large wooden doors make the awaited ka-chunk of privacy behind them does Ryunosuke finally release a long, dizzying breath. He staggers towards the wall and falls back, allowing his weight to sag against the cool stone. His legs wobble underneath him like Egg Pudding being jostled on a table.
When the room slows its spinning, he watches the hero—his posture is wound rigid, hand clenching his sword with a ferocious intensity, as he stares down the line of ruby carpet outstretched to the abyss of the hallway. His eyes are blown just as wide, but he seems to be somewhere else, far away.
“W-What, what was that out there?” Ryunosuke forces out. The difficulty in speaking is not for a lack of questions—his mind is teaming with them, all frantically buzzing around like Courser Bees with their hive disturbed—but in the incredulity of the entire situation that just played out. “Have you completely lost your mind—were you, were you even thinking?!” His chest heaves and burns with each breath.
It snaps the hero out of his reverie; he shakes his head and rakes his fingers through his hair. “I was—of course I was,” he replies, still a bit unsteady. He straightens himself and faces Ryunosuke, ripping his grip off of Karuma. “There was an argument presented with holes that needed filling. I couldn’t stand by and watch without pressing further.” He crosses his arms, face screwing into a rueful frown. “Though…perhaps I got carried away a little there.”
Ryunosuke’s mouth falls open, distressed. “A little?! You, you could’ve—you could’ve been hanged for saying what you did!”
The hero stares at him, frown tugging deeper. “As I said before, the king is in no position to order for my execution.” He says it almost cavalier, like it’s a simple, uncomplicated fact.
Ryunosuke pushes off the wall and clenches his fists at his sides. “But, he could’ve had you beaten, tortured, even!” His stomach flip-flops at the thought. He tastes metal on his tongue.
The hero’s face falls, exasperated, with a small tilt of his head. “Is being here with you right now a form of torture?” He lifts a hand, palm up, in a languid gesture. “Seems quite pleasant, all things considered.”
“That’s—” Ryunosuke feels his cheeks burn. Like rapids, the words flow fast: “Y-You had no idea he wouldn’t have punished you before, is what I’m saying!” He jabs a pointer finger in front of the hero’s face. “There’s a fine line between courage and recklessness, you know! You said before that courageousness didn’t mean that you never felt fear, so how”—he thrusts his finger forward again—“how can you be so calm right now?!”
An affronted flush dusts the hero’s cheeks as he swats away Ryunosuke’s hand. “We got a satisfactory outcome, didn’t we? Sure, you have to continue those inane prayers, but now you no longer have to hide your research.”
Ryunosuke blinks at him with wide eyes, thoughts churning. He still can’t get it to make sense in his mind. “But why? Why would you go to such lengths?”
“I told you before, didn’t I?” The hero crosses his arms. His face hardens back to a staid expression. “Because I believe in you,” he says, tone gravely serious. “I want to see you succeed, Prince Ryunosuke. I want to see us all succeed in this.”
Ryunosuke flinches, feels a shock run down his spine that makes him squirm under the hero’s words. Guilt carves into him for doubting his intentions earlier. He swallows down the thick knot of emotion lodged inside his throat.
The hero’s eyes flick away, looking far down that hallway again. His countenance grows softer, weary. So do his words: “And it may not be my place, but…I don’t like how the king disrespects you as he does—talks down to you like you’re nothing.” He rests his hand on Karuma’s hilt and runs his thumb gently across her. “…That’s not how a father should treat his child.”
When Ryunosuke blinks, hot tears sting at the corners of his eyes. “I, but I… I’ve been unfair to you.” It’s difficult to decipher, speech warbled by emotion and realization. His stomach twists and twists. Remorse, remorse.
Before he even had met the hero, he’d been biased against him—painting a picture of the young boy from Hateno ignorant of the monumental responsibility on his shoulders as an effortless prodigy, a green hue of envy spread across the canvas. For years, he held onto a misrepresentation of him in his mind, always assuming the worst of him out of his own insecurity.
Ryunosuke had coveted the feeling of being his equal—of the pleasure and belongingness he felt when the hero began to talk to him not like untouchable royalty, but like a peer, a friend even, perhaps—but had he not also contributed to the distance between them? Even now, even privately, he continues to view the hero as someone other—someone above him in rank and in life. It’s unfair. He is being unfair to Kazuma. Out of all the mistakes he’s made, perhaps this is the most egregious. He resolves to end it here.
Ryunosuke bows deep, posture ramrod straight. “I’ve been cruel to you this whole time and I—I’m so sorry!” He pinches his eyes closed; he can feel the tears slip down the tip of his nose. “And, and thank you! If it wasn’t for you, I never would’ve gotten this opportunity! Thank you, Champion Kazuma!”
He hears Kazuma laugh above him, saccharine in its trill. Kazuma places his hands on Ryunosuke’s shoulders, nudges him to stand up; his touch feels warm, even through the fabric. “It’s fine,” he urges, lips quirking into a smile. “But, please, you did all the work out there, setting up the argument and substantiating it with facts. I merely followed the thread you had already pulled.”
Ryunosuke blinks up at him, stupefied. “But, your support really made all the difference in convincing him. And, and if I didn’t have Lady Susato’s discovery, this whole contention might’ve had less impact in the first place.” Heat curls up the nape of his neck in embarrassment. Kazuma’s hands on his shoulders begin to feel heavy, impossible to ignore.
There’s a glint in Kazuma’s eyes, a ferocity. “Maybe so, but you utilized our support to persuade him initially. Despite your trepidation, you still chose to confront him—to advocate for yourself and for this whole endeavor. That takes courage. Ultimately, it was through your own efforts that we got this result.”
Ryunosuke takes a loud, snotty inhale—surely embarrassing himself now, if he hasn’t already. His mouth quivers when he smiles. “Thank you, Champion Kazuma…”
Kazuma’s hands slide off Ryunosuke’s shoulders; he tucks a hand under his own elbow, brings the other up to his chin. His expression slips distant—thoughtful. “Seeing how you carried yourself back there… Being able to address others’ perspectives and speak truth to power, with all the clarity and persuasion of your argument… I think you have talent as a leader, if you give yourself the chance to cultivate it.”
Ryunosuke raises his arms out in front of him and waves them about, as if to waft away the very thought. “If, if I have to do something like that every day with all those leaders and important people, forget it! It’s terrifying!” He slumps forward, sweat beading on his forehead. “T-To be king…? I can’t even fathom it…”
Kazuma smiles at him. “Well, maybe one day, then.” His smile slips a bit. “And maybe you could…”
Ryunosuke makes a confused noise. “Could what?”
Kazuma’s eyes widen, as if jolting out of a trance. He furrows his brow, a quiet concern taking over his expression. “No, it’s nothing, sorry.” A pause. He bites his lip. “But, I must apologize, myself.”
“Sorry? Whatever for?”
“I… For yesterday.” Kazuma’s words are choppy, hesitant. His headband hangs limp in the hallway’s draft. “When I told you those things the other knights said… It was out of line to repeat it; I’m sorry.”
“Oh…” Ryunosuke’s eyes fall to the ground.
“But the king was wrong, you know,” Kazuma says, then. It’s soft, almost a whisper, carried along the halls. “When he said no one out there believes in you. It’s not just me or Lady Susato, but there are plenty of others out there who are cheering you on as well.” Ryunosuke lifts his head and catches Kazuma’s sight—finds sincerity there. “And those that don’t? Those that say those disparaging untruths?” Kazuma shakes his head, ribbons of red whipping behind him. “They don’t know anything about the true lengths you go through to be casting aspersions like that. So, who cares what they have to say? They’re wrong.”
“You…” Ryunosuke can’t suppress the tremble of his lip. “Th-Thank you, truly…” He tries to bite down the urge to cry again, gratitude pushing up against the walls of his fragile composure. “But I’m sincerely glad you could be honest with me. You weren’t being cruel, I could tell, but I think I needed to know… To not be kept in the dark.” He rubs the back of his head. “It was a wake-up call of sorts I needed, I suppose. I want to be able to do all I can in this.”
Kazuma rests his hands on his hips and gives Ryunosuke a wide smile, eyes crinkling around the edges. The air feels warm, placid in its stillness, like a little ball of sunshine suspended in time around them.
“Ah!” Ryunosuke’s eyes grow wide in realization. “But, but I really must make it up to you for everything you’ve done for me! Erm…” He cups his chin with one of his hands and tucks his other under his elbow as he fixates down at the floor; his face contorts in thought. Kazuma shoots him a confused glance, gearing ready to protest.
“Oh!” Ryunosuke settles. He leans forward, an enthusiasm stirring behind his eyes. “Please, tell me, what is your favorite meal?”
Kazuma blinks. “Beef hotpot,” he says after a moment.
“Yes!” Ryunosuke beams, practically glowing at the idea. “There is a marvelous beef stew dish we usually reserve for special occasions and meetings with the other domain’s leaders that I can ask the cook to prepare for us, then!”
“That’s, that’s not necessary, Your Highness. I appreciate your generosity, but I don’t wish to impose.” Kazuma gapes at him, equal parts confused and mortified. A dull flush creeps onto his cheeks.
“Nonsense,” Ryunosuke objects, his smile broad. “Father is set to leave later this afternoon before supper, as is.” He flicks a finger up to the ceiling. “Besides, it happens to be one of my favorites, as well.”
Kazuma is left there to reach a conclusion—the little mechanisms in his brain trying desperately to make sense of it all. He tries to school his expression, but the little twists and twitches give it away to Ryunosuke immediately. The verdict: amusement.
Kazuma throws back his head and laughs; the sound fills the hallway, brimming in delight. “As you wish, Prince Ryunosuke.”
Ryunosuke’s own laugh of joy slips out, easy and unbidden. Lighter, is the one word that surfaces in his mind. It all feels so much lighter.
Notes:
Once again, thank you all for reading! <3
Chapter 7: Colby Up to No Gouda
Notes:
Warnings - click to view
- Brief, casual suicidal ideation joke (you know how Ryunosuke is -stares at 2-2-)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
After that disagreement with Father and the dinner after, things between Champion Kazuma and I just seemed to ease over these past weeks, like sugar dissolving into a hot cup of tea. Conversation seemed to flow: about favorite foods, about socioeconomics (though, to be fair, this was much more of a one-sided affair…), about comedy theater, about the Guardians, about everything.
It’s like a fire ignited in a dark cave—the light illuminating things once completely obscured from my view—and I now seem to find myself craving his company more often than not. It’s odd; I had never seen just how bleak it all felt previously—how lonely it was before, stuck in the castle or forced on pilgrimages, before companionship. I feel truly blessed that someone like him is the wielder of the Triforce of Courage.
On the note of blessings…we’ve been graced with quite the opportune luck!
Following the report of the remaining records found in the Kakariko Library Lady Susato’s friend, Lady Rei, supplied us with last week (the contents of which I still am stunned by—to think the small Guardian was a prototype of the larger Guardians!), the exploration of the spider web of tunnels below the castle yielded not one but two of those blue stones we think are depicted in the drawings. One was taken to the Ancient Tech Research Institute for the research teams to examine and the other was entrusted to Champion Sholmes and Iris’s care.
There’s still the pressing issue of how to make it operational, but the drawings in those old records tie these stones, now named “Guidance Stones”, directly to the Sheikah Slate. If whatever these Guidance Stones are can truly power-on the Sheikah Slate, it will be a huge breakthrough—I can’t shake the feeling that tablet will be instrumental in the future. In fact, Champion Sholmes has a suspicion that the Slate may act as a way to grant access to the Divine Beasts, based on the size of the pedestal indents found inside the Beasts. Efforts to investigate the site where the Guidance Stones were discovered continue—hopefully they can find something that gives us a clue on how to proceed.
Champion Sholmes said that when he visited Divine Beast Vah Medoh, a raging blizzard descended upon Rito Village. Thankfully, it subsided within the day and no one was substantially hurt, but the residents there were left shaken and some facilities were damaged, including some of the storage areas of the Rito Stable. Of course Hebra is no stranger to snowstorms, but no one had ever seen a storm that ferocious tear through that region before, especially not before the start of winter. It makes me nervous.
…I admit, I’ve been avoiding writing recently, if only for this simple fact: I am now twenty-two. There’s less than a year before the foretold awakening of Calamity Stronghart and I’ve yet to make any progress with the sealing powers. I can only pray that the Divine Beasts and Guardians can be activated soon.
There was a period of Ryunosuke’s life while he was much younger—young enough that his mother was still alive and the threat of calamity was but a distant, abstract concept—where he went through a knight phase.
Between lessons with Elder Impa, he would much more studiously sit and look out the window at the knights training below, watching with enrapt attention as they went through their daily drills. Sword fighting, archery, shield training, weightlifting—all of it was like looking into another world, something of wonder and amusement, so far off from the drone of daily castle life.
He decided, at the tender age of four and a half, that he would one day become a knight as well. He could make it work—Elder Impa had told him a story about an old queen who commanded her kingdom alongside a rapier and a golden bow, after all. It was a rosy blur of noncommitment: the training would be rigorous and the drill sergeants would be unremitting, but that was just a small price to pay for the glamor of the role; he would take it all in stride easily.
It took less than a year for that dream to disperse with the wind—a fickle reverie run its course in his imagination.
As non-serious as the notion was at the time, Ryunosuke is now glad he never sincerely pursued that path. He would never survive it. The agony of being commanded by Kazuma during archery training was already enough to almost bring him to tears.
“Remember: imagine a string pulling you from above,” Kazuma instructs, voice reverberating against the trees within the small, secluded grove he set a target up at. “Stay straight; don’t let your head move when you pull back. Draw the string to you, not you moving towards it.”
Ryunosuke releases a frustrated huff, fatigued, then focuses on keeping his head still. He fixes his position with his bow arm and carefully draws back the string, resting his finger on the side of his mouth.
It was apparent before, but Ryunosuke has come to truly understand now that Kazuma is a quick learner—sharp, shrewd, deceptively sly, like a cat on the hunt. That scrupulous observance has led him to discern one of Ryunosuke’s biggest weaknesses quite fast: the proposal of food can often override any of his indolent protests.
It’s not a bribe, Kazuma had explained to him when he showed up with a warm bag of freshly-baked somethings, it’s a motivator. A proverbial carrot suspended from a stick—the breakfast pastries or whatever sort Kazuma brought with him dangling in front of his nose like a donkey being steered forward, or maybe a mouse being led directly to a trap. At this moment, Ryunosuke is inclined to believe it’s the latter.
Kazuma sits on a rock parallel to Ryunosuke dictating orders with those enticing baked goods (of which variety Ryunosuke can still only speculate, as Kazuma insisted on keeping it a secret, but he can smell the whiff of irresistible cream cheese and flaky dough prickling at his nose) set beside him. It may have worked to get him motivated to go train, but it’s proving to be much more of a distraction as his rumbling stomach begs for attention.
“T-posture,” Kazuma barks. “Your elbow’s too high again.” Ryunosuke adjusts. “No, lower—yes, now pull back again to your anchor—no—” Ryunosuke restarts and drops his arm lower. “Alright, there.” It’s like swimming with his eyes closed.
Ryunosuke’s heard these same refrains so much, they’re beginning to slur in his head: T-posture, string pulling your head up, don’t lock your elbow, anchor, consistency. Too much talk about fundamentals, not enough about cheese.
The arrow swivels off its rest.
“You’re pinching the arrow too hard. Relax your grip. Keep the back of your hand flat, not flexed.”
Ryunosuke inhales and re-aligns the arrow back on the string, tries again. He stares down the target and lines the arrow up with its center. He exhales. Then, the release.
“Ow!” Ryunosuke recoils, gripping at his nose. The arrow flies high, sailing over the target. His face contorts with a sigh, defeated. “The string keeps scraping the tip of my nose,” he grumbles as Kazuma comes closer.
Kazuma hums, hand on his chin. He studies Ryunosuke for a second, then the target, the chaotic array of arrows scattered high on its surface. “And where are you aiming, exactly?”
Ryunosuke sniffs. “Well, at the bullseye, of course.”
He’s met with a grunt of dissatisfaction. “No, lower.” Kazuma makes a grabby motion with his hand.
“Sorry?” Ryunosuke hands him the bow.
“You’re aiming too high. It needs to be lower. See?” Kazuma nocks an arrow and draws back in a fluid motion. “It seems unintuitive at first, but look at the distance between my eye level and where the arrow is at.” Ryunosuke affirms with a sound of acknowledgement. “You need to account for that. Aim more towards the bottom of the target.” He loosens the tension and gives the bow back to Ryunosuke. “Go again.”
Ryunosuke draws back once more, trying to sort out all the steps in his mind one by one. His back yells, just begging for a reprieve.
“Hold it!” Kazuma exclaims. “This needs to be lower”—he grabs the side of the bow and tugs it down—“and so does this.” He takes a hold of Ryunosuke’s elbow and shifts it into position. “And this here.” Kazuma leans in, so close Ryunosuke can feel the static tickling his skin; his breath ghosts along his jaw. Ryunosuke can smell it on him: the unmistakable scent of cream cheese and baked goods. Traitor. He pulls Ryunosuke’s bow arm slightly. “Don’t hyperextend.”
Ryunosuke’s eyes dart from arrow to Kazuma to target to Kazuma as Kazuma revolves around him, inspecting his form. Kazuma reaches out a hand and cradles Ryunosuke’s chin between his fingers. Ryunosuke startles, sucking in a sharp breath. Kazuma’s hand is just as warm as the air around him—pinpoints of heat clamping down on Ryunosuke’s face. With an ever so slight pressure he nudges Ryunosuke’s head to tilt, like an artist manipulating a clay sculpture. Ryunosuke’s eyes have stopped swimming now—attention focused solely on the man next to him, awaiting his final verdict.
Kazuma nods, letting out a small approving noise. “Don’t be afraid of the string touching your face. It shouldn’t catch your nose if you lean your head like this. Release loose; don’t rotate your hand,” he says as he removes his grasp and stands back.
Ryunosuke tears his gaze away, back towards the target. It feels particularly cool beside him in Kazuma’s absence.
“Alright, let go.”
Ryunosuke releases his fingers and the arrow soars through the air. It plunges into the target with authority—missing the center, but it’s the closest attempt he’s had by far. The string spares his nose. A large smile blooms on his face as he spins to face Kazuma.
Kazuma stills for a moment, as if lost in some sort of daze, and then his expression snaps in a mirror of Ryunosuke’s: wide smile and glinting eyes. “Much better shot, Your Highness!” he says, tenor bright. “Remember exactly that.”
Drunk with triumph, Ryunosuke slumps down to the ground with a heaving sigh. It’s overwhelming, the physical exertion—his arms feel like gelatin and his back is screaming at him to take a break. Consequences of the rather sedentary life in the castle—at least the horseback riding and walking when visiting the springs has somewhat spared him from complete exhaustion.
“Tired already?” Kazuma asks, amusement plain on his features.
“Yes,” Ryunosuke sighs out, heavy. He swipes the back of his hand across the sweat beading on his forehead. “My back was already sore enough from yesterday. Any more and I feel like I’m going to die right here on the spot.”
Kazuma releases a quick laugh through his nose. “Sore? This is nothing. Just wait until you see what I have in mind for you, then you’ll truly be crying about being sore!” He throws back his head and laughs; his headband flaps frenetically behind him.
“Haah…” Ryunosuke exhales, slumping forward where he sits. He mutters, “Please, don’t let me stop you from getting too excited about it…” He shifts, bearing his weight on his hands behind him, and lolls his head back, eyes shut. The crisp breeze feels refreshing on his damp skin.
After a placid moment, he feels a light tap on his cheek, followed by the rushing scent of cream cheese along the wind. His eyes snap open to attention.
“Take that,” Kazuma says with an easy grin, dangling the pastry above Ryunosuke. “Excellent work today, Prince Ryunosuke.”
It’s like Ryunosuke has finally been visited by Goddess Hylia herself. He snatches the pastry from Kazuma’s hands and takes a bite with all the tact of a ravenous animal with its first meal in days laid out for it. His sense of smell didn’t betray him—it’s a cream cheese breakfast pastry, likely bought from the bakery on the North Side of Castle Town with the decorated Blupee statue outside and the Wildberry Crepes that are even better than the Royal Cooks’ attempts. It’s flaky and rich, with the remaining fresh fruit of the previous season sweet on top, and despite having been sitting out in a bag for the extent of their outing, there’s warmth that still lingers to it.
The arduous training was worth it for this moment.
“Two dango, please,” Ryunosuke says to the older Hylian woman running the stall. The establishment is a small one—recently opened and tucked away down one of the Castle Town’s less frequented roads. Ryunosuke happened to see the banner announcing its opening earlier in the week and has been itching to try its offerings. He seems to not be the only one enticed by it, for despite the normally thin foot traffic of the area, the stall has garnered a respectable line of customers. He digs through his pouch and proffers the necessary rupees.
The merchant’s eyes grow wide as she furiously shakes her head, the colorful ribbons adorning her tightly pulled-back bun of hair swaying every which way in the motion. She holds out a hand in a halting motion. “No, please, Your Highness, you’re too kind. But, please, I must insist you enjoy these, compliments of the house. It’s the least we can do to show our gratitude for Your Highness blessing our humble shop with his patronage.” Her words are fast, teetering on breathlessness—nervous.
Ryunosuke squirms. “O-Oh, well, thank you very much, ma’am.” He isn’t surprised when his attempts to pay are refused, but he always tries to offer anyway. He gives her a smile.
She returns a smile of her own. “Please wait one moment while we bring that for you. Thank you, Your Highness.” She bows, then busies herself, attending to the other customers.
Ryunosuke spots two pairs of big eyes tracking him from a bench a little ways away down the path. Their clothes are tattered and worn; in their hands, they hold a small sign asking for rupees in a messy scrawl. His heart twists—guilt and sympathy wringing him to pieces. It’s the stark reality of life in Castle Town. He walks over and deposits the scant amount of rupees he had taken with him—Elder Impa always stressed it was unwise for him to travel with too many rupees, for he already was a glaring target as is—into the children’s small hands. He has a mind to give the dango he’s ordered to them, but they shuffle off before he can get a word in, hurriedly chittering their thank yous as they leave with large, toothy smiles. He returns to Kazuma, who regards him with a gentle grin of his own—soft, crinkled at the eyes, knowing in recognition. They wait off to the side of the stall.
“Hear ye, hear ye!” a town crier shouts further down the path, closer to a central intersection. “Divine Dragon Farosh observed to have blinked thrice—portends a wet winter ahead!”
Ryunosuke drums the side of his face with his finger. “Did you hear that?” he asks, frowning. “I hope it’s not true… Traveling to the springs in sleet is horrid.”
Kazuma stands beside him, arms folded. “Do you truly believe in the forecasts by the dragons?” He raises an eyebrow. “I mean, what duration of time are they even using to measure the ‘number of eye blinks’? And furthermore, haven’t all the eyewitness accounts of the legendary dragons been from children? I have to question the authenticity of it all.”
Ryunosuke hums. “I agree, it’s quite dubious. I don’t take too much stock in those kinds of things, but it is still interesting to think about… I mean, I was named after them, after all—hard not to give it all some credence, you know?”
Kazuma makes a thoughtful noise. “‘Ryu’, hm? I mean no disrespect, but it’s hard to envision you as a mighty dragon.”
Ryunosuke slumps over. “What’s that supposed to mean…?”
“Hear ye, hear ye! Nobleman exposed for extortion as loan shark found slain outside Mabe Prairie—”
“H-Here you are, Your Highness,” comes a softer voice from the stall. A younger woman—the merchant’s daughter, it can only be assumed, as she shares a striking resemblance to the older woman before her—holds out the two skewers. When Ryunosuke turns around, she lets out a small gasp. “Are you—are you alright, Your Highness? Your nose…”
He freezes when he grabs ahold of the skewers. “Um, yes? Is something the matter?”
The color drains from her face, horrified. “Oh—n-no, I apologize! I just—I merely saw how red your nose was and I—I’m sorry, that was terribly rude of me!” She bows quickly with a “Please enjoy!” before retreating back to work.
Ryunosuke blinks, turning to Kazuma with a perplexed expression. Kazuma leans forward to examine the red nose in question.
“Ah,” Kazuma muses, “I stopped noticing it since it’s been that way for a bit now, but she must be referring to the irritation from the bow string catching your nose.”
“Is it—is it that bad?” Self-consciousness heats his cheeks, surely disguising whatever red shade tints the tip of his nose.
“Hear ye, hear ye! Magistrate Van Zieks’s return to the bench after four year hiatus a warning to would-be criminals!”
Kazuma shakes his head. “No, but I can see why she was alarmed by it. It just sort of looks like you have a cold, is all.” Ryunosuke grumbles at this and offers him one of the dango skewers. Kazuma pauses. “…I assumed you ordered those both for yourself.”
“Hey,” Ryunosuke mumbles through a stuffed mouth, “I’m not that selfish! They’re good, try it.” He pushes the dango out to Kazuma again.
Kazuma stares at him for a beat before the corner of his mouth twitches, peals of laughter cascading out afterwards. Ryunosuke gives him a confused look. “Sorry, Your Highness,” he snickers, taking the dango, “just with that red nose and full cheeks, you truly do resemble some sort of mouse. Far from a dragon.”
Ryunosuke forces down his mouthful. “W-What?!”
“Hear ye, hear ye! Elusive Cucco claims fifth victim in a string of hostile pecking incidents! Keep vigilant!”
They file through the throngs of people bustling within the Central Square to head east. The destination: a remote little hill near Hyrule Cathedral with a great view of Hyrule Forest Park’s autumn leaves in full display. This sight is a fleeting one—a final parting gift before the leaves fall and winter begins to take root.
“It’s an egregious flaunting of greed is what it is,” Kazuma snarls. As they approach the shop in question, he stares daggers at it—never relenting in his silent war with the cheesery playfully called The Speakcheesey. “Charging one hundred rupees for one wheel of Hateno Cheese?! It’s preposterous! Back home, it costs twenty rupees maximum!”
“G-Goodness… That, that’s outrageous!” Ryunosuke watches him out of the corner of his eye with enrapt attention, awaiting the incoming hurricane of a tirade that’s no doubt approaching at catastrophic speeds.
Kazuma stews and stews, his face scrunching up further in frustration. If his scowl grows any more severe, Ryunosuke fears that it might just pop off his face entirely. His headband whips erratic behind him; it’s crumpled in on itself in tight zigzags, similar to the pressed bellows of an accordion. Ryunosuke’s forehead grows sweaty at the ghastly sight of it all.
Kazuma’s fingers claw into his arms. His eyes are nothing but narrow little slits of fury at the cheery face of the wooden cartoon cow mascot hung outside the entrance—taunting his indignation with large, beady eyes. “They do up the shop to look quaint and dress their employees in those awful folksy outfits—no one really dresses like that in Hateno, I’ll have you know—all to project this persona of authenticity, yet there isn’t a single drop of profits being shared with the actual Hateno farmers who supply the product!”
Ryunosuke’s eyebrows lift. “Wait, really? But Hateno Cheese has become so popular around Castle Town recently—surely, some of those rupees must make it back to the farmers?”
Kazuma scoffs. “That’s exactly the issue! The people that run this shop? They’re rupee-grubbing entrepreneurs who take advantage of the fact that Hateno Village is so far away that those living there are ignorant to what’s going on.” He grips his sword. “All the farmers of Hateno know is that they’re being asked to produce more cheese and then they sell them to these grifters for twenty rupees like always—with no knowledge about the fads of Castle Town or the fact that they’re being sold for a markup!” He grits his teeth, fangs bared to the world. “‘Administrative and transport costs’”—the words roll off his tongue in a mocking tone—“they try to justify when asked about the price, but it doesn’t cost eighty rupees per wheel to carry cheese on the same number of wagons that normally conveys across the trading route!”
“O-Oh, wow,” is all that Ryunosuke can eke out, stunned.
“And with the distinct flavor and texture of Hateno Cheese compared to the local cheeses produced around here, the residents of Castle Town are more than willing to burn their wallets into dry crisps to purchase it. Not that they know they’re being swindled, mind, but with how things are going, I’m sure if they raise prices further, most of the consumers won’t change their spending habits.” He rolls his eyes. “At least the local dairy farmers here can sell directly without relying on a middleman.”
Ryunosuke brings his hand up to his chin, eyes cast downward in thought. “But how would one go about solving the problem?” he muses. “It’s deficient in morals, certainly, but I don’t think they’re really doing anything illicit in the eyes of the law. As I understand, the Crown doesn’t really want to impose influence on markets and having the Royal Champion calling for boycotts doesn’t really seem like it’d go over too well…”
Kazuma lets out an extended groan and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes, well, I’m already on your father’s bad side as it is and I don’t particularly wish to incense him further if it can be helped…”
A swell of people traveling the opposite direction approaches. Kazuma sidles close to Ryunosuke and puts a hand on his shoulder to avoid separation against the incoming crowd.
“My previous attempts to send letters addressing the issue have gone in vain,” Kazuma continues. “People in Hateno are…resistant to change, to put it mildly—many of the residents celebrate tradition and routine.” He runs a hand through his bangs, eyebrows pinched in thought. “I can imagine that when some hotshot businessperson from Castle Town arrived brokering a deal, the mayor was pleased with the prospect of additional business, but wanted the transaction to go through with as little resistance as possible. Even equipped with the knowledge of what’s going on, I doubt the farmers themselves would even know how to proceed—if they even desired to in the first place.”
Ryunosuke frowns—he’s out of his depth with these concerns, though they trouble him nonetheless. “I see…” he mumbles as they navigate through the busy streets, bumping and jostling against quick moving bodies.
Once they emerge from the worst of it, Ryunosuke releases a sigh of relief. Kazuma’s hand slides off his shoulder as he relinquishes proximity. His wound up energy seems to ease with it.
“I think the most elegant solution would be for someone—or a collective group, even—who’s actually from Hateno Village to open up their own shop here,” Kazuma says as he crosses his arms. “As it is, these vultures here are running what amounts to a monopoly—they can set whatever price they wish and the customers can either abstain from buying altogether or submit to their whims. Bring in competition without an intermediary surging up prices to exorbitant levels, not only would the Hateno villagers see the profits directly, but the consumers would pay less as well.”
Ryunosuke hums. “Yes, that does seem effective… But if the residents are as resistant to change as you say, would anyone be willing to do that, though? I mean, moving from Hateno Village to Castle Town is quite the feat, as I’m sure you already know.” When he looks over to Kazuma, he’s already staring at him—face drawn in contemplation.
“I fear that to be an issue, yes.” Kazuma tilts his head back and sighs. “Hateno is also a very…insular place. People who grow up there tend to stay there the rest of their lives. The focus on agriculture and small family businesses to operate the village make it difficult to leave. Of course, that acts as the perfect place for a retired-from-active-duty knight to set roots down in, but even the most ambitious young people would find it a struggle fighting the pressure to stay settled and continue on family tradition. I’m not sure anyone would be willing or able to make that jump, unfortunately.”
Ryunosuke purses his lips. “...Well, at any rate, you seem quite cheesed off about the entire situation.”
Kazuma laughs. “If we’re ever in the area, we can visit Hateno Village. Unlike the aged cheeses produced around here, Hateno Cheese is actually even better fresh. There’s many local recipes you can’t find anywhere else too—I’ve always been quite partial to the Hylian Tomato Pizza in particular.”
Predictably, Ryunosuke perks up at that image. “Yes, I’d love to visit!” Kazuma’s smile widens.
“Phenomenal, Plucky, Protector Prince!” a familiar enthusiastic voice calls out from one of the many little storefronts as they pass. When Ryunosuke turns, he’s met with a sight he knows all too well now: Soseki’s Second-hand Stories, a cramped bookstore filled floor-to-ceiling with various used novels and miscellaneous sundries. And, perhaps most importantly of all, the location of the most delicious roasted sweet potatoes in all of Castle Town—despite the fire hazard.
The merchant, Soseki himself, urges him closer with a spasm of exaggerated, fully-body, sweeping movements and he obliges after nodding to Kazuma, ducking into the homely shop. Soseki’s surrounded by a halo of portraits of his beloved calico cat, Wagahai, on the wall behind him. The very cat in question on the counter flicks his tail idly, half asleep.
“Good morning, Soseki, Hosonaga,” Ryunosuke greets the Sheikah duo behind the counter with a smile as Hosonaga fiddles with something behind the counter.
Hosonaga plops a small brown bag onto the counter with a smile, circular glasses flashing against the light. “Freshly out of the oven for you, Your Highness. Soseki’s treat, as always.”
“Yes… Yes!” Soseki shouts, swinging his arms wildly about. Hosonaga ducks out of the way of a flying fist. “A small price to repay the very prince who came to my rescue during my darkest hour… My Sanguine, Sagacious, Saintly Savior!”
Nervous laughter from Soseki’s fervent display aside, Ryunosuke can’t even attempt to stop his mouth from watering before it begins. “Ah, thank you! The sweet potatoes are always wonderful.” He sees Wagahai sniffing Kazuma’s outstretched hand in his periphery.
“...Should you be eating all this food offered to you like that?” Kazuma asks when they’ve exited the shop and continued along the path. Ryunosuke’s tongue pokes out of his mouth as he concentrates on splitting the piping hot sweet potato in half between two napkins without burning himself. “Perhaps a little more caution would be advisable in your position, Your Highness?”
“Ow!” Ryunosuke hisses. The steam emanating off the sweet potato spirals into the sky. He’s stuck the rest of the bag inside his own pack to cool, but the allure of the snack is too much to resist. “I think—ow—I believe I can trust Soseki. Why would he tamper with the food?”
The thought of death by sweet potato doesn’t sound too unpleasant to him. If he can’t end up drawing out his sealing powers in the end, then maybe…
“What was that?”
He knows he didn’t say that out loud—Kazuma must have mind reading powers, he’s sure of it. “O-Oh, nothing!”
Kazuma lets out a small sigh. “I just mean to say to be more careful accepting these things. You never know who has a secret vendetta.”
The path leads them through the newly renovated McGilded Park. A lofty, gaudy statue depicting its benefactor has been erected within, encircled by an elaborate fountain installation. The earthy hues of the trees here are lovely, but nothing can beat seeing the view of massive Hyrule Forest Park from afar.
“I-I suppose…” The sweet potato successfully splits apart in Ryunosuke’s hands and he makes a small noise of triumph. “I just can’t imagine it, though.” With a hum, he extends the other half to Kazuma, who shoots him a skeptical look. “Soseki’s quite the character, but he’s a nice person.
“A while back, a woman got struck in the head with some knickknack and fell temporarily unconscious. Soseki happened to be passing by her right as the object hit her and a Patrol Knight mistakenly accused him of assault. But, I saw the whole thing unfold and was able to clear up the whole ordeal.” He blows at the sweet potato. “Turns out, there was a married couple squabbling at a stall and the wife threw it at her husband, but hit the woman instead.” His face twists. “…Talk about a turbulent marriage… Anyway, any time he sees me around this area, he always gives me these. I promise they’re safe.”
Before any further objection, he takes a bite into his portion. He quickly exhales out rapid breaths, rolling the bits of blazing sweet potato in his open mouth—punished for his impatience. Safe from poison, perhaps, but not from searing the roof of his mouth.
Kazuma cracks a jeering smirk at his suffering. “If you say so.” He takes the other half of the sweet potato, cradling the warmth between his hands, but not foolish enough to attempt to bite into it just yet.
Ryunosuke lets out a contented hum. “It may have burned my mouth, but these sweet potatoes are really—Ack!”
His shoulder collides with another person—a tornado of green and off-white rushing in the opposite direction. The impact is so forceful, he loses his balance. Kazuma catches him by the elbow before he can unceremoniously tumble into the pavement. The sweet potato flips out of his hands, but he’s somehow able to snatch it back out of the air.
“Oi, watch where you’re goin’!”
Ryunosuke winces. “‘S-‘Scuse me—Gina?!”
Gina, Iris’s friend that he met during his previous trip to Champion Sholmes’s lab. A biracial-Gerudo teenage girl with strawberry blonde curls braided back and tucked under a green cap. Her clothes are well-worn—a patchwork of fabrics adorning her faded attire—with a red checkered scarf tied around her neck. A self-sufficient orphan that lives on the streets of Castle Town, Iris had explained to him, and despite multiple offers of assistance, turned down the help each time.
For as apolitical as he is, he isn’t blind to the state of destitution within the kingdom, but the systemic rot that allows poverty to happen reaches far outside of his scope of influence. If he could give some of the wealth the Royal Family accumulated to those in need, he would gladly—even a fraction of the rupees they keep just within the vaults would be nothing more than a small dent to their fortune, but a massive quality of life increase to those struggling on the streets. Gina had her own reasons to deny aid, he supposed, and prying into it at the time didn’t seem beneficial, especially with her vehement insistence to drop the issue.
She crosses her arms in a defiant motion, eyes flinty and calculating, like she’s trying to size him up. “Oh, it’s you. The prince, Your Highness Narrow-‘Oddo.”
“P-Please, just call me Prince Ryunosuke…” Ryunosuke rubs the back of his neck.
Her gaze flicks to Kazuma. “And your silent lackey with the big ol’ sword. D’ya even speak or have they cut out your tongue, too?”
It’s an odd twist of fate. For so many years, Ryunosuke had thought similarly, constantly uneasy at his seemingly judgmental quietness. It hasn’t even been that long—not really—and yet, he’s had the pleasure of being in Kazuma’s company for enough time to still somehow forget this: the taciturn disposition Kazuma exhibits whenever he’s no longer behind closed doors. Stony face and pose statue-straight, with the silence to match it. It’s the stance of a well-trained knight, ordered to be invisible and indistinct along a line of their fellow compatriots. A beacon of stoicism and strength, another cog in the machine—drawing too much attention to one’s self would reflect badly on the institution, after all.
“Pleasure,” Kazuma replies, voice flat. Gina responds back with an unimpressed hrumph and a further pout.
“Um, what are you doing around here, Gina?” Ryunosuke asks. “And in such a hurry, at that.”
She plants her hands on her hips and scowls. “None of your business,” she bites out. “Came to walk through the park to get to the town square. That a problem now, is it?” She tugs the strap of her bag.
Ryunosuke deflates, his face falling with it. “Just trying to make polite conversation…” he mumbles, exasperated. She continues to stare at him, eyebrows pulling deeper and deeper, as if particularly deep in thought. He squirms under it. “What, what is it?”
“Ah, I just…” She pauses and leans back, relaxing her posture. Sometime within that motion, she’s procured a red rupee, which she now weaves effortlessly between her fingers. “Y’know, back with Iris, I thought you looked familiar, was all. Not the ol’ prince stuff, mind, but I remember now.” She doesn’t elaborate—just spinning that rupee around and around.
A spike of dread stabs into Ryunosuke. He feels his heart race in the uncertainty. “Oh, and?”
She tosses the rupee in the air and with a swift flick of the wrist, catches it. “In the Chief’s room. She has a bunch of little portraits of you two together on her wall.” She lifts a palm up, rolling her head and closing her eyes. “Thought it was weird an’ all ‘cause I didn’t think she had a kid. Didn’t realize her son was the prince.” She lifts a finger to her forehead, expression twisting in confusion. “…I think she could do better than that dusty ol’ king, though.”
“T-That’s not—” Ryunosuke sputters, face growing hot. “I’m not her son. My mother and her were best friends—she’s like my aunt…” Realization dawns on him, then, and his eyes narrow. “Wait, you snuck into Ursavra’s room? Why?”
Gina crosses her arms again with a huff, the pout drawn on her lips tugging down. “Look, growin’ up on the streets like I have means you gotta get crafty. Figured the Chief would have the best stuff to swipe, was all, so I let myself in. The guards didn’t say I couldn’t come in, so no harm done, eh?”
“Haah…” He doubts they said she could come in, either. “I wouldn’t say stealing is ‘no harm done’ exactly—”
“Nah,” she cuts him off, shaking her head, “I didn’t end up stealin’ nuffin’.” She shrugs. “The Chief always caught me. Even when I was sure she weren’t around, she always seemed to just show up. Like that.” She snaps her fingers. “I take a lot of pride in divin’, y’know? I still don’t know how she did that.”
The implication that it was a multiple time occurrence bewilders Ryunosuke—like it was some sort of childish game they played, except it was Ursavra’s possessions put on the line. “And how mad was she when she discovered you?” He knows Ursavra’s fury can be like the very lightning she wields in combat—fast to arrive and utterly explosive.
“She always just laughed it off.” Gina thumbs the rupee in her hand, eyes trained on it. “Thought I was a goner that first time, I did. But then she’d just gimme some rupees an’ some leftover food and send me off, laughing like a wildwoman.” She furrows her brow, troubled. “I didn’t trust her at all—givin’ me all that stuff for free like that… She even gave me my very own sand seal, Toby, to come to Castle Town. Said that I’d be happy here, that I could do great things an’ well…” She gives an acrid laugh. “I hate grown-ups. Buncha liars, the lot of ‘em. Nuffin’s ever given to you no strings attached, I tell ya now.”
The bitterness in her voice makes Ryunosuke feel heavy. “I-I’m sorry, Gina… Please, the offer still stands that if you ever need help, I could try—”
“Give it a rest, will ya?” she bites out, slamming her arms down to her sides. “I don’t trust no one, got it? I don’t go trusting no grown-ups an’ I ‘specially don’t go trusting no princes! That’s how I work: believe no one, get hurt by no one. I don’t need nobody’s help, ya hear?” She levels him with a searing glower before tugging on the strap of her bag and turning away, jerking her head up with nose to the sky and eyes shut tight.
“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“I got things to do,” Gina interrupts him again. “Thanks for the grub. Bye.”
“What…?”
And without waiting for a response, she’s back on her way, speed walking down the pathway like she’ll level anyone in her way. In her hand: a sweet potato.
Ryunosuke’s wide eyes flick to his bag and, sure enough, there’s one less than previously. “When did she…?!” He releases an exhale that empties the entirety of his body, dejected and thrown. He exchanges a wary look with Kazuma, who shrugs.
“She’s a pleasure,” Kazuma repeats again with a half-lidded frown of exasperation.
The expanse of rich, earthy colors of the foliage down across the moat is like a painting upon the world itself: a stippling of buttery yellows and burnt oranges and striking scarlets across an ever-browning canvas. A breath of life in the wild despite the dying leaves—a contradiction of nature itself.
There’s something freeing here: it’s an itch of solace along the scratch of grass under Ryunosuke’s palms and boots. The crisp air is rejuvenating, unlike the biting chill of the freezing waters of the sacred springs; the colors of the world around him are saturated and robust, not dreary and muted like the confinement within the castle’s endless halls. Something living, moving, receptive. Ryunosuke breathes deep, lets the air fill his lungs, and lies back, eyes shut in contentment. The sunlight cutting through the clouds feels comforting, like a warm blanket draped over him.
“Prince Ryunosuke, may I ask you a question?” It’s Kazuma’s voice beside him.
Ryunosuke cracks open an eye to see him sitting there, watching straight ahead towards the swaying leaf canopies. His back is held up straight, even while seated—pristine posture. “Of course. What is it?”
“This is quite out of the blue, sorry, but have you…” Kazuma trails off, clears his throat. There’s a tight tremor to his voice: “A few days ago, I was browsing through the Castle Town Archives and a particular old news story caught my interest… Have you ever heard of The Professor Killings before?”
Ryunosuke hums a denial, fiddling with the brittle grass between his fingers. His head lolls over to the side towards Kazuma. “No, I don’t believe so? What is it?”
“It was from a while back, around ten years ago,” Kazuma explains. “There was a string of murders of high-ranking knights across Hyrule by a purported serial killer, deemed ‘The Professor’. His identity was never revealed to the public, it seems, but the Castle Town Guard found a culprit and the killings ceased.” He draws in a sharp breath. “…Does that sound familiar at all?”
From this angle, Ryunosuke can’t make out the expression on his face. “Um, no, I’m sorry. I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it… It sounds quite disturbing, in any case.” His eyes flick to the rippling waters of the moat, concerned. “Why were you looking at such harrowing stories like that, though?”
Kazuma exhales. “Well, as I said, I was looking at the archives when I had some free time and I stumbled upon an old newspaper clipping about it. My…guardian’s daughter is quite fond of these sorts of old cases—murder mysteries and like—so, I suppose I also have an inclination towards these things capturing my intrigue.”
“Oh?” That piques Ryunosuke’s interest—Kazuma had lost both his parents while still pretty young, that much he knew, but this bit of information is novel. It was rare to hear anything regarding his outside personal life; even rarer for him to be the one sharing it out of the blue. “And you said they found the one responsible and put a stop to it?”
The easy smile on Kazuma’s face flattens, compressing into a taut line, as he regards Ryunosuke. “That’s the thing that bothers me the most, actually. They said that they had a witness, that they found conclusive evidence on the victim that tied the accused to the last murder, but—” His voice falters—suddenly gone uneven, strained. “All the other murders followed a specific pattern: they were all coordinated Wolfos attacks. All except the very last, which was murder by a blade.”
Ryunosuke watches him, taken aback. “That’s… That’s very odd, indeed.” His eyes grow wider once he realizes. “And you, you don’t think they had the wrong person, do you?! That detail would be enough to call into question the veracity of the one accused, surely?!”
Kazuma rips his gaze away from Ryunosuke, out towards the castle—faraway, distant. “…I do. The man supposedly even confessed to it, but I—” He shakes his head. “None of it makes sense. I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something wrong with that case.”
“…I can understand why you were so drawn to knowing more about it.” Ryunosuke frowns, releasing a defeated sigh. “Ten years ago… I suppose nothing can be done now, though.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Kazuma says, terse. His fist is balled up into the ground—grass and soil sullying his exposed fingertips. There’s a simmering rage there in his expression, in his tone: the regret of powerlessness, the anger of injustice, the resolve to make a change in the world. He had spoken before of abuses, of dreams of rectifying them. It’s a noble goal. Ryunosuke hopes, after the Calamity is quelled, he can contribute in some way, no matter how small.
The violent rush of wind soughs across the hills and through the trees. It sends Kazuma’s hair and red ties flying in disarray. That fury of his is swept away with the gust just as fast as its inception—suffusing out into the wilds beyond. A calm after a storm. He relaxes his grip and dusts off his hand on his pants.
“Anyway, I recognized the name and my interest spiraled from there,” Kazuma says. “I remember the news of it reaching even Hateno Village back when the Royal General was killed…” He leans back on a forearm, looking at Ryunosuke. “It caused quite a furor at the time across the kingdom. I’m surprised you’ve never heard of it.” He pauses, then flashes a chiding smile. “Well, actually, maybe not too surprised. I assume your father probably didn’t wish to worry you with that sort of news.”
Ryunosuke should feel embarrassed, and he does, but there’s something airy in the way Kazuma said those words that lightens any humiliation. He shifts a bit in his reclined position, his fingers drumming against his stomach. “Yes, I suppose so…”
He watches the birds circle overhead. His thoughts drift, wispy like the clouds floating above. “Hateno…” he murmurs. “Do you… Do you resent it all—being here like this?”
Kazuma knits his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“Here, with the Triforce.” Ryunosuke’s gaze swims. “Do you miss the way your life used to be?” He purses his lips, trying to slow the flurry of words. “Your old life in Hateno Village—before all this?”
With a sigh, Kazuma rolls back and leans his weight on his forearms behind him. “Even without everything involving the Triforce, there was never going to be a return to my old life after my father died.” It’s said matter of fact, even keeled—not irritated at Ryunosuke for unintentionally bringing the subject up. He tilts his head to look at Ryunosuke from the corner of his eye, black hair spilling across the red strip of fabric on his forehead. “But being put in this position has opened up avenues for me to achieve my ambitions I never would’ve had access to without it. So, I can’t truly be resentful of it all, I guess.”
“Yes, I suppose you did say something to that effect earlier… But you’re expected to be the one to fight Calamity Stronghart head on,” Ryunosuke insists. “How do you so casually manage the stress of it all so easily—the weight of responsibility?” His fists ball up on his stomach. There’s urgency underpinning the words there—desperation tugging at the edges.
A laugh. “Do I?” Kazuma asks, unconvinced. “It’s not that easy, I assure you. I—” His head jerks towards the sky. “Well, it’s true that so many people are relying on me to succeed… I have no choice but to be perfect. I’m sure you’re well aware of the feeling.”
“Terribly so,” Ryunosuke concurs. His voice has an edge to it—gravelly and uneven.
The breeze lifts Kazuma’s bangs off his face, exposing his pinched expression in plain view. “In order to truly keep the peace—to foster hope for the future—a hero is only as good as the people’s faith in them. And I believe that ultimately comes down to how much faith they have in themselves first.” Ryunosuke recognizes it: a mirror to what he had told him before, after they had visited The Temple of Time.
“If everyone sees that the hero who is fated to duel with Calamity Stronghart is outwardly struggling,” Kazuma continues, “then they’d lose all confidence. And if the public’s confidence is lost, the entire fight is lost as well. In any battle, there can be no victory without faith.” He presses his lips together, forming a line as rigid as his resolve. “So, I must believe that I can rise to the challenge. With so many eyes upon me, I need to maintain that unshakable exterior and bear the burden. I have to—there’s no other option otherwise.”
The light haloes around Kazuma—so blindingly violent, Ryunosuke has to cover his face with his arm. “I’m, I’m sorry,” he mumbles into his sleeve. The stoicism, the silence, the rigidness earlier with Gina begins to make even more sense, and it leaves a sinking pit in his stomach. “To have that much pressure on your shoulders… It’s an awful feeling.” One he knows all too well.
The heaviness of destiny: was one person made to hold that much weight themself?
“It goes without saying: preventing another calamity is my primary focus and the most pressing of all,” Kazuma says after a moment has passed. “But there are so many crucial matters I desire to pursue as well. And I’ll sacrifice anything to make them happen. Assuming the role of the hero has afforded me these indispensable opportunities. I’d take hundreds of lifetimes of carrying this heavy responsibility just to be able to have these chances.”
Ryunosuke squeezes his hands into fists. He lets out a weak exhalation of a laugh—less joyful and more incredulous. “It’s incredible, truly—how you can find something worthwhile in something so suffocating.” He swallows, thick. He presses his arm tighter to his eyes. “…I, I apologize. If you weren’t stuck guarding me all the time, then you’d be free to follow all your goals. I’m sorry, really.” He peeks out from under his arm—the little flashes of light like stars in his vision—only to see Kazuma staring at him, face somber.
“There you go apologizing again for something that isn’t your fault,” Kazuma responds, doleful. A pause—only the chirping of the birds filling the expanse of the stillness. “I don’t mind it. I feel…fortunate to have a friend, for once.” A small smile. There’s hesitation present there: nervous about crossing that line between them, despite all his previous boldness. Yet still courage to voice it, despite it all.
A friend. For everything the Goddess has put Ryunosuke through, maybe she is still benevolent enough to impart some small blessings to him. Perhaps that weight of destiny was never meant to be carried in solitude; companionship could help alleviate the burden. A friend—that’s a concept he can welcome.
Relief washes over Ryunosuke like the warm waters of the Goron Hot Springs—a soothing balm for a cut he wasn’t aware of. His eyes grow wide, mouth falling open. “O-Of course—I, I feel the same! Being kept up in the castle all the time before, I rarely got to be around people outside of official duties, much less talk with someone my own age, so I…” He swallows, tries to wrangle back composure and stop rambling. “I’m glad to be friends, truly.”
Kazuma gives him a smile like the flicker of firelight against the auburn backdrop. Ryunosuke finds it beyond easy to return it.
“Oh!” Kazuma lets out. He shifts to his side, fishing out something from a pack on his hip: a small box made of deep mahogany, intricate details carved into its lacquered surface. Facing there on the front: a dragon’s head. “Happy belated birthday, Your Highness.”
“What—” Ryunosuke stops himself as he marvels at the detailing on the box. “This isn’t—You, you didn’t have to…” With large eyes, his sight darts between Kazuma and the present, an embarrassed warmth filling his cheeks.
Kazuma nudges his elbow. “Just open it.”
Ryunosuke gains his bearings enough to pry open the lid. Even after just a crack, a soft glow emanates from inside. The turquoise light radiating from the small, jagged stone inside spills out from its shaded dwelling, resplendent and striking.
“A Luminous Stone…?” His voice grows pitched with exhilaration, with bafflement. “But weren’t all the Luminous Stone deposits around Castle Town completely mined centuries ago—how did you possibly…?”
“Hence why it was so late.” Kazuma gives a quick laugh as he rolls onto his back with a thump, red headband ties sent flying. “When I was called to assist escorting the Guidance Stone to the Ancient Tech Research Institute a few nights back, there was a tiny deposit hidden inside a cave at the base of Salari Hill—never would’ve been visible in the day.”
Ryunosuke holds it up to the light and watches as its luster dissipates—the deep greens and blues of its surface fading to dull grays, as unassuming as any limestone found in any cave. He shields it behind his palms, watches its vibrancy return in shimmering splendor.
“This is…amazing. Truly, thank you, Champion Kazuma.” The grin on his face stretches wide.
“I had a feeling you’d like it,” Kazuma says, face turned towards Ryunosuke on the grass. “Pardon my saying this, but a single look at the state of your chambers and your study, it’s apparent you enjoy such oddities…” His mouth is quirked up in a smirk—wicked. “One could argue to an almost alarming degree.”
“That’s—!” Ryunosuke sputters, affronted. “There’s nothing odd about collecting interesting things!”
A laugh. “If that’s what you call it, Your Highness.”
With a huff, Ryunosuke goes back to examining the Luminous Stone under his hand. “Did you know, some call these the ‘Stones of the Goddess’?” he muses, low. “There was a legend I read once about highly-sophisticated, ancient civilizations that made their homes on thousands of islands floating high up in the sky. Supposedly, there were entire islands filled with Luminous Stones”—he sweeps his arm out, up towards the sky—“lighting up the entire night sky just as brightly as the stars above.”
Ryunosuke’s arm freezes abruptly and his entire body goes rigid. His expression sours, face draining of color. “And th-those that l-lived on those f-floating islands w-were said to be c-creatures from outer space… And e-even more, that the reason the s-stones glow is b-because they’re filled with s-souls of the d-dead!” His head swivels to the side towards Kazuma with a panic in his eyes, Kazuma’s own skeptical face only inches away. “D-Do you…s-suppose this stone c-could’ve been the s-soul of a dead e-extraterrestrial being?!”
“Not at all,” Kazuma replies flatly.
Notes:
aka the chapter where important discussions over cheese and cheese-based economics occur
As a side note, I think it gets lost how canonically Ryunosuke is actually not good at archery! He catches the string on his ear and always loses to Kazuma haha
Anyway, next chapter is the beginning of a fun and action-packed mini-arc, which I'm excited to get to! There's quite a bit of foreshadowing in this current chapter—see if you can spot it when it all gets revealed! :)
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
It’s not just Hebra. Earthquakes in Eldin, forest fires in Akkala, whirlpools in Lanaryu, landslides in the Gerudo Desert: all abnormal phenomena that’ve been reported recently. Not to mention, a swaggering mob of Bokoblins assailed Mabe Village’s Lon Lon Ranch just yesterday, breaking a fence and sending their goats into a scattered frenzy. The Bokoblins were quickly eliminated, but their willingness to approach an entire village area like that is alarming.
It’s all alarming. It can’t merely be a coincidence. Calamity Stronghart’s influence is no doubt driving all these events.
The researchers continue day after day looking for ways to activate the Divine Beasts, Guardians, and the Guidance Stones, but all their attempts haven’t garnered much progress. Considering the painting depicted the Guidance Stone interacting with the Sheikah Slate in some way, and the Sheikah Slate-shaped indents on the pedestals within the Divine Beasts, they must have some interconnected activation method… If only we can find whatever fuel source powers the Guardians themselves, then perhaps the answer will be clearer…
Ryunosuke shifts awkwardly, feeling exposed standing in the center of the vast Throne Room. Harsh light streams in from the imposing windows that line the walls of the Sanctum, casting deep shadows along the floor—spindly and ungainly specters that fluctuate with the tiniest of movements. Every breath, every noise: an echo against finely polished marble surfaces.
“Sorry, but I don’t quite understand,” Ryunosuke blabbles. He squeezes his hands together behind him. “You called for a private audience with me? Did you perhaps mean to request an audience with my father, King Naruhodo, instead? I’m afraid he won’t be able to see you in a timely manner.” The king had left on an expedition to Akkala Citadel to visit Ryunosuke’s uncle the day prior, and isn’t due to be back until at least three weeks later.
The man in front of him rises from his knee slowly, leaning on his cane for support. “Of course not, Your Highness. I’d been meanin’ to speak to you personally, so I have.” The man gives a smile—amiable, self-assured, enigmatic. He’s dressed in lush violets, with gold accenting the buttons of his suit and the long scarf draped over his shoulders. Atop his head: a tall top hat, trimmed with more gold. Many opulent rings inlaid with thick, vibrant jewels decorate his fingers—the gold metal clinking together with each hand movement. He’s affluent, and not shy to flaunt it. “You see, King Naruhodo is quite the busy man, as I’m sure you’re aware—his audiences are well booked in advance already—but this is a matter that I think you’d like to spearhead yourself, eh?” His eyes slip shut in a smile. He’s relaxed, poised—the absence of nerves indicative of his experience in situations like this. His very presence commands attention.
Ryunosuke blinks rapidly, racking his brain to figure out whatever matter could possibly pertain to him. “Um, yes! Please do proceed then, Mr. McGilded.”
Magnus McGilded, a well-regarded philanthropist and business mogul, is widely known and appreciated among both the nobility and common folk alike. He is a financier of numerous public projects around Castle Town, including the recently restored park that bears his namesake: McGilded Park. The only thing that rivals the man’s tremendous generosity is the size of his towering top hat.
“Aye, thank you, Your Highness.” McGilded folds his hands behind his back, pleased. “You see, I have heard you’re strugglin’ to tap into those divine powers of yours.” Ryunosuke opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off: “No, no, I quite understand!” He waves his hands out in front of him, eyes wide and mouth gone slack. “I cast no aspersions on you, fine prince. But, well, I’ve recently come into possession of quite the quare item, I have… Please indulge me: have you heard of the Temporal Timepiece by any chance?”
Ryunosuke’s eyebrows lift. “Of, of course. It’s said to be an artifact of great magical energy—directly connected to Goddess Hylia, herself.” His heartbeat quickens within his chest. “And you… You have it? How? The Royal Archivists have been searching for it for quite some time, to no luck.”
“Ah, well, they just don’t know the correct places to look.” He grins again, flashing his ringed fingers across his face. Ryunosuke exchanges a quick look with Kazuma, standing guard to his side. McGilded’s eyes grow wide as he flinches back. “Now, now, don’t be gettin’ the wrong ideas here! I can see it written plain on your rosy face: you're thinkin’ I procured it through illicit means! I can assure you it’s all perfectly legal—just an exclusive traders’ club, it is!” The irritation of his face and the way his shoulders heave make it look like he’s a second away from stomping his foot and raising a quarrel.
Ryunosuke’s mouth twists at that, wary but accepting of the explanation. “I-I see…” He breathes out an unsteady exhale. “And how much are you asking for it, exactly? …You came with the intention of selling it, I presume?”
“I’m an honorable man,” McGilded says, regaining poise in an instant. “I want to see the very best for our grand kingdom and all its people. And to do that, if there’s a way any one of us might go about helpin’ our prince fight back the rabble, it’s our duty to offer assistance, is it not?” He brings a hand up to his chin. Eyes narrow, sober. “I’m offerin’ you an invitation, Your Highness: come to the manor where I do my business at and examine the pocket watch all for the low, low price of free. No pressure whatsoever to make a decision then and there. And if it strikes your fancy later, bring your own appraiser in and we can talk about all the financials.” He wears that smile again on his face. “If it’s not to your likin’ after all, then my payment is merely the satisfaction of tryin’ to help the good cause.”
Gems and gold flash in the sunlight—so bright and scintillating, it blinds Ryunosuke.
Ryunosuke purses his lips and nods. “Thank you for such a kind offer, Mr. McGilded.”
“Well, I’m sure you’re quite the busy young man,” McGilded says, grinding his cane into the marbled floor, “and I don’t mean to rush you, but I have a lot of business to attend to, so I can’t be havin’ the timepiece out for display for much too long. I’d appreciate it if you’d come along by tomorrow for a look-see.” He fishes out a card from his pocket and hands it to Ryunosuke. “And, Your Highness”—his voice dips, hushed—“your bodyguard there is free to come along, but please not the whole entourage. This cost me quite a pretty rupee and it’s still a very confidential artifact, as I’m sure you already know. I implore you to maintain some discretion about the whole affair.” He laughs into his fist. “I’d rather not be fendin’ off any more miscreants lookin’ to burgle than I already have to!” He throws his head back and laughs, clapping his hands together wildly as if sharing some inside joke with a friend.
“Erm, yes, of course,” Ryunosuke manages out. “I will consider it. Th-Thank you again, Mr. McGilded.” He shifts the card nervously between his fingers.
With a bow and the utterance of thanks, McGilded exits the Throne Room. Ryunosuke stares at the address inscribed on the card, stomach churning.
“What do you think?” Ryunosuke folds his arms atop the parapet. The look in his eyes is far off, distracted—engrossed in the thoughts swirling in his mind like the quicksand sinkholes of the Gerudo Desert. “It’s incredible that the Temporal Timepiece fell into the hands of Mr. McGilded after the Royal Archivists haven’t had a single lead on its whereabouts for years, as I understand it.” He drums a finger on the stone railing. “No matter how exclusive this club he’s in, I would figure the curators would have access into those underground markets… Even I’m aware that it’s through one of those auctions that they procured that new Dominion Rod they’re preserving.”
Kazuma makes a thoughtful noise as he crosses his arms. “I guess that’s just part of the appeal of it all: nobody truly knows how far-reaching these dealing networks are…” He pauses, brow pinched as he stares across the sweeping landscape. “I’m not sure about it all. What do you know about this McGilded man? Does he seem credible? I’ve only heard as much as the newspapers report on him: about his vast donations to Castle Town.”
“I don’t know much,” Ryunosuke sighs out, running his hand through his hair. “As you said, he’s provided the funding for a fair number of the public projects around the town. The people that frequent the park and the public library of course hold him in high regard, but many around the castle and the nobility seem to view him quite favorably too. Father’s worked with him personally on numerous projects, so he must have been properly vetted already…” He cups his chin with his hand as he absentmindedly taps his finger to his cheek. “I’ve heard nothing about him being unsavory, but if there were some rumors out there, I would think you’d have heard about it before me…”
A scathing look of irritation is shot Ryunosuke’s way and he’s melted to his spot.
“Are you implying I read those tasteless gossip rags like The Rumor Mill?” There’s a heat to Kazuma’s voice as he rests his hands upon his sword, leaning back.
Ryunosuke shakes his hands out in front of himself, trying to backpedal. “I-I didn’t—”
“Honestly, Your Highness, you really should read the legitimate newspapers like The Castle Town Chronicle once in a while. It’s good to hear the perspectives of everyday folk. And their opinion columns don’t hold back like some of the other newspaper publications.”
“Ugh,” Ryunosuke grits out. For as much as he hates the distance between him and those he interacts with, the last thing he wants to know are the brutally honest, no-holds-barred criticisms of how he’s failing his kingdom penned in those papers. And the material written is always so dry, he can’t keep his attention focused even when he’s tried.
Another sigh from Kazuma, weary. “Anyway, I’m not aware of any complaints regarding Mr. McGilded… But is praise really the best indicator of someone’s character?” He tips his chin into his fist, eyes narrowing in contemplation. “If he’s that much of a vital financier, I doubt many would openly disparage someone like that. He’d be much too valuable of an ally to risk it, maybe even for the independent journalists at The Castle Town Chronicle…”
Ryunosuke shrugs. “I suppose, but those are all the facts we have to go off of. All evidence points to him just being truly generous. I guess we should be grateful for the many contributions he’s bestowed on us. I see no reason why he’d lie about something like this.”
“Hm,” Kazuma hums. His eyes lift, returning to Ryunosuke. “…Yet you still have doubts?”
Ryunosuke slumps forward, gritting his teeth. “Well, it’s an ancient artifact. W-What if…” He gulps. His eyes begin to dart wildly as the words fall frantically out of his mouth. “What if it’s c-cursed and was buried in order to c-contain it? And, and it wasn’t meant to be d-dug up at all? And that’s why no one has had any idea where it’s been this entire time!” Kazuma shoots him another exasperated look; Ryunosuke’s flood of words is blocked by Kazuma’s dam of judgment. Ryunosuke sucks in a deep breath to recenter. It only does so much.
“I-I don’t know,” Ryunosuke continues, scratching the back of his head. “I’m probably just overthinking it all…” His eyes wander back down past the parapet, across the roll of browning hills and sienna foliage. “Of course it’s my duty to seek out all avenues regarding the sealing powers and I’m truly excited for this potential lead but…” He runs his thumb across his arm guard. His voice grows quiet, despondent: “I guess I just can’t shake the feeling that I’ll make a mess of it all again—that it’ll end in disappointment, even if it’s the real deal. I want to believe in him and the authenticity of his offer. I just…” He draws in a shaky breath. “…Don’t know if I can believe in myself to make it all work out.”
Kazuma lets out a sigh, crossing his arms. “Ultimately, I think you have to trust your instincts on the matter.” A pause. “And not reject opportunities purely out of fear of failure before you’ve given it a chance. You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit, Your Highness.”
Ryunosuke looks over to Kazuma, only to see nothing but a certain admiration swirling there in his dark eyes—only confidence that he could finally succeed. He doesn’t quite understand the reason for it all. “Yes, thank you,” he mumbles as he rips away his gaze, unsteady. “There’d be no harm having a look though, surely? He said I could examine it freely, after all?”
“Yes,” Kazuma affirms with a facetious grin, pulling Karuma out of her holster, “and I’ll be there to stop him if he tries to strong-arm you into buying it.” Ryunosuke laughs. “Besides”—Kazuma secures his sword back on his hip—“it’s not so much the item itself that’s important in this situation, more of the effect of it…” He rests his hands on his hips, both stance and smile wide. “Hold it and see if anything resonates within you. You can worry about calling in one of the Royal Archivists’ appraisers to verify its authenticity later.”
Reassurance melts the icy fangs of doubt within him and he can’t help the smile that forms on his face. “You’re right. Thank you, Champion Kazuma.”
Tucked into a deeply remote area of West Castle Town is but one of the many estates owned by Magnus McGilded. Dense lines of trees border a stretch of cobbled road, all leading to the opulent manor house sat atop the hillside. The building’s outside façade is as commanding as its owner: the lines of its architecture sharp and striking, with gold trimmings strewn throughout its exterior. It’s a hollowed out fortress of a location—the trees encircling the estate a covert shroud protecting from public intrusion.
“We—haah,” Ryunosuke wheezes, doubled over, “we made it, finally, haah.” Climbing the grand outdoor staircase was an arduous challenge in its own right for Ryunosuke. If it winded Kazuma, he doesn’t show any outward signs of fatigue. He merely examines the scene in front of him.
“We’re not quite out of the woods just yet,” Kazuma drawls out, irked.
“Wha—What do you mean?” Ryunosuke gasps lungfuls of crisp air, each breath burning and raw. He braves a look up and his mouth falls open even wider at the sight: a garden with a tall hedge maze barricading the manor’s entrance. It’s flanked by buildings at its sides; there’s no way of circumventing it. “You’re… Haah… You’re kidding…” He begins to second-guess if the Temporal Timepiece is really worth the effort.
“Come on, let’s go. Truly, your endurance leaves much to be desired. It’s something we’ll have to work on.” Kazuma loops his arms under Ryunosuke’s own when the bones in his body turn gelatinous, pulling him up like taffy and stabilizing his feet back on the ground. Some mix of a whimper and a groan escapes from Ryunosuke as he’s forcibly ushered into the maze.
Through the winding labyrinth of shrubbery they trudge—impatience and frustration nipping at their heels. The fortress of trees, the sprawling staircase, the meandering maze: all of it a protection against only the most dogged to enter.
It’s only when Ryunosuke sees the jungle of bushes part in front of him, revealing an unobstructed path of a door to a manor house, that he finally can thank the goddess for the respite. He tips his head back, closes his eyes, and walks through the archway of shrubs.
And then a force slams into his side and when he opens his eyes, the world careens around him.
“Your,” a voice yelps, high-pitched and wild at first, then descending in tone, “Your Highness!” Another voice is echoed in that muddle: Kazuma’s.
Something steadies him before he falls fully to the ground—Kazuma again, no doubt—and he’s pulled back onto his feet. It’s only for a split second when the vertigo begins to dissipate, but he sees the striking face of the figure that ran into him: a young Sheikah man with wide, bright eyes and soft facial features. The man in question then hurriedly drops to a knee, face obscured in deference. He wears obsidian traditional Sheikah attire with a pink hem design. His long hair is secured back into a low bun, shorter bangs falling forward.
“P-Please forgive me! I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going—I’m terribly sorry. I do hope you’re okay, Your Highness.” His head stays low.
“It’s, it’s quite alright,” Ryunosuke manages when the world no longer feels in tilt, “Mr…?” Kazuma stands close to his side, tense.
The man freezes up. “I’m afraid I’m not one for all the formalities, myself. Please, do refer to me as Ryutaro.”
That name… What an odd coincidence. “Well, pleased to make your acquaintance, Ryutaro.” He rubs at the side of his torso. I only wish we had met under less painful circumstances… Ryutaro fervently apologizes again, head sinking lower to the ground.
“May I ask what brings you here, Ryutaro?” Kazuma inquires, breaking his usual stony silence around others. His hand is wrapped around the hilt of Karuma. “This is private property—well off the beaten track. There’s been reports of a string of attempted burglaries at this manor. I do hope you’re not embroiled in all this.”
“N-No, not at all…” A strained pause, then: “…Sir. You see, I was watching a friend of mine’s daughter. We were playing past that line of trees and she ran right up the backside of this hill. I’m merely trying to locate her. I do apologize for the intrusion and the trouble I’ve caused.” The response seems satisfactory enough for Kazuma; he loosens his grip on his blade, but his vigilance remains keen.
“Best of luck in your search,” Ryunosuke offers with a smile, though Ryutaro continues to firmly regard the ground. With that, they take their leave through the manor house’s ostentatious double doors, leaving the man behind to the whims of a labyrinth of greenery and gilded filaments.
The inside of the mansion is a grand display of both extravagance and arrogance: intricate, swirling designs of gold curl along the lavish deep purples of the walls; a decadent crystal chandelier hangs suspended above a grand central staircase, haloing the room in soft light; numerous statues and busts of McGilded fill the foyer. A wall directly next to the entrance is covered in framed newspaper clippings and artwork of his achievements and donations to the town. For the humble disposition he tries to project, it’s obvious he has no interest in letting visitors forget his status for a second.
It’s not as large and luxurious as the inside of Hyrule Castle, but it still leaves Ryunosuke in awe as his eyes dart from one curio to the next—things that normally would be centerpieces in any other house just one of many decorations here. The butler greets them and quickly fetches McGilded. It’s a short wait for the man to arrive, exchange pleasantries, and lead them through the intricate maze-like structure of the mansion towards their destination.
Though lighting is plentiful along the way, the manner in which the light flickers and plays with the shadows against the long corridors and dark violet walls make the trek feel almost oppressive—daunting and mystifying, like a thick fog muddying Ryunosuke’s thoughts and senses. It’s a stretch into infinity as they traverse through winding hallways and branching paths that all look the same to his eyes. The thought of getting lost in this expanse drags a chill down his spine, but McGilded seems confident in his sense of direction. They don’t speak; the only sounds that echo through the warren of corridors are their footsteps and the thump of the ferrule of McGilded’s cane, muffled by the rugs beneath their feet.
McGilded finally turns a corner into an ancillary room of some sort. The space is virtually empty, save for a cushioned chair pulled up to a small table holding a tea set and platter of cookies, a single door at the back, and a well-built masked man diligently posted outside that door. A guard, no question.
“I do apologize for the tramp, Your Highness” McGilded says as Ryunosuke’s catches his breath, “but these here invaluable items require the utmost protection. Can’t have it easy for any ol’ bandit to trapeze in easily, now can we?” He offers an affable smile, then motions for the guard to unlock the door. “Right this way,” he says, sweeping his hand out to the compact room adjoining it.
It’s a little slip of darkness illuminated by a single chandelier spotlight; Ryunosuke can make out a pedestal with a case atop it in the center of the room, bathed in shining light. This is it. All the lead up, all the walking and discomfort, was all for this moment of truth. He steadies himself, then crosses the threshold.
“Ah, ah,” he hears McGilded tut from behind him. He turns around to see McGilded standing between him and Kazuma, tapping the handle of his cane to Kazuma’s shoulder. “Sorry, fella, you’re gonna have to stay out here. Precautions, of course.” Kazuma crosses his arms, shoulders arched high, with a scowl on his face and a protest straining against his lips. “This is a safe room, you see. Not a window or other door in sight”—he flips the cane around, sweeping it out towards the inner room—“only this one exit here, and just us in this room. Absolutely nothin’ to worry about.”
Kazuma’s eyes shift to Ryunosuke; concern mars his expression—the creases in his brow deep-set. Ryunosuke purses his lips and returns a small nod. “It’s alright,” Ryunosuke says, quiet but resolute. “I’ll be fine.”
It’s something he’ll have to do alone. He’s ready to face it.
“Sit down and relax,” McGilded says when the tension in Kazuma’s stature loosens only an infinitesimal amount, and he backs away. “Please, help yourself to the tea and banana cookies on the table there. Freshly baked today, they are.”
Ryunosuke exchanges a final look with Kazuma before he’s obscured by a metal door sealed shut—left alone in that small room with only McGilded and the artifact that could change everything for him.
That is, until he sees a figure shuffling out of the shadows in the corner: patched clothes, green cap, red checkered scarf, strawberry blonde curls. Recognition comes with a start.
“Gina, what, what are you doing here?!” Ryunosuke sputters. Gina doesn’t answer him, merely tipping her cap down over her eyes and shadowing her face under the harsh overhead light. She stands stiff, unmoving from her place at the side of the pedestal. Ryunosuke spins towards McGilded, who circles around him, closer towards the pedestal.
“Come now, no need for shoutin’, Your Highness.” McGilded locks his hands behind his back and grins. “She’s needed for the demonstration, you see. You’re both already acquainted, I take it?”
Anxiety spikes in Ryunosuke. He shoots a nervous glare at McGilded. “Wh-What exactly is going on here? You—You just said it’d be only us in this room!”
McGilded’s smile drops, replaced with an agitated glower. “And I said I need her for the demonstration, you hear? Let’s not be makin’ this harder than it has to be, eh?” McGilded waves his cane in his hand with each emphasis of his words. Ryunosuke clenches his fists, eyes swimming between the two of them, and gives a tense nod. McGilded relaxes. “Aye, good. You see, the Temporal Timepiece has a special attribute to it I discovered myself.” He brings a hand up to his jaw and scratches his chin. “Power to amplify magical ability, it can. Even for those who have no apparent magic capabilities.”
Ryunosuke’s eyes widen. It’s a grand declaration—something that instantly sparks suspicion. But if it is true, if something that powerful could bestow a capacity for magic to anyone, could it potentially draw out whatever powers were dormant within him, too?
“Lass, tell me, have you ever used magic before?” McGilded asks.
“Nah, not a bit,” Gina replies curtly, still refusing to look up.
“So you see, Your Highness, the little lady wasn’t blessed with Goddess Hylia’s favor.” McGilded rests his hand on the case on top of the pedestal. It’s a protective shell of metal—fully sealed except for a small opening in front that’s only big enough for someone’s arm to reach in to handle a ware without being able to remove it. “Now, what if she were to be exposed to the Temporal Timepiece? Come”—he motions out to Ryunosuke—“take a look-see at it yourself before we begin the demonstration.”
Ryunosuke lowers himself to be eye level with the hole in the case. A silver pocket watch sits within a satin holder inside. Ryunosuke isn’t sure what he should be examining, but he can confirm the veracity of it truly being a watch at the very least: he hears the ticking loud and clear. Either way, it looks to be an impressive piece of machinery.
“‘Tis the real deal, that it is,” McGilded encourages once Ryunosuke steps away with a satisfied nod. “Now, lass,” he says with a jovial lilt, “go ahead and show our fine prince just what it can do.”
Gina shuffles over, her head still hanging low and her mouth flattened into a deep pout. She sticks her hand into the opening and Ryunosuke holds his breath.
The seconds pass like hours—waiting, waiting, breathlessly. After a moment spanning a lifetime, Gina groans and her legs buckle slightly under her weight.
Gray smoke fills the room. Ryunosuke hacks a cough as the billowing plumes obscure the scene before him, rendering him disoriented inside a thick sea of fumes. He can just make out the hazy silhouettes of Gina and McGilded in front of him. Fear knots his stomach as fast as the smoke’s entrance.
“Not a cause for alarm, Your Highness,” McGilded calls out, voice barely above the pounding of Ryunosuke’s heart in his ears, “it’s all part of the process.”
With that, a bright, colorful light cuts through the dull smoke—the colors bouncing off the little particles in the air in a chaotic frenzy in front of him. It almost looks like it’s dancing.
Pounding claps followed by a ring of laughter jolt Ryunosuke upright. “And there it is!” McGilded exclaims.
The smoke clears enough for Ryunosuke to see it: Gina flipping her rupee between her fingers as multicolored lights flit along with each movement. Green, blue, purple, red—the rupee glows bright even under the chandelier’s spotlight. Evocation magic. Out of thin air. Gina tosses the rupee and snatches it out of the air—snuffing out the show of lights. Ryunosuke’s jaw goes slack, eyes wide.
“Aye,” McGilded continues, still beaming, “for someone without magical ability, it may be just a fun party trick like this, but for you, Your Highness?” He motions to Ryunosuke with his ringed hand. “With your latent powers inside you, imagine what this here pocket watch could do! Could very well be the key to unlockin’ that blockage of yours, it just might.” His lips curl into a keen smirk.
“... It’s, it’s amazing, truly,” Ryunosuke says, wonderment steeped in the words. “It’s almost hard to believe.” He lets out a laugh—nervous.
Something burrows into him. Needling, scratchy. Like the proboscis of a mosquito piercing through skin.
“I, I mean,” he continues, “all the books always say that you either have the proclivity to magic or you don’t. Of, of course, you may not know you’re able to use magic and don’t discover that until later, but it’s supposed to be impossible to just be able to manipulate magical energy if you’re not already attuned to it…”
He knows this to be true. It’s one of the lessons that stuck out to him during his studies with Elder Impa. With all his association with destinies, the idea of prescribed roles and the limitations between them held salient.
“Is it not possible Gina just didn’t know she had magical ability?” he asks.
The feeling tunnels deeper into him. Itchy, itchy.
McGilded grinds his cane to the floor, irritated. “Lass, tell me, have you ever seen a Korok before?”
“Nah,” Gina says quietly. Her hand’s back to tugging down on the brim of her hat.
McGilded makes a motion with his hand: See? Isn’t that proof enough?
Ryunosuke clutches his hand within his other; he rubs his thumb along his arm guard. Troubled, he furrows his brow. “But Koroks are notoriously elusive. Most people never see a Korok in their lifetime, magic user or not.”
“Aye, that is right,” McGilded says. “To test the Temporal Timepiece’s capabilities, I needed to be sure that I had someone with no magical capacity. Exactly why I brought this here girl with me to a Korok I found. And she saw nothin’ there—just plain ol’ air in front of her. Isn’t that right?”
Gina peeks up and is met with a steeled look from McGilded. Her eyes are cold. “Yeah. That’s right. Thought he was pullin’ my leg the ‘ole time.”
“And there you have it. I’m not meanin’ any disrespect, Your Highness, but what’s written in those books isn’t all reality,” McGilded says. “Every day, we see new things that were once thought impossible, only to be surprised with how very real they turn out to be. Our fair Goddess Hylia works in quite the queer ways sometimes, isn’t that right?” He smiles: one mouth and two eyes narrowed in knowing.
Maybe he was right. Despite it all, Ryunosuke saw it. He saw Gina use magic right in front of his own eyes. He squashes that doubt inside him, the remains clinging viscous to his fingers.
“Yes,” Ryunosuke murmurs. “I suppose that’s true.”
“Now then, how about givin’ it a go, yourself? I have a feelin’ it’ll assuage your worries right up.” McGilded flashes another closed-eyes smile as he sweeps his hand out towards the pedestal.
“I—Does it hurt to touch?” Ryunosuke’s sight jerks towards Gina. She shakes her head before turning herself away.
“Not at all, Your Highness,” McGilded says, folding his arms behind his back. “Though, it may make you a wee bit tired—drawin’ out long-buried magic might just do that to you, after all!”
Ryunosuke stares at that opening, at that unassuming pocket watch nestled inside. He’s standing on the threshold of something that could be monumental—something that could change everything. If prayer couldn’t act as a spark, maybe this can. All he needs to do is cross that line.
He slaps his cheeks and marches forward. He reaches his arm through the aperture—grasping out for opportunity, for hope. Static prickles his fingers when he gets close. He can’t stop his limbs from shaking.
Quake. A tremor wracks down his body when his fingers graze its cold surface. It feels heavy—a massive weight pressing down on his chest, emptying his lungs in an instant. His legs quiver and buckle below him; he’s a rock succumbing to gravity. A hiss escapes him.
Fear boils within his stomach. Heat, sweat. A buzzing in his ears. He can’t let go—he doesn’t want to let go.
McGilded’s voice is a muddled whirr next to him: “I can assure you this is all normal the first time, Your Highness. The more powerful the magic, the more intense the amplification, you see. It proves you have quite the power inside you!”
He’s never felt this before—this reaction. It feels intoxicating and leaden, addictive and acidic. Years of prayer, years of silence, years of torture—all for nothing. A single touch to silver metal has provided all the optimism he’s craved for so long. He can feel the magic, can feel the presence of divinity reaching out to him, and it burns, it burns, it burns—
He collapses to the ground. Warm, drenched cheeks pressed to cool wood. His hand tingles and stings, still trembling. He craves sleep.
Hands grasp his arm and his back, propping him up to sit. Jeweled rings dig into his skin through the fabric. “Quite the spectacle, wasn’t it?” McGilded muses beside him. “Much more of a reaction than I’d ever seen before, that was. Mighty apologies that I couldn’t properly warn ya.”
Ragged breaths. As the air escapes him, so does that pull—that authoritative power. In its absence, emptiness is replaced with a lighter vigor. Slowly, Ryunosuke feels his energy being restored, replenishing the depleted stores within him. Things start to regain their shapes.
“That,” Ryunosuke breathes out, “that was incredible. I felt it—I felt the power for the first time, I—”
He holds up a hand and tries to focus on it. Nothing happens. Again, he focuses, and again he’s met with nothing. Silence echoes within him yet again—an intimate solitude he knows all too well.
He looks towards McGilded, pleading. “I don’t think I held it for long enough.” The words spill out frenzied, desperate. “I—please let me do it again. I know I felt it before, but I can’t seem to sense it anymore. If I can just—”
A hand on his shoulder stills him.
“Now, now, Your Highness.” McGilded gives him a shrewd look—his eyes cutting and smile even sharper. “Normally, I would say you’d have to make an offer at this point, but as an upstandin’ member of Hyrule society and seein’ just how important this is to you, I’d like to do my best to help where I can. ‘Tis a gentleman’s duty, so it is.” He gives a reassuring pat. “So, I’ll extend my offer to you again. Rest up and come back tomorrow, and we’ll give it another go. How does that sound?”
There’s a pestilent part of him that feels disappointed at having to wait, but another chance at tasting that feeling again excites him, thrills him to his core. Electric. “Y-Yes! Thank you—Thank—” He wobbles when he gets to his feet, grasping the top of the pedestal to balance himself.
McGilded smirks again with a gritty laugh before unlocking the door. As soon as it’s cracked open, Gina slips out without a word; she was so still, for a moment Ryunosuke forgot she was even there at all.
He’s met with Kazuma’s wide eyes across that doorway, tense with worry. “Prince Ryunosuke!” he calls out as Ryunosuke stumbles closer, his legs still unsteady beneath him. He catches him around the waist as Ryunosuke leans against him to catch his breath. “Are you alright?! What happened?!” Panicking eyes move from Ryunosuke to McGilded and back, mentally calculating the threat present.
“It worked,” Ryunosuke manages through a toothy smile, breathless and teary-eyed. “I felt the power!”
“What’s wrong?” Ryunosuke asks as they exit the manor and begin their descent through the labyrinthine estate grounds yet again. He searches Kazuma’s tensed face—down the tight draw of his eyebrows, the rigid press of his lips.
Sunlight had begun to retreat when they stepped out of that garish house—inky darkness bleeding into the surroundings and overtaking the fleeting light. Only the flicker of lanterns provide a way to see around the grounds; they’re little pockets of illumination, struggling to replace the moonlight glow obscured by the thick cloud cover above.
Kazuma startles, suddenly drawn back to the present. “Oh, ah, sorry, I just…” he mutters as he shakes his head. “The masked guard. They had a specialized weapon with them. I’ve been racking my brain to remember where I’ve seen it before, but it continues to elude me. And they refused to answer any questions.” He drags a hand down his face. “But never mind about that; there’s more pressing matters. Most importantly: how did it go in there?”
Ryunosuke gives him a final look of sympathy before his expression melts into unfettered delight. “It, it was extraordinary!” He feels rejuvenated; the energy whisked away from him earlier feels replaced anew with something even stronger. He’s finding hope to be a truly potent medicine. “I mean, I had no doubt that the magic would be strong, but nothing could have ever prepared me for the sheer power of it all. It was so intense, I was a bit terrified of it all at times, honestly.”
Kazuma gives him a look out of the corner of his eye—pensive, concerned. “And you said you felt her, the goddess?”
“Yes!” Ryunosuke smiles—as bright as the sun, even in the low light. “Well, I think so anyway. I didn’t see a person particularly, but I felt her trying to contact me, like an arm outstretched. We didn’t connect—I got overwhelmed in the end, but Mr. McGilded said that’s a common thing to happen when activating your powers so abruptly the first time. But I know the magic’s there! After all this time, I finally felt something!”
Kazuma pulls in a deep breath before flashing a grin. “Well, I’m sure glad to hear it. I must say, you really know how to give me a scare… You were quite the grim sight coming out of that room”—he cups a hand to his chin—“but I suppose it’s to be expected with the severity of that magic. If tomorrow you can connect with it further, we’ll be staring down something truly monumental.” He pumps a fist, leaning forward. “I have absolute faith that you’ll be able to do it, Your Highness.”
The heat radiating off Ryunosuke’s cheeks cuts through the biting chill of the night air breeze, and he fixes his gaze to the ground below, flustered. The whole ordeal is still making him jittery, on edge. He chews on his lower lip before murmuring, “Um, Champion Kazuma?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. If you hadn’t encouraged me earlier to take this chance, I don’t know if I would’ve pursued it. So, thank you, truly.”
A huff next to him. “Perhaps. But, ultimately, it was you who trusted your instincts and it was thanks to your efforts that you were able to attune to the timepiece. Not me.” He nudges Ryunosuke with his elbow, drawing a small laugh from him. “As I said before, you don’t give yourself enough credit.”
Ryunosuke lets out a soft hum. There’s a maelstrom inside him: of excitement, of anxiety, of that churning hopefulness he’s yearned for for so long. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.
He stares up at the night sky—the glimmer of the moon consumed by thick, gray clouds rolling in, heavy and languid with saturation. Shadow envelopes the garden. Rain is to arrive soon. Doesn’t the goddess know how jubilant this moment is?
Notes:
I don't know why Ryunosuke and Kazuma would ever doubt how good of a person McGilded is (what a fine gentleman Castle Town has in him! Did you hear he donated five thousand rupees to the orphanage yesterday? Haven't you seen the beautiful fountain at McGilded Park?) when that suspiciously handsome young man Ryutaro is right there! Like 'Ryutaro', really? Talk about trying to steal Ryunosuke's name! He is quite dashing though, you do have to admit...
Next chapter's a long one!
Chapter 9: Tarnished
Notes:
Warnings - click to view
- Brief imagery about being buried alive
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
The thoughts of my time within Mr. McGilded’s mansion consume my brain entirely. I’ve dreamt of this for so long, I can hardly believe I was truly able to feel the Goddess Hylia’s tremendous power so close up! Tomorrow, I just need to bridge that gap and maybe, finally, I’ll be able to use the power of my birthright that’s eluded me for so very long.
Gina’s sudden display of magical power wouldn’t leave my mind either. An object that can instill magical ability to someone who wasn’t born with it… It’s almost unthinkable. I swear the texts always spoke of this being a cardinal rule—that magic cannot be casted by those who lack inherent magical ability. But I saw it with my very own eyes, didn’t I?
Did I misremember what was said? Or maybe those who studied this were wrong? I mean, what we thought we knew about the Guardians has been ever changing. What if this is the same? After all, isn’t taking all the current evidence and constantly updating our assumptions based on our findings the very foundation of science?
This could possibly be a breakthrough that completely upends how magic is seen in the world. After tomorrow’s session, we’ll no doubt have to look into purchasing the Temporal Timepiece—if not only for the research teams to investigate further.
…But even so, I can’t shake this anxious feeling in me that something’s going to go wrong. That it’s all just a dream and I’m going to wake up tomorrow and the watch never existed or I can’t attune to it anymore or something… I suppose this whole journey around my powers has been so fraught and fruitless up to this point, it feels bizarre to have some good news for once.
The following morning, the rains that descended upon Castle Town retreated as soon as they arrived—sheets of large, cold drops as ephemeral as bitter medicine tablets melting on tongues: one moment there and the next gone, yet its influence left lingering in the aftermath.
“The Goddess Hylia must be weeping,” an attendant had lamented to himself in the hall when Ryunosuke passed, listlessly watching out a window. Ryunosuke couldn’t help but stifle an indignant laugh under his breath; the Goddess must’ve had a wicked sense of humor in attempting to delay him in that way. A fickle thing, the gods were—to rebuff him after reaching out to him so desperately only the day prior. Was he truly so unworthy of her power that she would cry out from the heavens—that she would adjourn their meeting? Did she want to prevent the Calamity from happening or not?
Kazuma had waited with him that agonizing span of the morning, tapping a foot to the sound of the drops pattering outside, but when sunlight finally cut through the veil of clouds in thick slices and the rain subsided, they made the messy trudge back to that gilded house on top of the hill once again. The weather had left its mark: pervasive dreary skies, frizzy hair, mud-caked boots.
When they arrive, it’s a mirror to the day before: the butler calls for McGilded, they traverse through the funhouse, Kazuma is left to wait outside the safe room with the guard, Ryunosuke enters alone with McGilded to stand in front of the pedestal. He scans the room; Gina isn’t there this time. He’s sure of it.
“Are you ready, Your Highness?” McGilded asks with a sharp grin.
“Yes, of course,” Ryunosuke answers with a nod. It’s an understatement—the jittery energy under his fingertips can attest to that. He’s been ready since he came back to lucidity after collapsing yesterday. He feels he’s been ready for this moment for far much longer than that.
When he makes contact with the Temporal Timepiece, his energy latches to it just like before—a key slotting into a lock with ease. But the effortless transference of power comes at the same price as the day prior: a convulsion of current racks through his body as he sucks in a sharp breath, eyes clenching closed. Electric, blazing. It courses through his arm up to the very tips of his ears, down to ends of his toes—searing with oppressive heat.
He stands his ground longer this time with the wisdom of hindsight, but his legs tremble under him with a fury. The weight boring down on him is heavy—it’s so heavy. A leaden net ensnaring him. It’s untenable.
He knows great magics can be intense—can harrow its wielder in the process of attempting to command it—but, in this moment, even Ryunosuke can tell that something’s fundamentally not right. The weight is suffocating, all encompassing. It’s wrong.
That gravitational feeling is there again: a hand reaching out to him. Pulling, tugging at him to come closer—its attraction its own magnetic field. And it’s ruthless in its insistence. Beckoning: closer, closer. No matter how much effort Ryunosuke makes to fight it, it’s unyielding—an unstoppable descent into its spiral of quicksand. It becomes just as hard to breathe.
Pain lashes across his forearm as the hand seizes his wrist. Sharp claws like a vice dig into the skin there, puncturing through his arm guard as though slicing through tissue paper. Each gash below fanged nails sears where it draws blood. He chokes out a shuttering gasp under the pressure.
Panic bangs like a festival drum inside his chest—all percussion and no pleasance in its horrific clangor. His heart trying to leap out of his ribcage. He struggles to wrest his arm from its grasp, but it’s a losing battle. Writhing.
Ryunosuke wants to let go of the Temporal Timepiece. He can’t let go of it. It doesn’t let him let go of it.
Something’s terribly wrong.
The only sounds that fill the expanse of the ancillary room are that of low breaths and the creak and groan of that enormous house settling into its foundation. If there’s any other occupants within the rest of the house, Kazuma can’t determine. By sound alone, the storeroom where Ryunosuke and McGilded are in may as well not exist—a fortified black hole of information, impossible to discern the goings-on of within.
Leg crossed over the other, he bobs his foot to a silent rhythm. He watches the guard posted outside the door with a sharp displeasure. The man is burly—his clothes cling to his frame and his musculature seems suited for utility rather than pure aesthetic. At his hip: that peculiar, massive sword Kazuma still can’t place. Kazuma’s brow furrows further.
The guard is as stalwart as the day before, but something seems off—a chink in that faceless armor. Even with the mask obscuring his expression, the way his pineapple-spike of dark hair jostles about feels fidgety, antsy. A low rumble cuts through Kazuma’s thoughts: the unmistakable grumbling of a stomach.
Kazuma lifts an eyebrow. “Would you like one of these cookies?” he asks, motioning to the untouched plate of banana cookies before him. Despite the hospitality of McGilded and Ryunosuke’s seemingly delighted review of the man, he still isn’t keen on partaking of any food offered there.
“Resist…temptation… I’m on duty… Self-control!” the guard mutters—so quiet and mumbled Kazuma can just barely make it out. Murmuring to himself about food aloud, just like Ryunosuke, it seems. A louder growl escapes his stomach this time. “They’re for the guests only,” the guard finally says clearly, in a deep bass voice that gives Kazuma a start.
“Well,” Kazuma says as he rises from the seat, “I don’t quite have the appetite for cookies at the moment, so these will sit here uneaten otherwise. How about a deal: you tell me what kind of sword you carry, and you can take as many of these cookies as you like and I won’t tell McGilded.” He crosses his arms, stance planted firmly.
A beat, then a strained “Okay.” He snatches the then-offered plate out from Kazuma’s hands like a gull swiping a piece of bread from an unsuspecting child—so fast, Kazuma blinks and almost misses it entirely. He shovels the banana cookies under his mask and Kazuma ventures a look at the man’s face, but it’s still too obscured to discern any distinguishable features.
Once the guard’s had his fill, he carefully unsheathes his sword. Even with his strength, maneuvering the sword takes an effort that betrays its true weight. “The Windcleaver,” he explains. It shares a similar elongated shape as Karuma but much longer—resemblant to a Sheikah construction, except for its unique design of twin twisted waves of steel comprising its blade, leaving gaps along its length. That nagging feeling of recognition pricks at the tip of Kazuma’s tongue again.
“Intriguing name and blade design,” Kazuma muses, narrowed eyes trailing down the sword. “I can imagine only the most skilled of craftspeople could forge such an intricate design. If you’d indulge me, where would I go about locating such a swordsmith? I’d be interested in seeing if they could craft one for me as well.”
Three raps from behind the door, rhythmic—some sort of private code between McGilded and the guard. “It’s none of your concern,” that gruff voice replies, “for the only thing you’ll be seeing is your life flashing before your eyes, Hylia’s Champion!”
Ryunosuke has no recollection of him falling to his knees, just a grave sensation of overwhelming exhaustion dragging his body down like an iron weight. His arm limply hangs aloft, suspended by the iron grip from the Temporal Timepiece. It’s the only thing preventing his body from fully collapsing to the ground.
Lifting his head feels like heaving a tall stack of books up. “Help, please,” he rasps, “I can’t move… It hurts…” But McGilded doesn’t answer his pleas—he doesn’t react to the situation at all. No shock or horror on his face. He just continues to blankly watch Ryunosuke. Unfazed. Undaunted. As vacant as the stone effigy of a Goddess Statue and just as mute. Fear pounds in his chest.
“To tell the truth,” McGilded then says after agonizing silence, “I wasn’t quite convinced of it—that the force behind that ol’ disaster ten thousand years ago could still be alive, right under our noses.” A burning shock jolts down Ryunosuke’s spine. “So when my associates approached me about this here Temporal Timepiece and some piffle about revivin’ Calamity Stronghart, I was mighty skeptical. A bunch o’ kooks if you’d ask me. But lo and behold, the blasted thing reacted to you, and with quite the vigor at that!” His face pulls in mimed shock, hands held up in front of him. “I was more surprised than you were, so I was! To think that devil is still kickin’ somewhere—no wonder you were so desperate!” A coarse laugh hidden under a jeweled fist.
“What—” Ryunosuke breathes out. The air is thin against the cotton sensation tamping his mouth. “What are you talking about? The Temporal Timepiece is the Goddess Hylia’s. Why would it be—” Another shooting pain cuts him off; he squeezes his eyes shut.
McGilded hums, contemplating. “Aye, ‘tis what everyone thought, isn’t it? Besides light, the goddess is said to have dominion over time, after all. That’s why I also had my doubts.” He taps a finger to his chin. “But now I think I’m startin’ to understand: you see, how else could somethin’ exist for ten thousand years unless it also had some command of time?”
“What?” Ryunosuke chokes out. It’s a cacophony inside his head—trying to follow the logic of the conversation while suppressing the pain. That needle of doubt from the day before burrows into his skin again, so much deeper than before, and it twists within him.
“‘Tis nothin’ personal, Your Highness. I truly didn’t believe that it would even work.” McGilded presses his palms to his eyes; his mouth tugs down into a deep grimace. It’s an expression of sympathy Ryunosuke can’t begin to determine the recipient of, for it’s much too distant to be directed at him. “You see, I have a good system here in Castle Town, after all. Every day, people all around this fair kingdom of ours are strugglin’, utterly hopeless. Now, the gentleman I am, I can’t be turnin’ a blind eye to those in distress, now can I? So, I offer them my charity—I provide the funds they so desperately need when they have no one else to turn to, that I do. And then I turn around and give those extra rupees I get in interest back to my community! But, as it happens, times are changin’—and not for the better, I tell you here!”
He scrapes his hands down his face and his expression underneath is replaced with fury. His voice growls, tight: “There’s a greed issue happenin’ in this town, that there is. Self-serving knights and aristocrats and the like thinkin’ they can encroach on my territory all for a quick pilfer—pocketin’ every last one of those rupees for themselves! Castle Town was lucky to have me over these chancers!” He slams his foot into the floor over and over, face turning as red as the ruby worn on his finger.
“Haah… Haah…” He takes a moment to catch his breath; he stands back up straight. His expression slides back to insouciance as he cradles his chin in his hand. “But ‘tis truly a gift to find people whose interests overlap yours, that it is. With my associates’ help, those miscreants were taken right care of—all to the benefit of everyone, I’d say! Though, of course, our partnership required a bit of extra compensation…” He traipses to the door and Ryunosuke watches him knock, but the sound gets lost in the muffled din in his ears.
The asthenia catches up to Ryunosuke as his head falls down with no resistance, beads of sweat dripping off his nose like the morning’s cascading rain. He swears he can see faint wisps of inky blackness painting spirals along the ground. A spinning headache—someone hammering into his skull.
“‘Bring us the Prince of Hyrule,’ is what they said,” McGilded continues with that enigmatic tone, slicing through the clamor. It’s metal on metal—grating, raucous. “Aye, the loyal followers of Calamity Stronghart, themselves…”
It clicks. “The Yiga!” Kazuma gasps out.
He lurches away from the guard’s swing of his blade, narrowly avoiding the slice of air reverberated out from the sword before it rends the small table and chair behind him in two. The Windcleaver: the dual-twisted sword capable of launching a shockwave of wind, wielded by Yiga Blademasters, the most elite soldiers of the Yiga Clan.
It’s a slow sword to use—maneuvering that size of a weapon is laborious, even with the Blademaster’s physicality—which gives Kazuma just the opening he needs. He unsheathes Karuma in a smooth motion and returns a shining beam of light of his own that cuts true, slicing into the laggard arm of the Blademaster mid windup. The Asogi Sword-Drawing Technique is his own ace hidden under his sleeve: a powerful sword art passed down the Asogi clan unique to Karuma, able to shoot a slashing laser from draw when the user is at full vitality.
(It was something he had to figure out how to do alone, piecing together fragments of memories of his father’s instructions like a mosaic of broken shards of glass.)
The sword beam rips open the Blademaster’s sleeve, but his motion is unimpeded—only a slight flinch of his arm, like a shiver after a chilly breeze. A swing again from the Blademaster, this time diagonal. Kazuma lunges to the side, letting momentum carry his roll. The room is small—unwieldy to navigate in and not conducive for a fight. His left shoulder slams into the wall, but the pain is tempered by the rush in his veins. He’s quick to his feet, like a spring rebounding.
There’s a low rhythm filling Kazuma’s ears now; it’s both discordant and melodic—contradictory in its nature, but it feels right, feels so familiar it’s as if Kazuma’s heard it a thousand times over. Karuma thrums under his grip, anxious to move forward. Jittery with trepidation.
Kazuma figures that the flash of blinding light he sees out of the corner of his eye is the blade catching the light within the room, but when his eyes flick down, it persists past mere reflection. Karuma is effulgent, radiant from sacred light all her own. She buzzes more intensely in his palms and she pulls, she pulls, like a magnet towards the wall of that locked room. Her tug is relentless—he can’t tell if it’s in excitement or in fear.
“Prince Ryunosuke!” he yells, quickly slamming the back of his fist onto the wall. With how little noise he can hear from inside, he doesn’t expect the sound to reach, but he tries anyway.
The Blademaster rears a hand glowing with red light back, up into the air, and strikes the ground. The impact splits the ground crimson—slices of cracked rock and a geyser of air snaking towards Kazuma with precision, even when he moves. He leaps away from the homing strike and bolts towards the door to the hallway, but not before seeing an opportunity: the attack leads the Blademaster to linger in his knelt position.
Kazuma surges out of the doorway, chips of stone biting at his heels in pursuit. He hears the ground below him fissure and snap, feels the earth quake under each stride. Then, a heel turn: he pushes off the balls of his feet, U-turning from where he came from with a backflip. Large, jagged stones rupture up from the wooden floors and luxurious violet rugs. Upside down, Kazuma watches slips of red paper seals scatter along the rush of wind battering his face; fragments of scattered stone cut along his cheeks, but he narrowly misses the big rock formations.
His feet land with a heavy thump, yet he springs forward with ease—the time spent training with the lithesome Sheikah fighters proving yet again to be an indispensable boon to him. He courses back through the entrance to see the sight he was hoping for: the Blademaster kneeling, vulnerable.
Kazuma strikes, fast as a viper—a streaking arc of light down. The blade slices into the Blademaster’s shoulder, catching on whatever armor is worn beneath his disguise, before the Yiga is able to lift The Windcleaver and parry the remainder of the swing. Armor or not, the Blademaster grunts, rolls his shoulder ever so slightly.
The Blademaster thrusts a fist from the sky, index and middle finger pointed upwards, down to his chest and vanishes in a spray of coarse smoke and red paper seals. Kazuma wheels around, searching. Karuma roars and quivers, implacable.
He spots a flash of bright flame in that hallway as the littered seals gravitate towards it. He lunges at the smoke that appears and steel makes purchase against leather, cutting deeper this time. Scarlet flings off the blade effortlessly when Kazuma pulls back, like water repelled off rubber. Another grunt escapes from the Blademaster.
As the smoke clears, the Yiga’s shed his disguise; deep reds and blacks and yellows cling tight to his body, and a white mask with the signature upside-down Sheikah eye hides his face. His fingers move in a blur as they form into hand seals. Kazuma’s eyes grow wide as he jumps back—he’s seen just how formidable the Sheikah arts can be up close plenty of times.
It’s instant: a centralized whirlwind pelts Kazuma before he even sees its inception. The winds subside after only a few seconds, but it’s achieved its goal; he staggers back, thrown off-kilter. It’s just enough time for the Blademaster to heave a horizontal swing. By the time he’s regained his footing, the whistle of steel pricks close at his ear. Goosebumps rise as he feels his heart drop to the bottom of his stomach. There’s not enough time to parry.
A mechanical chime rings in his mind, as keen as any blade: “ You must dodge, Master. ”
His focus on the Blademaster is pinpoint when he digs his heels into the ground and flings himself backwards into the air. But it’s not like before when he evaded the cresting rocks—time seems to slow around him, as still as the air before a storm. Yet, he is the sole one unaffected.
Eyes still trained on the Yiga in front of him, he feels Karuma pulse with energy between his fingers. His movements feel deft and nimble—untethered by the pull of gravity. His toes barely make contact with the ground before he whips forward. He swings and it’s effortless. The Blademaster doesn’t even react—can’t even react, under whatever time dilation is in effect. He swings again.
When he blinks, the Blademaster has let out a harsh yelp, staggering backwards with his hand clutching his chest. He drops to his knee and gestures another hand seal. The inverted Sheikah eye flashes in the air in front of him. A body is replaced with crimson smoke and flittering paper seals that dissolve, wisp-like, into the wind. The items that were on his person clatter onto wood: a metal key, some rupees, a Mighty Banana…
Kazuma makes the decision to not touch that.
He heaves a heavy breath and his eyes trail from the last vestiges of ashy vapor to Karuma. His hand trembles under her hilt—mind spinning, trying to comprehend. His connection with Karuma has always felt intimate, instinctual. He can feel her emotions by how her energy ebbs and flows under his fingertips, can hear her melodies filling his ears. But he’s never heard her voice before. Not like that.
He shakes his head and grits his teeth, dispelling the static. He snatches the key up from the ground and is about to run back to the locked door when he hears the pounding of footsteps coming closer from down the hall, shouts about slowing down and louder refusals in return. His grip tightens on Karuma. They’re much too loud to be Yiga, but he can’t discount additional combatants.
A streak of strawberry blonde hair and green fabric rounds the corner, blurring past him in a full sprint: that girl from before, Gina. “I said I don’t need help from no one!” she yells into the wild. She doesn’t seem to even notice him.
He spins to follow her path and gapes, about to call out to her, when he feels the air behind him brush at his back. He hears no sounds of additional footsteps advancing closer, only a sharp gasp. Black clothing pirouettes around him, barely avoiding crashing into him. Ryutaro, from yesterday. A peculiar set of reunions.
“Ch-Champion Kazuma!” Ryutaro jolts up, splayed fingers covering his mouth. He gives a look of concern, then turns his head to watch Gina’s figure disappear further down the corridor, before looking back. “Where, where is Prince Ryunosuke?!”
The people Ryutaro and Kazuma are both chasing, swallowed by this colossal house.
Kazuma huffs. There’s no time for this. The fight with the Blademaster already was too much of a distraction, and he has no reason to give a response to someone he doesn’t trust yet. “I don’t know what your purpose is in being here, but it’s dangerous.” He sheathes Karuma and begins proceeding back to the locked door, key in hand. “There was already one Yiga soldier here. Who knows how many more are crawling in this pla—”
The Yiga Clan, McGilded had said. He led him directly into the Yiga’s den. Right into Calamity Stronghart’s hands.
It takes all of Ryunosuke’s energy to speak. “You, you deceived me… And for what?” He scoffs, brusque in his hurt. “S-So you could make more”—he winces, sucking in a sharp breath—“rupees? You—You’ve doomed this entire land all to sate your greed—”
McGilded stomps his foot down. “Now don’t be givin’ me that lip! This was my livelihood we’re talkin’ about!” He points a knife-like finger at Ryunosuke, accusatory. A keen curl to his lip and nostrils flaring, his shoulders heave up and down with each rage-filled breath. “I pushed the issue to the Crown, to the Castle Town Guard, and nuttin’ was done! Then to go rub salt in the wound: that damned magistrate Reaper comes out of the woodwork to slander my good name to the public! Me! Magnus McGilded! Madness, it is!”
Egotistical. Avaricious. Hypocritical. They’re all words Ryunosuke wants to scream, to yell until he’s red in the face, but his throat constricts into itself and not a single sound escapes. He can’t comprehend how after admitting to his own transgressions, McGilded still sees himself the victim.
McGilded’s face is lit with self-righteous indignation. “Nuttin’ is ever given to you no strings attached, lad.” The words roll off his tongue bitter, laced with spite. “You best be rememberin’ that!”
McGilded spins his cane, and a kaleidoscope of lights swirl off it. “…Somethin’ that can let just anyone use magic? Bah! Everyone knows that’s impossible!”
The swirls of darkness upon the floor are no longer just his eyes playing tricks on him, he’s sure of now. He can hear McGilded still ranting in the background as the muffled acoustics get more and more intense, until it feels like he’s listening from under water. The swirls take form—reaching out towards Ryunosuke with slender fingers, engulfing his body, his face. Inside the center of the smog: two icy blue eyes staring back. Like looking into a knife-point. He shuts his own eyes tight. Constricting, constricting. He can’t breathe—
A searing pain stabs through Kazuma’s chest. The room grows dark, fractured. Deep purple cracks fissuring along all surfaces. Ryutaro’s horrified face gets swallowed by the shadows. Kazuma collapses.
Ryunosuke’s eyes fly open; he gasps for air. The first thing that hits him is the revolting smell—charred, rancid. He hacks out a cough, curling further into himself on his knees. His fingers rake dirt mixed with soot. Not much longer after, he hears the crackling, the snapping of wood, the rumble of stone falling.
When he dares to look up, his blood runs cold. In McGilded’s mansion no more, before him is a structure in ruin, set ablaze. The silk pennants that remain; the lofty spire piercing the black, ghoulish simulacrum of the heavens above; the shape of what’s left of its skeleton of stone and brick—he recognizes it immediately: Hyrule Castle.
Behind it is a circular backdrop of blood-red. A massive scarlet moon looms overhead—the kingdom consumed by its striking, ruddy glow. The flames lick up against splintered trees and wooden buildings, extending skyward in desperation to be ensnared into the moon’s pull. Cinders flutter about like butterflies. Smoke billows in fat stacks along the horizon, suffocating and blinding.
A weak sound peals out of Ryunosuke, choked. It can’t be real, he insists; denial is worn snugly like a fitted jacket—and feels all the more safer. But all the evidence—the malodor of sulfur in the air, the dirt beneath his fingernails, the dry static snapping against his skin—is all so visceral, even he can’t convince himself otherwise.
There’s a glint on the ground. An egg of steel and screws—has that always been there? He turns the object over and his fingers are coated in blueish liquid, viscous and oily. It’s the small Guardian, but damaged; its smashed eye weeps, oozing its fuel like the blood on Ryunosuke’s hands for falling into McGilded’s trap. He inhales a shuddering breath, clutching the Guardian tight.
“Prince Ryunosuke!” a familiar voice rings out, distant.
Ryunosuke’s eyes are wide and searching. “Ch-Champion Kazuma?!” He sees nothing but flame and ruin and the evidence of his own failures. Guardian scooped up in his arms, he follows his voice.
In a second, Ryunosuke hits a railing—the bridge connecting the castle to Castle Town. The small Guardian is gone. Kazuma is below, on an outcrop. It’s far too long of a drop to make. Pressed to the railing, he calls out to him again.
Kazuma sees Ryunosuke above him, on the bridge to the castle. His eyes survey the land around: no easy path to get up there to him. He’ll have to climb up the cliff for a better chance.
Something clamps around Kazuma’s ankle when he takes a step, as constrictive and relentless as the jaws of a Wolfos. A body exhumed from the soil reaching out, metallic mask on its face—a cage of anonymity, of indignity. Recognition laps at the edges of his memory, despite it all, and he feels revulsion. Not at the ghastly sight—no, something deeper, more primal, closer to him. He can’t fully place it. Karuma vibrates on his hip.
He’s unable to move. As still as a wax sculpture.
The arm pulls—pulls with the strength of someone with conviction, who has seen the murky truth behind the secrets and the façades of stone and the clandestine agreements, no matter their noble intentions. Who’s identified him for the imposter he is, just one tip away from shattering and being exposed to everyone around him, and still accomplishing nothing at the end of it all. The Grim Reaper come to collect his dues.
How could Hyrule ever depend on someone like him?
Its pull is too much. He fights back against its force, but his body then laxes on its own accord, acquiescing. Maybe it’s better this way—to accept absolution. He’s mad to think he could ever be adequate enough to save him in death, to save them all in life.
After all, the apocalypse already began for him the moment the sword was placed in his care.
Can you truly be a hero without being willing to become a martyr?
He shuts his eyes. The earth below his boots parts effortlessly as the masked figure descends into its grave; rock and soil consumes him. When he looks, one last time, he sees the smoky visage of something not entirely a monster yet not quite human forming within the castle—so powerful in its presence, Kazuma can no longer repress the unmistakable dread of facing death head-on as the dirt smothers his vision.
Ryunosuke watches helplessly as Kazuma is swallowed into the ground. And the world stills—a lull of suspended animation. Coldness seeps into the crevices, freezing him down to the bone. In his ears, he hears the ticking of a clock; it reverberates down his chilled body like an earthquake. Something burns holes into his back, unable to be ignored.
He turns towards the castle. A pair of frozen eyes stare down at him like concentrated torch light. It’s a pall of malice taking shape, elongated like a serpent—a crackling mane of dark magenta and ebony flames, a fanged maw roaring peals of thunder, a horn of lightning atop its nebulous head. The only movement in the world: Ryunosuke’s shuddering breaths and the swirling beast high above.
“...Time…” the apparition gurgles. Every vocalization rattles against Ryunosuke’s rib cage. The ticking grows louder, faster—incessant. “Running out…of time…”
Nightshade clouds roll closer on the horizon, but they malform and bubble as they move—an aberrant, undulating heft to them that betrays mere water and vapor. A roiling tempest, blotting out the already scant bit of light beyond the castle and consuming all in its wake. Dread screams at him to do something—anything—but Ryunosuke can’t take his eyes off the calamitous figure ahead; his faculties and body seem bound and tethered to the spot.
Something radiant soars above the castle, piercing through the churning clouds of darkness—an arrow of light, a guiding shooting star. His eyes follow, freed from their previous shackles.
“Ry…no…ke…” A voice, staticky and warbled. The pitch: higher, feminine, he thinks, though it's hard to tell. Not someone he recognizes.
“You…” The voice becomes clearer, like it’s adjusted to the correct frequency. “…Have yet to find it.” The intonation is peculiar—syllables and phonemes stressed in an odd rhythm to his ear. Antiquated.
Ryunosuke’s mind reels. “F-Find what?!” he cries out to the air. Under the thread of shimmering light above, he feels control return to his body, stitching him back together again. He spins around, scanning his eyes wildly amongst the abandoned streets and ruined buildings of Castle Town. He doesn’t even know which direction to search—the voice feels simultaneously right next to him and an unreachable distance away. “Find the powers? What?!”
The viscous sludge ripples across the bridge, poppling along over debris and remains, and he backs away with a gaping mouth and wide eyes.
“Run!” the voice lashes like a whip. “Ryunosuke, you must run!”
He obeys her call. Obedience is second nature, after all: praying, sacrificing, deference. All things instilled in him from the moment he was born with that symbol branded on his hand. Without a second thought, he whirls around and sprints as fast as his legs can take him through the dilapidated town square. Lungs heaving, the wreckage blurs past him in smoky streaks. The snapping trailing him grows closer and closer—a guttural bellowing rushing like rapids behind him—until he feels the blistering heat licking right at his boots.
His effort is not enough.
Ryunosuke stumbles to his knees when the hazy mire clings to his ankles, sweeping his body out from under him. The swirling beast was right: he was running out of time. He sinks into the muck like a brick, without any resistance. The last thing he sees is a Goddess Statue staring down at him from atop its pillar, aloof smile eternally plastered on its marble visage, until even it is engulfed by an inky eternity.
Ryunosuke chokes out a gasp when he regains consciousness. He’s back in McGilded’s manor, splayed out on the cold floor. McGilded is gone—no doubt absconded towards somewhere far off from Castle Town, where his identity is unknown and news is slower to spread.
(Though, Ryunosuke is not under the illusion that what happened here today will be broadcasted across the kingdom. The public knowing that the prince’s incompetence led him to being taken advantage of would already be a show of weakness his father wouldn’t want to project. Implying that he helped fuel Calamity Stronghart’s power—or, possibly, something much worse—would be tantamount to political suicide. The incident will be buried, spoken only to The Knights Counsel as a warning to boost their ranks.)
The pedestal in the center of the room is bare; the Temporal Timepiece is unaccounted for. The room is still, frigid, and Ryunosuke can see his breath fog in front of him against the flooring. When enough strength returns to him, he shakily peels himself off the floor, gripping onto that pedestal the same way it latched onto him.
There’s an explosion of smoke and red ribbons and, in an instant, the room’s occupancy grows from one to four: a Yiga Blademaster flanked by two Footsoldiers. The metal of the Footsoldiers’ sickles catch the chandelier light as they approach—Ryunosuke eyes that flicker of silver like a wounded deer stares down an arrowhead flying towards it.
“For Lord Stronghart,” the Blademaster says.
“For Lord Stronghart!” the Footsoldiers echo in unison—a dissonant choir of pestilent devotion.
He’s a resource no longer useful to them: a power source depleted, then spit out and needed to be exterminated for the continued success of their plans.
Their departure mirrors their entrance: one moment there and the next gone. Something hefty goes careening through the wall, smashing all of the Yiga like a line of bowling pins. Mighty Bananas and weapons rain from the sooty haze.
Ryunosuke blinks. Outside the body-shaped hole, he spots Kazuma loosely holding a key in his hand, dumbstruck, and that boy they saw yesterday, Ryutaro, maintaining the follow through of a throw. The sight of them makes him want to cry.
“Champion Kazuma!” he yells out, voice grown thick. He draws himself up; despite how much energy was extracted, he feels his strength slowly begin to return. His lip quivers.
Kazuma’s eyes grow wide, then he’s in front of Ryunosuke with a concerned hand on Ryunosuke’s arm. His frantic gaze searches the room, then Ryunosuke, trying to assess the damage. Worry is plastered on his face, no matter how much he tries to veil it. Something else is there too, a little more successfully concealed—something like fear, a deeper distress.
“I—I saw you—earlier you were—” The words fly out of Ryunosuke’s mouth erratic, stumbling over each other. “What happened—are you alright?!”
Ryunosuke perceives the similar sense of confusion etched on Kazuma’s face. “Later,” he says quickly. “We have to get out of here first. Are you hurt?” Ryunosuke shakes his head—any lingering pain is unimportant at this point. Kazuma’s eyes flick to the empty pedestal. “Where is McGilded?”
“I don’t know. When I woke up, he was gone.”
Knitted eyebrows and a deep frown. “Okay. We should get going at once.” Kazuma reaches out and grips Ryunosuke’s hand, tugging him behind him. Ryunosuke’s fingers flinch under the sudden contact, but he’s glad for Kazuma’s quick thinking—it’ll be much easier keeping pace and avoiding getting separated this way. “Stay close. More Yiga may appear at any moment. You’ll watch the rear, Ryutaro?”
Apprehension spikes in Ryunosuke. How can he be sure Ryutaro wouldn’t betray them like McGilded did?
He squeezes Kazuma’s hand, tensing. The hesitancy must be written plainly on his face because Kazuma’s expression softens ever so slightly, quelling the surging waters inside him. Whatever happened outside that room must’ve been enough for Kazuma to have faith in Ryutaro; Ryunosuke trusts his judgment.
“Of course,” Ryutaro replies, both of them exchanging a nod. He gives Ryunosuke a reassuring smile, and something in that expression reminds him of someone else. Similar to Elder Impa, perhaps. He quickly casts it out of his mind and returns a nod of his own.
Kazuma leads them down the hallway. Without a guide, it’s unwieldy to navigate in. They turn the corner and an unseemly painting on the wall catches Ryunosuke’s eye: a giant Bokoblin reclined on its side in a rather suggestive pose. A disgusted shiver runs down his spine at the sight of it. Maybe Champion Sholmes can come up with an elixir to induce mild short-term memory loss next.
The second time he sees another of the same painting, he’s baffled. Why McGilded would have even one of those hanging up gives him pause, but to have a second is far worse.
It’s the third time he sees that Bokoblin’s half-lidded face that he stops in his tracks, glaring. Kazuma jerks backwards. “Have either of you seen this painting?” Ryunosuke questions, perturbed, when Kazuma asks what’s wrong.
It’s a long moment of silence while his two compatriots examine the painting in question. The house groans.
“Oh dear…” Ryutaro mumbles into a palm pressed to his face, countenance sour.
“Your Highness…” Kazuma grits out, strained. His scowl twitches in frustration, and his grip on Ryunosuke’s hand tightens. “Though I fail to see an instance where this would ever be appropriate, our current situation is beyond the worst time to indulge us in your perverse fantas—”
“Hold it!” Ryunosuke shrieks, the tips of his ears growing red. “That’s, that’s obviously not what I’m referring to!” He motions to the painting, pointing repeatedly, frantic. “We’ve passed this same painting three times—we’re going in circles!”
“With all due respect, Your Highness,” Ryutaro pushes, “but that can’t be correct. I’ve been monitoring the direction of the corridors and we haven’t backtracked.”
“It just”—Ryunosuke scrapes a palm across his forehead—“doesn’t make sense to me that McGilded has three identical paintings on his walls, especially not of that.” He scans the walls, the ceiling, the floor—anything distinct to act as a guidepost.
Kazuma notices the flicker of flint sailing through the air before he does, jumping out in front of the both of them and blocking the arrows with a quick flourish of his sword. They clatter to the floor, fletching crimson and black. An echo of laughter fills the hall before the blast of smoke appears in the air. Kazuma reacts before the Yiga even appears; his brilliant blade slices at the Yiga archer’s torso and sends them retreating immediately.
Something rolls under Ryunosuke’s feet—faint, almost imperceptible if he wasn’t standing completely still. Like the soft sway of a boat on calm waters. When he turns around, he’s facing a wall. Eyes wide, he backs up, scouring the corridor for an orientation point. He calls out for Kazuma, for Ryutaro, in a panic, but there’s no response. He spins around; the dead end feeds perpendicular into another section of hallway.
A laugh directly behind him, sandwiched between him and the wall. Then another somewhere down that long stretch of corridor in front of him. Ryunosuke’s breath hitches in his throat.
He’s reminded of the words from the woman from earlier, with her inflection of antiquity: run. The singe of brimstone barely hits his nose before he’s dashing towards that intersection, ducking out of the way of the spray of arrows.
The footsteps are light, but they patter against the rugs just enough for Ryunosuke to perceive their relative distance: there’s a Yiga member a short few paces following him, and another running faster down the corridor to the left. At this rate, the Yiga in front will cut him off before he gets the chance to make it to the intersection. He picks up the pace.
It’s a foolish plan that pops into his brain and he has half the mind to discount the idea entirely, but with no weapon and no protection, it’s the best chance he has. He curses himself for not being able to pick up Kazuma’s archery training faster. As he runs, he focuses on listening—paying attention to the minute changes in rhythm and stride—and runs the calculations in his head.
The slip of interconnecting corridor is before him. The Yiga coming from his left does what he predicted: sliding on their heels to halt their momentum in order to trap Ryunosuke between both of them. But they’re all much closer than they expected and running much too fast. Ryunosuke screws his eyes shut and takes the leap of faith—an unceremonious lunge at an angle away from the Yiga before him. He tumbles hard to the floor, but hears the high-pitched yelp and the sound of two bodies slamming into each other.
When he regains his bearings, the two Yigas are entwined in an unconscious heap. A Yiga bow of wood and metal spikes lays at their feet, next to a couple stray arrows. Ryunosuke snatches them up and flees; it’s better than nothing.
Left, something in him pulls. It’s not a voice, nor mere intuition, but something deeper—more innate. An internal North Star, leading him towards where Kazuma is. It’s a new sensation, whatever it is. The Triforce on his hand flickers dimly. After the interior shuffle of the accursed house, he can feel that there’s new distance between him and Kazuma, but he’s still close enough to reach in a couple minutes. That time will be shaved; he can sense him approaching. He picks up the pace—he’ll meet him halfway.
The line of candles along the walls become sparse and inconsistent, drawing long shadows sweeping across the hall. The creak of the floorboards below and the groan of the house’s frame are raucous, prominent. He hears, in the distance, a shriek and the clang of metal; closer, the scurry of light footfalls approaching.
He ducks into a nearby room. He slides behind a lounge chair and nocks an arrow to his bow. Arrow trained at the door, he holds his breath.
The stark white of a mask enters through the doorway and he looses the arrow. It plunges off the mark, deep into the doorframe—splinters flying into the air amongst the reverberating thwock sound filling the air. But it’s enough to startle the Yiga for a few precious seconds. Distraction is a welcomed thing.
Heart pounding, Ryunosuke shifts back behind the chair to reload. He goes to nock another arrow, but his hands are shaky—fingers sweaty—and the arrow slips and rolls across the floor. The Yiga’s shadow grows larger.
He recognizes the whistling noise of a windup along air and drops prone to the floor. The blade is so much faster than he expects; its sharpened tip barely swipes across his cheek. He feels a small dribble of warmth trickle down his face. With wide eyes, he cranes his neck and watches a sickle sink into the upholstery above him. There’s resistance there when the Yiga attempts to yank out that crescent moon of steel—a red limb, exposed.
His eyes dart about wildly. Kazuma’s coming closer, but he’s being delayed—encounters with Yiga members along the way, he assumes; he won’t be there in time. The room is sparse, with little to act as cover or to use as improvised weapons. He was blessed with luck earlier that the two Yiga could be utilized to his advantage, but that luck has run dry. It’s just him and this Yiga member and their giant, curved blade between them.
Ryunosuke sucks in a sharp breath and does the first thing his mind thinks of: he plunges the spiked portion of the bow as deep as he can into the Yiga’s arm. The Yiga rears back with a roar of pain, relinquishing their grip on the weapon.
Ryunosuke’s trembling fingers paw at the hilt of the sickle, but it’s too slick with sweat, driven too deep into the chair’s backing to wrest free in time. He relents and backpedals across the hardwood like an Ironshell Crab when he hears the bow get thrown to the ground, wood snapping under the force. A sickly ochre of candlelight reflects off the surface of a kunai knife as the Yiga saunters forward; their facial expression is hidden, but their tensed body language and the pitter of blood on the floor below them do little to mask their frustration, their eagerness to eliminate the mark that wounded them.
Ryunosuke’s back bumps into the wall. Air dying in his throat. A roar of blood in his ears. He can’t tell if he vocalizes it or it’s all in his head, but he cries out to the Goddess Hylia, pleading for her to hear his call and respond in the same way he did for her earlier—a little reciprocation seems long past due, after all. His only hope: he dredges his determination up from deep inside and pushes out a hand into the air.
Blinding light, they all said. Holy magic so intense it can instantly vanquish evil and level threats with a single flick of the wrist.
But there is nothing there—just a frightened prince dumbly holding a hand out in front of himself. Instead: a futile attempt to signal stop, to beg a nihilist assassin to have a sudden change of heart.
He can’t look. He’d rather bury his face in his shoulder and pray the end comes quickly than have to watch the knife plunge into his body. Thoughts swirl in his mind a mile a minute, eddying rapidly like slurry washed down a drain—all the things he regrets not being able to do, of the hundreds of ways he’s disappointed his kingdom in life and the thousands of ways he’ll damn them after his death.
He thinks of dango, of sweet potatoes. Of the warm sun on his skin on a lazy afternoon and the cool breeze to balance it out. Of that small Guardian, still not yet functional.
He thinks of Kazuma, forced to brunt even more of the burden he’ll be leaving behind. He had just found the perfect tongue twister to teach him, too, after so long trying to ignore their existence—one that was simple, but still fun to say. For someone so accomplished, his utter inability to talk fast always makes Ryunosuke laugh. Kazuma’s funny like that, he’s found.
A loud cracking noise, followed by a slam that rattles the walls, snaps him back to the present. A tall Sheikah man stands before him, leg raised impossibly straight. Ryunosuke follows his gaze to the Yiga slumped down on the ground to the side, unconscious. He lowers his leg with a deliberate slowness, as if insulted at having to lift it in the first place.
The man turns to face him. Panic thunders harder in his chest—a weary moon waning and waxing against an indecisive storm; if he somehow makes it out of this alive, the adrenaline spikes will surely kill him instead. The man stares down at him, face creased in an impenetrable, imposing glower. It’s dipped in animosity—something particularly inveterate—and his presence carries a distinct air of death, as deep-seated as the large x-shaped scar between his eyes.
If he’s part of the Yiga, he doesn’t abide by their penchant for full-body disguise. His face is uncovered, he’s draped in elegant navy blues and creams and gold embellishments. Less of an assassin, more of someone from nobility or another high rank, though he doesn’t recognize him. A large emblem peeks out from under his tall-collared cloak—a family crest or some sort, Ryunosuke surmises.
Yiga or not, it matters little. That look of disdain in his eyes seems clear: he wanted that Yiga out of the way so he could kill Ryunosuke himself. Kazuma is approaching closer, he can feel that, and he tries to call out, but it’s just a weak wheeze that escapes from his raw throat. The man reaches under his cape and, reflexively, Ryunosuke squeezes his eyes shut, shielding his face with his arms.
He hears chinking noises—of metal or glass, he can’t tell—followed by the slosh of liquid into a container. Venturing a glance, he opens an eye to see the man holding a chalice up to his lips, a look of deep contemplation upon his face as he stares at the incapacitated Yiga left in a crumple.
Does he usually drink before taking someone’s life?
The man’s gaze shifts back to Ryunosuke; a shiver runs down his spine. “Those terrified eyes…” His deep, gravelly voice startles him—dipped in such revulsion, it feels like it physically stings his ears. The man languidly swirls the chalice held in his palm. “To think, we all have to place our faith in someone that looks to be no more than a mere sacrificial lamb.” He pauses, looking at that deep red in his hand. It could be easily mistaken for blood at a glance. “…Along with that demon’s son, no less.”
Ryunosuke’s eyes widen, brows pinched together in confusion. …Is he talking about Kazuma?
The house groans.
A noise from the man—a mix between a scoff and a wry laugh, though his mouth is still frozen in that scowl. “Indeed, what a cruel twist of fate… You Hylians are an abstruse breed.” He makes a moue of disgust at that, nose wrinkling like smelling something particularly fetid. His grip on his chalice tightens. “You’ve the opportunity to do better than your brethren, yet. The world will be watching, Hylian.” He spits the word. “Here’s to your answer”—he holds the glass up towards Ryunosuke, a sardonic toast—“of which we all wait with baited breath.”
“S-Sorry?” Ryunosuke is finally able to eke out, though it’s hoarse. “I don’t—I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t follow—”
“Prince Ryunosuke!” Kazuma yells. He’s running with Ryutaro right behind him at the end of the hallway. The man in front of him turns towards the sound. Ryunosuke watches as shock crashes on Kazuma’s face like a lightning strike and something shifts in his expression: a stoking of rage, of flames ignited under a surge of electricity. “You—!” It’s choked, clawing.
The crash of broken glass makes Ryunosuke jump. Burgundy drips off the man’s fingers, yet it doesn’t faze him. The floor rumbles below. He takes one last look at Ryunosuke, surly. His voice is leveled, but with a twinge of annoyance: “…Pray forgive the discourtesy of making such a sudden departure.” He steps towards the Yiga.
“Stop!” Kazuma shouts. He’s broken out into a full sprint, face filled with fury. “Reaper!” A vehement growl of a sound.
The last thing Ryunosuke sees of the man is him hoisting the collapsed Yiga to his hip like a sack of flour before the wall sprouts up from the ground and the room shifts yet again. The room is plunged into shadow. Crates sit in the corners.
Kazuma slides back on his heels, coming to a stop right before Ryunosuke. His eyes are bulging, rabid, his jaw clenched so tight, it looks painful. A forest fire within a man, burning him alive. “He hurt you?!” he sputters with rage, frantic.
Ryunosuke’s heart sinks—a heavy stone falling inside his stomach. Something’s wrong. Not for the first time today. “N-No, he—”
Before Ryunosuke can finish, Kazuma slams into the wall that’s covered by wooden planks with his shoulder—the direction the man he called Reaper was last in. He bangs the backs of his forearms hard against the lumber, mouth twisted up in a ferocious snarl. It creaks feebly under the impact.
Ryutaro helps Ryunosuke to his feet, checking that he’s okay. Ryutaro presses a handkerchief to his cheek, swipes away the lingering blood there. Ryunosuke’s head spins. He can’t keep his eyes off Kazuma. Something tastes bitter in his mouth.
“Don’t think you can run!” Venom flies off Kazuma’s tongue. He slams the bottom of his left fist against the wall. “Reaper!” he screams. Fangs bared. Crazed. It’s the angriest Ryunosuke’s ever seen him. He strikes the wood. Again, again, again.
“S-Stop,” Ryunosuke murmurs out, able to find his voice again. The only thing Ryunosuke and Ryutaro can do is watch in horror. They both mutter soft pleas to stop, rooted to the floor.
Nothing cuts through. A guttural scream escapes from deep within Kazuma, frustrated. Again, again. A hammer of flesh—once protected by leather gloves, now only just barely. The wood snaps and splits apart under the impacts; blood flicks off his fist when he rears back again. It’s a futile endeavor: the man with the scar is already long gone, Ryunosuke knows this to be true. Again, again, again.
Ryunosuke’s body moves on its own. He plants his feet to the ground and, with both hands, grasps Kazuma’s wrist before he can swing again. Ryunosuke’s face is still stained with alarm, but it’s molded further by something much more deep-rooted: concern. The concern he has for Kazuma emboldens him with a determination like no other.
“Stop,” Ryunosuke repeats again, forcibly. He’s all furrowed brows and tense shoulders, mouth a grim line. “Please, Kazuma. That’s enough.” He presses harder against the forearm padding, hands trembling.
Kazuma stills. He looks dazed—his eyes a deep spiraling brown, churning. “But he—he’s one of them,” he grinds out. Lost in a smoky forest, looking for a landmark to orient himself. “He tried to kill you, he—”
Ryunosuke shakes his head. “He saved me,” he presses. His eyes flick down, towards where that Yiga was once standing just moments before. “...I believe so, anyway.”
Kazuma draws in a sharp breath, face suddenly grown lax. Oxygen cut off from a fire. “That doesn’t—I don’t understand.”
Ryunosuke slowly lowers Kazuma’s arm down with no resistance, flipping his palm up and cradling it within his own two hands. The motion is slow, careful, as if to not startle a skittish animal. The tension in Kazuma’s fist dissipates—fingers slowly unfurling like a flower in bloom. He gently sweeps at the blood staining the side of Kazuma’s hand with his thumb, featherlight in his touch. All this damage, done to himself. Ryunosuke aches and aches.
“It’s okay now,” Ryunosuke coos, a little more than a strained whisper. He carefully folds back the cloth of the forearm padding before peeling the glove off, as delicately as he can. Kazuma winces; Ryunosuke lightly squeezes back. His eyes lift, and Kazuma’s watching him with an expression he can’t begin to define—a press of the lips, then parted, brow wrinkled, a gaze so vast Ryunosuke worries he may become submerged in if he looks too long. An ineffable mix of ardency and perplexity.
Ryunosuke tears his eyes away when Ryutaro shifts, pulling out a small container from his pouch. Medicine of some sort—Ryunosuke smells the sharp sting of antiseptic as soon as he unscrews the top, though it’s offset by floral undertones. His heart still roars in his chest.
He releases his grasp, allowing Ryutaro to clean and dress Kazuma’s wounds. Mumbled questions inquiring if he’s okay, an equally muted response of yes. He works quietly and efficiently. The house is placid and unmoving.
“I’m afraid I must take my leave now,” Ryutaro says with a bow. They stand at the crossroads between West Castle Town proper and the castle’s West Bridge; that house is a mere blip on a hill.
“Thank you for all your assistance back there,” Kazuma replies with a nod. Ryunosuke concurs. Kazuma’s fingers tug at his tunic sleeve, arms crossed. Curt: “But, please ask Royal Advisor Susato why she was traipsing into a dangerous house alone.” Ryunosuke’s eyebrows lift.
Ryutaro tucks his chin to his chest, guilty. “Ah, you’ve noticed, have you?” Something dimly sparkles in the air in front of him and his face changes ever so slightly, features shifting and softening. A boy stranger no more—the Sheikah art of disguise. “I must apologize for the subterfuge,” Susato continues, “but I wasn’t expecting to run into you both here, especially not twice. How ever did you know?”
Kazuma lifts his pointer and middle fingers to his forehead. “Your throw technique—it was unmistakably a Susato Toss. And the salve you used on my hand is the same you’ve recently received from Lady Rei, isn’t that correct?”
A small smile, bashful and apologetic. “…Astute as ever.”
Ryunosuke blinks, disoriented. He knew Ryutaro looked familiar somehow, but for it to be Susato? “But, Lady Susato, what were you doing inside Mr. McGilded’s house?”
Her lips purse and her expression hardens. “Gina.” Her eyes wander past both of them, searching the browning fields. Melancholy softens her gaze. “I don’t know the full story—she refuses to say—but, as I understand it, Mr. McGilded has been taking advantage of her in some way. I arrived yesterday in order to try to find some information to assist her, but then I overheard her speaking to Iris last night. She said she knew someone that had something that could help Iris with her research and…” She wrings her hands together in front of her. “I was worried, so I followed her back to this house. I don’t know what it was she was referring to, however. She was holding something in a small bag when she fled from me…”
Ryunosuke’s chest tightens. Gina was there when McGilded made her demonstrate the Temporal Timepiece’s supposed capabilities. If he had manipulated her in a similar way that he did to him…
Kazuma exhales forcibly through his nose, eyes shut. “Yes, always valliant. Though, I suppose I can’t chastise you for it too much…” He sounds like a relenting parent. His voice grows low when he speaks again: “Whatever it may be, I do hope she’ll be able to escape from under McGilded’s thumb now, considering everything…” Ryunosuke’s fingers claw into his sleeve.
“Yes,” Susato agrees, solemn.
The somber air grows heavy, thick. The lighter blues of the night sky have since been replaced with deep cobalts, stars pricking pinpoints of light. The light chittering of Keese echo in the distance. They part ways not long after.
“I bid you a good night,” Kazuma says, fist over chest with a bow. It’s an incongruous turn of phrase tonight of all nights—how could the night ever be good with the day it’s been?
They didn’t speak about it the entire walk back to Ryunosuke’s chambers. He had tried to broach the subject, but the words wouldn’t come. Water blocked behind a dam. It was just silence between them, tense.
Ryunosuke looks at Kazuma’s bandaged hand pressed flush to his hip. The shadows cast by the single candle in the room flit about—apparitions of the night. Just like that ever-changing house full of Yiga. Just like the malice dripping out of Calamity Stronghart’s incorporeal form. He ducks his head, squeezes his eyes closed. He sees shapes moving behind his eyelids. His heart pounds fast.
“Wait,” he croaks out. “C-Can you… Would it be possible for you to stay here tonight?” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes how ridiculous it sounds. It’s only amplified by the way Kazuma’s mouth falls open, how his wide eyes reflect the low light. He scrambles, flinching back with his hands swatting the air in front of him, words spilling out like a tipped jar of sand: “S-Sorry! That, that was beyond inappropriate!” He hides his burning face under his arms. “It’s, it’s not as if you’d willingly inconvenience yourself by staying here instead of going home just because I’m afraid of sleeping alone, of course not!” He barks out a gruff laugh. “In, in fact it was just a bad joke, truly! Forget I said anything—good, good night!” He spins on his heel to face the wall.
“Yes,” Kazuma answers. “I…can stay, if you want.” His voice is subdued, hesitancy apparent in its tremor.
Ryunosuke looks over his shoulder. “Um, what?”
Kazuma runs a hand through his bangs and exhales. “I said, I wouldn’t be opposed to it. I-I understand, is all.” He shifts weight on his legs. “That vision—or whatever it was—was quite harrowing for me as well, you see.” Unusually flustered. They had both been acting on edge since exiting McGilded’s estate, but it still throws Ryunosuke off to see him this rattled, considering the brave face he often puts on.
Part of Ryunosuke wants to object, to push back and apologize again, rescinding the offer out of embarrassed guilt, but he bites down the impulse. He has a pretty good idea now that Kazuma wouldn’t lie out of mere propriety; if he truly was uncomfortable with the idea, he’d say so.
“Al-Alright,” Ryunosuke settles on, with a nod. His eyes swim. “I’m, I’m really sorry that you have to sleep on the floor like this…” He puts a hand to the back of his head. “I can check if there’s any big blankets in storage, or I can call one of the attendants to see about setting up a pallet of some sort or—”
“No need, Your Highness,” Kazuma replies with a quick wave of the hand.
Ryunosuke winces. Something in that pricks at him—a thorn stabbing at his side he can’t fully identify. He tries to cast it away, justifying it as the exhaustion of the day finally snowballing into irrational irritation. He just needs to sleep.
Kazuma pulls out a bedroll out of his impossibly small pack. No matter how many times he takes out something that’s much bigger than it, Ryunosuke can’t help but marvel. Kazuma unrolls the padded sack across the floor, and they’re off to readying themselves for bed. It’s a brief affair, as fatigue outweighs the need for routine hygiene. Ryunosuke shuts the curtains surrounding his bed and watches the blurred outline of Kazuma’s back disappear as he snuffs out the candle.
Ryunosuke’s tossing in bed one moment, and the next, he’s staring that wraith with the piercing blue eyes in the face. The memory in repetition—reliving that chase, that anachronistic voice telling him to run. “You have yet to find it,” rattles around his brain, discordant against the screech of ticking clocks. He tries to run faster this time, but his legs don’t heed his commands. The mire catches and swallows him—
“Prince Ryunosuke,” Kazuma’s hushed voice rouses him from being submerged.
Ryunosuke’s eyes fly open. Kazuma’s sitting on the edge of his bed, his hand on his shoulder. It’s difficult to see in the dark, especially in the cloak of the canopy curtains, but he thinks he can just make out the concern etched in his features. Only then does he realize that he’s clutching Kazuma’s outstretched arm in a death grip—how long has he been holding onto him like that for? Sweat sticks to his skin. His lungs heave.
He immediately releases his hold on Kazuma’s arm, and Kazuma’s hand slips off his shoulder. “I’m s-sorry,” Ryunosuke wheezes out hastily, the air never quite filling his lungs completely. He scrubs his eyes with his sleeve. “I woke you, didn’t I?” He sits up, but his weight buckles under him. He has to lean back on his elbow. His head spins and spins.
A huff. “Always apologizing…” Kazuma mutters under his breath. “No, I couldn’t fall asleep.” A pause, then, gently: “You were crying out in your sleep.” A door cracked open to address it, an implicit invitation.
Ryunosuke mashes his lips together. “…I saw it all again—Calamity Stronghart. Its destruction.” Kazuma makes a troubled noise of acknowledgement. Ryunosuke pulls his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around them and rests his chin there. The bed creaks under his weight. “I heard her there, too… The Goddess Hylia. I didn’t see her, but I know it was her talking to me. For certain this time.”
The bed shifts; Kazuma leans forward. “Really? What did she say?”
“She told me to run when Calamity Stronghart attacked.” He exhales, shaky. “She said that I hadn’t found something, but I don’t—” He groans, scraping a hand across his slick forehead. Kazuma hums in thought. Ryunosuke watches him sitting there with tired eyes—a dark shape much more comforting than any other he’s encountered that day. “…You were there too, weren’t you? What happened?” The words come out soft—a whisper amongst the quietude of the chamber.
Kazuma moves: arms wrapped around himself, head lowering. He’s slow to answer, tentative. “I was looking for you and then…a person in a mask grabbed hold of my leg and dragged me underground.” A rustle of fabric. “I saw Calamity Stronghart right before. And that was it… Dread and then…nothing.”
A shiver shoots up Ryunosuke’s spine. He squishes his cheek into his arm and closes his eyes. The silence that descends and lingers is heavy, but not encumbering—a thick, warm blanket of connection, no matter how grim the design stitched on it. Ryunosuke is grateful for it, at the very least.
“I’ll tell you what,” Kazuma says after a while. He lifts himself off the bed, the weight redistributing behind him. “How about…I move my bedroll closer and you can take ahold of my hand. It helps with the nightmares—having someone else there and all.”
“Sorry?” The skepticism in Ryunosuke’s voice is palpable.
A small laugh from Kazuma. “It’s the truth. Generations of parents in Hateno Village can attest to it.” He pulls the curtain back on the side of the bed. “If you’re too uncomfortable, you can always say no, of course. But as things are, I doubt either of us will be getting any sleep tonight—why not at least make an attempt?”
Murky moonlight filters through the windows, spilling across the contours of Kazuma’s face. Ryunosuke traces the weary droop of his features, the lines of exhaustion already beginning to burrow hollows under his eyes. Not rejecting things before giving it a chance, Kazuma had said before.
“Alright,” Ryunosuke says as he tries to suppress a yawn. “I believe you. No harm in trying, I suppose.”
Kazuma gives him a small nod before dragging his bedroll next to the side of the bed. He’s still wearing that silly red headband of his, even at night—the ties fluttering behind him, catching moonlight like ripples on a lake. Ryunosuke dangles his left arm over the edge; Kazuma props up his right arm with a pillow to hold onto his hand.
It’s a bit awkward at first for Ryunosuke, but he begins to acclimate to the slight pressure, to the warmth wrapped around his fingers. Kazuma was right: it feels more comforting with that weight anchoring him to the present—much harder to slip away into oblivion if you’re moored to a post.
“I’m sorry,” Kazuma mumbles then, sound muffled into his pillow.
Ryunosuke’s nose scrunches up. “For what?”
A long sigh. “That Yiga posted outside the room…I should’ve recognized the sword yesterday and realized what was going on.” There’s a quiet sound—frustrated, choked. “I was careless and it almost had dire consequences. I—”
“You think—” Ryunosuke scoffs out a bitter laugh. “No, I should be the one apologizing, not you,” he mutters into the mattress. He curls up into himself. “I’m the whole reason we even got into this mess in the first place…” His voice grows tight, throat constricting it on itself. “I, I fell right into his trap like an utter fool and inadvertently helped—I don’t know, wake? Empower?—the very Calamity I’ve dedicated my whole life to trying to stop!” Tears prick at the corner of his eyes. “All of this is my fault, not yours.”
Kazuma lightly squeezes Ryunosuke’s trembling hand. “I don’t…” he begins, voice subdued, “I don’t think it’s fair to blame yourself for McGilded taking advantage of you. You were just following what you believed to be true at the time and he used you, nothing more.”
“But, but that’s the issue. I don’t know if I was following what I believed in—not fully, anyway. Despite everything I was seeing, I still had that doubt in the back of my mind about it all.” Ryunosuke pinches his eyes closed tight. The words slip out of his mouth in a quiet murmur: “I just—I think I wanted so badly to believe what he was saying and what he showed me, that it clouded my judgment and I went against my instincts. Can you truly say it isn’t my fault?”
A staid silence hangs between them. “The fact of the matter is,” Kazuma says after a long moment’s passed, “he targeted you on purpose and betrayed your trust. I don’t think you hold all the blame here. But, now that we know what we’re up against, we’ll both have to be more vigilant from now on.”
“Yes, I suppose so…” Ryunosuke scrubs his face with his sleeve. The wound still stings, but it’s soothed just enough to be tolerable for the time being.
“Furthermore,” Kazuma says, “we don’t know exactly what happened with the Temporal Timepiece. All that we saw—it could be a premonition that can be changed, or it could very well be an abstract dream with no real logic behind it.” A disgruntled sigh. “What I’m trying to get at is that we don’t have enough information to make a judgment right now. Evidence is key before we start jumping to conclusions, Your Highness.”
There it is again: that irritating feeling. The words sound grating to his ears—a nettling little thing he feels an urge to swat down and eliminate. A low frequency always buzzing in the background, quiet enough to overlook in a moment, but too loud to ever fully ignore. Right now, after everything that’s happened, it’s unbearable.
“Ryunosuke,” he enunciates, emphatic. It’s more forceful than he intended.
Silence. Then: “...Pardon?”
“We’re, we’re friends, correct?” Ryunosuke swallows. The nervousness catches up with him much too late. “I-I’d like to be addressed by my first name only, without the titles. Just… Ryunosuke.”
A pause. “Alright, then,” Kazuma answers. “As you wish, Ryunosuke.”
And, all at once, it feels like the rush of warm wind from atop rolling hills, sun-kissed and lungs filled with the scents of honey-sweet florals—who knew the absence of a couple words could make so much of a difference, could feel so freeing? He feels like he can finally breathe.
The bedding rustles from Kazuma’s bedroll. “Then, I’d ask that you call me just by my first name, as well,” Kazuma continues. “I don’t care much for all the formalities.”
A tired smile pulls at the corner of Ryunosuke’s lips. “Of course…Kazuma.” He hears a quick exhale of a laugh below him in response. Then, quiet.
It’s a soft lull from Kazuma a bit later: “…We’ll figure it out.” Both exhaustion and resolve at the edges.
Ryunosuke hums a low agreement. He hopes he’s right. His eyes slip shut and the blackness before him seems that much less daunting.
The Triforce markings on their hands flicker, ever so faintly—hope piercing the veil of the dark.
Notes:
Whew... lots of major stuff happened this chapter!
I've always really loved the McGilded case and how it shapes the narrative and Ryunosuke's journey. The way he begins to lose faith in...faith, and in trusting others and in trusting himself, even, is such an interesting character development thread, and it fit so perfectly with the themes I wanted to go with for this fic. And with the actual introduction of Calamity Stronghart here (even if brief), McGilded felt like a great character to examine some of the different rationale some of the characters in this au may have in wanting to aid the Calamity. The Yiga are the nihilists who want to watch the world burn as some great reset, but McGilded doesn't really want any of that—in fact, he'd probably love to continue business as usual with a bunch of people he can take advantage of and then soak up the notoriety that comes with financing a bunch of public projects! But ultimately, he's self-serving and greedy enough that he'll set all that on fire if it makes him more (real or even just imagined) money in the short term, and so short-sighted that he thinks he'll be insulated in the 'in-group' or have enough wealth to survive the literal apocalypse when it happens (which, surprise: it won't) (not at all influenced by any real life goings on...)
Anyway, this chapter does answer a certain question about certain killings mentioned in chapter 3, and then again in chapter 7 (among other things mentioned in chapter 7 haha!) :)
And I'd be remiss to not bring up Ryutaro! For those familiar with Zelda, having Ryutaro be Susato's Sheik parallel just fit so perfectly—I had to include it!
And, of course, Ryunosuke and Kazuma have a very normal and not trauma-driven sleepover... Next week's chapter has one of my favorite asoryuu moments!
Thanks again for reading <3
Chapter 10: Breakthroughs
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
It’s like a Goron sitting with all their weight on my back—the guilt. I can’t keep replaying it all in my head, over and over until all that’s left is a rancid, festering morass.
I trusted him and fell for his lies… How could I ever have let that happen?
No matter how you twist it, the same conclusion remains, as stark as a bloodstain on silk: I helped that man aid Calamity Stronghart.
How could I have been such a fool to How many people have I endangered after What miserable excuse for a prince would let this happen?
The arrow strikes the outer rings of the target with authority.
Kazuma nods to himself with a smirk across his face, seemingly pleased. “It’s a definite improvement. You’re coming along nicely, Ryunosuke.”
Ryunosuke lowers the bow with a deep exhale. He concurs: though he hasn’t gotten much better in terms of accuracy, at least all his arrows reliably hit somewhere on the target now. And he can shoot a few rounds before exhaustion starts to set in. Even the string only grazes his nose two out of three times now instead of each shot. It’s about building consistency, he reminds himself. Kazuma had said accuracy will improve with time.
Kazuma passes him a waterskin and a towel. “You haven’t heard anything since?” Kazuma asks, staring down the length of the range between them and the target. Eyes unfocused, glassy. “From the Goddess Hylia, I mean.”
Ryunosuke stomach drops. He swipes at the sweat on his cheek before sitting on one of the flat rocks. “No, nothing,” he mumbles. “She thinks I’m lacking something, but I…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I wish she would’ve been kind enough to give some semblance of a hint about what that means. How am I supposed to find whatever it is without any direction?”
Kazuma taps his heel to his other foot. “I suppose that’s the gods for you…”
Ryunosuke’s shoulders slouch, expression falling with them. Muttering: “Wisdom… Wisdumb seems much more fitting.” The moment the words leave his lips, he’s already cringing.
Kazuma leans back, palms resting on Karuma. An eyebrow raises. “Perhaps what you’re lacking is a good sense of humor, then. That one was horrible and beyond lazy, even for you.”
A towel is lackadaisically flung through the air towards Kazuma, but he catches it effortlessly before it falls to the ground.
“I guess so…” Ryunosuke grumbles, despondent. He takes a big gulp of water before folding over himself, arms wrapping around his legs.
Something buttery wafts in the air when Kazuma holds out a package of some sort bundled in patterned cloth. He’s hesitant—blinking up at Kazuma with confused, owlish eyes. “What is it?”
“Plain Crepes,” Kazuma says. “My guardian’s daughter insisted I take some of the leftovers she made.” He nudges the package towards him again.
The prospect leaves both his mouth watering and his belly churning. “I, uh,” Ryunosuke fumbles out, gaze dropping to the dirt. “I appreciate it, but no thank you.”
Kazuma barks out a laugh. “Should I go to the press with this? ‘Bottomless Pit Prince Refuses Food: Once in a Lifetime Occurrence,’” he jeers, grin wide and fox-like.
Ryunosuke gives a quiet laugh—weak, lacking joviality. “Maybe the world’s ending after all…” He rests his cheek on his knee, takes a deep breath.
Kazuma’s smile drops as his arm falls limp to his side. Pinched brows and a tight frown when he puts the package away.
Kazuma’s sight goes far away again, contemplating. “I know you’ve said you were left with little information, but is there anything at all you remember from your mother that could prove useful regarding the powers?” He cups his chin with his finger and thumb.
“Well…” Ryunosuke’s head lifts slowly. His eyes dart to the ground, to the sky, to the nearby woods, as if the answers are hidden somewhere within those trees left damp with the morning’s snowmelt. “Ursavra said she had once described it to her as: you draw up your convictions from deep within you, steel your resolve, point with determination”—he thrusts out a finger dramatically in front of him—“and out pours light.” A pause. Then, meek: “…Or something like that.” He awkwardly lowers his arm.
Kazuma taps a finger against his jaw. “Very vague.” His eyes land on Ryunosuke again. “Well then, what is your resolve?” Ryunosuke stiffens. “When you attempt to draw upon the power, what’s going through your mind at that moment?”
Ryunosuke wilts. “Erm…” Eyes frantically searching those woods again. “About how much I need them to materialize.” He laughs a tight warble of a noise—something strained, without mirth. Voice high and frail, a mimicry of Elder Impa, he says, “I am the Goddess Hylia reborn. Goddess proxy—her mortal replacement.” His smile drops, along with the terrible impersonation. “My role is to use the sealing powers to contain Calamity Stronghart…so I think about how important it is that it happens.”
His lips flatten into a thin line. “I will be able to wield the sealing powers. I have to.”
Kazuma studies him. “…Perhaps that’s the wrong approach in some way, then. Something too external…” He shifts his weight on his leg. “Or maybe you’re merely psyching yourself out by putting so much pressure on it working right then and there. Like you’re getting tunnel vision and it’s interfering with your ability to act with clarity. It’s certainly not an unusual phenomenon to want something so badly that it actually ends up being a detriment.”
Kazuma’s hand drops and he moves to stuff the towel into a knapsack. “Anyway, that’s enough for today. Go retrieve the arrows, will you?”
Tunnel vision. Ryunosuke watches Kazuma begin packing and his lips purse. His mind wanders back to McGilded’s mansion—to Kazuma’s reaction to that man he called Reaper, to the lengths he went to apprehend him even if that meant wounding himself in the process.
Ryunosuke had been too afraid to broach the topic since. Not out of fear of Kazuma’s reaction, but it never quite seemed like the right time to address it. The anger from Kazuma was much more elevated than a faceless Yiga would garner. Something more personal. He knew who that man was.
Ryunosuke swallows down the lump that’s lodged itself in his throat. “Kazuma… Who is the Reaper?”
Kazuma stills. After a moment, a sigh, and he puts down the equipment he was holding. His face is shielded by his hair when he speaks. “The Reaper of the Yiga, Magistrate Barok van Zieks. Every case he takes up as a magistrate, no matter the verdict that gets passed, the accused always meets their demise.” Ryunosuke’s eyes grow wide. “It is said that wherever he goes, the Yiga are always close to follow.” Kazuma grits his teeth, balls his hands into fists. “You see, he unilaterally determines culpability based on his own personal biases, and enacts his own will by employing the help of Yiga assassins.”
Ryunosuke shifts where he’s sitting. “And yet he’s still a magistrate? Surely, if he’s directing Yiga to”—he sucks in a breath, nervous—“to kill people, it’s unthinkable that he can still be allowed to practice in that role?”
“There’s no evidence,” Kazuma bites out.
“Sorry?”
“The problem is that the Castle Town Guard has launched investigations, but they have no evidence.” A heavy inhale, shoulders held rigid. “He’s infamous for his involvement with the Yiga, but unless there’s actual proof of him committing the act himself or evidence that implicates him in giving directives to the Yiga, there’s not much in terms of punishment that can be done.”
Ryunosuke tucks his chin to his chest. He pushes some pebbles around with the toe of his boot. Something in him feels heavy. “And you… Your sense of justice drove you to be that relentless when pursuing him…”
Kazuma doesn’t respond; he resumes stowing the remaining archery equipment away. The chilly breeze soughs through the clearing, jumbling Ryunosuke’s thoughts along with it.
“I just don’t understand though,” Ryunosuke says after a moment’s passed. He tips his head back, furrowing his brow. “He stopped that Yiga from attacking me. He seemed more interested in talking, honestly. If he’s part of the Yiga, then why would he prevent his own companion from attacking me?”
“Should we really be debating the intentions of a Yiga member, of all people?” Kazuma asks, giving him an unimpressed look. “I don’t know why he does the things that he does, and I’m not sure I care that much—frankly, I’m not quite all that interested in getting into that man’s head, at any rate.” Ryunosuke lets out a jittery laugh, hand to the back of his neck. “…Maybe it was an attempt to ingratiate himself to you, or something of that sort,” Kazuma continues, then shakes his head. “Either way, the man is dangerous. A single actorly performance of goodwill doesn’t negate that fact.”
The theory is sound, yet something doesn’t settle right in Ryunosuke’s mind—a puzzle piece with the correct shape, but the image drawn upon it is incorrect. If the Yiga made a deal with McGilded to bring him there with a clear path to end him, would such an elaborate act be that necessary?
He shakes his head of the thought. He’s not too keen on repeating the same errors in judgment again—of extending trust to people that give him uncertainty and getting burned by it. Past mistakes are made to grow from after all, aren’t they?
The way the sun hits the spindly branches of the trees reminds him of gold worn on fingers. He feels a stone sitting in his stomach.
An exasperated huff from Kazuma. The bag he has now finished packing drops to the floor with a loud thud. He shoots Ryunosuke an impatient deadpan before saying, “Are you going to get the arrows, or are you expecting me to do all the work once again?”
Ryunosuke shoots up, spine straight. “O-Oh, yes! Sorry!”
“Royal Highness Prince Ryunosuke Naruhodo!” Soseki’s bellow cuts through the bustle. Soseki’s standing on the threshold of his bookstore’s entrance, half in and half out, teeth bared with no bite. “There you are!”
Despite it all, Ryunosuke feels the pierce of fangs in those exposed canines. He sinks lower into himself. Too late to run. “H-Hello, Soseki…”
Ryunosuke’s eyes dart about. Hosonaga is nowhere to be seen—a small blessing at the very least, but still one negligible compared to the situation he’s found himself stuck in.
Both of Soseki’s hands lift, eyebrows and mustache twitching frantically. The shine in his eyes makes him look like he’s about to cry. “Please tell me, are you ignoring me? Twice now I’ve called out to you with the gift of sweet potatoes and you’ve disregarded my pleas! Twice!” He pumps his fists with an animated zeal, head jutting out like a giraffe reaching for leaves. “‘He merely didn’t hear,’ I said to myself, but then your face screws as if you’ve just eaten a lemon and you walk even faster away!”
Each word is punctuated with a full-body movement: “Devastated Dealer Deliverer of Dread!” He dramatically throws his head back with his arm covering his eyes. “What have I done wrong?!” he wails into the air.
Ryunosuke’s stomach works itself into a knot. “Y-You’ve done nothing wrong, Soseki. I just…” He can’t explain the situation to him. Even if he was able to, how could he ever find the words to describe the maelstrom that inundates his thoughts? Would it even make sense to anyone else if he did? “The thought of eating sweet potatoes has made me feel a bit nauseous lately, is all.” He grips his forearms behind his back, body held straight.
Soseki abruptly lowers his arm—theatrics doused with a bucket of cold water. “Oh.”
“W-Well, it’s not quite a sweet potato, but I’m glad to have squashed that little misunderstanding.” Ryunosuke forces out a laugh that grates in his ears. With a quick “G-Good day, Soseki,” he hurries away.
He ducks his head low as he navigates through the crowd, but when Kazuma enters his periphery, he’s examining him with an intense sort of scrutiny he can’t—or doesn’t want to—define.
It’s been difficult for Ryunosuke to concentrate lately.
This isn’t especially unusual—his attention and the thoughts in his mind often flitted about from one thing to another like a hummingbird whizzing between flowers—but ever since what transpired with McGilded, it’s been a particular challenge. Lingering, forever buzzing in the background no matter how much time there’s been to dissipate the initial shock and dread.
Palm pressed to his cheek, he glances sidelong at Kazuma, who is reading in a padded armchair he’s all but claimed as his own now that he’s not left posted outside of Ryunosuke’s chambers all day anymore—not that Ryunosuke minds: he’s never used that chair much anyway. Besides, he feels he owes him some personal sanctuaries of comfort in his room, with how often he’s been asking him to spend the night whenever that nightmare starts resurfacing again. (Five times since that first night, that nightmare recreation’s hold on Ryunosuke’s mind like water ebbing and flowing—receding for a while after Kazuma stays, only to surge back later with a fury. It never fails to surprise him that Kazuma still agrees to sleep on his floor—even sleeping in his wardrobe would probably be more comfortable.) Kazuma’s staring daggers down at those pages, brows drawn at such a ferocious angle, his forehead would surely be creased if not for the strip of flaming fabric obscuring it.
This also isn’t especially unusual. He’s always this way when something captures his attention—whether it’s in a good or a bad way, Ryunosuke can’t determine. He’s been reading for far too long without launching into an impassioned rant about it, however, so Ryunosuke deduces it must be the former.
He reads the book’s title on the spine—nothing he recognizes. Considering the types of novels Kazuma’s been insisting he read, it’s either a novel filled with dense war strategy and political intrigue, or dramatic romances that alter the very fabric of the world or something to that effect. One of the two. Maybe both at the same time. Frankly, either genre has been too uninteresting for Ryunosuke to really enjoy, though he’s appreciated the writing.
His eyes shift back down to the papers before him. There’s no question about the material he has been attempting to read: it’s of the bad variety. He’d start grumbling himself if he knew Kazuma wouldn’t admonish him for it.
Kazuma would be right to do it, of course—Ryunosuke’s future was sealed as soon as his father gave him the directive. He had told him when he arrived back from his expedition about McGilded and the vision and Calamity Stronghart and Goddess Hylia. King Naruhodo went as white as a Cucco and just as frantic: pacing around his study until speed-walking out to seek counsel, but not before making it clear, in no uncertain terms, that Ryunosuke was to prepare to leave to the springs once plans were ironed out. Non-negotiable.
Ryunosuke studies the map of Hebra and his eye twitches. To his astonishment and tentative relief, the king didn’t fully unload his anger on him verbally—he can’t help but wonder if finally hearing Goddess Hylia’s voice helped safeguard him from the worst of it—but the message was given loud and clear: a pilgrimage to multiple springs in the Tabantha Tundra during the dead of winter is punishment enough.
Purify yourself under the sacred waterfalls of Hebra, the king had ordered. It is imperative that you cleanse yourself of the maleficence that you have allowed to mar your soul.
(“I’m sorry,” Ryunosuke had apologized to Kazuma after speaking with his father. “You’re getting punished, too, by having to accompany me—”
“Say no more. I’m not entirely without fault in this whole matter, anyway. We’ll weather it together,” Kazuma had replied in that same courageously insouciant manner, as if anything was possible to achieve. “I said I would protect you before, didn’t I?”)
He adjusts in his seat and gets momentarily blinded—the sunlight filtering through the curtains reflecting against the exposed metal patch under his Daruma’s brilliant sapphire eye. He scrubs his eyes and absentmindedly picks at the flaking red paint.
Around the eye: silver metal. Insistence nags at him and he continues to tug at bits of vermillion, paint peeling easily under his fingers. Ribbons down its exposed body: an earthy brown, then raised ochre markings. Form familiar, but smaller—less squat.
“K-Kazuma?!” he squeaks, blindly slapping at Kazuma’s arm. His insides feel like they’re vibrating.
A loud snap of a book shutting. “What—what is it?!” Alarm in his words. If Ryunosuke’s eyes weren’t glued to the now-clearly-not-a-Daruma on his desk, he’d wager he’d see Kazuma one second away from leaping out of his chair, sword at the ready.
“Look!” Ryunosuke points at the prototypical Guardian sitting idly amidst an organized mess of papers and acquired trinkets.
There’s an audible thump when Kazuma slumps back in his chair, a stupefied sort of sound escaping from him. “You’re kidding…” He swats at Ryunosuke’s arm. “I told you that it wasn’t a Daruma!”
Ryunosuke pouts and crosses his arms tight in front of him. “It’s what my mother called it when she gave it to me!”
Kazuma groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The entire point of a Daruma is that it has two eyes you paint when you set and accomplish a goal.” He leans into Ryunosuke’s space, lip curled. “A single-gem-eyed Daruma makes no sense. Furthermore, it’s much too heavy.”
With a grumble and an eye roll, Ryunosuke shoves his face away.
The way the shining light reflecting off Iris’s goggles illuminates a gap-toothed, maniacal smile makes her look less like an eight-year-old girl and more of a mad scientist.
“Oh, this is simply marvelous!” Iris chirps. “We seem to be in luck because Darumy—”
“…Darumy?” Ryunosuke whispers, and Susato giggles behind her hand.
“—here has a lovely little present stashed inside his core!” She raises a finger to her temple and flicks a piece of her bangs. “That is to say: fuel, my dear fellows! Ancient Energy!”
A chorus of gasps from the three of them. Some mysterious concoction or something of the sort groans from deep within the lab.
Iris holds up a syringe filled with a vivid cerulean as she lifts her goggles up onto her silver rose hair. “We’ve only this little bit to work with, but! It gives us a beginning point to start experimenting with!” She nods vigorously, curled twintails bouncing behind her. “And thanks to the extra gears Ginny gave me, Darumy can be fixed! He’s missing some of his vital innards, after all. Ooh, and poor Eggy—”
“…Eggy?” Ryunosuke mutters, and Kazuma gives him a pitying look back.
“—can finally get some sustenance! How very wonderful!” Iris beams. She drags the first Guardian they found in the Passeri Greenbelt across the table. “You see, Eggy has all her mechanics still intact, but no fuel left in her core.”
“Oh, this is all so exciting, Iris!” Susato chimes, clasping both her hands up to the side of her face. “I should love to see them both in action once you’re finished!”
“Erm, Iris…?” Ryunosuke inquires once she begins distilling some of the fuel into small vials. His eyes sweep the dark, haphazard lab. “May I ask where Champion Sholmes is, by the way?”
“Oh Hurley?” Her tongue pokes out of her mouth as she pulls out a graduated cylinder and dumps some of the fluid into it.
Another bleating noise comes from further into the lab. Ryunosuke shivers.
“Hmm…” Iris continues. “Pestering the other researchers at the shrine at the Quarry, I would venture to guess!” She gathers a stopwatch and some other materials.
Ryunosuke blinks. “What do you mean ‘the shrine’?”
Iris places a marble on the scale and jots down the measurement on her pad of paper. “Susie, can you please explain for me?” She looks up for a split second with a cheery smile before ducking her head back down to focus on her notes.
“Oh, yes, of course!” Susato says, tucking a hand under her elbow and lifting a finger into the air. “She was explaining it to me before you both arrived: a group of quarry workers were mining and uncovered this large structure. Based on Iris’s description, this is what I’ve gleaned of its appearance. Though, of course, I’ve yet to see it with my own eyes, but she confirmed that it looks similar enough.” She pulls out her bookmarked book from her pouch and flips to a page with a rudimentary sketch of an odd-looking building of sorts—shape comparable to a bulb of garlic. “Curiously, there’s a pedestal outside of it nearly identical to those pedestals found inside the Divine Beasts, though they are lacking the indentation on its face.”
Kazuma puts a fist to his chin. “Any idea on what its purpose is for?”
“I’m afraid not, Kazzy,” Iris pipes up. Her fervent scribbling isn’t impeded when she speaks. “There’s not a single entrance into it and none of the regular miners’ tools could so much as get a dent into the thing!” She stops writing, then, as her eyebrows lift. “Ooh, maybe that means I can test out my new drill I invented! I can’t wait!” Iris clasps her hands together in front of her, bouncing in her chair.
“Haah…” Ryunosuke exhales. He always needs to remind himself just how dangerous the tiny girl can be. “That’s quite exciting for you, Iris, but why the name ‘shrine’?”
“May I?” Susato asks and Iris hums an agreement. “It’s quite too early to truly make educated guesses on its purpose, but considering the size of the structure, the interior must be fairly compact… Tentatively, we’re guessing these may be outposts to communicate with the Divine Beasts due to their sharing of similar pedestals.” She places a finger to her cheek, eyes searching the ceiling in contemplation. “A shrine seemed an apt enough name in the interim: you’d be praying to one of the Beasts in a way analogous to the goddess.”
There’s another groaning noise from behind—louder, this time. It causes Ryunosuke, Kazuma, and Susato all to look over their shoulder into the dim recesses of the lab.
“…Iris, what is making that Goddess awful noise?” Kazuma asks.
“Ah…” a dejected voice squawks out from the shadows. Glowing eyes as rich as sunsets cut through the darkness.
A yelp peals out of both Susato and Ryunosuke as they flinch out of their skin. Susato immediately spins towards the sound in front of Ryunosuke, arms raised and prepared for a brawl. Kazuma stands at the ready, hand wrapped tightly around Karuma’s hilt.
An all-too-recognizable blonde plumage flips right side up from his ceiling perch. Drooping feathers slink across the far side of the lab.
Susato’s hands fly to her gaping mouth. “Oh, Ch-Champion Sholmes! Hello!”
“You’ve finally deigned to acknowledge my—what you no doubt view as—worthless existence…” Sholmes mutters. “Pray, my dear fellows, don’t burden yourselves with feeling sorry for me! I will remain ostracized in the shadows in my very own lab the same as in the supposed sanctuary for scientific minds… Such is the way of this cruel existence…!”
“…Huh?” Ryunosuke slumps forward, teeth gritted. “Why didn’t you say anything when I asked where you were? Or say anything at all the entire time we’ve been here? No one knew you were even in the room to begin with!”
Sholmes’s wings grasp at the air like claws as he hunches forward, frustration in his features. “That’s precisely the issue! Am I that much of black mark on your acquaintance that my mere presence is nothing but a trifle?! Especially on such a momentous day of a breakthrough in research?!”
“S-Sorry…?” Ryunosuke mumbles and looks to Kazuma, who shrugs.
Susato leans forward, eyes fierce. “Of course not, Champion Sholmes! We are delighted to have you here!”
“Oh Hurley, there you are!” Iris chitters. “Would you mind taking a look at Eggy while I fix Darumy?”
Sholmes skitters over to the work table at once. “Of course, my dear girl!” Like a child getting permission to eat a cookie—his surly mood reversed in an instant.
Ryunosuke leans close to Susato. “Um, Lady Susato, do you have any idea why Champion Sholmes was…in such a fowl mood earlier?” he whispers behind his hand.
Susato frowns. “Oh, no, I’m not su—”
Iris peers over the top of Darumy. “Hurley was temporarily banned from the Ancient Tech Research Institute because he insisted on exploding a Guardian,” she explains in such a blasé way, it’s as if this was an ordinary occurrence. Ryunosuke is inclined to believe it’s not the first time something like this has happened.
“Iris, I have explained this,” Sholmes says, leaning forward with his wings held up. “After examining the inner machinery of the Guardians, a hypothesis most beguiling regarding the hardware’s heat dissipation capacities sprang to my mind that could not be ignored! Alas, our fine researcher friends at the Institute had a disagreement in opinion on how to proceed. As you know, thermal management is…”
Sholmes begins to launch into a long-winded explanation full of technical jargon that leaves Ryunosuke’s head spinning. After who knows how long, his vision goes fuzzy, the words a garbled slurry in his ears.
He’s brought to the present when Kazuma shakes him by the shoulders. “Wha… Huh?” Ryunosuke grumbles to Kazuma’s unamused face.
“...Hence why extensive testing of the efficiency of cooling systems is imperative!” Sholmes says emphatically, accentuated with a snap of feathered fingers. Susato is utterly enrapt, staring at him like he’s a star shooting across the horizon.
“Ah yes, of course,” Iris replies with a cheery, yet distracted drawl as she continues to fiddle with the mechanics of the Guardian.
There’s a light whirring noise, then it grows louder and louder. Sholmes is enveloped by a dull, blue light. Ryunosuke rubs his eyes, follows the source of the light down to Eggy—shades of amber surging through its veined outer design, blue the locus at its shining eye. A low grating noise emanates from the Guardian, off-kilter and decrepit—thousands of years of disuse trying to shed its rust.
“It seems, my dear Iris,” Sholmes says as he flicks a wingtip at his head feathers, the spotlight of lurid colors casting deep shadows on his face, “that you’ve won the bet after all.”
…He was betting with an eight year old?
Sholmes rests a wing on his hip and shifts about. “You were undoubtedly right that it uses an internal spark ignition for combustion.” He crumples forward, aggravation tinting his tone, when he continues, “Blasted! I was hoping for something a little more involved!”
“I knew it!” Iris clasps her hands up in front of her and beams, practically buzzing in her chair. “Looking at the design of the combustion mechanisms, it seemed like the only logical deduction to make!”
Sholmes nods. “Indeed, that’s quite so!” There’s something to his nonchalance that piques Ryunosuke’s attention: he seems less surprised and dejected than his previous comment would lead to expect. “Ah, I do wonder…” Sholmes places a finger to his forehead, closes his eyes.
Eggy continues to flash and ripple with colored lights on the table. The slow activation betrays the length of its disuse—it would be surprising to see it operational that day as it cycles through whatever programming resuscitation needs to take place. Ryunosuke, Kazuma, and Susato crowd around it.
“Just think,” Susato croons, “soon, we’ll be able to see exactly what the Guardians were like ten thousand years ago!” Even without the blue light reflecting in them, her eyes shine as bright as Eggy’s.
“Or, at least, what their prototypes were like, anyway,” Kazuma says.
Ryunosuke runs his fingers down the piping of orange with a grin. Even if the prototypes changed in more ways than just size when creating the other excavated Guardians, they’ll provide invaluable insight.
“But, oh phooey!” Iris’s words grow morose, disappointed. “There’s only so much Ancient Energy left…” Her mouth tugs into a deep frown, eyes downcast and cloudy. “None of the other Guardians had anything left over in their cores… Darumy had enough to power on Eggy and will allow us to run more tests, but after that, I fear…”
“But, my dear Iris!” Sholmes quickly interjects. Some time in the interim, he’s moved closer to the Guidance Stone and the Sheikah Slate sitting within its pedestal. “Have you already forgotten? Reflect back on that pool of blue tar we discovered near the Guidance Stones… The very same that our irascible researcher friends have done analysis of and determined a lack of toxicity, yet have been unable to establish the origin of?”
Iris’s eyes grow as wide as the cookies she offers alongside her tea. “You think…?!” She leaps towards her notebook, furiously flipping through the pages. “I did feel as though the fuel seemed awfully familiar!”
“Precisely!” Sholmes boasts, wings held aloft and chest puffed out. “In fact, I’d wager a chemical composition analysis comparison of the two fluids would yield identical results!”
Something begins humming. It’s plinky and carries a tension of sorts within its sound, like a taut rope increasingly fraying as it dangles a rock from above. Blue particles light up the Guidance Stone behind a posing Sholmes—a smattering of illumination like stars painting a sky, but with various glyphs cascading down its surface instead. They funnel into a now-glowing Sheikah eye at the stone’s lower crest, and a droplet of brilliant light seeps out. Both Susato and Kazuma cry out and lunge forward when they notice it: the teardrop suspended directly above the Sheikah Slate getting heavier and heavier, threatening to succumb to gravity.
It falls before they’re able to remove the Slate. The drop plunks onto the Sheikah Slate’s surface and splashes radiant light like spray from ocean waves crashing against rocks. Yet the substance is not liquid at all—it scintillates whisp-like across the air before fading out of visibility, and it’s soaked into the darker surface of the Slate itself instantaneously.
A loud chime emits from the Slate before its display slowly flickers on, growing a bright white. Ryunosuke runs around the table to join the others as they all crowd around the pedestal. The Slate’s just as sluggish as Eggy was to initialize at first, but its display soon changes: tinted a deep navy, a Sheikah eye fluttering awake overlayed above it.
The smell of burning imbues the lab; instead of ashen and smoky, it’s sweeter, like overbaked brown sugar cookies. Ryunosuke’s gaze follows the scent to a blue flame crackling underneath the Guidance Stone. He continues to stare at the peculiar flame, mumbling out, “Champion Sholmes, what did you…?”
“Ah, so you’ve noticed, have you, Your Highness?” The pride in Sholmes’s voice is unmistakable. “I figured there must be a modicum of overlap between the activation methods, so I merely lit some of the fuel. Fortunately for us that what came out of the stone wasn’t corrosive, no?” He throws his head back, wing to his head, as he guffaws. Ryunosuke’s expression droops.
“Now, out with it!” Sholmes says through gasps of laughs. “Won’t someone tell me what the blasted thing says already!” He shoves between Kazuma and Susato, pressing head feathers into Kazuma’s cheek. Kazuma swats them away.
“Well,” Susato replies, brow furrowed, “we don’t quite know… There are some symbols here, but nothing that can be read.” She pulls her book out from her pouch and pages through it. “It seems like Ancient Hyrulean, but it’s not so easy to translate. You can’t merely swap symbols for modern letters—you have to account for overall context and, of course, meanings changed over time…” Her eyes flick from book to Slate feverishly. She taps a finger to the center text. “This might be… ‘to view,’ perhaps? Or something of the sort.”
Chatter erupts from the group, them all talking at once.
“Maybe Elder Impa would know?” Ryunosuke asks.
“Grandmother is not that old, Your Highness,” Susato counters.
“That’s not what I—”
“Look here,” Kazuma says. “This little bar is filling in. Perhaps it’s still not fully ready.”
“Ooh, that’s a great catch, Kazzy!” Iris cheers.
“—I-I merely meant she might have more knowledge on resources to help translate!” Ryunosuke cries.
“Take care to not enrage her, Your Highness,” Sholmes gibes. “Her throwing technique is simply unmatched in skill!”
A hearty growl erupting from Ryunosuke’s stomach silences the commotion and leaves his cheeks aglow.
“It might be a good time for a break,” Kazuma says quickly.
It’s the perfect opportunity. Ryunosuke tries to scuttle away from captious gazes, but he’s intercepted by Iris. She has her hands locked behind her, rocking on her toes and heels. Her turquoise eyes are big and hopeful—they shine like Luminous Stones in the darkness of the lab.
“You’re about to go on your next pilgrimage soon, right?” she asks. He nods meekly. “I have every confidence that I’ll be able to get the Sheikah Slate to operational use by the time of your departure. I believe it’s a device meant to travel around, so…” She interlocks her hands in front of her chest and leans forward. “I’d like you to have it and collect as much field data as you can, so when we see each other again, I can examine the results, okay?”
Ryunosuke has to force himself to blink to get out of his stupor. “But, but Iris, you’ve only just activated it right now—you don’t need to rush into trying to get it to work in time…”
Her eyes sparkle—filled with a fiery determination. “I’ll get it done. So, promise me, you’ll come to collect it before you leave? Please, Prince Runo?”
Out of all the pressures he’s faced, the pleading eyes of a precocious eight-year-old girl with more genius than he could ever hope to possess is a contender for the most challenging. He swallows before he feels the insides of him breaking in concession. With a hand held to his heart, he bows. The warmest smile he can manage when he says, “Yes, of course, Iris. I promise. I’ll do my best.”
Iris’s eyes slip shut when a giant smile forms on her face. She hops up and down in delight. “Ooh, thank you, thank you!”
No matter what perils lie ahead on his travels, he vows that he won’t disappoint her.
When Ryunosuke and Kazuma ride out of Castle Town on their horses, the remaining vestiges of night are being chased away by emerging ceruleans and oranges and yellows. The streets are sparsely populated at this time of dawn, and for what seems to be the hundredth time since he was dragged out of bed, Ryunosuke complains that it’s much too early for anyone to be awake.
The cold is worse once they’re no longer protected by the shield of Castle Town’s walls obstructing the wind. The chill air tumbles through open fields unimpeded. Each puff of their breaths is like smoke out of chimneys. If only these could be the coldest temperatures they’ll face on their journey.
Ryunosuke cranes his neck to stare directly behind him. It’s an outlandish theory, he acknowledges, but he can’t shake the idea that if he never breaks sight of the castle, then maybe it’ll stay eternally unchanged that way in his vision. Preserved in amber by mere eye contact alone—no inky pools of malice or blackened clouds can materialize while under hawkish watch, surely.
At least no one can accuse him of turning his back on them all this way.
“Ryunosuke!” Kazuma’s voice barks out, and Ryunosuke is forced to pry his eyes away when his horse, Vanilla, abruptly jerks away from a collision, letting out an miffed neigh. Kazuma and his horse are stopped before him. “Are you listening to me?” There’s concern in his expression and irritation in his tone.
“Oh—um, yes,” Ryunosuke lies. His eyes continue to dart towards the castle.
Kazuma’s not swayed. Eyes are narrowed further. “What’s wrong? You’ve been acting off all week. If it’s about the getting to the stable in time, then—”
“I’m, I’m just nervous,” he ekes out. “About the pilgrimage and…”
“Calamity Stronghart,” Kazuma finishes in a low voice. Reading his mind as if it’s an open book, as he seems more and more predisposed to do as of late. He must take his guilty silence as an affirmation, because he continues after a moment, “Is your worry strong enough to defeat Calamity Stronghart?”
The question catches Ryunosuke so off guard, he can’t help but gape like a Mighty Carp. “Wh-What?”
Kazuma drums a finger at the reins, impatient. “Should Calamity Stronghart appear right now, will you worrying about it make any difference in the situation we’d be in?” A deepening scowl.
Ryunosuke exhales a thick, white cloud of breath in front of him. “Well, no, I guess not—”
“Then, there’s no point in dwelling on it.” Kazuma’s headband whips behind him when a sharp breeze rolls down the path. His voice grows softer: “Listen, Ryunosuke, we’ve gone through this. The Knights Counsel has had no reports of monster anomalies, there’s been no new abnormal weather phenomena lately… There’s simply been no evidence to suggest that anything’s been significantly altered at this time.”
Kazuma rips his gaze back towards the castle. “If anything, we’re in a better position than we were before,” he continues. “They’ve bolstered defenses across the kingdom and have altered training regimens to better be prepared for potential attacks.” His eyes land back on Ryunosuke, gentler despite the frown on his lips. “And you know better than I that the advancements with the energy for the Guardians is a huge step forward.”
Ryunosuke’s hand automatically shoots to where the Sheikah Slate sits on his hip and gives a feeble nod. “Yes…I suppose you’re right.”
“So!” Kazuma draws in a deep breath. He rightens his horse when he becomes antsy while idle, shifting about. “You can sit here worrying yourself ragged until you accidentally drive your horse off a cliff because you’re not paying attention to where you’re going…” A smirk from him. “Or we can try to get this roadblock out of the way as quickly as we can so you can get back to helping Champion Sholmes and Iris, yes?” He’s close enough to place a hand on Ryunosuke’s shoulder. He can feel the warmth, even through the thick layers of coats.
Ryunosuke swallows down the nervous lump that had lodged itself in his throat. “Yes, thank you, Kazuma.”
And with one final look at the pristine castle and the awakening town below it, he allows himself to look forward.
They’re only a bit past Salari Hill when the monotony of riding takes hold of Ryunosuke and, with a tap, the Sheikah Slate whirs to life in his hands. True to her word, Iris was able to not only make it work, but was able to change the language to modern Hyrulean; she never stops amazing him. Despite only using the Slate a few times now, the starting jingle stirs something warm in his chest—homey, in some inexplicable way.
He stares at the main screen that greets him: a navy grid with a snaking line of beige that extends longer and longer as time passes. When they stop, it stops its progress. When they turn a corner, the line follows the direction. Ryunosuke’s eyes grow wide at the connection.
“Kazuma, take a look at this!” he all but squeals and he flips the Slate around and presents it to Kazuma riding next to him. “I believe it’s tracking our movement! It’s some sort of map, surely, though I’m not sure how entirely accurate—Gah!” A change in terrain jolts Ryunosuke and the Slate jostles out of his hands, but he’s able to snatch it out of the air, clutching it tight to his chest as his heart races underneath its stone surface.
Kazuma lets out a booming laugh. “Perhaps Iris should’ve thought twice about entrusting you with the one-of-a-kind ancient artifact? How about we make a bet: do you break the thing before we reach Snowfield Stable or Talonto Temple?” He has an all-too-smug grin spread wide across his face at the thought, like a cat who’s swallowed a canary.
Ryunosuke shoots him a glare. “Haah… Very funny,” he drawls, cheeks growing hotter in indignation.
Kazuma continues to give him that dizzying grin. “Might I make another suggestion to not be distractedly looking at the Slate while riding?”
So, Ryunosuke draws Vanilla to a stop and he dismounts. He leads her beside him as he walks; Kazuma was right—it’s much easier to examine the contents within the Slate without having to worry about balancing and steering.
“I didn’t mean for you to get off,” Kazuma grumbles from above.
“I needed to stretch my legs,” Ryunosuke replies, lip curled and rosy nose pointed to the sky. Snark can be a two-player game, after all. “We’re getting close to Serenne Stable anyway, right?”
“Yes,” Kazuma says, and the next moment, he’s following Ryunosuke’s lead and taken to foot alongside him.
A tap, and the display on the Sheikah Slate has gone to a new screen. Three in total, Iris had told him: the ever-growing map, a collection of boxes that seemingly organize flora and fauna into a compendium of some sort, and a mysterious feature that acts as a mirror to what one can see in the outside world. Though they all are fascinating, it’s the last one that seizes Ryunosuke’s attention the most—it allows for the dynamic and instantaneous production of images, captured in perfect detail, all without the need for an artist to be present. “Camera,” it’s labeled across the top, and “Photograph Album” in the place where the images are then stored.
Ryunosuke snaps a picture of the trail ahead, then of the wisps of clouds above. “It’s incredible, isn’t it? With something like this, gone are the days of holding still for a painting, surely.” A relief—it always seemed like the very act of being told to not move would cast a spell on him to fidget uncontrollably.
He turns the Slate towards Kazuma. “The detail is astounding… It perfectly captures exactly how grumpy your face looks.” He points to the screen and hums. “See, it even picks up that deep wrinkle on your nose you always get when you’re bother—”
Kazuma throws a hand in front of the lens. “Keep taking photographs of me, Ryunosuke,” he growls, “and I’ll show you exactly how grumpy I can get. Perhaps after, we can get a good image of your face as you beg for mercy!” He raises Karuma.
“Ugh,” Ryunosuke groans, pulling the Slate away. Muttered through grit teeth: “Goddess, you don’t have to get so angry about it…” He makes a mental note to not let Kazuma see the numerous unflattering photos he took of him while testing the camera out earlier.
A tree still clinging to some of its leaves is his next subject—something much more agreeable than the surly knight walking beside him. He taps the plus sign on the side of the screen and the image instantly zooms in closer. Blue flickers for a brief second when he adjusts. He moves the Slate again; the blue smears across the view, as fleeting as a shooting star. It’s only when he notices a small orb of red—an apple hanging from its branches, even now in winter—and steadies his aim that a blue box frames it, somehow labeling the object with precision.
Ryunosuke nudges Kazuma to look, and when he takes the picture and it fills out an empty spot in the compendium, they share a look of wide-eyed wonderment. A new symbol pulses bright in the corner when he pulls up the entry for the apple: “Sheikah Sensor.”
Ryunosuke nearly drops the Slate when a reverberant pinging noise peals out of it.
A snerk from Kazuma. “It’s looking more and more to be before Snowfield Stable,” he says with a languid slowness, fist pressed to his chin in faux contemplation. “Perhaps we won’t even get to Serenne Stable…” Pretend innocence in his voice.
“Kazuma…” Ryunosuke whines, and when he goes to place the Slate over his head in an attempt to hide away, the sound speeds up—like a dog pulling at its leash towards food, insistent. Ryunosuke follows it, adjusting the direction of the Slate with each increased frequency of the beeps. The camera zooms and spots another apple in the tree opposite. Its deep red is camouflaged by the cluster of leaves surrounding it and hard to identify from the road they’re on, but it seems like the Sheikah eye on the Slate acts more than mere decoration—it can see anything, as if any obscurants are as transparent as glass.
“It’s a tracking mechanism…” Ryunosuke breathes out. The excitement there can’t be contained between his broad grin.
“Could be useful when finding supplies,” Kazuma says and Ryunosuke returns a nod.
An auspicious little thing, the Sheikah Slate has proven to be, even with most of its secrets still hidden underneath its vast technology. Ryunosuke captures every item he can get it to identify and more: his horse, one of the stable’s cats, a torch, Kazuma when he slipped on a patch of mud…
He can’t wait to show Iris all that he’s found already.
At the northern peak of Mount Drena sits a small, unassuming spring. Not as majestic in view as the other peaks around Hebra, nor nearly as tall, these mountains are seldom visited by adventurers or prayer seekers alike. The solitary small Goddess Statue erected at its pinnacle is worn and eroded—the enduring moss: a green veil draped over the effigy’s head. Snow dusts the higher elevation, blanketing the water and surrounding conifers in powdered white; it’s but a mere taste of the much more brutal snowfalls that await further up the Hebra mountains.
Despite the heavy winter layers, the cold burrows its way into the chinks of Ryunosuke’s wool armor, permeating through the limited gaps of exposed skin. He wraps his arms tight around himself, hunching against the shivers quaking through his body. It’s been quite some time since he visited this particular circuit of springs, and he curses himself for taking the more temperate sites for granted.
Kazuma hands him one of Champion Sholmes’s Spicy Elixirs. Ryunosuke purses his lips, staring at the perpetually-bubbling ruby liquid. He blinks at it, slow, as if gauging whether or not it’s a trap. “But, I’m not supp—”
“‘You’re not supposed to take any elixirs that will dull your senses,’” Kazuma interrupts with a half-lidded expression, tone saturated with mockery. “Say no more, Ryunosuke! Maybe that worked well for you all when you had a giant retinue escorting you around, but I’m no miracle worker. If there ends up being an emergency and I need to get you medical attention, I won’t be able to run like a Sheikah.” A tug of a frown. “Believe me, I’ve tried…”
It gets a snort from Ryunosuke.
Kazuma crosses his arms and closes his eyes, tilting his wrinkled nose up to the sky. “It’s already unconscionable that they force you to wear those thin robes in water while it’s actively snowing. I’m not going to stand around and watch you get hypothermia. No arguments.”
It’s not as though Ryunosuke has any; he always hates praying at the colder springs as it is. And he hates having to see doctors even more than that. “Right, thank you.” And he’s off to change.
When he’s finished, he’s greeted with a tent of respite against the snow: a tarp strung up in the trees to create a makeshift canopy above the altar. Something light floods within his chest and he can’t suppress the smile worming its way on his face. For the briefest of moments, the cold feels like nothing at all.
Ryunosuke rids the statue of loose debris and places the ceremonial incense holder and the lit stick upon the altar’s base. The lighting of the incense stick signals the official start of the Hebra Pilgrimage: the incense comprised of three different roots for the three pieces of the Triforce and four different herbs for the four giant Goddess Statues spread across Hyrule. Seven ingredients total—seven sacred sites that are visited.
A deep breath. The exhale: a wisp of warm mist across gray skies. He brings his hands up and slaps his cheeks so loud, the sound bounds down the hillside and sends birds flying from their snowy perches.
The jolt that shocks Ryunosuke’s body when he wades into the spring is enough to dispel any lingering vestiges of drowsiness left within him. He faces the smiling visage of the goddess, brings his intertwined hands up, and dips his head.
“O, divine Goddess Hylia, apotheosis of wisdom, holy sovereign of light and time—” He falters, words catching against his teeth. The Temporal Timepiece appears in his mind. Thoughts of McGilded and the association between Calamity Stronghart and the power of time. He squeezes his eyes tighter, hugs his clasped hands closer to his chest, shakes his head of the ruminations.
“I am Ryunosuke Naruhodo, the one who harbors your spirit. Once again, I humbly beseech you for your audience.” He shifts his stance. The elixir succeeds in keeping his core body temperature from dipping, but it can’t fully protect from the numbness that takes hold of his extremities. “But first, I offer my deepest gratitude. Thank you…for guiding me away from Calamity Stronghart. Without your aid, I—” Something itches inside him. “I don’t know what would’ve happened so, um, yes, thank you.”
Each word that comes out scores across his skin—claws digging against his flesh—and he can’t help but wonder if bringing up what happened again is a mistake. It seemed like a good idea at the time—to ingratiate himself into her good graces with a plea of genuine thanks; the gods love their flattery, after all. But, did he disappoint her? Embarrass her? Was trusting McGilded a display of a lack of wisdom, and evoking reminders of that fact an even more egregious one?
He finishes the remainder of his memorized prayers to silence—only the howl of the wind and the fire crackling behind him the sounds that permeate the stillness. When he emerges from the waters, Kazuma rushes over with a thick blanket.
“How are you feeling? Are you alright?” Kazuma insists. Worry in those pinched eyes—kindness there, too. It’s a peculiar feeling watching him fret over him at a spring like this; it seems he’s just as out of his depth navigating in this frigid climate as Ryunosuke is.
Kazuma wraps the blanket over his shoulders. When Ryunosuke goes to secure it around himself, his hand falls over Kazuma’s fingers—a nascence of warmth under his palm that quells the shiver of wind hitting soaked clothes and skin. Ryunosuke assuages his worry, thanks him with a smile that comes too easy in spite of the circumstances. Kazuma’s hands stay there on his shoulders as he ushers him towards the sanctuary of the fire to change.
It’s one prayer that gets answered, at least.
The terrain leading up to Snowfield Stable grows icy and treacherous. The snow is more representative of what the Tabantha Tundra is known for: heavy and unceasing, with biting winds that nip at long ears and toss hoods off heads with ease. The air is so thick with gray haze, it’s difficult to see more than a few feet ahead at all times.
The murkiness of the landscape seeps itself into Ryunosuke’s mind; his attention becomes wishy-washy, indecisive—thoughts lazily sloshing against one another like the slow-moving ice streams that snake through the stone. Snow flurries whip anxious in his stomach and he can’t loosen the tension in his muscles.
It shouldn’t bother him this much—it’s become familiar to receive no responses—but he held some hope that maybe she’d be willing to offer some acknowledgment now, some help, no matter how little. There was now proof she had the ability to speak to him if she so chose to. Was it true that she was withholding contact this whole time until he finds what she views is lacking in him?
It’s only the beginning of the pilgrimage—six sites left. She must be ashamed of him, broken whatever little trust he scraped up from the dregs when she presented herself to him.
The route ahead is bisected by rock formations. Whatever path that has been previously trudged has been long since covered—though, Ryunosuke figures this particular route isn’t heavily trafficked by traders at this point of the year. Indecision obscures his senses as much as the heavy fog: the left is a straighter shot, but the snow seems deeper; the right curves slower around the rock, yet seems like flatter footing.
He grips the reins tight between frozen fingers. Squinting, he turns his head and calls over the roar of the wind, “Kazuma, which way do you think we shou—”
Something skitters out from his right and he yelps, tugging at the reins as he recoils back. Vanilla jumps to the side, snorting in distress, and flings a spray of snow up when she bolts towards the left path. Ryunosuke holds on tight, yanking back. “Whoa!” he cries. He thinks he hears Kazuma yell out, but it’s a muddled mess in his ears—only whipping air and his heartbeat audible as his horse careens through the snowbank.
His mind goes blank, body frozen. He remembers training for this, but it’s static in his head. Unsure, unconfident in his memory. Circles to slow, he thinks, maybe. He tries to shorten the reins, pull one side to his hip, but the movement is apprehensive, her speed too fast already. “Whoa, girl, whoa! Stop!” he rasps out and his throat is stripped raw against the chill. Her head turns towards his pull, but her momentum continues to drive her forward, frenzied. Was that the wrong move to make?
He’s thrown forward, clutches her mane for dear life. Just stay on, he thinks—bailing is too dangerous here.
Time slurries into a nebulous soup: one moment, he’s in a blurring expanse of white; the next, he’s seeing muddy streaks of orange light in front of him, buzzes of music and people straining against the blood rushing in his ears; and then finally, the world’s spinning until everything’s gone dark and so very cold.
He’s hoisted out of the massive pile of snow he’s been chucked into. People in funny hats lift him to his feet and rush him inside the warm building, launching questions at him a mile a minute that don’t cohere in his mind. Jesters, they must be; he’s in some sort of dream, surely—the eccentric tent-building and odd hats attest to it. His head is still spinning when they sit him by the fire and drape a blanket over him. It smells like horses and strong spices.
After some time later, the local medic finishes up his examination—nothing damaged, except for his pride—when Kazuma comes bounding into the area. It’s a mortifying mess of Are you okays and I’m fines and You need to be more carefuls and Kazuma jabbing a finger in his face with each worried scolding that makes Ryunosuke want to cover his burning face under his blanket, until Kazuma finally relents with a wary sigh.
They’ve made it to Snowfield Stable, Kazuma tells him, and the hat people begin to make more sense. Vanilla was calmed and unharmed, but is still acting a bit skittish, and is currently being looked after by one of the stable’s workers. Ryunosuke sinks back into his chair with relief. It was beyond unusual for her to act that way.
“Aren’t you going to eat that?” Kazuma asks, motioning to the small untouched plate of Spicy Curry Rice. The stable workers had been kind enough to leave him some after he was attended to, encouraging him to eat to stave off the cold.
“N-No, I’m not all that hungry…” Ryunosuke’s stomach betrays him, letting out a ferocious growl as if on cue. Kazuma gives him a suspicious look, pitying almost. Ryunosuke’s eyes flick back towards the dancing flames of the fireplace. “I’m grateful for their generosity, of course, but…” He scrubs his arm. “Are you sure it’s safe staying here?”
There’s a staid pause before Kazuma pulls up a chair and sits beside him. “Yes, I believe so.” The embers pop so loud, it rings within Ryunosuke’s ears. “But, if you’re still cautious,” Kazuma continues, voice dropped gentle, without judgment, “I have supplies in my bag I can use with the cooking pots outside. And I can check us into a double room, if you’d prefer. Safer that way.” Ryunosuke nods lethargically.
“Alright then,” Kazuma says as he stands. “I’ll get it all settled.”
“Thank you,” Ryunosuke murmurs. “Um, Kazuma? I’m going to go check on Vanilla.” Kazuma gives him a swift nod before leaving.
An ivory-coated mare, Vanilla, stands within the covered paddock. She’s outfitted in the finest of the royal gear: fine detailing on the leather saddle, deep royal navy and gold ornamentation along the bridle and harness. Harboring a gentle temperament and ever reliable, she has been with Ryunosuke for travel since the very beginning. Utterly foolproof, the Stable Master had called her, and thus, she was assigned to the prince.
He enters the enclosure and lingers at the fence. “Hello,” he greets in a low voice.
The Hylian stable hand brushing Vanilla turns around—long, ginger hair a splash of vibrant color against Vanilla’s white backdrop. She wears a soft smile on her freckled face. “Hello, Your Highness,” she says in a Tabanthan accent, vowels elongated and as light as a breeze. She bows her head. “You’re faring well, I hope, yah?” Her words are fast, faster than even Ryunosuke’s nervous stream.
He dips his chin, eyes darting along the ground. “Yes, thank you. Just a little shaken, is all…” He clears his throat, places a hand to the back of his neck. “How is she?”
“Not too bad—better now,” the woman says. “She’s a lovely gal, oh for sure.” She strokes Vanilla’s neck, then extends the brush out towards him. “Would you like to…?”
His heart catches in his throat. “Oh, um, no, that’s quite alright.” He shifts on his feet.
It’s minute, the change in her expression, but Ryunosuke sees the slight purse of her mouth, the sad squint of her eyes. “Can I ask you what happened?”
With a shaky sigh, Ryunosuke recounts everything. Despite how embarrassing it is, he senses little judgment from the woman.
“Y-You see,” Ryunosuke stammers, “she’s never acted this way before. She’s never just…taken off like that. And I froze and now…” He bites his lower lip. “We still have a long journey ahead of us and I’m worried that—I really can’t have something like this happening again, especially up in the mountains.” He toes at the dirt.
She hums gently, smoothing down Vanilla’s mane. “Your trust’s been beat up a bit then, yah? She got unusually spooked and bolted, and now you’re afraid of her… Which is why you’re scared to come closer, am I right?” She gasps, spinning around, hand splayed over her chest. “Oh, sorry, was that rude?”
He gives a nervous laugh, shaking his head. “N-No, you’re quite right. It was a spot-on deduction.”
Her shoulders slump when she visibly breathes out in relief. “Horses are extremely observant creatures, too—highly sensitive at that, dontcha know.” Vanilla lets out a deep sigh. “They look to you as their leader, and if you’re anxious or unsure or afraid, then they’ll pick up on those signals themselves. I mean, if the leader of the herd is telling them there’s danger around and they’re scared, why would the horse feel any different, yah?” She leans back on her heels. “Something like that happens, you just gotta be relaxed and confident… Though, easier said than done, I know.”
“Yes, truly,” Ryunosuke says with a knowing laugh. “Have you ever experienced something like that before?”
It’s a question that makes her shake so much with laughter, her stable hat bobbles like a paper boat on water. “Oh, yah, you betcha! Fallen off quite a few times when a horse bolted. And much worse.” Her eyes trace the ceiling, following a thread of memory there. “One time, I was training jumps right here at this stable with my horse, Epona. We approached the jump and I just got all in my head about it… Couldn’t decide whether to slow down or speed up and Epona just…stopped and I pitched forward, right over her shoulder.” She laughs again, like it’s a fond recollection instead of one of horror. “Thank Hylia the worst of it was a few bruises, but I sure was scared of getting back on her for a bit there. But, thankfully, trust can always be rebuilt—Epona and I are slick as sleet now.”
Ryunosuke’s eyes go wide. “That’s, that’s terrible…” He fiddles with his arm guard, mind churning. “And how were you able to do that?”
She regards Vanilla for a moment, eyes growing soft, before shifting her attention back to Ryunosuke. “I chose to believe that they’re good at heart, ya know?” A cold gust sweeps through the paddock; the fence groans alongside it. “Falls are gonna happen, spooks are gonna happen, but I still trust my instinct that most horses have a kind soul deep down—even the rowdy ones.” She chuckles. “Sometimes the falls are a sort of blessing in disguise, ‘cause it’s a way to learn. Now that you know what went wrong, you can try to do better next time so it doesn’t happen again. You simply have to try to relax and build back your confidence in yourself as a rider.”
Ryunosuke leans back against the fencing with an exhale. Yes, it’s all very sensible. A pile of mistakes heaped up recently, but the only way to clear the burden of them is to sweep them up and move forward.
She drums his fingers on the brush. “But horses are an awful lot like people in that way, ya know? We’ve seen a lot of people and a lot of horses at this stable.” She shakes her head, continuing, “There’s been a few times when guests have taken advantage of us and times when horses have acted out and it’s made me question whether it’s even worth doing all this.” She closes her eyes and throws her head back with a smile, serene. “But then I think about all the good I’d be missing—all the lovely horses I wouldn’t’ve gotten to see, all the people I wouldn’t’ve met and all the friends I wouldn’t’ve made, all the stories that wouldn’t’ve been exchanged, all the dances and fun I wouldn’t’ve had experienced—all because a few bad encounters tainted things, and realize that, no, I can’t imagine living in such a sad existence…” She sways back on her heels. “So, I have faith in myself that I can handle anything that comes at me. It’s really all that you can do, yah?”
When she looks back at him, her eyes grow wide—a deer caught in torch light. Her skin grows as pale as the snowy tundra. “Ope, excuse me! Did I blabber on too much there?” She pulls her feet in and bows stiffly. “Sorry!”
“No, no,” Ryunosuke insists, pushing off the fence and flailing his hands in front of him. “Thank you for that. It’s given me quite a lot to think about, truly.” A smile.
She extends the brush out again. “Come, a little bonding with your girl might be all you need.”
He stares at the brush and then at Vanilla—at her relaxed posture, head held low, and her ears and tail free of tension. It’s true, she’s always been gentle with him since he started riding her. He knows she’d do him no harm on purpose.
He remembers a time when he was younger, when he had fled from the castle in low spirits, hiding out in the Royal Stable. He had sat there outside her stall when it was quiet and no one was around, curled up into himself. And it was like she knew. He was brought back from that spiral he was stuck in with a warm nuzzle and teeth nibbling at the spikes of his hair, and it was all he needed in that moment to feel a little less alone.
He approaches and Vanilla’s ears perk up, head turning towards him. When he takes the brush from the stable hand, Vanilla steps forward to greet him. “Hello, girl,” he gently coos, and as if in response, she nickers back. He pets her neck, her shoulder—slow and soft. “I’m sorry for earlier. I hope you can forgive me.” Then, he brushes her coat.
Vanilla reaches out with her head and sniffs him, exhaling out a big sigh in his face that blows his short bangs back and he can’t stifle the laugh. He pulls out one of those perennial apples he had picked on the way there—a favorite food of hers, one that the grooms at the castle had previously scolded him for spoiling her too much with—and carefully splits it. She eats it readily, happy as ever, and it’s a weight lifted off his shoulders.
“Well,” the young woman says once Vanilla devours the entire apple, smile plastered on her face, “I’ll leave you both to it.” She tucks both her hands behind her back when she spins on her heels. “I’m glad you’ve honored us with your presence at our little stable, Your Highness.” Blue eyes flit up to the ceiling for a second, then land back on him. “We have very special guests performing tonight, I do hope you’ll join us all, yah?” There’s a giddiness barely contained in the words.
When she turns to leave, realization dawns on him. “Erm, wait, ‘scuze me?” She regards him with a hum, orange hair flicking wild like a horse’s tail when she looks over her shoulder. “I apologize, I don’t think I caught your name…?”
Another grin, toothy. “Malia, Your Highness,” she replies and then continues off, back to work yet again, he supposes. She hums a warbling tune as she goes, bright like green pastures and grass whistles. He watches Kazuma turn the corner where she’s heading, their greetings quiet from a distance.
“How are things?” Kazuma asks when he approaches.
A smile tugs at his lips. “Good,” Ryunosuke replies. And Vanilla presses her face into the back of his hair.
It’s the loud voices and the screech of tables and chairs scraping across wooden floors that alert them to file into the main stable area.
Inside, it’s not just the rush of warm air that makes Ryunosuke gasp out, but the brightly-clothed musicians with a variety of instruments settled upon a small stage at the back of the building. The stable owner has just finished her announcement and slinks out of the way. Malia and another one of the stable hands stand in the center of the cleared-out floor, Malia swaying back and forth on her heels expectantly. The rest of the guests claim tables that have been pushed back; Ryunosuke and Kazuma follow suit.
Ryunosuke squints at the other stable hand as he takes a seat. Tall and lean. Under the big stable hat: salt and pepper hair. On his face: circular glasses. “Do we know…?” he whispers to Kazuma. Ryunosuke suddenly smells sweet potatoes. “Is, is that Hosonaga from Soseki’s shop?!”
“No way…” Kazuma mutters, face screwed in disbelief. So, it’s not just Ryunosuke seeing things, then.
When the Sheikah with the mandolin begins tapping his foot and counting down, a hush descends on the crowd at once, like a candle’s flame being snuffed out. The lingering confusion suffuses with it; Ryunosuke shares an eager look with Kazuma.
A singular fiddle begins, slow and rich in its sound. The fiddler gently sways with each mellow tone—its vibrato a quiver that Ryunosuke can feel rattle deep in his bones. Then, comes the creeping twang of a mandolin blending behind it.
Malia turns to Hosonaga and they both sweep their hands to their opposite shoulders and dip into an exaggerated bow. When they stand back to full height, they’re shoulder to shoulder, bodies pointed towards opposite walls, but heads angled facing each other. They hook their arms together. The fiddle slows. A deep smile cast on both of their faces, buzzing with excitement.
Two plucks of the fiddle, then the music swells. Jubilant and bombastic—the deep patter of drums, the flitting squeal of a flute, the brassy horn mixing with the fiddle and mandolin. Unlike the stiff, reined in melodies at the castle’s balls, the music is loose and quick. Even the castle’s fast-paced music still has restraint built into it—it’s nothing at all like this. A tune consisting of instruments atypical to those used by the Royal Musicians and a syncopated rhythm, in Ryunosuke’s mind, would make for a cacophonous din, but, in spite of it all—or maybe exactly because of it—it works. He’s never heard anything quite like it.
Ryunosuke turns to Kazuma and mouths the inquiry, pointing at the band: Do you recognize this…? Kazuma shakes his head with a shrug.
Malia and Hosonaga march in a circle, then she extends her arm out, catches his forearm, Hosonaga spins her, and they’re both off. Ryunosuke watches with an enrapt attention, hands gripping his knees. If there’s a practiced figure or pattern to their movements, he can’t discern it; they seem to dance erratic and extempore—separating off to their own individual moves, then coming together again when they see fit.
The music slows, just a tad, and the two move closer. Two plucks of the fiddle, and Malia hops in a circle and poses when the horn blows, leaning back on one foot with arms splayed out in an L-shape. Two plucks of the fiddle, and Hosonaga shuffles his feet at the bellow of the horn—both together then spread apart angled one way, then repeated again in the opposite direction. Their laugh cuts through the stable, the joy infectious; Ryunosuke’s smile is unbridled and he can’t seem to pry his eyes off the scene for a second.
The melody slowly grows fuller once more. The two pull away, eyes scanning the crowd as they sway along the lilt. Hosonaga clasps the wings of a deep-maroon-plumaged Rito in the crowd and they smoothly spin into the open floor. Malia pulls a thoroughly bundled-up Hylian woman forward with her—the heavy-knit scarf concealing her face except for her panicked eyes that shoot towards the equally-swaddled group of two she was with, tropical Lurelin Village’s crest proudly sewn into the back of their thick, puffy coats. They bumble along with amusement, reservations thawing after only a few moments.
Onlookers clap to their own beat. The Lurelin woman’s friends whoop and holler as she spins. The Rito twirls as the flute sings aloud. Their movements are impossible to predict. Ryunosuke leans forward in his seat, music tugging at him as if caught in a lasso. His heel jitters to the rhythm, tapping along to the closest beat he can ascertain. It’s intoxicating, it’s wild, it’s free.
Oh, what a breath of fresh air!
Two fiddle plucks and Malia and Hosonaga do some little moves completely different than the first time, then two plucks again, and their partners reciprocate with their own poses. They all separate, turn their heads back to the crowd. People stomp their feet amidst the clapping.
Those on the floor scatter to grab someone else into the mix. Malia’s eyes land on Ryunosuke, her visage glowing. She hops over, tugs his hand from his knee, jerks her head motioning to move.
Swimming eyes and a sudden flush that burns his face. “Oh, no, I don’t—I don’t know the steps,” he blurts.
She merely shakes her head with an ever-widening grin, orange hair spilling loose over her shoulders. “There aren’t any steps! Come, yah?”
When she pulls him out of his seat, he shoots a look back at Kazuma with a nervous smile. Kazuma’s gone stiff, staring hawk-eyed and wooden. Though, in the slight-seconds Ryunosuke’s embarrassed expression captures his attention, the stone cracks, just slightly; he gives a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes—some sort of unease and discomfort there—and he nods.
They file onto the floor ever expanding in size. Malia grabs ahold of his hands and pushes him slightly back, then pulls him forward. The touch is light, fleeting—onto the next journey improvisation takes them.
“Don’t think, just feel it,” she laughs out when Ryunosuke flounders about. She tugs his hand and they switch places, then he follows the kick-step action she does when she separates from him. It truly is nothing like the waltzes back at the castle, with their heavily-practiced, precise movements.
The seconds melt into each other in a whirl, until she leans in and says, “After the second fiddle sound, you do a move, alright? Watch me first,” over the music. The melody crawls, then the two plucks followed by the horn again: she tucks her fists under her arms and flaps like a Cucco. Utterly ridiculous, all of it. Ryunosuke lets out a wheeze so high-pitched, it could be mistaken for the flute.
Two plucks, and he does the first thing that comes to mind: he spins on his toes—despite all the freedom granted, his racing mind pulls from familiarity when pressured—throwing his arms out wide for the dizzying seconds it takes him to regain balance, tottering slightly at the landing.
When he turns his head, Malia is already speeding away, towards a Gerudo woman all too enthusiastic to follow. He watches the surrounding crowd thin as the remaining stable guests get pulled to the floor—Hylian, Rito, Sheikah, Gerudo, Zora, and Goron alike buzzing with joy and movement. Strangers, most of them, sharing a moment of pleasant vulnerability and connection. A transient melting pot simmering in the middle of frost-covered tundras.
His eyes fall on Kazuma still sitting at their table. Chin resting on his fist, he’s peering across the stable out the small windows. There’s tension resting in the pinch of his brow.
“Kazuma!” Ryunosuke exclaims out when he speeds over, breathless. “Come on, come on!” He extends a hand, jostles it with impatience.
Kazuma gives a dazed sort of look, eyebrows lifting and mouth parting ever so slightly. “I, I don’t—I’m not—” he stammers over the build of the drums. Dithering, inordinately sheepish. His headband hangs sluggish and low.
But, he makes the mistake of raising his hand to deflect and Ryunosuke seizes the opportunity, clutching his wrist with both his hands and tugging him forward. A gasp escapes Kazuma as he’s brought to his feet. Expecting much more resistance, Ryunosuke pulls with a force that’s too strong; Kazuma’s swept in an arc like a tethered, heavy ball revolves around a teetering pole. Ryunosuke digs in his heels, grips Kazuma’s wrist tighter.
A deep laugh, giddy and unbidden, peals out of Kazuma when Ryunosuke pulls his hand towards him, and Kazuma presses into him—staggering on tiptoes after not being able to stop before running into Ryunosuke, other hand steadied on Ryunosuke’s shoulder. Ryunosuke squeezes his hand before guiding them both to hop sideways in succession.
Kazuma’s foot lands awkwardly, pinning Ryunosuke’s under it, and Ryunosuke pitches diagonally. Kazuma’s able to steady him before he stumbles. “I told you I can’t dance well,” Kazuma exhales through a diffident grin when he rights Ryunosuke.
Ryunosuke remembers it clearly because of how surprisingly endearing it all was. Like a newborn fawn on ice, Kazuma had said the dance instructor at The Knight Academy had once described him, an utter lost cause. From that day forward, he had resolved to prove the instructor wrong, training his dance footwork along with his sword footwork and practicing with his guardian’s daughter nightly—to many stepped-on toes and collisions on his part. Ryunosuke had remarked that tongue twisters and dancing must be his Achilles’ heels—he has two feet, after all, even if they’re both left.
“I don’t th—it doesn’t matter,” Ryunosuke says with a breathy laugh, mirth floating light to the top.
All the instruments fall in step with each other now, grandiose and soaring, and the two of them flow with the cascading music with much less grace. Toes smashing and shoulders colliding and elbows bumping into other people just as wild as them—it’s a monstrous amalgamation of a waltz and inelegant body flailing that would make the Royal Dancing Master weep if he saw it. And despite it all—despite the minor crashes and the awkwardness and the voluntary embarrassment of the Prince of Hyrule being seen as anything less than the projection of royal perfection in public when that would so often come at the cost of punishment—Ryunosuke realizes it’s the most fun he’s had in months.
Ryunosuke unthreads their hands, takes hold of Kazuma’s wrists, and they spin in a wild circle, round and round—as unruly as a hoop trundled by an overly-excitable child. It’s when the colors around him muddle like streaks of paint raked across a canvas and his head grows woozy with vertigo that he staggers forward with a titter. Kazuma seems to fare better, attempting to support Ryunosuke’s weight while his own boisterous laugh rings out. Ryunosuke tips forward, knocking the side of his head with Kazuma’s hard enough to see stars.
“Ow!” is their chorus of cries. It’s a blurry sequence that follows: Kazuma’s arms wrapping around Ryunosuke’s waist to steady him; Ryunosuke clinging to Kazuma’s upper arms; Kazuma’s face burying into his shoulder; Ryunosuke’s heartbeat thudding loud enough in his ears, it drowns out the music. The subsequent laughter that racks through them both makes them shake with a fury—hysteric and raucous and as saccharine as Honeyed Fruits; if anyone else were to observe them, they’d no doubt think they’d both gone mad.
“You’re hopeless,” Kazuma breathes out, words muffled by Ryunosuke’s coat. A sunspot of heat pressed burning into his shoulder.
“H-Hey!” Ryunosuke manages out. “You’re the one”—he wheezes with the force of his laughter, pressing tight against his ribs and straining the muscles in his face—“who said that you can’t dance well!”
All Kazuma does is lift his head and give him that cat-like grin plastered under rosy cheeks. His headband floats high behind him.
They regain their bearings, restrain the snickering that threatens to tumble out once more. They glide across the stable in a jerky chassé, threading through the undulating crowd, and when they spin and Kazuma dips him low, in the dizzying interim under the orange cast of candlelight above, Ryunosuke has the muzzy thought that Kazuma’s not so bad at this at all.
Kazuma’s face is close. So close Ryunosuke can feel Kazuma’s breath ghost across his face, so close he can smell the lingering scents of firewood and the beef hotpot they shared earlier still clinging to his hair. Ryunosuke feels the warmth of Kazuma’s fingertips diffuse through the fabric of his gloves, feels the solid press of his hand on the small of his back, steadfast and dependable, and it’s like sunlight burning through fog when he registers that he trusts that Kazuma would never allow him to fall so long as he was there. There’s some dewy-eyed part of him, too, that wants to believe it extends much more far-reaching.
That familiar refrain of the fiddle pulls him out from whatever Lost Woods-like trance he fell into, when Kazuma raises him back up to his feet. He tugs his hand away from Kazuma’s grasp and—to the sound of the horn—he hops on one foot, side-to-side, then gets low, wiggling his body with arms outstretched, before attempting a dodgy pirouette.
This draws a barking laugh out of Kazuma, wheezing, “Wh-What was that?!”
Ryunosuke grins so wide it aches, too inebriated with excitement to care about how he looks. The lingering vestiges of fog in his mind dissipate in an instant, and he realizes with a comfortable acceptance that there isn’t another soul in the entire castle he trusts more to see him as he is right now. “Two dancers at the castle performed this!”
Two plucks of the fiddle once more, and Kazuma freezes. Ryunosuke gives him a reassuring nod in response. Tentatively, Kazuma begins tapping his feet, then faster, then faster—punctuating the end with a flourish of his arms. If there’s a bobble in his movement, Ryunosuke can’t identify it. He stands there, stunned, thinking, Where did he learn this…? It wasn’t something The Academy would teach, surely.
“My guardian…” Kazuma trails off, teeth grit and hand tugging at the collar of his coat. Ryunosuke can’t comprehend what he has to be embarrassed about.
“It’s, it’s truly quite impressive!” Ryunosuke blurts out.
They stand there, suspended in motion, gazes fixed in soft wonderment. The music changes tempo—slowing down—before ending on a trilling fermata. Applause erupts, as infectious as the excitable chatter dispersing between the stable walls. Only when the crowd begins to thin are they brought back to the present, and make their way back to their table.
Ryunosuke collapses back in the chair, head lolling back and sucking in gulps of breath. “Amazing, wasn’t it?” he purrs into the warm air—the insulation of the stable so effective at containing the heat, the bite of the snowy air outside would be more of a relief than an affliction.
“Yes,” comes Kazuma’s reply, tone tinged in something—something both airy yet all too dense at the same time.
Ryunosuke hums. He circles a pointer finger in the air, like a conductor. “In my honest opinion, I think you’re quite capable at dancing!” He fans his face.
“Hm… Is that so?” Kazuma asks in that same odd tone—distracted, almost, but that’s not all that’s there in those few words. Some heady sort of fondness dripping off as well, maybe, if Ryunosuke dares to hazard a guess.
Ryunosuke turns his head, only to find Kazuma leaning forward against the table, looking right at him. Two eyes: unwavering, something bright and alight in that deep brown—a keenness there that’s contradictorily not sharp at all, despite how the intensity threatens to cut right through him. Pupils blown wide, like a cat staring face to face with its favorite toy. All with the sharp grin to match. For all the times Ryunosuke’s been the target of his gaze, this one feels markedly different; he feels it course down his bones, electric. Kazuma’s face and ears are flushed pink as fiercely as Ryunosuke imagines his own to be.
Ryunosuke straightens in his seat. “Wh-What is it?” he squeaks out, throat suddenly constricting.
When Kazuma finally tears his eyes away, they slip shut with an easy laugh. “Oh, nothing.” He slides effortlessly to his feet. “I’ll go get us some water,” he says as he begins to walk away, tossing up a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it isn’t poisoned.”
“O-Oh…” Ryunosuke blinks. “Alright, thank you!”
He turns his palm over on his knee, stares at it like it’s foreign—wholly new. His fingertips tingle. He curls his fingers into a fist, tries to capture the warmth that persists there for a bit longer.
When he looks up, Malia is a few tables away, animatedly conversing with the women from Lurelin. His face still aches from earlier, but he can’t suppress the smile that creeps on his face at the sight—at how the other guests mingle with each other, as well.
He sinks lower into his chair and fully takes in the energized chatter and the warmth of merriment floating weightless in the air, as light as a balloon given to a child and imparting just as much bliss.
Maybe this is what he has been missing, what could steer him back on path and free him from indecision—this good.
Notes:
The stable section was definitely inspired by the Stable Trotters' Serenade from Tears of the Kingdom! For specific rhythm, I also referenced this song, which is more reflected in the actual stable song depicted in this chapter. Finally, the silly dance Ryunosuke does at the end that the castle performers performed is Kamaro's Dance from Majora's Mask.
Malia is a portmanteau of two iconic Zelda horse girls, Malon and Ilia.
If you've seen my past fics, I'm a bad-dancer Kazuma truther :') ...Though Ryunosuke doesn't seem to mind that much
Chapter 11: Resolutions
Notes:
Warnings - click to view
- Mentions of disordered eating
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
A heavy blizzard battered the Tabantha Tundra and left us all stuck at the Snowfield Stable for a week. I hope the Goddess Hylia isn’t irritated by the delay in the pilgrimage, but if she is, then perhaps she should have intervened and changed the weather!
As much as I don’t wish to face what comes ahead, I’m grateful that we’re no longer confined inside all day. I think all of us in the stable were getting a bit stir-crazy by the end of it.
Resuming travel also spares me from the simmering wrath growing within Kazuma the more times I beat him at cards. He’s now convinced I’m cheating since he says that long of a win streak can’t be possible, but it’s truly just been luck. I know I shouldn’t keep rubbing it in his face, but I can’t help it when his reactions are always so animated and amusing… Perhaps it’d be wiser to wait to bring it up when he doesn’t have Karuma within grabbing range, though…
Speaking of Kazuma, he really does get up quite early to train—much earlier than I’d ever think a person in their right mind would, anyway. Since he couldn’t go outside, he began to take to practicing his sword katas in our small room. I tried to argue that his sword skills were already up to par and that a week wouldn’t cause him to become rusty. He proceeded to act scandalized and launched into a giant rant about the importance of consistent practice or something or other, so I dropped the issue. There was a close call with a decorative vase and he almost cut the curtain off the window two days in, so that quickly put an end to that. I think he just goes through the motions without Karuma now, but I sure am not waking up when he does to confirm that…
Anyway, it wasn’t long after that first night when we saw Hosonaga again; he was cleaning the front desk area the next morning, in fact. After quite a bit of questioning and prodding, we finally got our answer about why he even was at the stable to begin with. Even days later writing this, I still find myself in shock about what he said: he’s a knight! And not just any knight either—a Castle Town Inspector, at that!
It shocked me for obvious reasons at first, but what was even more surprising for me was the fact that he had to work multiple jobs in addition to his Inspector role… From my understanding, even Patrol Knights were paid enough to live comfortably; an Inspector would have no need to pick up a second (or third? I suppose, if he is also working as a stable hand?) job.
He denied it was for lack of rupees. In fact, he said he’s given these jobs as opportunities to work undercover—the perfect opportunity to get on-the-ground information from people directly, supposedly. He then emphasized that it’s his guiding principle to carry out all investigations flawlessly and, to do that, he’d go to any lengths, including traveling across Hyrule or even taking evidence from a crime scene in order to preserve it. He said this dedication to justice is exactly why his Commander sends him out on all these assignments, despite Castle Town knights largely staying within the town itself.
He didn’t seem bothered when I asked him about the fact he was taking evidence; he actually seemed quite proud, declaring that he “doesn’t care about being called a crime scene thief,” since he does it all for justice’s sake. Utterly baffling… To me, it seems as though maybe the reason they’re forcing him to do these odd jobs is to get him away from the crime scenes instead…
Either way, all this talk has me thinking of sweet potatoes again… And the knot in my stomach at the thought of it all. I just don’t know if
The news of who I was spread throughout the stable a lot quicker than I had hoped (though, I suppose it’s not that surprising—very little could be kept hidden with how in close quarters we were) and while most of the people did become a bit stiffer whenever they were around Kazuma and me, it thankfully didn’t make things too awkward. One of the women from Lurelin Village said something about how different I looked in person compared to the portraits distributed in their local newspapers; whether that was in a good or bad way, I haven’t a clue… Kazuma just laughed at me later about it.
It turned out all the people there were quite nice and charming in all their different and unique ways. I will miss them dearly.
A loud yell cuts through the stillness of the snow-dusted mountains, sending a thick spray of powder into the air in its wake as the source of the sound careens down the slope.
“Cheater!” is screamed from another whizzing figure far behind them. “Gliders aren’t allowed!”
Ryunosuke rubs his sleeve across his eyes, blinks away the burning glisten of sun reflecting off fresh snow. He watches the person in the lead shred down the slope out past where Kazuma and him stopped to rest and spots them tucking a red contraption under their arm.
The person’s responding cackle echoes quieter when they zip into the distance. The trailer rides past several seconds later.
“What are they doing?” Ryunosuke asks as their figures are erased by white trails.
“Shield surfing,” Kazuma replies. “It’s gained quite the competitive following recently, as I’ve understood it.”
Kazuma explains. East of Tabantha Village sits a lodge atop a mountain: Hebra Lodge. More forgiving than the harsh heart of the Tabantha Tundra, the location is appealing for its consistent snow cover and mix of gradual and steep inclines along its mountains. With Tabantha Village at its base and Rito Village in close proximity to the West, it’s become a popular tourist spot for snow sports enthusiasts. Shield surfing, once only known as a fun pastime for children, has begun gaining recent traction as a classic sports offering of the region—competitions where experts put their practiced jumps and flips on prime display being one of the biggest attractions.
The three women from Lurelin said it was their main destination.
Ryunosuke watches as a child further away attempts down the less severe path with a far more precarious balance than the previous two. Something stirs within him: the thought that it looks terrifying—but also some amount of nagging interest? Is that a ridiculous thought?
A stiff breeze picks up, sending the ends of Kazuma’s headband into the air and—for not nearly the first time and he’s sure it will be far from the last—slapping Ryunosuke dead on in the face. He swats away the fabric, but even when the wind dies down, it continues its barrage with a vengeance. Ryunosuke can swear it has a mind of its own sometimes—and his face has some magnetic field attracting it directly to it.
“Is—Pbtff—” Ryunosuke finally is freed from Kazuma’s headband’s wrath when Kazuma shifts position with a look of confusion. Ryunosuke slumps down, continuing, “I was trying to say: is it hard to do?”
“I’ve only attempted it a few times, but… At first, it’s tricky to gain your balance,” Kazuma says, “but after a few rounds of practice, you start to get a hang of it.”
Ryunosuke puts a hand to his chin and gives him a dubious look. “Is that a you ‘you’ or a me ‘you’ that you’re referring to?”
Kazuma laughs—so brightly, even he has to close his eyes. “I think you could pick it up just fine.” He shoots Ryunosuke a knife-like grin. Mischievous. “Why? Would you like to try it?”
Ryunosuke opens his mouth then closes it. “N-No! Not at all!” His eyes dart wide.
Wanting to stand on a shield on top of slippery snow with no handles or anything to guide you? It’s ridiculous! He much prefers to have two feet on the ground at all times—it’s much safer that way. And even when he’s on the back of a horse, their feet are like an extension of his feet, and horses have four feet. It’s double the feet, so double the safety! Sure, the horse may bolt off and he gets thrown, but he’s already established that was a failure on his part with Vanilla, so it’s clearly a different situation.
A shield is just a shield—it’ll do whatever it wants downhill and then he’ll die. Kazuma will have to bring his dead body back to the castle and present it to his father and he’ll have to say that the Prince of Hyrule slipped down some snow and hit a tree or something and shattered all his bones instantly and then died. Embarrassing.
But, the thing that he can’t get out of his mind is, it sure looks fun. Absolutely ridiculous.
Ryunosuke purses his lips. “I mean,” he continues. “If I’m to be perfectly honest, I kind of would like to give it a try…” He watches the beginner shield surfer totter down slowly with a nervous stare. “Is it dangerous?”
Kazuma gives a thoughtful noise. “Well, I wouldn’t say it’s not dangerous…”
Ryunosuke shoots him an exasperated glare. “That’s not answering the question.”
Kazuma crosses his arms and shifts his weight to one foot. “I’d say it’s less dangerous than riding a horse. Besides, if you go on the beginners’ slopes, the worst thing is you lose your balance and fall, maybe slide down a bit. The inclines aren’t that steep and you have a big enough shield—you can always just sit down like you’re sledding.”
The battle in his mind between wanting to try and being too afraid to have claimed thousands in casualties. It’s at a stalemate—no end in sight. It can’t continue like this.
Ryunosuke watches as the child falls down on their rear and he grimaces. After a pause, they get back up, shake the snow off, and try again. They look untroubled; he spots a smile on their rosy face.
“Kazuma, there’s a fierce war raging inside of me,” Ryunosuke says with utter solemnity.
“…What?”
Later, after when they’ve made it to the lodge and stabled their horses for the meantime, Kazuma pulls out a perfectly circular shield that’s so large, Ryunosuke can only imagine it was made for a Goron to use originally—though for what reason a Goron would need additional armor, he isn’t quite sure. Kazuma’s gone over the basics: stance, balance, how to fall safely.
“You won’t let go, right?” Ryunosuke says as his legs wobble under him, holding onto Kazuma’s forearms in a death grip.
Kazuma lets out a quick chuckle. “You’ll be fine, I promise.”
Ryunosuke gives him a horrified look. “You won’t let go, right?!” he presses again at Kazuma’s non-answer, more forceful.
“Didn’t you want to actually shield surf?” Kazuma looks annoyed. “You’re not even moving. I can’t hold your hand as you go down the hill.”
Ryunosuke doesn’t seem to understand why not. If the incline really isn’t that steep, why couldn’t he just run down it next to him the whole time? He’d have a better chance of staying standing that way than by himself.
“But I—” Ryunosuke cuts himself off when he really takes a look at the slope of the hill in front of him. “I’m not sure if I—”
“Ryunosuke, you’re leaning forward,” Kazuma says quickly as the shield begins to slip beneath Ryunosuke. “Let go and ride it down. You’ll be fine, trust me.”
Ryunosuke doesn’t let go, even when he starts drifting forward. He clamps his mouth shut into a tight scowl and shakes his head back and forth vigorously.
The shield slides forward, faster. “Ryunosuke—!” Kazuma’s steps begin to accelerate. Ryunosuke grips onto him even tighter, though it seems like it’s an impossibility. “Let go!”
“Are you out of your mind?!” Ryunosuke manages to cry out. His heartbeat is a hundred hammer strikes in his ears.
Kazuma’s running now, and more and more rapidly losing ground. Ryunosuke refuses to relent his grasp. “Shit!” Kazuma hisses out and leaps onto the shield before it can drag him down the hill.
The shield lurches with the sudden weight distribution change and it speeds quicker down the hill. The momentum spins the shield, whirling across some wicked rogue patch of ice that sends them shooting off.
It’s a blur in Ryunosuke’s mind: Kazuma yells something about getting lower to gain balance, though him falling down on the shield wasn’t a conscious choice of his, he’s pretty sure; he at some point finally let go of Kazuma’s arms and instead began clinging to his body in terror; he’s sure he began screaming, though he has no recollection of it all.
Kazuma sticks his feet out in an attempt to brake. The shield careens over a small bump, sending a spray of powder awash over them. They finally spin out at the flat bottom and come to a dizzying stop.
When the world stops rotating around him, Ryunosuke unburrows his face from out of the safety of Kazuma’s shoulder. He’s lying flat on his back with Kazuma on top of him, Kazuma’s hand protectively cradling the back of his head.
The adrenaline messes with his head—makes him think an appropriate reaction is to laugh out like a Faron Kookaburra, though what he really wants to do is cry. Somehow, it spreads to Kazuma in some sort of delirious laughing plague, because he hears his deep laugh directly in his ear, feels his chest shake against him.
Kazuma’s bangs brush up against his forehead with each tremble and it makes the sensation worse. “S-Stop!” Ryunosuke laughs. “Your hair—it tickles!” He peels his grip off of Kazuma’s back and pushes his bangs up off his face. And despite it all—despite the near-shield-surfing-death and the fear and the embarrassment and the damp coldness of melting snow across his too-warm cheeks—the thought that Kazuma’s hair is a lot softer than he ever imagined it to be tumbles down his brain like a rupee tossed into a well: it’s there with an intensity, it echoes, and then it’s gone.
A final, lingering laugh bubbles out from him when he finally opens his eyes. And Kazuma’s staring down at him like a deer caught in torch light—wide, shining eyes that much clearer with the hair still tangled between Ryunosuke’s fingers out of his face. Ryunosuke’s smile drops; he stills.
“Wh-What’s wrong…?” Ryunosuke croaks out, throat scratchy. His head spins again like he’s still back sliding down that hill. If Kazuma got hurt because of him…
Kazuma blinks and flinches, and then he’s back to the present. His mouth quirks up into a smirk, then he pushes himself up to his feet with a final barking laugh. “What did I say? You’re fine.” He offers Ryunosuke his hand. “Though, I do have to say, Ryunosuke, having someone go down with you is a much more vivifying experience. But, I told you I’d protect you, didn’t I?”
Relief. Kazuma’s fine, he’s fine—neither of them have all their bones broken and neither of them are dead and neither of them have to tell the king that Hyrule is in danger because the prince or the knight was killed in a freak accident involving a children’s hobby. It’s fine. Never again.
“Yes, thank you,” Ryunosuke says as he reaches for Kazuma’s hand, and he’s pulled up. He pats the snow off his clothes. “Truly, I did think it was a fun experience. I believe it’ll be my last, though… The abject terror spoils it just a bit, I think.”
Kazuma releases a booming laugh as he pats Ryunosuke’s back with such force, it makes Ryunosuke stumble forward. “Where’s your sense of adventure, partner?” He wraps his arm around Ryunosuke’s shoulder, pulls him close in a crushing side hug.
Ryunosuke gives him a skeptical look, watching Kazuma’s wide grin dazzle as bright as the sun cutting through the wispy clouds above. “Partner?”
“Yes, of course,” Kazuma replies smoothly. “We survived a brush with death together down that harrowing bunny hill fit for children, did we not? Destiny or not—we’re bonded for life now!” He laughs out again.
Ryunosuke’s shoulders slump slightly, though a smile forms on his face. “Haah…”
Partner, huh? he muses. He’s quite alright with that.
Up in the central mountains of Hebra houses the solemn Talonto Temple. It’s a modest affair—built for stability and enlightenment, renouncing excessive worldly possessions for the basics of survival. Its smooth, pearl-white stone columns and walls reach high to the heavens, are touched by the cupped hands of lenticular clouds and, sometimes, even Hylia’s sun rays at its high elevation.
One does not wander into Talonto Temple—at least not accidentally, they say, though you may not realize it yourself at the time. It’s believed that if you find yourself at its entrance, you will soon realize it’s been your destination from the very beginning.
Its transient visitors comprise two sorts of folk. First, the most pious of Hylia’s followers: the ones that make the pilgrimage to cleanse themselves under the frozen waterfalls of Hebra Falls, that participate in the rituals to strip themselves bare and expose their souls to the Goddess for her blessing. The others: the displaced, seeking refuge from harsh conditions into even harsher ones, yet the latter allowing for integration with welcome arms that render the spartan living arrangements and fierce weather and strict prayer routines nothing but a trifle compared to where they fled from.
Yeto and Yeta, the two older, towering Goron that maintain the abbey, are renowned by the clergy for their seemingly unending capacity for love—for Hylia, for all those who fall under their guardianship, for each other. But their love is like antiseptic applied to a wound—prickly and severe, but a form of care nonetheless. Less warmth, more practical. They would take you in, feed and clothe you, accept you no matter your background, but the rules of the temple are inflexible. A silk veil draped over immovable boulders.
Stringency and discipline are virtues extolled by Hylia’s teachings. It’s wise to follow them. Ryunosuke’s stomach had tied itself into knots the very moment he saw the temple on the horizon.
Ryunosuke and Kazuma aren’t the only ones currently lodging at Talonto Temple. When they arrive at the threshold of the temple’s grounds, Yeta introduces them to two heavily-built Zora and an adolescent Rito. They seem to come as a tight-knit pack—when the Rito moves, the two Zora follow nearby, hovering protectively. Held tightly to the Rito’s chest is a kitten with short, thick, blueish-slate fur; her vivid, emerald eyes are a stark contrast to her dark coat, only eclipsed by the bright purple-pink glass bell attached to her collar. A green-striped snake sits lazily wrapped around one of the Zora’s shoulders.
Three things are immediately noticeable when Ryunosuke sees the Rito. The most obvious: she is striking in her beauty. Pale yellow and blues make up her awkward, juvenile plumage—feathers still too fluffy and dull to be fully adult—yet she holds a certain elegance that seems befitting a Rito much older. Ryunosuke realizes this image is due in part to her pristine posture: spine held straight and movements with a disciplined grace to them. She stands with her feet together, perpetually pointing outward—much more defined than other Rito he’s met.
Nikolina, her name is, and it sparks recognition in Kazuma instantly. Yeta tells them she was a ballerina in a traveling troupe that incorporated aerial dancing with traditional ballet. She was extremely skilled—“an angel descending from the heavens,” they had supposedly called her. Kazuma corroborates the claim; just last year, he saw her performance in Castle Town and was deeply moved by the artistry of it all.
Yeta explains that she was put under grueling conditions as they traveled across Hyrule, with food and water withheld to maintain strict weight expectations and the psychological manipulation of instructors too much to bear. She fled to the sanctuary of the temple, alongside her Zora companions, Bif and Tchikin. She’s to live here for a few years until adulthood, where she will change her name and her new plumage will make her more difficult to recognize. A clean slate for the beginning of her new life.
Kazuma expresses outrage at her treatment. Ryunosuke feels a deep sadness in his chest that makes his entire body feel like lead—she’s so young, and yet she’s already faced with such heavy responsibility and adversity. With as little political sway he has, he could attempt to call for an investigation into the troupe when they get back to the castle, but he gets the feeling the system’s built that way for a reason—that no matter how much lobbying for improved conditions happens, it will fall on deaf ears, much too set in their ways. He’ll try, if only to see if he can spare the other performers the suffering. But he holds little hope of change.
The preamble is brief—the cleansing rituals of the first day are lengthy, and must be started as soon as possible to finish before sunset. The horses are stabled; Ryunosuke and Kazuma drop off their belongings in the small, sequestered room of the antechamber where those who have not yet been properly purified are allowed; and they change into the provided robes to begin the process.
Ryunosuke was only ten the first time he had stayed there, but the memory of those first three days left an imprint in his mind etched so deep, he could never forget it, no matter how hard he tried. He remembers the hunger, the exhaustion, the shock.
None of the guards he had traveled with communicated to him beforehand—whether out of disregard or genuine ignorance, he’s still not sure—that as soon as you entered the grounds, you agreed to a commitment of placidity and asceticism for three sunfalls. Until you properly cleansed yourself, you made a vow to stillness: a still soul, a still mind, a still body. Forfeiting food was stilling the body—energy spent digesting was energy that could be used to connect with the Goddess Hylia wasted. To abstain from certain things creates the space to accept others; one’s self becomes a willing and empty vessel for Hylia’s blessings to fill.
The trip to Talonto Temple would be a miserable enough affair for any adult, but for a ten-year-old, the perpetual travel ground him down until he was nothing but specks of dirt tossed by Hebra Mountains’ lashing winds. At the time, the six previous sacred springs had yielded no results; King Naruhodo had grown increasingly impatient with each letter. Inclimate weather, even in the middle of summer, delayed them.
Ryunosuke had been woken up before dawn had even started its ascent—flickering stars still smattering the dark sky like a warning signal. Breakfast will be skipped, members of his retinue had told him while his eyes were still bleary and adjusting to the darkness. Arriving at the temple as soon as possible is the highest priority. Food will be provided when we get there.
It was untrue: the three days of purification and fasting were to be completed first, with only a bowl of thin broth provided for sustenance after sunset. He remembers the pain of hunger and the weakness in his body that made each dragging day a struggle to overcome. He remembers the slow introduction of foods that accompanied the third sunset and the relief of it all.
(And he remembers, too, the companion he was unlucky enough to have through it all: Iyesa Nosa, a Sheikah fighter that would often emphasize his position as a Royal Guardsmember with constant military jargon filling his speech, even though none of the other members of the Royal Guard within Ryunosuke’s traveling retinue ever spoke in the same way. Only one guard was allowed to enter the temple with him and he was Ryunosuke’s last choice of them all—the man was difficult to understand and he never seemed to particularly like him all that much.)
Ryunosuke wouldn’t be caught unprepared this time. He made sure both of them ate a heavy breakfast, loaded with proteins and fats. Food may be prohibited when they enter, but there’s no rule about prepping to stave off hunger a bit longer.
Those three days pass in a contradictory mix of slow stretches that feel like they last lifetimes and a reeling blur that, with a blink, conjures the deep, tawny hues of twilight. They’re filled with droning supplication, with chants that leave their throats scratchy by the end of them. With alternating between icy pools filled with rock salt and scalding hot springs, all to reach balance—for wisdom required equilibrium, level-headedness in the face of extremes.
For all the rejection that comes from silence and the discomfort from austerity, Ryunosuke finds it to not be as bitter as years past with Kazuma there. A partner in suffering seems to lessen the torture, just a bit. (Though, Ryunosuke continues to apologize for dragging Kazuma into it all, no matter how many times Kazuma refutes his worry.)
So, after the sun dips low and vanishes against the rolling hills and mountains and they retire to their shared room, possessions still temporarily stowed away, they talk from their respective beds. And they talk and talk. They bring up the wildlife they’ve seen around the temple, and Ryunosuke yearns for when he can capture them on the Sheikah Slate. They share commiserations over the hunger pains, repeating the remaining days countdown like a prayer its own. Kazuma sends off a wish that when their meals resume, it won’t include chicken; Ryunosuke takes the opportunity to jeer at that—he’d gladly take his portion if he’s that willing to forfeit it.
Ryunosuke recites the latest tongue twister he memorized, words flowing as smooth as water off his tongue, and Kazuma stumbles over it only two words in, the mattress letting out a ferocious groan when he slams his fist down in frustration and flips hard onto his back with a curse that makes Ryunosuke shake with laughter. Kazuma recounts the plot of a novel he recently read (a romance, this time, of two people left adrift in time and forced to reconcile the differences in how they’ve both changed because of it) and Ryunosuke lazes about, soaking up every detail that rings out in his soothing voice until his eyelids grow heavy and he effortlessly drifts off to sleep.
The days are difficult, but more and more, the temple begins to feel less like a place of punishment and more of one of solace.
“Look at this,” Ryunosuke says with an excited lilt as he slides the Sheikah Slate across the table, landing next to a nearly-cleaned-out plate of Salt-Grilled Greens. He taps the taupe bezel.
They’ve been at Talonto Temple for a week and a half—halfway through their stay. Between the ongoing prayer rituals, Ryunosuke has been diligently cataloging photos into the Hyrule Compendium.
“Snowcoat Fox,” Kazuma reads off the provided description. “‘Its fur turned white as a means of adapting to snowy weather, serving as a natural camouflage. Because of this, spotting one in the snow takes a keen eye.’” His eyes lift, brows arching high, and his mouth quirks into an easy grin. “And you were able to not only see it there in the snow, but also managed to take a photo of it? That’s quite impressive, Ryunosuke.”
Ryunosuke coughs into his fist, nearly choking on a Hyrule Herb. The compliment comes as a surprise—much like when he saw the Snowcoat Fox emerge from its half-burrowed state out of the snowfield past the one gnarled S-shaped tree on the boundary of the grounds, its behind wiggling high in the air in a way that made Ryunosuke fear Snow Octoroks somehow evolved furry tails on top of their heads to lure in unsuspecting prey. He can feel the sting of blood rushing to his cheeks in an instant.
“That’s—It’s truly not that big of an accomplishment…” Ryunosuke manages out, voice low and eyes swimming. Kazuma rests his head in his hand, raises a skeptical eyebrow—clearly not convinced. “I just meant to say: look at the color of its coat—it’s quite the pretty shade of blue, don’t you think?”
“Mhmm, yes, quite,” Kazuma replies distractedly.
“And then”—Ryunosuke swipes the screen to the next picture—“this one here—oh!” On the display: Kazuma, ankle-deep in pine tree branches and needles scattered like green fans splayed at his boots, with Karuma in mid-swing. At the exact moment captured, Kazuma’s face is screwed in irritation, a clump of snow piling on top of his head. Ryunosuke scrambles to swipe away from it.
Kazuma’s smile falls instantly, like a rock succumbing to gravity; his face smooshes deeper into his palm. “And, please enlighten me, when exactly did your incredible perceptive ability illuminate this one?” he practically growls, knocking his boot against Ryunosuke’s under the table.
Ryunosuke gulps. He meant to delete that photo. “When you, um, said you were able to completely clear a tree of its branches in ten seconds flat with Karuma…” Which you then proceeded to demonstrate despite no one asking you to…, he thinks.
Kazuma drops his arm onto the table and leans forward. “Because you didn’t believe me!” He hooks his foot around Ryunosuke’s ankle, yanking it towards him.
Ryunosuke lifts both of his hands up in front of him and swats at the air. “It’s not that I didn’t believe you; I was just shocked to hear because it seemed so impossibl—”
Kazuma slams his fist on the table. “Which is exactly why I had to show you it was no impossibility at all!” He accentuates it with another tug of his foot; Ryunosuke can’t even muster the fortitude to pull back against it. “Ryunosuke, do not, for a single moment, underestimate the Asogi Sword-Drawing Technique! In a second with one swing, it can strike all in its path from twenty-three feet away. That leaves a full nine more seconds to—”
“Um, excuse me?” A soft voice, hesitant and delicate like wind chimes against a gentle breeze.
They both look up to the sound. Standing in front of them: Nikolina, wings held tight up to her chest. She wears a bandage wrapped around her right wing. Her expression is twisted in anguish; she doesn’t make eye contact as she shrinks in on herself.
“You…” Her voice falters, scratched and raw and fit to break. Something’s wrong. “You are the prince, yes?”
Kazuma’s foot slinks off the back of Ryunosuke’s. “Um, yes, that’s correct,” Ryunosuke says, cautious.
Something subtle flickers in her eyes—a spark like flint being struck, despite how muted the response. She leans forward, wings still clutched close to herself. “My dear friend—my best friend in the whole world—my little kitten, Darka, she—” Nikolina sucks in a shaky breath. “This morning, after I gave her her food, she scratched my wing and then ran outside. I flew off to find her and followed her towards the Coldsnap Hollow, but she was fast. She had disappeared into the snow somewhere.” When she blinks and casts her gaze away, her eyes sparkle against the light of the chandelier. “Darka…” she mumbles. “She is so naughty…”
“…And she hasn’t returned?” Ryunosuke asks with a gentle solemnity. The temple grounds sees wild animals, but it’s generally a safe haven from monsters. The northern cirque, on the other hand, is as dangerous with its inhabitants and it is with its precarious geography.
Nikolina shakes her head vigorously. “No. She has run off a couple times now, but she always returns for lunch. I put out her food and yet—” She chokes out a gasp, body trembling with the weight of it. “I prayed to the Goddess Hylia that she would return all day, but I worry Her Grace has not heard me…” Ryunosuke bites down the bitter sting of empathy—he knows all too well the feeling of prayers gone ignored. “She is still out there. Please, can you help search for her?”
The way that Ryunosuke’s stomach drops is like missing a step at the top of a grand staircase. His wide eyes shoot towards the window, its panes thick with ice and its view an ocean of white—the blizzard entered with a fury in an instant and has only grown stronger as the minutes pass. “I…” The word forced out withers—Ryunosuke’s mouth gone dry as if it’s been stuffed with cotton. The storm’s much too ferocious for him to be outside, let alone a small kitten fending for itself out there. His cheeks grow hot; he feels his palms become slick under his gloves. “I’m sorry, but…” He looks towards Kazuma, pleading for assistance.
Kazuma’s mouth flattens into a tight frown under Ryunosuke’s gaze. His sight shifts back up to Nikolina. “I sincerely apologize,” Kazuma says quickly, voice taut with authority as he dons that knightly mask in an instant, “but the conditions are much too dangerous to warrant a search outside at the moment. The prince and I would be more than happy to help look within the temple after dinner, and if she’s still absent, then we can go out tomorrow morning after the storm has passed. Isn’t that right, Your Highness?”
Ryunosuke knows if the cat is out there, she’s losing time to return safely. Yet, he can hear the howl of the wind and the rap of the trees against the temple’s walls like rattling prisoner chains and he knows the very real risk attempting to look for her would bring to them all. “Y-Yes, that’s correct… I’m sorry…”
Something darker twists deep within his gut as his mind races with the possibilities. It’s a passing thought, graver and more transient than the rest: a seemingly earnest plea for help, all for the express purpose of leading him into another trap.
Is it fair of him to accuse her of such dire charges, especially without any evidence?
“But…!” Nikolina cries out. The tears in her eyes are like basins filled to the brim. “She will never make it to tomorrow outside! I know she is not inside the temple—I searched everywhere and even used her favorite whistle to call her! Please…”
Kazuma ducks his head, averting his gaze. His voice is low, apologetic: “I’m sorry, but it’s just not possible. With the way the storm is, it’s too perilous for the prince to risk being outside.”
“But, but that is exactly why I asked!” Nikolina tilts forward with a defiant shake of her head. “They, they said the Goddess Hylia has blessed the prince with her power.” Her eyes are fully on Ryunosuke now—desperate. “Her magics will protect you, yes? Then, you can save Darka no matter the storm!”
“That’s…” Ryunosuke swallows, and it burns like downing alcohol. It’s a soft, strained mumble when he continues, “I apologize, but I’m afraid I don’t have those powers at all…” He clasps his hands together on his lap and thumbs over his arm guard. “You see, the very reason why I came to this temple was to pray to the goddess in hopes of awakening that magic.”
“Oh…” It wrenches out from her like a suffocation.
He stares down at the plate on the table. He doesn’t want to see whatever expression she’s making. “So, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
There’s silence. “I, I see…” Nikolina finally says, barely over a whisper. The vowels croak—glass shattering when she speaks. He glances over; her feathers have flattened—left so compact, she seems to shrink even smaller than she already is. “I am sorry to have bothered you…”
Ryunosuke watches out of the corner of his eye, her shadow retreating away from the table. He hears the light footfalls grow ever more distant, until she collapses down on a chair across the room.
“The cat…” Ryunosuke mumbles, hollow. He doesn’t dare look over to her table.
“Yes…” Kazuma replies, ruthful in tone. He drums his fingers on the table. “We’ll conduct a search of the temple after we finish here. Animals are perceptive—perhaps she recognized the storm coming and made her way back without Nikolina’s knowledge. But first, you have to eat. Between last week’s fasts and the daily physical exertion, you need all the energy.”
Ryunosuke’s brows draw tight together. “Yes, Elder Impa,” he drawls. They share a light, transient laugh—though, it’s quick to fall when Kazuma gets up and heads to the kitchen area.
A deafening sob rings through the room—so loud, it’s like knives in Ryunosuke’s ears and he cringes in his seat. On instinct, he looks over to Nikolina, hunched over with her head in her wings, each tremor of a cry its own earthquake. Bif has a look of wide-mouthed horror on his face and he turns to look in Ryunosuke’s direction. Ryunosuke ducks his head back down; the bile in his stomach curdles something foul. He hears her cry and cry.
He rakes his hand through his hair. No, he was a fool to ever doubt her intentions—to ever think that she was like McGilded, faking sympathy as a means to ambush him. She always had Darka with her since he entered Talonto Temple; they were inseparable. He curses himself for ever entertaining the thought.
He pulls back the Sheikah Slate and taps through the menus. Predictably, the map isn’t filled in near the Coldsnap Hollow. It’s a glimmer of a far-fetched idea, what comes to mind, yet he pursues it: he taps through the Compendium, lands on the entry for a cat, and sets the dowsing ability. He sucks in a deep breath and the searching circle sweeps across the map’s incomplete display.
And there’s a faint beep to the north.
Kazuma places the two bowls of Yeto’s Superb Soup on the table and Ryunosuke slams his hands down, leveraging himself up in a swift motion. The soup swirls in their bowls; silverware clatters.
Ryunosuke grabs the Slate and, before Kazuma can react, says, “We can’t be wasting time sitting here!” And he dashes off, crashing through the doors, and out into the white expanse.
“Ryunosuke?!” Kazuma calls out to him, thrown and planted behind the table. “Wait—shit!” is the last thing Ryunosuke hears as the heavy doors slam behind him.
Ryunosuke trudges towards the direction of the blinking indicator on the display. Between the exposure to the waterfalls and the kindling of adrenaline set alight in his belly, the howling winds and spray of snow feel like almost a triviality to his system as he exits the temple’s grounds. Visibility is low, but he carves through the marked trails slowly illuminated by the Sheikah Slate—all towards that singular target that causes its beeps to grow faster. It truly is an incredible piece of technology.
It’s an odd sensation that thrums right behind the base of his sternum. A revving energy—attraction akin to a magnet, but instead of being pulled by it, it’s a mere announcement of its existence. A sensor like that on the Slate. It has been a while since he last felt it, in that cursed mansion. They haven’t been separated far enough for the feeling to trigger since. He knows where Kazuma is; he can feel him. Coming closer, faster. Ryunosuke continues plodding through the snow.
“Ryunosuke!” Kazuma’s yell is muffled as he approaches. Despite knowing just how quickly he was approaching, he catches up quicker than Ryunosuke expected. “What—What in the goddess’s name are you thinking?!”
He shoves a mass of clothes into Ryunosuke’s arms: jackets insulated with Rito feathers and a hat with a heat-retaining ruby stitched into it—everything he had shucked off and left on the coat racks inside the Talonto Temple’s mess hall. It’s just in time, too: the chill has begun to catch up to Ryunosuke at this point, and he can’t help but feel the weight of gratitude for his partner’s pragmatism.
“Nikolina was right: the way the storm is, Darka will never last the night stuck out there,” Ryunosuke speaks over the roar of the gusts. He gracelessly dons the outer layers, though the frost clings to his clothes. His face is set—dark eyes and determined draw of his brows. “We both know this is true, Kazuma.”
Kazuma grits his teeth. “And what I said was also true, Ryunosuke! I want Darka safe as much as you do, but this blizzard is too dangerous to risk your life over for a cat!”
“It’s not just a cat to her! You heard her, she’s her best friend, she—” Ryunosuke clenches his fists at his side, squeezing his eyes shut and tucking his chin to his chest. “I’m tired of it—” The words catch, raw and tinny, and he shakes for reasons unrelated to the cold. “I’m tired of being useless! I can’t access my powers, I messed up with McGilded… I’m sick of it all! Tell me, what kind of a prince am I—what kind of a person am I, if I can’t help anyone?!” He heaves breaths that burn deep in his lungs. Kazuma gapes at him, brows pinched high.
“But the Sheikah Slate”—he holds it up, flashing the display with its dowsing beeping softly—“it has a read on a cat, right in the direction of the Coldsnap Hollow!” He sets his jaw and draws himself to his full height, back as straight as an arrow. “…You said I should trust my instincts. Well, everything inside me is telling me I have to at least try to help her. I want to help her.” He pulls his mouth into a firm scowl. “So please, Kazuma, trust me.”
Kazuma continues to stare at him, headband frenzied behind him. “Your resolve, then?” he mumbles softly, and it’s drowned out by the wind. Ryunosuke tilts his head slightly. Kazuma’s eyes grow gentler, lips pulling into a small smile. “Of course I trust you.” He steps forward as Ryunosuke’s eyes grow wide; he reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder. An incredulous laugh, then: “But, you could’ve just told me the Sheikah Sensor picked up where she was before running off.”
Ryunosuke blinks up at him. “I—uh—”
Another laugh escapes from Kazuma. He slides his arm around Ryunosuke’s shoulders and grips his upper arm with his other hand, ushering them both forward. “Come now, let’s hurry.” He shoots Ryunosuke a measured look, expression quickly hardening. “But, the second the weather gets any worse, we’re turning back, alright? I only have one more Spicy Elixir in my pouch in case things go south.”
Something catches in Ryunosuke’s throat as the smile growing on his face quivers. He wills himself to not tear up in these conditions. “Kazuma… Thank you.” And they push towards the signal.
The Sheikah Sensor leads them to the direct center of the spiral descent of the Coldsnap Hollow, canopied by the massive rocky outcroppings above—though the milky whiteout conditions make it hard to distinguish where exactly stone ends and frost begins. They spot, curled up next to an ore deposit atop a mound of ice, the glimpse of blue-slate fur peeking out from a coating of rime.
Ryunosuke shields his face with the Sheikah Slate from the barrage of wind funneling down the path. “There!” He points with a wince, then hooks the Slate back to his belt.
Ryunosuke climbs onto the first level of ice, the surface slick even with the added traction of his snow boots. He clicks his tongue to draw her attention, but she doesn’t move; his heart sinks. “I’m going to try to get her,” he calls out to Kazuma, then steps onto the next level up. It’s a split second, but he feels the gush of wind rip below him, weightless as his feet slide out from under him. Then, the secure pressure of a hand pressed to the small of his back and another around his wrist. He blinks over at Kazuma, heart leapt in his throat, when Kazuma rights him back up from the step below.
“Careful,” Kazuma says—strict with concern, but not with true reprimand.
Ryunosuke nods. A nervous smile as he regains his footing. “Thank you.”
He clambers up to the highest level and an intense shiver shocks him to his core. His palms burn, even through the gloves insulated with the finest Rito feather craftwork. His skin tingles, vibrating under the layers. It’s as though, in an instant, the temperature has bottomed.
“I-It g-got c-c-colder,” Ryunosuke manages through the chattering of his teeth.
“Y-Yes, let’s get h-her quickly.” Kazuma climbs up behind him.
Ryunosuke rips off his hat and presses it to Darka’s body. She’s still, covered in ice, with her head buried beneath her paws and out of the windchill. Barely conscious. Her purple bell is broken on her collar. Relief floods within him when he sees her body rise and fall with shallow breaths—they still have a chance to rescue her. The ruby inlaid into his hat begins to defrost her frozen fur and she stirs to the warmth. Kazuma’s there a second later, tipping a Hearty Elixir into her lolled open mouth.
As fast as the temperature changed, as soon as the ice melted off her and the elixir inoculated her system, Darka shakily leaps up, hissing when her paws touch the ice. Kazuma leans forward with a blanket from his pouch and she bolts. Through his legs, she lunges, leaping off the ice into the snow.
A blink, and one second Kazuma’s standing there, and the next, he’s falling. A contradiction in itself: time slows like swimming through sludge, yet Ryunosuke’s moving faster than he even acknowledges. An arm wrapped around the ore deposit, a hand clutching onto Kazuma’s forearm—he holds Kazuma suspended on the edge.
Ryunosuke grits his teeth, lowering his head in an attempt to bolster himself, to will himself the strength to hold on. His limbs shake. “C-Careful,” he exhales, the word escaping as loose as the puff of breath that dissipates in front of him. With terrified eyes, Kazuma clasps his hands around Ryunosuke’s arm, digging in his heels and lifting himself back onto the ice; Kazuma’s face has drained of color.
“Th-Thanks.” Kazuma’s voice is shaky.
The ice below them tremors as they slide down each level. Kazuma reaches the bottom first.
“A-Are t-there earthquakes h-happening in H-Hebra n-now?” Ryunosuke asks. Kazuma offers out his hand; Ryunosuke grabs it and jumps off into the snow. It feels warmer.
“I-I’m not sure,” Kazuma replies. Ryunosuke pulls the Slate out again: Darka has hidden behind a boulder a few steps away. “To my knowledge, t-there hasn’t been anything of the sort, but—”
The ground shakes violent, dropping Ryunosuke to his knees. Behind him, he hears rumbles—rock cracking, scraping. On all fours, he watches with a bewildered daze as the icy structure they were once standing on moves, rising up like a creature being animated, though it’s a colossal of ice: a massive body, two sizable arms, and two small feet to stabilize it. The thing rears back an ice-boulder-arm. Ryunosuke scrambles.
Kazuma’s quicker. He grabs Ryunosuke by the belt and the collar and unceremoniously tosses him into a snowbank like a sack of potatoes before leaping forward himself. When Ryunosuke wipes the snow off his face, he sees the ice crystals evaporating in the air where the arm had exploded.
“Get the cat and hide!” Kazuma yells. The ice beast has lost balance with its single arm, leaning its weight against the one remaining. Kazuma drives Karuma against its surface, but the effort seems unavailing.
“Y-Yes!” Ryunosuke clambers behind the rock and sees Darka crouched low, ears pinned back. He extends a trembling hand. “Come now, Darka,” he tries to coo, though the words are warbled and shrill. He hears his blood rushing in his ears. She takes a tentative sniff of his gloves, but whatever apprehensions she has, she moves past them as she rubs her head against the warmth of his palm. “Yes, good girl,” he says with a smile. He tucks her into the front of his jacket.
Kazuma leaps over the rock and lands next to Ryunosuke seconds before a hunk of ice flies past their hiding spot and smashes into a tree. Ryunosuke yelps. Kazuma’s chest heaves.
“Wh-What is that thing?!” Ryunosuke cries out.
Back to the rock, Kazuma’s head swivels from peeking around it back to Ryunosuke. His eyes are intense, frazzled. “I don’t know.”
If it weren’t for his gear, the sweat beading on Ryunosuke’s forehead would have begun to freeze. “What, what do you mean you don’t know?!”
Another block of ice goes careening over them. “I mean I don’t know,” Kazuma snaps. “I’ve never seen a monster like this before! I would kill to have Royal Advisor Susato’s book right about now—Wait, it’s regenerating its arms?!” They both peer around to see it, sure enough, standing with two sparkling ice arms. Kazuma rummages through his bag when he says, “Karuma didn’t work against it at all. And I don’t have any bombs.” He pulls out a Fire Fruit and lobs it at the creature; the ice sizzles and steams when it hits, but the effect it has seems negligible.
Kazuma yanks out a bow and an arrow—its arrowhead is dipped and molded into a ruby red curl, shining like a candy-coated apple. “Just three fire arrows left,” he mutters. “It’s a hunch, but…” His brow furrows in concentration, then nocks the arrow. He motions with his head and says, “Stay low,” before running out from cover.
“R-Right—Gah!” Ryunosuke ducks lower when ice crashes against the surface of the rock, sending a spray of mist showering over his head. Darka mewls when his chin presses against the top of her head. He stares into her green eyes, blinking ferociously. “Lady Susato’s book, huh…?”
When he looks over, he sees that Kazuma’s fire arrow melted down the ice of one of the creature’s arms; naked rock is exposed underneath. He leaps onto the arm and jams Karuma into the connecting section where the arm and torso meet.
Ryunosuke pulls out the Sheikah Slate and fixes the camera on the monster. With any luck, perhaps this thing had a presence known to the ancient Sheikah. He holds a breath as the camera scans it—and then flickers a blue box around its figure.
Frost Talus, the description displays when he catalogs it into the Compendium. “‘This enormous monster is naturally camouflaged as a frozen rock formation,’” Ryunosuke mutters as he scans the text. “‘Neither sword nor arrow can pierce its frigid form. Shattering its stony heart is a surefire path to treasure.’” He squints at it. “…Huh?” His eyes lift to see Kazuma dislodge Karuma and spring off the stone right before a hurling ball of ice crashes into its other arm. The Talus seems unscathed, like it was merely swatting at a bug.
Ryunosuke holds his hand to his chin, tapping along his jaw. He inspects the Frost Talus—all ice and rock below, nothing too notable. “Stony heart…?” he repeats. It launches another ice shot at Kazuma, and he dodges. When the Frost Talus turns towards Kazuma, something glitters: bright and shiny and golden upon an obsidian backdrop. Ryunosuke’s eyes widen.
Ryunosuke stands and slams his hands on the rock. “Kazuma!” he calls. He pulls back an arm to his opposite shoulder and flings it forward, extended pointer finger a lightning rod. “Aim at the ore deposit on its back!”
“What?” Kazuma asks, sucking in a labored breath, but he nocks an arrow anyway.
“The Slate—I believe it’s saying the ore is its weak point!”
The arrow soars and clinks off the ore deposit. Flint on ore, and sparks spray on impact; the Talus shudders, just a bit. Kazuma lines up another arrow, but it slams down an arm and he skids behind the rock cover before firing.
Kazuma breathes heavily—a cloud of breath thick in front of him. “Good catch back there. The thing is so big, it’s difficult to tell where the next attack is coming from standing below it. I’ll need you to be my eyes”—he flashes him a grin—“alright, partner?”
Ryunosuke’s mouth falls open. He’s on his hands and knees. “W-Wait, you want me to be what?!” The words are barely out when Kazuma rushes out from cover and looses an arrow into the ore deposit.
The Frost Talus rears back its right arm, Ryunosuke warns of it coming to Kazuma’s left, Kazuma maneuvers accordingly. When the Talus shakes and is about to slam its body down, Ryunosuke advises Kazuma to move in time. Counsel to Kazuma’s movements, Ryunosuke guides him away from danger—heart pounding and adrenaline coursing through his veins.
And something wells up inside him—something novel and fierce. A conviction he’s never felt before burning bright and true. With each successful directive, it grows hotter, more intense. Making a difference—the thought like a furnace. Is this how Kazuma feels? Guiding Kazuma, protecting Darka, comforting Nikolina—kindle to a flame.
“It’s off balance!” Ryunosuke calls out. “Make a pathway up its left arm!”
“Got it!” Kazuma answers and shoots a fire arrow into its left arm. The Talus staggers, dropping its exposed rock limb into the earth. Kazuma pulls out his last arrow and it strikes into its torso. Steam fills the space and Kazuma rushes into it, grip tight around his sword. Up its arm, up its body. And he drives Karuma across the heart of ore and gemstones—once, twice, over and over again.
The Talus shudders and quakes. With each hit: another crumbling of ore, another shower of sparks like stars shooting across the firmament. It trembles more violently—a volcano before an eruption. Ryunosuke feels sweat fall down his cheek, feels it chill like frostbite on his skin.
“Kazuma, i-it’s acting odd… I think you should get off!” Ryunosuke shouts.
“No!” Kazuma cleaves at the dwindling rock, breaths labored. “There’s only a bit left! I can do it, just one more—”
In a blink, the Frost Talus slams its body straight to the ground and Kazuma lurches off it. He skids across the snowy ground, black hair sticking out against a mound of white. For a split second, Ryunosuke curses his overconfidence—Icarian tendency wont to surface, hubristic wax dripping hot over his eyes and blinding his senses—but it’s replaced just as quickly with only terror, concern.
“Kazuma!” he cries as he bolts towards him, securing Darka close to his chest inside his jacket.
Kazuma groans. A hand to his head. Ryunosuke can see a cut across the side of his face, the trickle of blood spilling down to his chin. Ryunosuke places a hand on his arm, worry a mess on his face. They’re vulnerable like this, out in the open. If the Talus attacks, he has no defense, but the furnace inside him roils and blazes.
He pledged that he would help them all. He’s done running away.
Ryunosuke slings Kazuma’s arm over his shoulder and attempts to lift him enough to get him to his feet and drag him forward. Kazuma proves to be just as solid as he’s presumed; it’s a struggle for him to balance under his weight. Kazuma on his back, Darka on his chest—he trudges forward.
“I’m fine,” Kazuma mutters close to Ryunosuke’s ear, though it’s strained. “Just had the wind knocked out of me. Let go, I can—” His feet give out under him with another groan and they stumble.
“I’m—” Ryunosuke presses his hand tighter to Kazuma’s waist and tries to hike him back up. Through grit teeth: “I’m not leaving you out here!”
Ryunosuke hears the crackings of ice on ice and his head shoots up, mouth agape. When the Frost Talus raises its arm, it’s like time slows. A ball of ice is lobbed towards them—a lazy arc like a lethal balloon tossed in the air by a child. He squeezes his eyes shut, extends his arm, left index finger pointed as sharp as any legendary sword.
He hears Kazuma gasp. He hears ice crystals clattering to the ground, fluttering like chimes on the wind. He hears it all, but not the sound of ice colliding with bodies, of screams of pain—just tranquil silence.
When Ryunosuke pries his eyes open, he sees waning light—a slim arch of golden light suspended over them flickering away. Even the snow now lightly falling from above is suspended before it reaches them.
Kazuma slips out from his loosened grasp and he strikes the exposed nub of ore in a flash. The monster’s icy body cracks and splits apart as loud as an avalanche, sending gems and flint clattering down into the packed snow.
Ryunosuke stares at the back of his hand like it’s a limb completely foreign to him. Kazuma’s saying something to him; it registers like a single note played during an orchestra. He watches the equilateral triangles fully fade away into the back of his arm guard and it’s like they were never there at all.
What stands out to him the most isn’t the feeling of the powers, but the utter lack of it at all. There was no rapturous revelation. No key finally fitting into a divine lock, and the click of resolution, of understanding. No Hylia appearing to him in a vision, clapping her slender hands together in celebration, saying, “Congratulations! You’ve done it; you’ve found it at last!” He didn’t even hear her there—just that same silence he’s grown accustomed to. The powers were merely there, and then they weren’t.
He flexes his hand, extends a finger out. It’s the same back of his hand he’s known all these years—nothing different. The powers were there, and now they’re gone. How fickle.
“…Ryunosuke?” Ryunosuke nearly leaps out of his boots when Kazuma says his name and places his hands gently on his upper arms. Kazuma has a smile stretched wide on his face, eyes softening when Ryunosuke snaps to attention. “That was it, wasn’t it? The powers?” Kazuma squeezes his hold. “You finally pulled it off, just like I knew you would!”
Ryunosuke’s dazed, head feeling like it’s as blank as a snow-covered field. “Y-Yes, I suppose so…”
“And?” Kazuma leans closer in. “You must tell me: how did you do it?”
Ryunosuke blinks. “I don’t know. It just sort of…happened. I, um—”
His breath catches in the back of his throat at the sight of Kazuma’s bright face, glowing with pride. Pink nose and cheeks and ears; frost caked on his shoulders, tangled within his scarf; his wild hair dusted white with powder. Kazuma’s hat is gone—where is it? He scans the area, sees the black cap peeking out from where he landed when he was tossed off the Talus, ruby inset catching a reflection along its scarlet detailing.
Ryunosuke retrieves it and presses it into Kazuma’s hands. “…Thank you,” Kazuma says and he dons it. It's then that the cold catches up to Ryunosuke, adrenaline burned away, so he’s left shivering. Despite the temporary lull in the snowstorm, the chill still cuts deep. Kazuma notices, saying, “Here, take this,” as he unwraps his blue scarf from around his neck.
Ryunosuke’s eyebrows shoot up. “N-No, I can’t possibly—”
Kazuma shakes his head. “Say no more. I’m fine without it.”
He closes the distance, toes of their boots bumping as he drapes the scarf around Ryunosuke. Ryunosuke watches him as his gaze softens and focuses down on the task at hand, half-lidded as his long eyelashes sweep downward like fine brush strokes. His touch is delicate—measured, with a deft intentionality to each twist of the wrist as though he’s crafting a fragile glasswork decorated with tenuous filigree—when he secures the wool around Ryunosuke’s neck. It’s warm against Ryunosuke’s exposed skin, and it rests close enough to his face that it’s unmistakable how it smells of him.
Kazuma’s hands linger at the ends, fabric pinched between thumb and fingers. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped low, a chiding lilt dyeing his tone: “It’s my mistake for failing to grab your scarf when you decided running straight into a blizzard with no gear was a good idea.” His eyes lift to meet Ryunosuke’s with a keen smirk.
Ryunosuke swallows hard as his cheeks flare. “Y-Yes… Sorry about that…” Kazuma finally releases his hold on the scarf and as he pulls back, Ryunosuke stops him with a, “Wait!” He reaches into his pocket and fishes out a handkerchief. “Your face, it’s—” His hands move before he realizes it: one hand cupping along Kazuma’s jaw, the other wiping the blood from the cut on his cheek and putting pressure on the wound. Kazuma stills with a hitch in his breath, staring down at him; he feels him grow tense under his touch. “It’s, um…” The words shrivel in the back of his throat.
“How bad does it look?” Kazuma breathes out, voice gone hoarse, as he leans closer once again. His hand snakes around the arm Ryunosuke has lifted up to hold his face. Darka’s paw shoots up from out of Ryunosuke’s coat to bat at the ends of Kazuma’s headband dipping down.
Ryunosuke pulls back the cloth. He clears his throat, then says with a reedy voice, “It’s, it’s not that deep of a cut. It’s stopped bleeding for now, I think.” His eyes are back on Kazuma and he’s held there like a magnet. “But, you should get Yeta to look at it when we get back.”
Something twists, ever so slightly, in Kazuma’s face, in the minute pinch between his brows—a micro-expression Ryunosuke can’t quite pinpoint the meaning of. He gives Ryunosuke’s forearm a squeeze. “...It’s not your duty to look after me,” Kazuma whispers. Creaky like broken glass underfoot, and just as reflective.
“Then whose is it?” Ryunosuke asks in the same reciprocal murmur. It’s a simple concept: put your trust in me and I’ll put my trust in you. Isn’t that how it should be?
The taken aback, amused laugh-scoff that spills from Kazuma propels warm breath against Ryunosuke’s face. Through a honeyed smile: “You truly never fail to surprise me, Ryunosuke.” He squeezes Ryunosuke’s arm one last time before drawing back and pulling his face away from Ryunosuke’s grasp. “Never mind all that. Now that Darka is safe, we should make our way back before the storm resumes.”
Even behind the barrier of the fabric, Ryunosuke’s palm tingles under the presence of Kazuma’s touch—of the absence of it now. He curls his fingers in, presses that lingering warmth to trap it there. Darka shifts in his coat, letting out a soft meow at the call of her name. “Yes, let’s.”
“You have the directions back?” Kazuma asks, inclining his head back as Ryunosuke catches up with him.
Ryunosuke unhooks the Slate and taps on the display. “Yes, the map has filled itself in wherever I’ve taken it. See?” He shows the screen to Kazuma. “I still find it a bit hard to believe such a thing even exists. It’s quite a marvelous invention.”
“Indeed,” Kazuma agrees. “Without both it and your adroit command of its capabilities, I fear the little one might’ve suffered a much more ghastly fate.”
Ryunosuke mashes his lips. It must’ve gotten colder, because his cheeks burn so much that they sting. Frostbite, surely, nipping at exposed skin; they must hurry before the chill does even more damage. And it’s nothing to say of the way his heart pounds. “I, I didn’t do anything that much of note—I merely followed the path it carved out. Truly, we should be thanking Iris and Champion Sholmes’s quick work to make it operational more than anything!”
Kazuma snickers. “Yes, without their contributions we wouldn’t be here right now, but you shouldn’t erase your own efforts either.” He turns to him, eyes aglow and smirk like a mischievous cat. “‘Didn’t do much of note’—ah yes, speak nothing of your powers manifesting for the first time!” The booming laughs spill out of him like rushing water; he slaps Ryunosuke’s back with a mirthful vigor. “When we get back, you must tell me everything! And, of course, your invaluable help with defeating the Talus…” Kazuma hums to himself. “I would say we make quite the team, partner.”
Ryunosuke’s seeing stars as his back cries out; they dance along the descending darkness as night encroaches. “Y-Yes, of course.”
A growl rumbles out of Ryunosuke’s stomach, as loud as the ice settling and cracking around them, and he grimaces when Kazuma shoots him an amused look. “...When we get back to Castle Town,” Ryunosuke says when he composes himself, “I’d very much like to get some of Soseki’s sweet potatoes again.”
And Kazuma laughs, saying, “Yes, I’d like that, too.”
The cat is safe; the knight is safe; the prince is safe. Somehow, it feels like no miracle at all.
“I’m just relieved to see Nikolina so happy and that Darka only sustained minor injuries,” Ryunosuke says as he flips through the menus on the Sheikah Slate, lying in bed.
“Yes, and Darka seemed quite overjoyed to be reunited with her owner,” Kazuma replies, stowing away the remainder of his clothes into the dresser. He has a gauze bandage stuck on the right side of his face, with another wrapping on his left hand. “Perhaps she’ll be less likely to run off in the future now.”
Ryunosuke smiles at the screen. “I think for all our peace of mind that would be best.”
Kazuma stretches his arm across his chest, then the other. “Nikolina’s emotional reaction was to be expected, but I was much more surprised to see how it moved you to tears as well.”
Heat laps at Ryunosuke’s cheeks; he gapes up at him. “Th-That’s…! You saw that?!” Kazuma nods with a teasing little grin, before stretching to touch down to his feet. “Seeing Nikolina crying with joy, all on top of finally materializing my sealing powers—you can’t possibly blame me for being overwhelmed at it all!”
There’s a pause, until Kazuma straightens up and the keen edge to his eyes has been burnished into something soft and glossy. “No,” he says with a gentle smile. “No, I suppose I can’t.” He holds that gaze until the urge to move impels him to act, rotating the trunk of his body. “It shows that you have a kind heart… But, that’s exactly what I like about you.”
Ryunosuke swallows down the embarrassment, and the ensuing smile that breaches feels just that easy to wear. He lands on the Compendium and when Kazuma begins to pad towards his own bed, Ryunosuke draws the covers back beside him. “Here, come look, I didn’t get to finish showing you the pictures I took earlier.”
Kazuma gives him a quizzical look, but slides under the sheets beside anyway when Ryunosuke shuffles over to make space. It’s a small victory this time: no argument from Kazuma accusing Ryunosuke of using him as his own personal radiator, with fingers pointed and lips curled in only semi-serious affronted balks. (Ryunosuke won’t admit it and allow Kazuma the satisfaction of an easy victory, but Kazuma’s right: he is, in fact, using him as a heater—Kazuma warms his bed much faster than he can himself and it’s a small bliss to the start of the biting night.)
And Ryunosuke goes through the catalog of all the new findings he captured on the grounds the past few days, dictating the descriptions generated alongside them: the haughty White Pigeon caught mid-flight, the imposing Tabantha Moose eating small branches fallen from trees, the Great-Horned Rhinoceros little more than a blue blur in an instance of Ryunosuke’s not-quite-the-best-work as he quickly ducked out of its sightline—and its gigantic protruding horn. Kazuma’s commentary grows more lax and scarce as Ryunosuke goes deeper down the list.
“And this cute Hebra Hare here—I think Lady Susato and Iris would enjoy seeing it, don’t you think?” There’s no response. Ryunosuke pauses, then a roguish grin creeps across his face. “The rabbit inhibits its habits when its ears hear the blear jeer of a veering deer,” he says rapidly, taking special attention to fully enunciate each winding syllable. No response again. Ryunosuke smiles to himself, thinking that Kazuma must be beside himself, waiting to explode at any second. The fireplace sputters and pops like a dragon’s roar, much too violent for the tranquil silence.
“How about trying that one, or are you yet again too speechless to…” His words trail off when he finally looks over. Kazuma’s asleep beside him, curled up as comfortable as a cat lazing under the sun. And Ryunosuke can’t help but marvel as he traces the length of his face with his gaze: up the sharp line of his jaw, over to the dignified slope of his nose, across those full eyelashes much too long for his own good. Even in his most relaxed moments, there was always some tension held between those eyes, yet it’s completely absent here—unguarded and sleep-worn, perfectly earned. His heroic veneer is stripped back, until only the simple vulnerability of just a person remains below its surface. “…Kazuma?”
And he can’t stop himself from contemplating how silly he is, still wearing the scarlet headband even in sleep. Ryunosuke has half a mind to rid him of it right then and there, but he remembers Kazuma’s words, red-hot with passion, and that asinine impulse scurries back to whatever ridiculous place in his brain it crawled out of.
(“Ryunosuke, I will never remove it!” Kazuma had maintained when Ryunosuke asked why he slept with it on, as if the answer was obvious in itself. “No, not until I conquer this trial and prove myself worthy of relinquishing it! Any discomfort is merely a testament to my resolve. I promise this to you.” He had held himself there with that flint in his eyes, broad shoulders set back, body held with pristine posture—the very epitome of self-discipline. When Ryunosuke pressed further, asking how he’ll know he’s accomplished it, something flickered in Kazuma’s expression, ever so slightly and so quick Ryunosuke almost missed it: a contradictory mixture of determination and sadness and fondness, all at once. He peered at Ryunosuke with that enigmatic look in his eyes, saying, “I just will. Like a Red Sparrow knows to fly south for the winter—it’s innate to my being.”
It felt a bit like a non-answer at the time, but Kazuma always had a way of speaking in such self-assured finality that Ryunosuke couldn’t help but believe him.)
He doesn’t want to dare to disturb that serenity—of Kazuma or of the noble red that shines like a beacon through fog.
Ryunosuke stills his hand, his tongue, his breath. Then, he inhales deep through his nose, soaks in that vulnerable fondness until it coats his lungs with something saccharine and crisp—wholly novel yet not at all alarming in its unfamiliarity, as if it was meant to be this whole time, just waiting to reveal itself.
He exhales and swipes through the album once again.
Notes:
:) Hebra arc my beloved
The shield surfing scene was inspired in part by in 2-3 how Ryunosuke has this internal war inside him when looking at the hot air balloons. You get them as an option to examine a lot and it's so amusing how he keeps obsessively commenting about how they're like aliens or they're too scary and dangerous, and yet he can't shake the fact he does want to try riding in one: "The feelings of wanting to ride in one and wanting never to set foot in one are fighting it out inside me ... I don't think I'd notice [falling off the stage]. That's how fiercely the battle inside me is raging." So silly.
I'm such a sucker for when a character in a protector role runs themselves ragged and refuses to acknowledge themself as a vulnerable person that needs to be cared for too, and then being told by the one they're bound to protect that they see them—that they view them as something deeper than just an unfeeling sword and shield—and then they turn around and protect them... just augh chef's kiss
And don't worry, Ryunosuke absolutely plays around with the Slate in bed and then accidentally drops it directly on his face <3
Chapter 12: Multiplicities
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
Father was beyond pleased to hear the results of the pilgrimage when we arrived back at the castle. “A resounding success,” he said, “the Goddess Hylia finally answering our prayers.” Though, her answer was much like someone leaving an abandoned child on the stoop of a church—unheralded and utterly unreachable thereafter.
The remainder of the pilgrimage was as silent as before. I never once heard or felt anything more during any of my prayers and whatever latent powers I had reverted back to their dormant state, evading me once again. It’s almost as if what transpired never happened at all. However, crucially, I now possess evidence that I’m able to manifest the sealing powers, with Kazuma as my witness. For that, relief is like a wave washing over my entire being. The next step is to figure out how to command it back to me.
Father has decided that pursuing the sealing powers with a newfound, relentless persistence is the best course of action. To that end, he has ordered for Kazuma and I to leave for the Spring of Courage directly in the upcoming weeks. The ever-present warmth of the Damel Forest is a welcome breath of spring, but the thick humidity and consistent rains are always a challenge. Ugh, I can feel my skin crawling from the bugs already.
To make matters worse, I’ve been without the Sheikah Slate for a little over two weeks now. Iris ran more tests on it, then Champion Sholmes flew it to the Divine Beasts for activation so that the Champions could begin their proper training. I’m going through what feels like withdrawals… Thank Hylia that Kazuma can’t read this—he’s insufferable when he’s proven right about things like this; his teasing would be unending!
But, the Divine Beasts…! Champion Sholmes described it: those towering mechs moving about just as if they were their living, sentient, animal counterparts. It was very far away, but I could see Vah Medoh flying around in the air near Rito Village from the ramparts of my chambers this very morning as if it controlled the skies! Truly a technological feat these creatures are… I can understand exactly why they were labeled as divine—just marveling at them from afar, it feels hallowed. I’d very much like to see one active in person. Perhaps Ursavra can show me a demonstration of Vah Naboris’s strength in the future…
Whilst at the lab, Gina came barging in like a raging dust storm, calling for Iris. It was the first I had seen her since everything with McGilded unfolded. My stomach dropped, as it all came rushing back to me. She must’ve felt the same, because she took one look at me and froze, before turning heel and running out of the lab, despite my calling out to her.
Iris said McGilded was threatening her—was threatening a lot of the children she protects and provides for. She didn’t have a choice but to do what he said. I get it, I do. I don’t blame her for what McGilded orchestrated himself. I just wish I could tell her that.
And I wish I could thank her. She snuck back into that horrid mansion after everything, just to help Iris with her Guardian research. Despite all that McGilded did to her, she showed massive bravery and just how much of a kind-hearted person she really is. So, no, I don’t blame her. We both fell victim to McGilded’s schemes.
Anyway, I’m on pins and needles waiting to hear the progress of the Slate and bored out of mind without it…! Hmm… What more to write? Well, Kazuma brought in a low table and kneeling cushion to set up in the corner of my room, for when he no longer wants to sit on the chair he’s claimed ownership of. I have to wonder: is this even my room still?! How he sits in that seiza position with his legs tucked directly under him for so long, I’ll never understand. It makes my knees hurt just looking at him. Oh! Now he’s just asked why I keep staring at him. I guess I better make an end to this entry…
Slate in hand, Iris flicks her bangs. “Well, I spotted some broken code referring to ‘object decompression’ and after some digging, I was able to debug and reconfigure it to work again! And that’s really all to it!” Ryunosuke isn’t convinced it was as simple as she’s passing it off to be. Iris holds up the Slate to a screw sitting on the table, presses a button, and it evaporates into blue wisps up into the Slate. “That was my Science and Analytics Spectacular; thank you for listening!”
Susato claps, eyes sparkling in delight. “Oh, that is absolutely brilliant, Iris!” She pumps down both her fists in front of her. “It seems to be a mechanism simulating the way the enchanted pouches store items. Magic and technology… It’s such a wonder how two things can be so different, yet so similar at the same time!”
“Indubitably so, my dear madam!” Sholmes says with a deep smile, holding a pointed wingtip up to his forehead. “I have found that quite often, things tend to be much more connected than one may realize at first glance. Which is why, as scientists and researchers, we must always be steadfast in our pursuit of the truth!” He flicks his feathered hair.
Iris hands the Slate back to Ryunosuke, him now buzzing with excitement. He shifts Darumy on his lap and feels the now-familiar weight of the Slate heavy against his palms; despite the short amount of time he’s been in possession of it, it feels like something that’s been by his side for ages. A lightness there inside him, as he cradles both the Guardian and the Slate in his arms.
“We’re making good progress with the Small Guardians,” Iris says with a bubbly nod. “Even with them being prototypes, they’ve supplied quite the valuable insight into how their big siblings work.” She gestures with a head tilt to Eggy, diligently sitting at her feet.
“Indeed, my dear Iris,” Sholmes says. “I’d dare say we could even begin test runs against monsters as soon as next week!”
Susato gasps. “Really? That’s… That’s so soon!” There’s a frazzled, almost leery twinge to her voice. “Are you sure they’re in working order enough to do something of the sort?”
He lifts his pipe up to his beak, contemplating a moment. “I do believe so! To say their programming is remarkable is quite the understatement. The ancient Sheikah were truly brilliant minds… The Guardians can instantly determine monster from ally.”
Darumy starts chirping as if in response, eye flashing blue. It shifts closer to Ryunosuke’s face, blocking his view of the Sheikah Slate.
“It’s like it’s your child,” Kazuma snickers quietly, leaning into Ryunosuke. “Fighting for your attention with the Slate.”
Ryunosuke draws a hand along its casing; whether metal is soothed by touch, he’s not sure. “Perhaps it remembers all those years I’ve had it with me. I, for one, sure view it dearly.”
“Hmm,” Kazuma hums, “perhaps, but maybe Iris should examine it further for damage. It doesn’t seem to remember the numerous times you’ve accidentally dropped it.”
Ryunosuke shoots him a glare, but Kazuma just grins back.
“I’ve no doubt after seeing the positive lab results,” Susato says, bringing Ryunosuke back again to the larger conversation. She laces her fingers in front of her and looks down, troubled. “I suppose I merely…” She shakes her head. “No, never mind that.”
“What is it, Lady Susato?” Ryunosuke questions. “If there’s something that leaves you hesitant, I’d very much like to hear your opinion on the matter.”
A hand shoots up to her mouth, eyes grown wide. “Oh! No, it’s not quite hesitancy, but…” Her eyes slip shut for a moment and she draws a breath; determination etches in her features. “I believe it would be prudent to learn their weaknesses.” Her eyes are hardened when she opens them again, keen as a knife’s edge. “We’ve no doubt made great strides in learning more about these machines, yet there remains much we don’t know. If we can establish how much they can handle outside of battle before sending them directly against monsters, then perhaps we can lessen the risk of losing Guardians more than necessary.” She taps her fist to her other palm and raises a pointer finger in the air. “…And we can strategize much more accordingly when it does come time for them to be on the field.”
Kazuma nods. “I agree with Royal Advisor Susato. Stress-testing the Guardians will be helpful in properly utilizing them to our advantage.”
Ryunosuke taps a finger to his chin and smiles. “Yes, that makes sense. I do think we should try to preserve as many Guardians as possible before we send them out to battle.”
Sholmes slumps over himself—a bucket of water snuffing out his hopes. “I have longed to see exactly how many Bokoblins a single laser strike would tear through… Alas, it seems I have been outvoted…”
Iris shrugs. “Oh, Hurley, you’ll be able to see it soon enough.” She jolts up, then, with both her hands covering her mouth. “I almost forgot…!” she says, turning on her heel. “I have a gift for you all! One moment, please!” And she’s racing off to the back of the lab, with Eggy dogging at her heels.
There’s a harsh rapping on the door before it creaks open. The thing that hits Ryunosuke first is the undeniable smell: of fried fish and delicious, greasy potatoes wafting in the air. Even after the tea and cookies Iris provided, Ryunosuke’s stomach rumbles immediately; Kazuma gives him an amused look.
The Hylian man striding into the lab walks with an aloof yet commanding authority—dressed in an olive trench coat and hat, bushy mustache framing a stern face, fish and chips in one hand and a stack of papers in the other. A navy blue brassard is wrapped around his arm, shimmering gold Royal Crest insignia emblazoned upon it.
“Oi, Sholmes,” the man says gruffly, dropping the stack onto the table in front of Sholmes. “Here’s those documents you asked for.”
Sholmes perks up. “Ah, excellent!” he coos. “Thank you, kindly.”
The man nods and turns to leave back, when he freezes in place. His eyes flash with recognition and something else—countenance still held firm, but the slight widening of his eyes betrays panic. “Ah, Y-Your Royal Highness!” He quickly pulls his hat off his head and bows. “Pleasure seeing you here.”
Ryunosuke gives a nervous smile. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. um…?”
“Gregson. The name’s Tobias Gregson, Your Highness,” he says, initial apprehension melting away. “Inspector and Commandin’ Officer of the Castle Town Patrol Knights, Central Division.”
Susato gasps, fingers splayed out in front of her face; the way her eyes shine in recognition, it’s like she’s seeing a star actor right in front of her. “Are you perhaps…the Commander Gregson…” She tilts forward in her seat—any farther and she’ll fall right off. “Cited extensively in Randst Reviews for your contributions?!”
“The one and only, ma’am,” Gregson says as he places his hat back on. His mustache seems to quirk up. Susato continues to gape behind her hand.
“And you are…” Ryunosuke looks from Susato to Sholmes rifling through the delivered papers with reckless abandon. “…Assisting Champion Sholmes as well?”
Sholmes trills out a roaring laugh, folding over himself and clutching his chest. “Quite so! Behold, dear Gregson, true wisdom on display!”
Gregson snaps his head back towards Sholmes with his thick eyebrows furrowed deep. “Ha! Fat chance of it!” He shakes his fish and chips at him, before turning back to Ryunosuke. “The opposite way ‘round, Your Highness. He sometimes helps me with some of my cases I’ve been inspectin’ around Castle Town—unsolved crime and the like. First met him when he was livin’ here some years ago… Waltzed right into a crime scene like he owned the place and ended up solvin’ the whole thing…” He takes a seemingly angry bite of his food and then crosses his arms. “S’posed it’d be worth keepin’ him around once he came back to town.”
Sholmes snickers with a wicked grin. “Oh, what high praise from the Commander!”
They continue this way for a beat, jabbing at each other like siblings squabbling. Ryunosuke can’t help but quietly laugh at it all. He leans towards Kazuma, eyes fixated on the two of them, and whispers, “I can only imagine what a scene these two would be out in public… Wouldn’t you like to see—”
The words fizzle out when he turns and Kazuma’s gone frozen—thousand-yard stare etched into the marble of his pale face, so far away he might as well be on another planet entirely. White knuckles grip around Karuma.
“…Kazuma?” Ryunosuke mumbles, but he doesn’t respond.
“Oh! I thought I heard you there, Gregsy!” Iris cheers when she returns and plops a cardboard box on the table.
Chips go flying. “Y-Y-Your Ladyship!” Gregson rears back in shock—a pink-haired girl a more harrowing sight than the Prince of Hyrule, clearly.
A chip lands on Ryunosuke’s lap and he grabs it immediately. Don’t you dare, says the intense stare Susato gives him and he withers in an instant. He doesn’t see the point in it being an issue—they’re not in public and it’s not as if it landed on the floor. Sure, he thinks, it’s a bit cold now and starting to get soggy, but that’s not a crime—Susato’s glare somehow gets colder. He begrudgingly places it on the table instead. It’s then that he sees her face snap like a rubber band when Kazuma’s in her line of sight.
“Are you thirsty, Gregsy?” Iris skips over to the table and pours a fresh cup of tea. “This is my newest blend I’ve been working on. Please, won’t you give it a try?”
Eggy seems to mirror her ebullience, chittering about.
“Would I ever! Oh, Your Ladyship, your kindness absolutely precedes you!” He takes the cup and slams the tea back, greedily attempting to extract every last drop—pinky finger extended the whole time. “Ahh…” he happily sighs out with a blissfully exaggerated, languid shake of his head; his eyes are almost pleading as they catch the light. “Lovely! That really hit the spot… Your tea only continues to improve each time, though it was already exemplary to begin with, Your Ladyship!” A complete 180 turn in his disposition.
Iris clasps her hands out in front of her. “Oh, I’m so very delighted to hear that!”
Gregson places the teacup on the table. “Unfortunately, as much as I’d love to stay and drink your tea for the rest of the day, I gotta get back to puttin’ this here nose to the grindstone.” He salutes her. “Your Ladyship.” He then turns to Ryunosuke and bows his head. “Your Highness.”
Gregson’s got a foot out of the door when Kazuma shoots out of his chair. Like a bomb—the chair clatters to the floor with an echoed din. “Commander, one moment, please!”
“Eh? What’s it, sunshine?” They both exit, sealing the heavy steel door behind them. Ryunosuke and Susato share a concerned look.
It’s later, when Ryunosuke and Kazuma are leaving the lab, that Ryunosuke folds his hands behind his back and surveys Kazuma’s face. A curious darkness there—as unknowable as churning, stormy seas. Irritation of some sort, too, in the deep furrow of his brow and the carving lines on his face. Ryunosuke bites his lip.
“What was that back there?” he ventures to ask.
Kazuma stops. “What?” he volleys back with a start, the response coming too quick.
Ryunosuke swallows. It’s like tiptoeing around broken glass trying to navigate the conversation with caution, though he doesn’t know the reason for why he has to employ the delicateness. “With Commander Gregson, before…”
Kazuma regards him for a lingering moment, then shakes his head, turning away. He continues walking. “I wanted to introduce myself. Knight business and all.” A dismissive wave of the hand in the air.
Ryunosuke follows quicker. He can’t get a good angle on Kazuma’s face. “Is that so? You seem…troubled, even now still.”
“Come now, Ryunosuke, have you never heard of Academy trauma?” Kazuma lets out a quick laugh, dry. His pace quickens.
Ryunosuke knits his brow. “Isn’t that usually an exaggeration?”
“It tends to be a bit of a joke, yes,” Kazuma says, “but there’s a kernel of truth in it for everyone who’s been a part of the program, I believe. No matter how eccentric some of those commanders seem, they’re menaces in their own right. Interacting with some of them tends to dredge up memories that aren’t all too pleasant, even if you haven’t met them before that point.” A beat, then: “I would caution some amount of vigilance around that man, if I were you.”
A fist up to Ryunosuke’s chin. “Hmm… Well, I can agree that the caterpillars on his face were menaces, certainly.”
Kazuma lets out a sharp laugh, then stops, turns back to Ryunosuke with a grin, amiable now. “Yes, that’s something we both can agree on.”
Relief—if only for a moment. Ryunosuke smiles and joins Kazuma by his side.
“It’s as I thought,” Susato says. She lets out an exhale that seems effortless, despite Ryunosuke having been witness to her duking it out with a metal behemoth just prior. The replicated Guardians Iris constructed for hands-on testing have proven to be eerily similar to the originals that were excavated—Ryunosuke still can’t wrap his head around how she does a quarter of what she does. “The mechanism that fires the laser in its eye is vulnerable after it shoots and its aperture is properly exposed.”
Ryunosuke scribbles down notes in a fury—in his personal notebook, since Susato already chided him for leaving his messy notes in her own.
“I have reason to believe that the bottom of its base is a similar point of weakness,” she continues on. She pulls a finger to her cheek. “Though, it would be quite difficult for any monster to take much advantage of either of these places… What with the lasers and maneuverability of the Guardians and all. Even a nimble Lizalfos would struggle to get close enough to be able to attack without receiving a laser to the face.”
Wood snaps when a shield smashes against a rock, and Ryunosuke and Susato both jump. “Destroying the legs makes them vulnerable as well,” Kazuma grumbles. He’s soaked—viscous liquid clinging to his clothes and heavy enough to droop down even his blunt mess of hair.
Ryunosuke blinks, follows the line from Kazuma’s grouchy, drenched face to the equally-sodden broken shield. “…No luck in parrying, I take it?” he asks.
Kazuma tchs in response, shaking his limbs. “The timing is deceptively difficult,” he growls out. “What did Champion Sholmes put in this stuff, anyway?!” The slime clings to him, no matter how much he thrashes about to remove it.
Susato giggles behind her hand, then she says, “Much preferred to a laser beam at any rate, yes?”
“I suppose so,” Kazuma replies, yet his dour tone doesn’t fully seem in agreement. “I do have to hand it to him—the power of these imitation lasers rivals the actual thing. The sheer force of their impacts have been breaking down these shields.” He grits his teeth and looks back to Susato. “You truly believe reflecting the beam back will work?”
“Yes,” she says, pumping her fists to her sides. “If the aperture is exposed, then sending their beam at the precise angle back through that opening will surely stun it, if not damage it outrightly!”
He sighs, pushing his hair out of his face; the section of his bangs stick back that way. “The theory is sound. The practical application, however, is a much more arduous task.” He groans out again, futilely trying again to shake off the goo on his hands. “And very unforgiving.”
“I’ve no doubt you’ll be able to do it,” Ryunosuke pipes up, leaning forward over his notebook. “Both your sword and shield skills are second to none—if anyone can master the timing, it’s you, Kazuma!”
Kazuma returns his gaze with widened eyes. “Ryunosuke, you…”
Susato smiles wide. “Yes, we both believe in you!”
“Royal Advisor Susato…” He looks back at Susato, then closes his eyes, face steeling once again. “Yes, thank you.”
And even if you can’t get it to work, Ryunosuke thinks, in my mind, you’ll always be the number one knight! …Even if you look utterly ridiculous right now.
Kazuma’s expression drops. “Ngh… You…!” he snarls and he grasps Karuma. His face has gone red under the green-translucent mess—a hot iron warped by the intense grooves welded into his furious face. “I will perfect it, just you watch!” He swiftly turns, grabs another wooden shield, and trudges back to the faux-Guardian. Ryunosuke can practically see the fumes radiating off him.
Ryunosuke slumps forward, face slick with sweat. “…What did I say wrong?” he mutters through gritted teeth.
Susato laughs again behind her hand before folding them behind herself. She looks up to the sky, back down to the ground, slowly turns around, paces sluggishly.
Ryunosuke mashes his lips together. “Um, Lady Susato…?” She flinches at the sound—skittish. “Are you alright…?”
A shocked hand flies up to her face, mouth gone lax. “Oh!” her voice quavers. “Y-Yes, of course!” She abruptly turns away again, hair loops whipping around in a blur. “Just merely thinking, is all. I’m perfectly fine.”
For all the time he’s now spent working alongside her, she’s still difficult to read fully. Dedicated, hardworking, kind—all features that shine through her every action. But he knows underneath that poised and demure veneer lies insecurities she tamps down, insisting it’s unbecoming to voice them. Never one to risk becoming a burden for others, she holds onerous responsibility all on her own shoulders without showing her struggle. She’s perfected wearing the mask of seemingly-facile ease in everything asked of her, but in times like this, it cracks ever so slightly. But, if she’s not comfortable divulging what’s bothering her, it’s not his place to pry further.
Ryunosuke lays the pen in between the pages of his notebook, then raises his gaze up to the sky. The air is fresh and vibrant, with a note of warmth teasing at its edges—the official arrival of spring is only a few days away.
“I’m interested in investigating the shrine found in the Quarry after this,” Ryunosuke says. “Since it’s the week of Farozan, the researchers have the days off and the area will be free to explore privately. Would you…perhaps like to accompany us, Lady Susato?”
Susato spins around, a glint in her surprised eyes. “Oh, I would be honored. Thank you, Your Highness.” And she smiles.
Perhaps spring has come early, after all.
“The southern route across The Bridge of Hylia, to Highland Stable, then north through the Damel Forest seems our best bet,” Kazuma says as they traverse through the dusty entrance of the Quarry. “There’s a path south of the forest that feeds directly into Faron Sea at Martha’s Landing—not too far off route, since you’re so keen on seeing it.”
“Yes!” Ryunosuke replies with a toothy grin. His mind wanders to crystal clear waves sparkling in the sun and warm, white sand underfoot. He can practically smell the spray of saltwater filling the air already. “I’ve always dreamed about visiting the Faron beaches…the descriptions written about them make them seem like pure magic.” He turns his attention towards Susato. “Have you ever been before, Lady Susato?”
She gives him a split-second of a bewildered look before dropping her eyes, crestfallen. “Never.” Cutting.
“Ah.” An icy chill runs down Ryunosuke’s spine. A nervous laugh escapes his lips before he can even think, turning back towards Kazuma. “It’s, it’s quite the detour, I know,” he sputters, “b-but we could always extend the trip and see East Necluda a bit—go visit Hateno Village, perhaps?”
Kazuma stops so abruptly, Ryunosuke almost slams into him. His headband seems almost ruler-straight in the cold breeze that freezes Ryunosuke to the ground right there and then. “No, it’s too early to—” Kazuma says quickly before snapping his mouth closed, stiff. “It’s”—he shakes his head—“it’s much too far away from the Spring of Courage. Not advisable.”
Kazuma and Susato: twin statues of frost and a silent bitterness that Ryunosuke feels unequipped to understand, much less pursue further. He hugs his arms around him, but it does little to brace himself from the onslaught.
Ugh, it’s as if there’s two cold drifts coming from both directions… I feel like I said something terribly wrong…
“No,” Kazuma and Susato both say in tandem.
“It’s quite alright,” Susato says, quickening her pace.
“Say no more of it, partner,” Kazuma says as he makes a beeline towards the shrine.
Ryunosuke slumps down, his face falling in dread with it. Perhaps we should say more of both of your knacks for reading minds…
Susato steps onto the landing in front of the shrine and gestures to its large stone entrance, deftly barricaded. “The researchers have translated the inscription here to mean something akin to: ‘O, valiant one, divinely decreed, sharpen body and spirit through these trials of toil,’” she reads from her notebook, trailing a hand across the door of the shrine in time.
The structure shares the similar bulbed shape of the Guardians, glowing amber spilling through the intricate and winding slit patterns like molten honey through fingers. A small pedestal sits at its base. The entrance is locked shut.
Ryunosuke circles the shrine. “And no one’s been able to figure out how to get the doors open?”
Susato shakes her head. “Unfortunately not.”
“No cracks in its security from the outside?” Kazuma asks as he cradles his chin in his fist, scrutinizing its construction. “Not even a small hole somewhere that can be exploited?”
She frowns. “It’s airtight. The researchers have gone over its façade with a fine-toothed comb and yet have found nothing, I’m afraid. Iris’s drill didn’t do so much as a dent in it, either.”
Ryunosuke presses the Sheikah Slate to the top of the pedestal, but nothing happens. “We don’t even get a hint like with the indented pedestals in the Divine Beasts to give us some direction, huh?” He sighs.
“Champion Sholmes believes that maybe some input into the Sheikah Slate can unlock the door,” Susato says. She tilts her head, contemplating. “I fear that there’s little progress on that front, however.”
“May I?” Kazuma asks and reaches out for the Slate; Ryunosuke hands it to him. He flips it around in his hand. “Maybe there’s a small connector port, like the Guardian had on its outside casing. Do you see anything of the sort anywhere?”
Ryunosuke combs the backside of the pedestal while Susato examines the door, but their search is fruitless. Kazuma’s inspection of the top of the pedestal yields similar results—just a smooth face, with only the etchings of the Sheikah Eye and decorative, circular nodes surrounding it.
“There has to be something we’re all missing,” Kazuma mutters. He grips the sandstone-colored filigree cradling the pedestal to kneel, pressing the Slate face down onto the Sheikah Eye as he balances his weight.
A chime pings. The same sound as turning on the Slate.
“Ah!” Ryunosuke gasps and he leans himself over the back of the pedestal. The amber hues have morphed into a bright azure. He gapes at it, then up at Kazuma again. “Kazuma, what did you—”
“Activation key confirmed,” a robotic voice rumbles out of the Slate, stilted and full of static. Kazuma flips the Slate right side up; he and Ryunosuke share a mystified look. “Access granted.”
The structure rumbles and Susato yelps, jumping backwards with raised fists as the sealed entrance way folds back, piece by piece, like the collapse in a stick-pulling game. Blue light overtakes orange on the outside of the shrine—a glowing halo illuminating the small alcove inside. That same blue irradiates a circular etching in the floor; the all-seeing Crest of the Sheikah is embossed at its center.
Ryunosuke squints at the cramped, exposed recess in front of them. Walled-off, perfectly contained—and utterly empty.
“Erm,” he says, “is there supposed to be nothing inside…?” He fails to see how one would face supposed “trials of toil” in a bare shrine, unless the trial was that of patience. The theory about the shrine being a place of prayer might not be too off.
“How peculiar,” Susato muses, hand resting on the side of her pensive face. “The inside spans the length of the outer walls, so it’s not as if there’s a false room partition or the like…” She points to the glowing design at the center of the floor. “Do you suppose this is some sort of…communication device of some sort—similar to an arcane circle? If we’re going off of the ‘shrine as a means to communicate with the Divine Beasts’ proposal posited… Though, I fail to see how the inscription on the doors pertains in that case.” Deep wrinkles crease her face as she frowns.
“Only one way to find out,” Kazuma says and he enters the space. Ryunosuke and Susato follow behind.
“Unauthorized persons detected,” the pedestal outside declares, consonants crackling.
“Perhaps only Champion Kazuma may be inside…” Susato murmurs. She slides a hand along the wall, but whatever it is she’s searching for, she seems to still be dissatisfied when she pulls back.
Ryunosuke nods and goes to turn back, when he’s stopped with a, “Wait,” from Kazuma. Kazuma holds out the Slate. “Here,” he says.
“No,” Ryunosuke answers with a shake of his head. Delicately, his hands wrap around Kazuma’s and he presses the Slate back towards him. “You take it. Maybe you can get some photographs of whatever happens so we can see after.”
Kazuma stares down at it, at the gentle pressure of Ryunosuke’s touch. Brown eyes flick up, canopied by noble red; he sets his jaw. “I’ll see to it.”
Ryunosuke and Susato exit the shrine and they watch as the circle flares blue, emitting a breathy hiss. The floor rattles and creaks, then the circular area Kazuma is standing on descends.
It’s quiet after, just the pitched sough of wind across stone and gravel. Only a silent prayer between them both for Kazuma’s safety in whatever place he’s sunken into—wholly unreachable.
It’s a tricky thing, deciphering Susato’s furtive glances. Yet, Ryunosuke perceives the sidelong looks his way while they sit and wait near the small, shaded pond area on the outskirts of the Quarry—how the tension twists her features ever so faintly. She wears frustration like a mask spun with sugar—unassumingly sweet on the surface and nearly imperceptible, but one drop of bitterness, and it dissolves no matter how much she tries to maintain composure.
“Um…is there something troubling you, Lady Susato?” he hazards to ask. He can’t keep his eyes from swimming.
She sucks in an audible breath. “No, not at all!” Her hand shoots up in front of gaping mouth, before her eyes dart away. “Everything is perfect—yes, quite like how that frog over there is perfectly poised to jump on that lily pad at any moment!” She clears her throat.
Ryunosuke watches said Hot-Footed Frog. He blinks and it slowly blinks back at him, its large eyes staring like its vision can pierce through the very fabric of the universe itself. It hasn’t moved the entire time, much less any indication of it leaping anytime soon—perfectly happy lazing in the mud, more like it. He can’t keep himself from wondering if its essence would be potent when used in an elixir. “Is… Is that so?”
She flinches, back straightening and eyes just as frantic as before—it’s almost like Ryunosuke’s looking into a mirror. “Y-Yes, indeed it is!”
Ryunosuke frowns. His hands feel clammy; he can’t stop thinking about how awkward it all is. “Well, I’ll trust you at your word… But, I’d like to emphasize that if there’s ever anything bothering you, you wouldn’t be a burden to voice it to me.” He swallows and feels the nerves prick inside his stomach. He tugs at his collar.
They had worked together with more and more frequency now, though not often alone. Maybe they weren’t particularly close yet, but he couldn’t deny the possibility of them growing to be better friends as time went on. As invaluable her assistance is in their research, he values the pleasure of her company the most—especially the silly side of her that spills out from behind the composed dam at the most unexpected moments.
It’s a moment of silence before she sighs, shifting her weight of her seiza to the side. “…Please excuse my bluntness,” she begins and the strain in her voice is palpable, “but I find myself quite envious of you two.” Ryunosuke’s eyebrows lift and she laces her fingers in front of her, like knitting to ease her nerves. “I’d very much like the opportunity to go exploring as you and Champion Kazuma have.” She stops herself. “...Though, I understand it is often under unfavorable circumstances.”
Something bitter sticks to the back of his throat. It’s the reason why they’re even going on this next pilgrimage anyway—to pursue something that was fleeting. What if he comes back empty-handed once again, all after that false hope?
He leans forward. “Wh-Why don’t you come with us, then? We’re to leave for the Spring of Courage two days after the Festival of Farore… I would be delighted for you to accompany us, and I’m sure Kazuma would feel the same!”
Her eyes grow wide, before falling back down to linger at the ground. A slight smile pulls at the corner of her lips, morose. “You’ve both become close that quickly, haven’t you?” she says so quietly, it’s almost hard to make out.
Ryunosuke cocks his head, lets out a questioning noise. “What?”
She shakes her head. “Thank you for your kind offer, but no, sadly, it’s not possible. My duty as the Royal Advisor is to stay within the vicinity of the castle at all times, only permitting travel to and from Kakariko Village. To traipse around Hyrule… It’s simply not allowed.”
“B-But…! Can’t you argue for an exception with Elder Impa? Surely, she would grant you some leeway, especially if it concerned a pilgrimage to one of the sacred springs?”
Susato raises a captious eyebrow. “I think you know as well as I do that Grandmother doesn’t take very kindly to infringing protocol.”
Ryunosuke slumps forward with a grimace. He remembers the numerous times Elder Impa pressed the virtues of always being truthful, of always following established proprieties. Even the most well-intentioned and inconsequential lies would beget more lies. It was a lesson he was often grateful for—except for the times when her uncompromising stringency would lead to him getting in trouble.
“Yes,” he grumbles, “I do…”
Susato giggles that controlled laugh behind her hand. The levity is fleeting, soon being replaced by another solemn expression as she stares at the pond. The frog holds stagnant, almost dutiful in its stillness.
Ryunosuke lolls his head back and watches the clouds drift slowly across the azure. He releases a deep breath. “…Do you resent it?”
She takes a moment to consider it, lips pressed into a tight line. “No,” she finally breathes out, “nothing like that at all.” Her hands are folded in her lap; she squeezes one with the other. “I sincerely enjoy my work and I take great pride in it all. Being able to support you, Champion Kazuma, Champion Sholmes, and Iris…I truly love it. It feels as though I’m making a real difference in trying to help people as our understanding of the ancient Sheikah technology grows. And I wish to become someone Grandmother can be proud of—so that when it comes time for her to depart from this world, she can rest easy knowing she can rely on me to carry her mantle.”
Her eyes slip shut and she entwines her fingers into that lacework once again. “But, I suppose…I desperately wish it wasn’t so restrictive—that the choice between upholding my duties as the Royal Advisor and being able to freely see this world and all its beauty wasn’t such a binary choice that can never hope to overlap.” She inhales, opens her eyes again. There’s a haggard look to her face—a storm brewing behind vermillion eyes, despite how much effort is made to suppress it. She stares off into the distance, across excavated rock and rolling hills. Hushed: “…That’s an awfully selfish thing to want, is it not?”
Empathy swells like a mess of firethorns in his chest. “No,” Ryunosuke says with a shake of his head, though the word catches in his throat, “I don’t think so.”
The frog leaps as quick as a rabbit into the water. Ryunosuke watches as it kicks and glides deeper into the pond, freely gliding underneath with negligible resistance—at ease in the water just as much as out on the land.
He hears Susato suck in an inhale, but she’s quick to tamp down any evidence of it behind her hand. “Suppose it was possible…” he says. “If you had your choice, where would you like to go first?”
“Zora’s Domain.” The answer comes promptly—decisive and resolute. Her eyes wander back out to that vast expanse of field and sky, and a rosy smile blooms on her face. “My dear friend, Rei, has been living there since she started her medical apprenticeship under Champion Wilson,” she says, and the wistfulness spills out like warm green tea laced with a heaping spoonful of honey. “She detailed the region extensively in her letters and made it sound so very romantic. How the acoustics of The Zora Hall carries the lead singer of the resident band’s mezzo-soprano beautifully… The breaktaking Veiled Falls and the imposing Ploymus Mountain in the distance… Oh, how I’d love to see it all with my own eyes. And to see her…” She stills suddenly, jerking her head up. “Oh dear, I’m quite sorry for prattling on. I got lost in my thoughts suddenly.” A light blush powders her cheeks.
Ryunosuke smiles. “It’s nothing to apologize for,” he says softly. He brings a hand up to his chin and hums, “Hmm, well… I don’t know if it’ll work, but I will try to argue in the future that I need my Royal Advisor to assist me during one of my travels. If it’s under official business, then maybe we’ll be granted some leniency?”
Susato’s eyes grow wide and glassy. She holds a fist to her chest. “Oh, Prince Ryunosuke…” Her words warble, ever so slightly, behind a quivering lip.
He gives her another smile before turning his attention back to the pond and its glittering ripples. When he speaks again, it’s said low: “I promise you, one day you’ll be able to explore the vast wilds, too. Maybe it’s not now, but the time will come before you know it. I make this pledge to you.”
He hears her sniff beside him. “That’s truly too kind of you, thank you.”
He sucks in a full breath of that wild around him. “I know it’s not nearly the same, but when Kazuma returns with the Slate, I’d enjoy nothing more than to show you some of the photos of the locations we’ve been.” A giddy little noise of surprise escapes him, coming to a realization. “There was one I’d think you’d like—Kazuma using a spade outside when we got snowed in one day at Talonto Temple. The way the sun reflected on the massive blanket of snow was a sight to behold.”
“Oh?” There’s intrigue in her eyes, but she cocks her head slightly. “Why was Champion Kazuma digging holes in the ground? Did that help displace the snow that accumulated?”
He blinks. “What? Why would…he be digging holes?”
She gives him a blank look. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. You said he was using a spade, did you not? Spades are for digging, so it would follow reason that he was digging holes in the snow…?”
“That’s—oh.” Then, he brings a hand to the back of his neck, rubs it stiffly.
Susato was brilliant—she seemingly knew information about everything, but if she didn’t, then the book she kept on her person at all times would fill in the gaps, no matter how esoteric the topic. So, it’s at this that brings him pause. Surely, she knew, right?
“I believe you’re mistaken, Lady Susato,” he says, pinching the short hair at the base of his skull between his fingers. “Shovels are for digging. Spades are for scooping up loose material—which he was doing to clear the snow from the entrance of the temple.”
There’s a pause before her hands ball up into fists and she leans forward, brow furrowed and frown set. “No, I’m sorry to say it’s the opposite way around, Your Highness. If he was merely clearing snow, he surely would be using a shovel.”
Ryunosuke slumps forward. She seems confident in her position—convincing her otherwise seems unlikely. “Seems we’ve unearthed quite the great debate. To avoid coming across like a tool, what’d you say about burying the hatchet for now?”
The intensity in her eyes doesn’t temper, but she relents anyway: “Yes, I suppose it’s probably for the best that we ditch digging that hole any further—”
A deep rattling from the shrine interrupts her. She instantly shoots up to her feet and runs closer; Ryunosuke clumsily follows behind her. The veil of shadow within the shrine’s entrance peels back when Kazuma steps out from its awning.
Kazuma’s fuming.
“Champion Kazuma, what happ—Oh!” Susato quickly raises a hand to her face, expression squashed together like she ate a lemon.
It takes only a second when Ryunosuke’s within range of them that the smell hits him like a Lynel body checking him at full speed. It’s rancid and sour—he can hardly breathe. His hands clasp over his nose. Goddess, what happened to him? He stinks.
Susato shoots Ryunosuke a dirty look. “What a…pungent odor,” she redirects carefully. “What was it like inside?”
Kazuma makes a beeline to the pedestal and places the Slate face down. “There was a small Guardian inside—around Eggy’s size—and it wielded a technological sword as a weapon,” Kazuma says swiftly.
Ryunosuke’s eyes grow wide at the thought—could Darumy be able to use a sword?
There’s a grating screech of a noise from the pedestal. “Replicate access denied,” the robotic voice ekes out. “The trial has been sufficiently completed.”
“Tch,” Kazuma hisses out, before placing the Slate back down again. “There was a speaker device inside announcing it as ‘A Modest Test of Strength’. It was much more mobile than the large Guardians, but the practice against them this morning made tracking its patterns much more easier.” The same noise and denial comes out of the pedestal again. “Ugh! The blasted thing let out some noxious gas and got the jump on me. One time that sword made any contact—if I can just do it again, I can beat it perfectly without taking any damage! Just let me in!” He places the Slate down again with more force.
Ryunosuke notices the cut on his tunic sleeve when Kazuma shifts position. It’s small and not deep enough to disturb the undershirt below, much less draw any blood—a simple stitching to mend.
“You didn’t…” Susato’s voice drops softer, worry a tight tenor. “Try to parry its lasers, did you?”
The speaker denies him yet again and he throws his head back with a groan, arm falling down to his side limply. He breathes deep and after a moment, turns to face Susato with a troubled expression—a meld of frustration and a peculiar ruefulness. “No.” He looks away. “I acknowledge it’s too much of a risk to attempt right now.”
Susato exhales, shoulders loosening their tension.
“Looks like re-entry is unfeasible,” Kazuma finally capitulates and holds out the Slate to Ryunosuke. “When I entered, there was a pedestal under another Guidance Stone. It imbued it with some sort of data, but it disabled the rest of the Slate’s functionality, so I wasn’t able to take any pictures while inside, sorry.”
Ryunosuke takes it in his hands and taps at the screen. It whirs to life like normal, but he can’t seem to notice anything different within its menus. “I suppose it’s due for another look from Iris, in that case,” he says and Kazuma nods in agreement. “Was that all that happened? What about after you beat the Guardian?”
“That’s the most peculiar thing of all”—Kazuma raises a fist to his chin, gaze trailing distant in thought—“there was someone in there at the end of the chamber.” Both Ryunosuke and Susato gasp out. “One of the ancient Sheikah from The Great Calamity. A monk.”
“Hold it!” Susato clasps her hands close to her chest. “An, an ancient Sheikah?!” The words tumble out fast and fervid. “But how could—That’s impossible! The Great Calamity was ten thousand years ago! It’s inconceivable that anyone could live that long!”
Kazuma runs a hand through his bangs. “As far-fetched as it seems, it’s the truth. The monk confirmed it themselves: they had dedicated themself in this near-stasis for millennia, faithfully waiting for someone with the resolve of a hero to overcome their trial…” He pauses and crosses his arms, closing his eyes. “I’m inclined to believe them. It was a ghastly sight. They were decrepit, just bones and sinewy skin, practically mummified.”
Ryunosuke’s heart feels like it’s made of lead, how it sinks so deeply in his stomach. The sacrifices people have made and still continue to make to fulfill their duties—it’s a never-ending cycle.
Kazuma continues, “Devoted so fully, they transferred whatever life force was keeping them rooted to this world to me and then they simply…disappeared.” He opens his eyes and looks up to the sky; his fingers grip into his sleeve. “But, they seemed at peace with it all. As they were, I can’t imagine staying in that state for any longer is preferable to finally being able to move on. I tried to get any extra information about what was going on, but it was to no avail.”
Susato’s gaze lowers with a solemn frown. “Yes, I suppose after thousands of years of patiently waiting to deliver a message, I also wouldn’t be much in the mood for further discussion.”
“I’m just grateful to have helped bring them some peace,” Kazuma says and Susato nods. His headband catches wind, fluttering aloft in the breeze.
“You said before, that the Sheikah monk transferred their life force to you,” Ryunosuke says. “Do you…feel any different?”
Kazuma shakes his head. “No, not that I can tell.”
Ryunosuke sighs as he allows his body to relax ever so slightly. “It’s best we report this back to Champion Sholmes.”
“Ah, yes!” Susato exclaims. “I’ve no doubt he’ll be beyond pleased to hear these new advancements!”
Ryunosuke taps the toe of his boot against the dirt. “Yes,” he mutters, “he’ll be pleased to take credit for it when it was Kazuma who did all the work, I’m sure…”
Susato shoots him a frosty look, but it’s fragile, breaking almost instantly as she brings a hand to cover the laughs that manage to slip out. Kazuma snorts out a laugh of his own, completely unbridled.
“Ahh, finally we’re here!” Ryunosuke groans out when he collapses backwards onto the hill with all the grace of a Hinox being knocked off balance. As he stretches out onto the prickly, dry grass, the colorful orange and green mask—a long-held tradition of wearing depictions of ancient gods once said to be Goddess Hylia’s appointed overseers over the passage of time and the usherers of spring—previously tied to the side of his head comes loose. He can hear the pop of his lower back, loud like a cannon firing—and just as painful.
It was a bit of a trek of a journey to reach the hill at the base of Mount Gustaf, flanked by the ceremonial Sacred Ground to the east—swerving through the throngs of bustling festival goers drunk off of whistling flutes and pulsating multicolored paper lanterns that swarmed every last inch of Castle Town Square—but it was one that Ryunosuke knew was well worth making: the prime spot to see the fireworks shot off at Hyrule Castle at the strike of midnight. Remote enough that the harsh lights of Castle Town becomes but a subdued hearth of a glow illuminating Hyrule Castle from below, and tall enough in elevation to avoid the chance of anything becoming obscured by the castle, it gives the clearest view of the festival’s big send off before the crowd would set to disperse—whether to be for slumber or for extended celebration elsewhere.
Ryunosuke unclips the Sheikah Slate from his belt and taps into it. “With time to spare, too!” he says with a wince as the contrast between darkness and the harsh glow off the tablet momentarily blinds him. It displays a couple minutes until midnight.
Kazuma sits beside him and chuckles. He plucks Ryunosuke’s fallen mask off the ground before removing his own from the side of his head.
The Festival of Farore: the climactic finale after the week of Farozan and, at midnight, the official first day of spring. It’s a celebration of one of the three Golden Goddesses of Antiquity, Farore, and the turning of a new leaf—shedding the dormancy of winter and embracing the rebirth and prosperity of spring. After the Goddess Hylia’s ascension as the highest-venerated deity however-many-thousands of years ago, these deities lost their prominence and, with it, their authority. It’s traditional holidays like these that have withstood the test of time—despite the inhabitants of the modern world having lost the intimate knowledge of these gods, their legacy still endures through these celebrations.
Ryunosuke puts the Slate back to sleep and sets it aside. He digs into his pocket, saying, “And look what I’ve got.” The flash of a firework illuminates the stick of hard candy he holds out, its wrapper decorated in rich greens and golds that reflect well even under the murky lighting.
“One thousand year candy?” Kazuma asks. He pauses for a moment, then his voice grows pert when he teases, “You’ve stooped so low that you’re quite literally taking candy from children now, are you?” The pale white of his smile shines in the moonlight.
“That’s not…!” Ryunosuke sputters. “Of course it’s popular to give the candy to children, but it’s always been tradition to eat one as a way to encourage good health and longevity—no matter your age!” He huffs, mouth drawing into a tight frown. He mutters, “I suppose I should’ve gotten two, though…” as he fiddles with it.
Maybe I can… The crinkle of the wrapper and the strained grunt that comes out of him when he puts all his effort into trying to break the stick are much louder than he expected in the lull between fireworks being shot off. There’s a slight snap, but the tension holds strong under his force.
“Give it here,” Kazuma says airily with an extended hand, and Ryunosuke grumbles at his failure as he passes it over. Kazuma shifts and his foot falls against Ryunosuke’s.
Ryunosuke’s brow pinches. “…Do you suppose its effect is halved if you share it with someone else?”
There’s a buzzing murmur as the crowd in Castle Town grows restless further away. They’re chanting, rhythmic and rhapsodic, but it’s difficult to make out clearly.
Kazuma hums in thought. “Well, if that’s true”—he snaps the candy stick with an ease that makes Ryunosuke groan—“that still leaves us with five hundred years, doesn’t it?”
Ryunosuke hears the fabric of Kazuma’s sleeve shift, sees the faint outline of his arm move within the shadow. The cascade of fireworks boom and crack light like multicolored sparks spilling off flint and iron. Kazuma’s head swivels towards the noise, yet Ryunosuke’s attention is stuck to what’s in front of him: the way the lights dance and draw highlights across Kazuma’s face, reflecting back in that wide-eyed awe that’s left his features gone slack, but not any less endearing; the sharp arc of the bridge of his nose bright up against the night backdrop, pointed steadily ahead with that same unyielding confidence he always carries; how the small gasp that escapes him colors that self-assuredness with a level of childlike wonder that anchors him from ascending somewhere too unreachable. Noise thunders in Ryunosuke’s ears.
The one thousand year candy broke asymmetrical; Kazuma holds out the longer piece for Ryunosuke to take.
Kazuma’s mouth quirks up into a sharp grin, then he turns back to Ryunosuke. “Incredible, isn’t it?” he asks, voice strained over the booming.
His smile is infectious. “Yes, absolutely,” Ryunosuke says with a light laugh, taking the candy from Kazuma’s hand. Finally, he focuses on the spray of light—the greens and yellows glowing in the distance even more spectacular than he remembered it being.
The candy is overwhelmingly sweet under his tongue. He hopes it won’t cause a stomach ache.
Notes:
Credit for the fan-made Zelda holiday of Farozan and of course the iconic official Capcom fanclub surveys for the thousand year candy.
Ah frogs...being able to live in two different habitats that normally would require an animal to pick only one..... This conflict between duty/prescribed destiny and personal autonomy is a big theme through this whole fic and it of course affects both Ryunosuke and Kazuma, but Susato is also very much caught in the same struggle. I wanted to try to capture a context similar to what she deals with in tgaa's canon 2-1 with the conflict between wanting to help Rei, but being unable to stand in court as herself due to the sexism at the time. Pulled between following what's laid out for you to obey and what you wish to pursue... I find it such a fascinating theme (and one I wish botw proper actually committed to doing something with after hinting at it the whole game).
And of course, I needed to include the thousand year candy scene!! Adding it to this au context of reincarnation gives it a fun meaning, too.
Chapter 13: Shrimple Pleasures
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
Members of some clergy arrived at the castle a day before our departure. Their names were unfamiliar and so was the abbey they hailed from, located somewhere sequestered on top of Angel Peak. They had heard from some channel—though, I don’t know where, as I thought Father had kept the information confidential—that my sealing powers had materialized the once and were eager to lend their assistance. Despite how much of a surprise their visit was, Father seemed unfazed through it all and welcomed them in.
Ugh, I shiver just thinking about how they would leer. It is a terrible, humiliating feeling to be seen as a vessel instead of a person. It’s even worse to be seen as a failure of a vessel. It’s as if whenever they looked at me, they didn’t see me, only through me—searching for the Goddess Hylia standing in my place, yet coming up unsuccessful.
…I don’t quite know whether I would’ve preferred them to have just outrightly referred to me as a failure, instead of the silent, judgmental implication of it. At least that way, they would have had to have acknowledged me as more than a walking, dried husk of an effigy.
Whatever they felt, they weren’t overly protective of their goddess (or, perhaps, I had let them down so thoroughly, they couldn’t reconcile their view of me enough to care). I recounted the situation where I felt her power and they came to the conclusion it was a sense of danger that spurred her protection. I tried to argue that this line of logic had been tested for years, through freezing spring waters and controlled starvation tactics. Still, they maintained this was different. It was not only dangerous, but a sudden moment of high stress and adrenaline—an instantaneous response to stimuli when lives are put on the line, nothing more to it.
I have no answer for why the powers materialized when they did and the theory seemed sound enough on its face (after all, how many stories are told about heroes gaining a mysterious boost of power in the eleventh hour when all hope seemed lost? Not that I’d ever describe myself as a hero, of course…), but I can’t help doubting it. Why then and there? Why not when the Lizalfos attacked back when we retrieved Eggy or when the Yiga had left me cornered and alone within McGilded’s mansion—I had certainly felt that all-consuming fear of death then. But, I have no alternate explanation and no decisive evidence to contradict it, so I couldn’t effectively dispute any further speculation.
The clergy members possessed a mordant viciousness to them and they weren’t hesitant at all when it came to suggesting I fling myself into danger to prove their hypothesis. First, they roped Lady Susato into engaging in a surprise “Susato Ambush”—how that differs from a Susato Toss, I can’t explain, for one second I was staring down a platter of Hot Buttered Apples and the next, seeing stars while splayed across the ground. She laid out an extensive string of apologies, but the distinct glint in her eye was unmistakable in revealing just how much she must’ve enjoyed it all… Next, they convinced Kazuma into shooting an arrow at a small apple sitting atop my head. He refused initially, but one of the members dared to question his skill and any reservations he had about potentially shooting his best friend in the face seemed to instantly vanish… (He hit the apple perfectly, but took some of the years off my life along with it.)
Finally, they thought it’d be best to escalate it by recreating the inciting situation more closely: finding a monster out in Hyrule Field and putting me to its mercy, unprotected. Thankfully, Father had enough benevolence to put a stop to it all at that point. I suppose risking critical injury from hypothermia in the sacred springs is safe enough, but throwing me out to the Wolfos is crossing a line…
We leave for the Spring of Courage tomorrow. The divine power still evades me.
A shaky breath. A sandaled foot plunges into the water, then another. One step forward, then two, then three, then four.
To the general public, the primordial sacred springs, eponymous of the three Triforce virtues, are sites that fill each visitor that enters their hallowed grounds with awe and a fearful sort of reverence. Nestled under dense canopies of sprawling jungle, the giant Goddess Statue housed within the Spring of Courage looms with the same scrutinizing eye she no doubt watched the fabled ancient hero with as he purportedly forged his sword in consecrated flame. Here, however, it’s not the weight of lofty divinity that leaves Ryunosuke heavy with wariness, but the complete absence of it all entirely.
He’s not ignorant to the magic that drenches the Damel Forest like the humidity heavy in the air—far from it. Whether Farore continues to be venerated or not, her influence still impacts the area as though she rules it herself to this day: warm, torrential rains and the crack of thunderstorms, vicious winds and encroaching vegetation. Down to the swarms of relentless bugs that inhabit it, the forest is alive, and wholly unwelcoming to those who dare to tame it.
Even Ryunosuke knows the story of the abbey erected decades ago—how construction efforts were restarted in almost Sisyphean fashion and delayed for years as high winds and lightning strikes made for unsafe working conditions, how structures built one day would be toppled and covered in vines the next. How even after the construction crew succeeded in finishing the abbey, the jungle’s spirit continued to fight, laying waste to the building section by section, until its inhabitants were finally driven out and the site was reclaimed by the earth, no traces of its existence remaining.
The valorous forest accepts no permanent residents that may disrupt its nature; only the bravest of travelers and researchers setting up temporary camps are allowed to stay in their transience. That dragon-hearted resistance is Farore’s will—or perhaps, that of the ancient Zonai whose intricate ruins cover the forest in a symbiotic harmony.
The forest is alive, and the way the wind whizzes sharp through the trees and how the animals screech deep within the lush is as much of a testament to it as the sweat clinging to Ryunosuke’s skin, even as the sun has disappeared far below the horizon. The spring water that reaches up to his hips is a respite, just this once. Yet despite the din surrounding him, it is still too silent. If only he could share the experience of those who once felt Hylia at the base of her statue long ago.
Almost two months since he felt her power. A flash in the pan, fizzled out and its very existence left in question. King Naruhodo had hounded him again before leaving, driving home the critical importance of him reawakening his powers at the Spring of Courage, of making it clear beyond question how the success of the entire world rests on his shoulders—as if he wasn’t already acutely aware of it all. Was it all a cosmic fluke? What good was it for his powers to awaken, only for them to fall dormant once again?
Ryunosuke shakes his head before dipping his head in supplication and his hands clasp in front of his chest. “O, divine Goddess Hylia, apotheosis of wisdom, holy sovereign of light and time.” The words are air—breezy without resistance, with just as little emotional substance comprising them. “I am Ryunosuke Naruhodo, the one who harbors your spirit. I humbly beseech you for your audience.”
The incessant chirping of the Restless Crickets is the only answer he receives. He continues, sinking his head lower: “I come seeking help regarding the divine powers that have been handed down over time. I have pledged my piety”—something wells up inside him that veers him off script, something fanged and unexpectedly animalistic—“placating you with prayer in order to provoke my power into presenting itself.”
A deep breath. He shifts in the water, letting his hands slip to fall slowly next to his sides. The moon hanging behind the Goddess Statue’s shoulder casts dark shadows across the grooved stone, haloed in backlit moonlight.
“Grandmother was said to have heard the voices from deep within the realm of spirits, as did Mother… My whole life, everyone has told me that prayer will awaken those same powers—that prayer would allow me to harness the power to seal Calamity Stronghart away…
“I thought—” The words catch bitter in his throat, burning there. “I naïvely thought that things were different after Talonto Temple—that things had finally changed…” His nails dig into the soft flesh of his palms when he balls his fists. “That I had done something correctly for once, that I had finally become someone seen worthy of your time and your consideration.”
The growing heat fizzles into a rasped whisper: “And yet, here I am again, utterly empty handed…” He raises his palms as the water slips off them, dripping back into the spring. He can see his reflection against the moonlight watching him, rippling and distorted—is that even really him staring back at himself?
“All of this prayer…and for what?” He can’t continue looking at that deformed simulacrum of himself, draped in that gaudy white; he squeezes his eyes shut, turns his face away with gritted teeth. “Nothing has changed. I still don’t hear…or feel anything! What good is it all?!”
Something escapes him—a whimper, a gasp that pulls a weak, sad sound out of him. “After all the progress with the Guardians and the relics… If I still am unable to awaken to my power…” His clenched fists shake despite himself. The Guardians and Divine Beasts are invaluable to their success, he’s sure of it, but their usefulness ends with buying them time—a weakened calamity is just as disastrous to the world as long as it’s allowed to exist. “Everything will have been in vain.” He shudders.
“Father still berates me, despite it all. He tells me time and time again that I’m abandoning my duty and trying to run away from our agreement… That I’m still spending too much of my energy on the relic research instead. Even after everything, he still believes I’m merely playing at being a scholar!”
He sucks in a breath when his gaze lifts up to the hazy statue. “Curse you…” When his sight falls back down, the unfamiliar, warped reflection continues to peer back at him from the dark water, then it’s obscured in an instant, left even more cloudy when the tears prick at his eyes.
A ghastly visage framed in white, like smeared oil paints on canvas. That’s not who he is—
Who is he?
The sound of his fists smashing into the water is like cannon fire, how it echoes against the surrounding rock and moss-covered pillars. His head hangs low; it feels like a lead weight too difficult to continue to prop up. “After all the sacrifice…” His voice strains, pulled taut and fragile. “After all the pain… How can you possibly say I’ve done anything else but dedicate my life to prayer?”
Shaky, his arms snake around each other. He folds over himself. “Everyone else…is carrying out their duties with such grace…” He thinks of Sholmes and Iris, with their advancements into the relic research. He thinks of Susato, and her steadfast assistance to that research, even if it comes at a price to herself. He thinks of Kazuma, how the goddess gave him her blessing while they were merely teenagers—how he’s continued to rise to the challenge of that weight on his shoulders every day since, though Ryunosuke knows how heavy the burden is on him. “I am the only one…” his voice croaks out. “Who can’t seem to live up…to what’s expected of him…
“I’ve pleaded to the spirits tied to the ancient gods. I’ve bruised my knees in supplication; I’ve spilt the blood. And yet, still, the holy powers have proven deaf to my devotion!” Hot tears stain his cheeks and fall, intermingling with water that feels both too warm and yet far too cold. His nails dig into his exposed arms. “What have I done wrong? What have I not found yet for you to dangle hope in front of me before so cruelly snatching it away again?”
He sways in place, head swiveling around, as if searching for something that will give him answers hiding in the darkness—as if even if there was something there, that he’d be able to make any sense of it. His eyes dart about uncontrollably. “Please, just tell me! What is it…? What’s wrong with me?!”
He collapses, arms still hugged tight around himself as he folds over, nose skimming the surface of the disturbed spring like a tree rotted and bent. He sobs and each heaving breath burns as if inhaling water. It’s a tsunami bursting out of his chest: he’s allowed this grief to well up inside him for so long, it’s become uncontrollable once given the slightest opening.
There’s no use fighting against it anymore; the time for that has passed. He lets it out, and out, and out.
He feels that magnetic pull inside him grow stronger before he hears Kazuma’s approaching footsteps against marble, muffled under the roar of his heart beating in his ears. “…Nosu…” The sound is far-away, fuzzy and smothered. Syllables that don’t cohere.
“Please,” he murmurs, though it’s thick and wet, “I need this. We need this. Please, please…”
“Ryunosuke, stop.”
Ryunosuke sucks in a breath when Kazuma’s hand presses over his shoulder. When did he even get into the water? Ryunosuke stares at him, wide-eyed and pleading. Each blink makes everything around him look like a smeared, frosted mosaic. “I can’t,” he croaks. His mouth is dry, his throat raw. “I have to keep going. If I don’t—”
Kazuma’s hazy silhouette shakes his head; the red fabric catches the moonlight with the motion. “Please,” he says softly. “That’s enough.” He moves closer and the hand on Ryunosuke’s shoulder makes a gentle arc around his back, until Kazuma’s arm wraps around him. “There’s no point in pressing it further; the goddess isn’t going to give any answers tonight. Let’s get going.”
Ryunosuke’s body feels like a lead weight. He attempts to nod his head and snivel out an affirmative, but both actions are feeble—he hopes Kazuma can understand him. The shame of it all feels like a furnace pressed up to his face.
Kazuma’s answer comes only a moment later, when he lifts Ryunosuke to his feet and then off the ground entirely, ever-steady arms under his knees and supporting his back. Despite it all, it doesn’t make Ryunosuke feel any lighter. Kazuma wades back to the shallow edge of the spring.
“I’m sorry,” Ryunosuke mumbles into his own arm wrapped around Kazuma’s shoulders, face pressed squarely into the slick groove of his shoulder. It’s terrible, how he’s to blame for Kazuma’s soaked clothes.
“Hold your head high, Ryunosuke.” Even under the whirr between his ears, Kazuma’s voice cuts through as clear as castle bells. “Don’t count yourself out just yet. I believe in you, unequivocally.”
Ryunosuke weeps, and it’s like a dry cloth being wrung.
Ryunosuke cracks an eye open when he resigns himself to the fact that falling asleep is a losing battle. For a moment, he watches the fire crackle, casting dancing light and shadow in a partnered duet against Kazuma’s back. He sits there across the fire, facing the expanse of darkness ahead of him, as straight and unmoving as a guardian lion-dog statue. Karuma is laid to his side.
The breeze sweeping over the Guchini Plain sets a chill in Ryunosuke’s bones when he rises from his bedroll. He can’t help but find it a wonder—how being only a few hours away from the overbearing mugginess of the Damel Forest and into open plains can cause such a difference. He tugs the blanket over his shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” Kazuma doesn’t have to look back to know it’s him; he no doubt felt him approaching. That pull, again.
Ryunosuke shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.” He gestures with a tilt of his head. “May I…?”
Kazuma lets out a small laugh, before turning himself around to face him. “You know you never need to ask me that.”
Ryunosuke responds with a laugh of his own, plopping down next to Kazuma. “Yes, sorry. Old habits and all…” He shifts, looking at Kazuma out of the corner of his eye. “Are you cold?”
Kazuma considers it for a moment, before replying, “A bit, I suppose.” And he gives his thanks when Ryunosuke shuffles closer and drapes the other end of the blanket around him to envelope them both.
It had gotten too late to make the rest of the trek to Highland Stable. They’ve been lucky: there hasn’t been any monster activity near them the whole night so far. Though, Ryunosuke doubts he’d be able to see any in the distance if there was. He trusts Kazuma’s judgment on the matter.
Ryunosuke’s eyes drop down, morose, to watch the way the flames flit in a scorching dance. His teeth scrape at his lower lip. “...I’m sorry,” he mutters.
“For what?”
Ryunosuke sinks further into the blanket. “That you have to stay up all night like this. It’s not fair. I could—” His voice falters. “I could keep watch for a bit. Then, you could get a little bit of sleep, at least.”
A low chuckle. “Ryunosuke, you could fall asleep standing up. Perhaps you’re struggling to fall asleep now, but”—Kazuma gives him a sidelong glance, mouth pulled up in a teasing smirk—“I’d give it five minutes before you start nodding off.”
“Haah…” Ryunosuke levels him with an unimpressed look, then his eyes drift back down to the ground. “But, truly, I am sorry. If—” He swallows. “If I could just activate my powers again, then we wouldn’t have to keep being sent out on these inane trips…”
There’s a huff of a laugh from Kazuma—or maybe it’s twinged with frustration, too. “There you go again, apologizing like always for something that isn’t your fault!”
Ryunosuke’s mouth falls open. “But, isn’t it?”
Kazuma gives a lazy wave of his free hand. “It’d make no difference if this had been an expedition to view a new relic discovery. It’s part of my job, Ryunosuke. I’m quite used to keeping watch; there’s nothing to worry or feel sorry about.” He pauses for a moment and when he speaks again, his voice is low: “…And there’s nothing wrong with you, either, so you don’t need to apologize.”
Ryunosuke’s breath catches, eyes grown wide. He looks to Kazuma, then back out to the dark grassland. “I…”
“No, that’s not quite correct,” Kazuma says with a facetious lilt to his tone. He raises a fist to his chin. “There are some things wrong with you—massively, I would even say.”
“Wha—”
“Like your utterly imprudent phobia of doctors when most people would kill to have the level of care you can receive. Or how you always make a mess of your desk and refuse to clean it.”
“—Alright, I—”
“Or how your memory is often atrocious—I mean, the passcode to the blue trunk’s lock is only three digits, for goodness’s sake. Three!” He closes his eyes and tucks his arm under his other one. “I told you if you couldn’t remember it, to write it down somewhere!”
No sound leaves Ryunosuke’s gaping mouth. “That—” he tries again. “I did write it down and then put it on my desk and…”
Kazuma gives him a deadpan look. “And you lost it under your unwieldy mess of papers, right?” He must be able to see the flush coloring Ryunosuke’s cheeks, because he takes it as a confirmation. “See? Exactly.”
An incredulous laugh escapes Ryunosuke, fondly exasperated despite himself. “Okay, okay, you’ve made your point!” He dips his shoulder into Kazuma’s arm and gives him a light shove, and Kazuma barks out a sharp laugh.
“Suffice to say,” Kazuma says, tone sobering, “whatever decisions the goddess makes are not your fault.” He pauses. “…But it wouldn’t kill you to organize your room a bit more.”
The ridiculousness of his sentiment does it’s intended purpose: Ryunosuke smiles anyway. “Thanks, Kazuma.” He feels the warmth of Kazuma’s arm pressed tight against his own. “…You’re still mad that I can’t find that one odd short story you gave me, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am!” That spark plug of vivacity ignites—always an impassioned monologue locked and loaded for just the opportunity to release it. Kazuma pinches the bridge of his nose. “I gave it to you to read, not to take claim of it. I’d like it back within my lifetime, you know. Though, now it’s been swept up into the black void that is your desk, I fear that may never come to pass.” The white of his bared teeth stands out when he grimaces. “…It’s honestly impressive how quickly you misplace things. It was lost practically right after you finished it.” He sighs and Ryunosuke lets out an embarrassed laugh. “And it’s not odd—it’s a classic romantic piece. I figured, as a man of literature yourself, you would be able to appreciate it.”
“No, no, I did! The writing was evocative! I’m just…unsure of what the writer was attempting to say with the ending.” Ryunosuke’s brow furrows. “The priestess trapped herself into the crystal to maintain the seal blocking the great evil and she asked the hero to be there to wake her up when it was time, but the author’s persistent use of death imagery made it seem like she was to actually die in there. It ended in such an ambiguous way, that it left me with more questions than answers, is all…”
“That’s exactly what makes it timeless, I believe,” Kazuma says with a tilt of his head. “You get no clear answer or definitive endings, so it’s perfect for ongoing discussion.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“And?” Kazuma turns to him, eyes with that keen brightness whenever curiosity strikes him. “What do you think happened?”
Ryunosuke tips his head back, closing his eyes. “Hmm, well to be honest, I’m not really quite sure if it matters if she dies or not. She’s trapped in that crystal for thousands of years—isn’t that in itself its own sort of death? Whether she’s been held in stasis or not, she’s lost all that time, the people she knew have moved on without her there… Even if she returns perfectly fine, wouldn’t she feel like she lost something of herself during that time?”
Kazuma hums, thoughtful. “Yes, I can see that. But, they didn’t truly experience that time passing in a linear way, did they? Both the priestess and the hero went back into the past where she then went into her thousands-year-long slumber, but when the hero went through the portal and returned to the present when she woke up, it was as if only a few months passed for the both of them. From her perspective, even less so.”
Ryunosuke lets out a groan, gripping at the top of his hair. “That’s the other thing that makes the story so odd—the time travel is too confusing!” His head slumps below his shoulders. Kazuma laughs. “Well, then, do you think she dies at the end?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Kazuma replies, “but I think it might be a metaphorical death more than anything. It’s the realization—the death of their halcyon childhood days and a coming into adulthood and the responsibilities that come with it, perhaps.” He shakes his head. “Either way, I think what was most important was that she was fully prepared to die at that moment. What she wanted most of all was to protect the land from the demon and if that meant giving up her life, she was more than willing to do it. She had a single-minded determination towards her goal and nothing was more important to her at that moment. I find the sentiment compelling.”
Ryunosuke sighs, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and running it along the length. “When you put it that way, it makes an awful lot of sense…”
And at once, a yawn climbs its way out of him. Ryunosuke stuffs a hand over his face to mask it, but it’s too late—Kazuma’s already grinning at him like a crazed Wizzrobe.
Kazuma bumps him with his elbow. “See? What did I say?” he ribs.
“How do you even stay awake that long?” Ryunosuke grumbles as he blinks back newly-formed tears. He wonders if Kazuma has to slap himself to stop from falling asleep like he has to sometimes—that maybe if he sees him starting to nod off, should he slap him awake…?
Kazuma growls: “How would you feel if I slapped you awake whenever you inevitably fall asleep at your desk”—he lifts a finger, counting each instance with another raised—“or on my leg while sitting in the gardens or—”
Ryunosuke hunches forward, teeth grit. “Haah… Sorry, it was just a joke thought…”
Kazuma huffs, jutting out his chin in indignation. “It’s something you learn to do while training at the Academy. You become responsible for the rest of your group—slip up and you all might die. When it’s pressed to the forefront of your mind like that, it’s not too difficult to stay alert.” His voice levels, gaze drifting far off out to those black fields. There’s something there in the way the moonlight and the fire frame the contours of his face that make the slope of his nose feel sharper, the line of his jaw more pronounced. Noble, almost. “To protect the people most important to you… That’s what drives you forward.”
Ryunosuke’s eyes grow wide. He can’t help but feel that swelling sense of awe every time Kazuma gets like this—something about that gallantry so inherent to his being that it feels almost effortless. And oh so hypnotic. He quickly looks away to quell the urge to stare, but fails to stifle the fond smile that forms in its wake. “Quite hero-like of you, speaking that way,” he teases, but it’s smooth around the edges, without any teeth.
“Please,” Kazuma laughs and Ryunosuke can hear the wry annoyance apparent in the word. “I’m human, just like you.”
“Yes,” Ryunosuke responds, with a light laugh of his own. “And I know your mortal weakness, of course.” His smile is wide, impish.
A frustrated sigh from Kazuma. He tilts his head to the side with a grimace. “Yes, and I’d love nothing more than for you to be the only one who knows about that particular detail, thank you very much.” He leans his weight into Ryunosuke, shoving him over.
The laugh that bursts out of Ryunosuke when he catches himself with his hand on the ground is like a water balloon hitting a pin. Kazuma continues to press against him further; it only makes him laugh harder.
“Swear it,” Kazuma says through a grin worming itself onto his face. “That you won’t go around telling people.”
“What? Are you worried you’ll be at a disadvantage if someone else realizes you’re not infallibl—Ack!” He shakes with laughter as he’s smashed towards the ground.
“Swear it!” Kazuma repeats again with a frantic giddiness.
Kazuma lying on him like this is starting to get painful. “Alright, alright, I promise!” Ryunosuke yelps before another bout of laughter escapes him. He’s almost got a faceful of grass. “It’ll be a secret between only us! I swear!”
Kazuma relents with an all too self-proud chuckle. “Good.” He sits straight, still peering down at Ryunosuke as he fumbles to push himself back up and secure the blanket around them both again. “Glad we’ve come to an agreement, then, partner.”
Ryunosuke can’t suppress the eye roll response, but he’s still smiling through it all the same. It’s quiet, then, as they watch the fire and the pitch black expanse beyond that.
“You know,” Ryunosuke says after the moments have stretched by, “I can’t help but think about one aspect of that story…” Kazuma makes a questioning noise. “About the hero’s feelings to all that happened.
“She seems fully confident that he’ll be there to wake her up, but I can’t imagine he’d share that same level of assurance. I mean, yes, he’s transported back to their present time after, so it’s not as though he has to actually wait that long, but… A lot can occur in the span of thousands of years.
“What if something bad happened during that time? Like maybe the temple collapsed or, or maybe some sick sinister spirit saw some”—Kazuma lifts an eyebrow and the Really? that’s implied by it is as loud as him speaking it—“girl trapped in a crystal and took her away to its lair. What I’m saying is: he couldn’t have known that she would be alright in just a few months. All his feelings described on that final page… I think he was grieving her as if she truly did die at that moment.”
Kazuma considers it for a moment. “The ending did feel like a much greater loss, I agree.”
Ryunosuke cranes his head backwards, examines the smattering of stars peeking out from rolling clouds. “It all felt so visceral, you know?” he says with a sheepish laugh. “As if, in the end, it was irrelevant whether or not she really died. His pain over what happened to her was real, no matter what.”
Kazuma drums a finger against his knee. “Yes, I think you make a good point,” he says. “To make matters worse, I doubt she would even be able to understand it—at least not fully, anyway. From her perspective, she went to sleep and then woke up. She’d have no recollection of that time between. It’d be like barely any time passed at all for her…” He pauses. “Though, I suppose that gets to your earlier point that being suspended in time while everyone else continues to move on would beget its own form of mourning.”
Ryunosuke releases a deep sigh and it makes him shiver. All this talk about mortality and being left behind. It’s too heavy after the earlier part of the night that preceded it.
Ryunosuke mashes his lips, blinks to clear the sleepiness beginning to encroach more and more into his consciousness. “I suppose talking about literature wasn’t a common occurrence during those nights at the Academy?” A languid chuckle. “…Conversation wouldn’t be very conducive to trying to sleep, huh?”
“No,” Kazuma responds with a snort. “Besides, if there were multiple people taking watch at once, we wouldn’t be near each other.” With a turn of his head and stare affixed to Ryunosuke: “This is much more enjoyable, though.”
After a lingering beat, Ryunosuke pulls his attention back to the fire, shifting in his seat. The temperature has dipped a bit since he’d sat down; he’s grateful yet again for how Kazuma’s warmth seeps into him when they’re this close, arms and legs pressed together—When did that happen exactly?
“Mhmm.” Another yawn surfaces out of Ryunosuke. “How about you tell me another story you’ve read?” The words come out sluggish, melding into one another as slow as the drip of maple syrup. The way the fire cascades about in waves is hypnotic.
“Let’s see…” Kazuma says after a moment. “There was one about two princesses from two incredibly different worlds, brought together after tragedy. ‘Shadow and light can’t mix,’ it had been said, but as they spent more time together, they began to realize how they act much more of a mirror to one another, always implicitly interconnected.”
Ryunosuke recognizes it immediately—it was one of his mother’s favorite stories. He’d forgotten about it entirely, but hearing Kazuma recount it floods his memories like light cutting through muted fog.
“They’re friends?” he had asked, bleary-eyed and voice sleep-stained. His mother replied in the affirmative. “Why’d she, um, have to leave then?”
His mother had paused, her lips pursed—or, at least, he thinks she did. She’s hazy, enveloped in fuzzy light. She wears white, or maybe it’s a light yellow; it seems to shift in the soft glow of candlelight.
“Sacrifices have to be made to fulfill one’s duty, my dear,” she said plainly. Her gentle hand attempted to smooth out the unruly cowlick that stuck atop his head. “They had their own kingdoms to lead, their own realms to protect. As lovely as it would be for their feelings to overcome the need for separation, this often is not the case. It was not possible for them to live together in a world where one did not truly belong in.” Her thumb stroked across his cheek. “No matter, they left an impression on each other that neither would be quick to forget. That is what is truly important.”
“I think it’s sad,” he said, though a yawn morphed the sound at the end. “Why’d you have to be unhappy to do duty?”
She had smiled, or maybe she had frowned, or maybe she cried. She laughs here, though, he thinks. He hears the soft sound.
“…It’s yet another tragedy…” Kazuma’s voice pulls in then out, ebbing and flowing like foamy waves. Ryunosuke’s eyelids feel heavy. “…to sacrifice your own wants to protect the future. But, it begs the question…”
“…The mirror.” Ryunosuke paused, brow furrowed in frustration. “Can’t they go in it again?”
He can’t see her features, how she reacted to this. But, she made a noise—some mix between thoughtful and wonderment. “That is a wonderful question.” She raised a finger to her lips, or at least where her face should be. Was her hair also black like his, or brown? He can’t remember. “Perhaps we should write the author a letter and find out, hm? I find it hard to imagine you are the only one who has come to the same conclusion, especially because I, myself, also have had the thought.” She smiled then, surely. “The Mirror of Twilight is the passageway between both realms. Ostensibly, they could secure the area and travel between the two…”
“…Then, why did she break the mirror?”
“…Then, why did she break the mirror?”
“Maybe it was still her sense of duty to uphold,” Kazuma says, “in order to prevent the tragedy that befell their individual kingdoms from ever having the chance to do so again. Or maybe it was a testament to her own autonomy to make that difficult decision, knowing it was ultimately the correct one, irrespective of her obligations to her kingdom…” He pauses. “Well, what do you thin—”
Ryunosuke’s head lies perfectly cradled in the slope of Kazuma’s shoulder, overtaken by sleep. Underpinned by soft, steady breaths, Kazuma sucks in a sharp inhale of his own, before trailing his gaze back out to that fire-lit darkness.
The warm ocean water laps at Ryunosuke’s bare shins, threatening to dampen his rolled-up pants legs. He centers the Sheikah Slate on a group of Faron Sea Lions lazing on the rocky jetty merely a stone’s throw away—unperturbed by the pair of humans splashing along nearby, or perhaps simply unbothered enough to move from their ideal sunbathing real estate. When he zooms in with the camera, he can just barely clip the sickle-shaped peninsula of Cape Cresia jutting out from beyond the nearby encircling cliffs. The angle the low tide provides is just enough.
A flock of Seagulls glide above. The Slate is able to discern them despite the blurry, disappointing photo left in their wake—he wonders if the old tales about magic pears and their ability to entice Seagulls would’ve given him a better shot of them. It’s then that he feels a bizarre sensation brush against his legs that leaves him shivering: a school of Mighty Porgy swimming by, fully fearless in their journey ahead that not even his presence could sway them from their desired pathway.
“Do you think the Slate is waterproof?” Ryunosuke asks as he watches the reds and yellows blur past him. When he looks back up again towards Kazuma, his smile is as exuberant as the sun beating down on them.
The judgy look Kazuma returns is anything but. “As much of a genius scientist Iris is,” Kazuma says, a chiding edge to the words there, “this is one experiment I doubt she’d be thrilled to hear you partake in.”
“…Erm, yes, I suppose that’s true,” Ryunosuke relents. Thankfully, in all the Slate’s neverending brilliance, it’s still able to identify the fish even below the surface of the rippling waves; the water’s pristine clarity no doubt helps, certainly. “Champion Sholmes said, when added as an ingredient in a meal, these kinds of fish have the potential to augment one’s physical ability…” He can imagine him now: flailing about trying to snatch some of them directly from the water. Kazuma laughs from behind him.
When he tilts the camera back up and zooms in, there’s a smear of light blue and white, just poking out from the cracks of a rocky outcropping nearby. A gasp, then, startling himself enough the Slate almost slips out from between his fingers. The waves resist him each step as he sloshes down the shore before clambering up on the slippery rock, Kazuma’s “Be careful!” ringing out behind him, so full of concern yet with that playful teasing all the same.
“Look, look!” Ryunosuke calls out, almost breathless, as he manages to pull himself up onto flat stone without breaking the Slate or a body part in the process. “This flower here: it’s a Silent Princess!”
“And since when did you become such a botanist?” That facetiousness once again. Kazuma follows behind him, scaling the rocks. “Last I heard, you only knew three types of flowers—and they all were fruit tree blossoms.”
Ryunosuke gives him a scathing look—but he knows he’s not entirely wrong. “It’s recently come to my attention,” Ryunosuke says with an upturned nose, pivoting away from the verbal jab thrown at him. “The Silent Princess is an extremely rare, endangered species. Despite countless efforts to cultivate them domestically, they seem to be resistant to any type of controlled environment and fail to grow… The Princess can only thrive out here, in the wild. I quite like it.”
The Slate captures and logs the flower. Its bright baby blue and white coloration is a striking sight against the dark rock it grows out of; the petals are dusted with ocean spray. It’s a peculiar sight—how it can survive here with no soil and little space, wedged between dewy rock and enveloped in salty air. Yet, it seems to show no signs of obvious struggle, flourishing with bright colors and plump, springy leaves that demonstrate its vitality.
Despite the incredible sight, Ryunosuke finds himself frowning at it. “One of the horticulturalists at the castle issued a report a while back… They desperately wanted to be able to grow these flowers in the greenhouses and then transplant them to an isolated section of the gardens where they could be undisturbed from any outside influence. There, under their careful watch, they would be safe and grow into the perfect garden arrangement… Or, so they hoped, anyway.”
Kazuma settles to sit beside him. “And it didn’t work?”
Ryunosuke shakes his head. “No, every single one withered and died.” He drags the backside of a finger lightly across its petal. It’s soft, but bouncy and supple in a surprising display of hardiness. “They adjusted soil pH, water amounts—everything they thought the flowers could possibly require to thrive, desperately thrown at them. They were given hours upon hours of scrutinizing attention, and yet…” His hand pulls back, grips the handle of the Sheikah Slate. “They seem to only survive when given the utmost freedom, even in suboptimal conditions such as these. All that we can hope is that the species will be strong enough to prosper…on its own.”
He watches as a sea-salt-loaded breeze ruffles its petals and leaves. It truly is beautiful up close—maybe if all flowers were as magnificent, he would pay more attention to them and their names. Staring at it poking through that rocky crag, solitary yet with an inspiring adamance, he feels both a profound sadness and a sense of hope, like a hollowed out bread bowl then filled with the most comforting of hearty soups. He says a quick prayer—not to Hylia, but towards the flower itself: stay safe and prosper.
His eyes sweep along the opposite side of the rock formation and when he sees the contents of the small tide pool, he gasps in amazement for the second time today. He’s just as reckless scrambling his way down the rocks as he was getting up them. Kazuma’s urges for prudence are like a repeating echo in his ears.
No longer swaying, the exposed, bright green Faron Sea Anemones have folded in on themselves to retain moisture under the low tide. Ryunosuke can see the small tentacles wiggle about as he snaps another picture. There’s a colorful array of Hearty Blueshell Snails drawn back into their shells, sun glistening off their teal exoskeletons in a pearlescent pattern.
“We need to bring some of these back to the castle,” Ryunosuke says and his pitch spikes. His eyes are blown wide, intently tracking the sea life. A tiny Ironshell Crab—a juvenile, it seems, from its size and almost translucent coloration—scurries into a crevice in the rock, out of view.
“Bring what back, exactly?” Kazuma drawls. Ryunosuke hears his boots squish and splash as he draws closer.
“The anemones!” Ryunosuke can feel himself almost vibrating. “You see, we can bring in one of those old glass aquariums that are sitting in storage into my chambers and then…”
Kazuma clicks his tongue. “Absolutely not.” He jabs a finger at Ryunosuke. “After all that talk about how that flower can only survive in the wild, now you wish to remove this poor creature from its natural habitat? You’ve already purchased too much bric-a-brac from traveling vendors on this trip alone!” He pinches the pointed tip of Ryunosuke’s ear and tugs.
“Ow!” Ryunosuke hisses, shoving Kazuma’s hand away. “This is different! They’re hardy and can be perfectly fine even shriveled up out of the water! See?” He pushes the Sheikah Slate up towards Kazuma’s face. He taps the screen with a “It says so right here!” Kazuma gives him that patented look of his, thoroughly unpleased. “We’ve already established that—whatever it is it does inside it—the Slate perfectly incubates live creatures and they’re unharmed no matter how long they’re stored for.” He flicks a wrist blithely in the air. “If fish can be stored safely, it’ll be fine until we get back!”
With two fingers up to his temple, Kazuma launches into what’s no doubt an impassioned rant, but his voice is swallowed up into the background roar of the ocean when Ryunosuke sees the creature floating in the tide pool. It’s long; it’s antennaed; it’s an iridescent, cerulean thing of beauty. Ryunosuke hurriedly clips the Slate back onto his belt and kneels down before it, cupping his hands into the cool water and retrieving his target.
“Take a look at this!” Ryunosuke exclaims, the words spilling out at a fervid pitch. “I can’t believe there happened to be one just swimming around out here! They’re not only delicious, but they’re known to have very, very potent effects when ingested! Yes!” He lifts his cupped hands up towards Kazuma’s confused face.
He announces the majestic Pertinacious Prawn—“That’s what it’s called?” Kazuma interrupts him, brows knitted incredulously—in all its shimmering beauty. The thing can’t be larger than two inches long and it squirms in the hammock of water between Ryunosuke’s palms.
Ryunosuke’s grin aches his cheeks. “Research from the castle shows ingesting one of these can instantly augment one’s endurance! It even releases a stamina-boosting secretion so, in theory, just licking one should have a diluted effect!”
It wouldn’t be a controlled environment to truly test the hypothesis, he thinks, but with Kazuma’s level of physical fitness, he’d be perfect to test out the effects of it.
“Wh-What.” Kazuma says flatly, cheeks taking on a rosy sheen. His wide eyes dart between the crustacean and Ryunosuke’s pleading face. “You’re not seriously suggesting that I…?” Ryunosuke still marvels at how he’s able to read his mind; if it’s a consequence of their shared Triforce connection, he can’t seem to tap into it the way Kazuma has, at any rate.
“Erm, well… Yes!” Ryunosuke beams. “Go on…” He pushes his hands out to Kazuma’s face and Kazuma rears back with a wince. The prawn’s large, beady eyes stare holes into Kazuma’s soul; it could surely show him the true answer to the universe, if only he would let it. Ryunosuke insists again, the prawn bobbing in his hold, “Taste it!”
Notes:
Whoo we've hit 100k words!
After some disappointing spring ventures, Ryunosuke and Kazuma have a nice book club (the stories are about Skyward Sword and Twilight Princess) that definitely don't have any deeper connection to anyone or anything going on... iPad baby Ryunosuke enjoys the sea life (botw frog memory my beloved...but this time with a prawn!)...
And no matter what totk tries to retcon, you can't convince me that the Zonai were just Sheikah 2.0 but goat-people
Chapter 14: Omens
Notes:
Warnings - click to view
- Descriptions of injuries and wounds, but not super gorey
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
Lady Rei graced us with her presence at the castle this past week. Lady Susato always has a vibrancy to her, but whenever she’s around Lady Rei, she seems to just glow in an infectious way—it’s apparent just how much she misses her friend’s company, despite how composed she presents herself. And it pleases me to see it reciprocated so: Lady Rei’s bubbly smile, her eyes alighting in admiration.
Though, Lady Rei grows quite shy and flustered at some of the most peculiar moments. Lady Susato very swiftly caught her when she misstepped and she became beyond animated: Lady Rei was apologizing profusely, while at the same time adulating Lady Susato’s gallantry and dexterity with much vivacity. All the while, Lady Rei’s face was as red as the plumage of a Hotfeather Pigeon, with the blown-wide eyes to match!
Speaking of, I’ll sooner die than forget the wide-eyed stare she gave me before quickly averting her gaze, cheeks rosy as can be and face half-covered behind her sleeve, after Kazuma reached over and wiped my face while we were eating lunch in the Castle Gardens—some traitorous sauce atop the Mushroom and Greens Skewers we were partaking in, no doubt. Ugh, how utterly embarrassing and unbecoming of me! She must be horrified to think that the Prince of Hyrule cannot even maintain proper eating etiquette! …Why am I even recording this account on paper? I shouldn’t have even
Iris and Lady Rei took to each other perhaps even faster than Iris did with Lady Susato. For all she’s been doing with the ancient technology, I almost forgot that Iris is a fully-realized doctor. They immediately began discussing a whole slew of medical intrigue that went right above my head. I tuned out completely once they started speaking in-depth about death and corpses—along with Champion Wilson, Lady Rei has also apprenticed under Dr. Sithe, a Zora coroner with seemingly high accolades. Why anyone would willingly choose to work with the dead is beyond me. The corpses are already terrifying enough, but how could you not fear coming face to face with a disgruntled Poe? (…Kazuma still doesn’t believe they truly exist, but I know very well that ghosts are not to be underestimated! Mind, it’s not as if I have any proof myself, but…)
I also saw—please don’t judge me, it wasn’t my intention to snoop and I never would intentionally read a young woman’s diary!—a page fallen open of Lady Rei’s diary when I accidentally bumped into her bag and sent the contents spilling all over the floor. (Kazuma saw it all happen, too—he’ll never let me hear the end of it!) Something caught my eye when I tried to close it: a rumor that the Zora princess, Princess Rutipha, is looking to be betrothed soon. I hadn’t heard anything of the sort, but if she’s to be requesting attention from suitors soon… Well, it makes me nervous to think of it, truthfully. These sorts of processes are always quite overblown and more involved than they really should be.
Anyway, I hope my journal doesn’t accidentally fall open to this page while someone whose name starts with an “S” is near to read it. The Susato Toss I’d experience would be one most grievous, I fear! (Again, if you do happen to somehow see this, Lady Susato, I must press the fact that I didn’t mean to read Lady Rei’s private thoughts on purpose and that one sentence was all I saw!)
The sharp crack of a branch underfoot makes Ryunosuke jump, squeezing Kazuma’s hand tighter. Ryunosuke can register Kazuma looking back at him, but his expression is unreadable—the murky darkness shrouding the forest is as imperceptible as staring into the depths of the Dragon Bone Mire. There’s something in him that tells him Kazuma’s frowning.
“We need light,” Kazuma says, voice dry and brittle. “The longer we stay in the dark, the more energy it drains from us. You need to use your light power.”
Ryunosuke’s stomach drops. “I can’t,” he rasps, and the words burn out of his throat like he’s been running a marathon. Just how long have they been walking through this forest, anyway? Despite his best efforts, he can’t seem to recall what was happening before this. “We just need to light a torch and then—”
“No, that won’t work. The darkness snuffs out any fire—you know that.” Ryunosuke mashes his lips at this, swallows down the lump in his throat. “Just use your powers!” Kazuma growls, but his voice is grittier, older sounding. “Quit treating this as though it’s some sort of childish game!”
The words ring in Ryunosuke’s ears, grating and dissonant. “I’m trying as hard as I can! And yet, no matter what I do, I still can’t—” He sucks in a stinging breath. Goddess, it’s so hard to breathe.
A low mutter, but the words are keenly clear: “Then you’ve cursed us all to die.”
There’s a loud squelching noise, followed by a hiss from Kazuma. Ryunosuke crashes into Kazuma’s back, smashing his nose into his shoulder. He squeezes his eyes shut and wheezes out a curse.
“S-Sorry…” Ryunosuke mumbles through gritted teeth. But when he opens his eyes, the air around him feels cold, his hand empty. He extends his fingers out, searching for anything at all of Kazuma’s, but all he grasps is bare air. The sinking feeling in his chest confirms that unmistakable feeling of loss. “Kazuma?!” He whips his head to the side, but it’s all just an endless, inky black in front of him. He wheels around and—
Ryunosuke stands at the entrance of the Throne Room, but it’s different—the size is all wrong and the layout is amiss, yet it feels distinctly familiar in a way that leaves his heart twisted. Outstretched before him is a navy blue carpet, adorned with gold filigree trimmings, laid over marble tiling. The light is low, oppressive; he pulls out the Slate and uses it as a light source. The room stretches on into a giant chamber of thick, marbled pillars and florid window panes that hold ruddy skies between their fingers. He wades through the black and magenta tar that coats the floor.
As he approaches the center of the room, he examines one of the three massive statue heads that lie against the tile, marble features chiseled into the Goddess Hylia’s placid face. When he sees what’s behind it, his mouth goes dry; he stops in his tracks.
Bodies. In piles, spread out over the steps that lead to the throne. Covered in that accursed murk. They’re all too easy to recognize as Ryunosuke’s heart tries to smash through his rib cage.
The women from the dango stand, Malia, Nikolina.
With trembling limbs, he wills himself to step around them.
Ursavra, Jigoku, Wilson.
Red fog rolls in, filling the chamber. Its haze casts a dark film, yet it does nothing to obscure the scene, the faces.
Soseki, Hosonaga, Gina.
Even the smoke that arrives with it can’t mask the putrid stench of blood that fills every crevice of this chamber. Ryunosuke’s head feels dizzy.
At the throne, King Naruhodo is slumped across the side of one of the arms, crown fallen to the ground beside it. Fanned out at the foot, like a macabre collapse of a card tower: Iris, Sholmes, Susato, Elder Impa. It’s difficult to tell where the deep red that pools underneath them begins and the onyx mire begins—all he knows is that he can’t breathe.
He tears his eyes upwards, away from the sepulchral sight. Onto the towering decorative stone figures that climb skyward, onto the headless statues of the goddess that orbit the massive Triforce affixed to the wall, onto—
Kazuma’s limp body hangs in the hollow space between stone triangles.
Ryunosuke drops the Sheikah Slate and with it, the rest of his body follows. He doesn’t even feel it when his knees slam directly into the marble, head hammering with a searing heat that makes him see double.
It’s a trick of the light, surely, when the cloud of inky magenta swirls up from the floor, around the throne, then forming into the shape of a snouted beast, its single horn a spectral lance. It’s his brain fooling him—trying to distract him as he processes oblivion staring him in the face—surely, when he hears the ticking of clocks, of time slipping through his fingers.
Too late, too late—
The apparition cocks its head—jeering, almost. In its eyes, he sees himself reflected in amber grime, sees only the face of fear. The energy around the specter roils and pops.
—have yet to find it—
Calamity Stronghart lunges.
Ryunosuke shoots up out of bed with a scream that leaves his throat feeling raw. His chest heaves, clutching the blankets with shaking hands. Despite the summer heat, he feels the shock as the night air makes contact with his soaked shirt, his hair matted against his forehead.
“Ryunosuke…” Kazuma murmurs beside him, stroking soft circles against his back. He’s lit a candle already, left on the bedside table. The warm glow grounds Ryunosuke to the present, if only just a bit.
Ryunosuke’s eyes grow wide. “K-Kazuma!” he cries out, throwing himself around Kazuma in an uncoordinated leap. His fists bunch into the back of Kazuma’s shirt; he buries his face into Kazuma’s shoulder. “Thank Hylia you’re—” A sob escapes him, so violently, it aches in his chest.
He feels Kazuma still in his embrace. Instant recognition. A low whisper, cautious and fearful: “Was I…?”
“Yes,” Ryunosuke ekes out. “You, you were dead—everyone was dead—I—” He pulls Kazuma closer, tries to capture his warmth and not let go. If he could stay in the safety of this bed just to make sure this reality of Kazuma alive in front of him would be preserved, he would without question. “And it’s all my fault that everyone’s going to die—”
He feels Kazuma’s arms envelop him, press him tight against him. Kazuma’s heart thuds erratic in his ears, and the guilt of frightening him during these episodes makes it feel all that more bitter. But Kazuma’s voice is soft, and yet unrelenting when he says, “Your dreams are not prophetic… We’ve already established this when you were adamant on making me bet on that blue dog and it got last place.”
Ryunosuke chokes out a half-laugh that feels more like another sob. He’s grateful for the small distraction of levity, even if it comes at his expense. “But Sir Barksalotl was so confident in my dream…”
Kazuma sighs, then whispers in exasperation, “He was lapped by the winning dog…”
Ryunosuke feels the hand that rested on his shoulder trail up his neck, curl into the short ends of hair there at the nape. And he can’t suppress the shiver that courses through his body when fingers stroke through that unruly mat of damp hair, again and again. But it passes, it passes, when the stark novelty morphs into comfort—again and again, the repetition soothing. His breathing begins to level; he feels his muscles relax.
Kazuma murmurs, like a song, “Right, then…”
When Ryunosuke feels Kazuma pull back, he releases him from his own grip with some reluctance. Kazuma’s actions are as smooth and practiced as a dance: retrieve a Fire Fruit from his bag, start a fire in the fireplace, place the tea leaves in a cup, heat up the specialized kettle Iris invented which cuts the time it takes to boil water by three-fourths. Then, he fetches the notebook and pen from the side table, and sits back down next to Ryunosuke on the bed, so close his thigh presses up against Ryunosuke’s own.
“…The dreams are getting worse,” Ryunosuke mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Alright,” Kazuma says, pen and paper at the ready. “Tell me what happened.”
“Hey!” comes a booming voice from Ryunosuke’s left, deep and approaching with all the urgency of a speeding wagon trying to beat a town’s drawbridge being lifted. “You’re the Prince of Hyrule, ain’t that right? Full flesh and blood and everything?” A sturdily-built man with a thick beard is jabbing a finger when he walks towards him; the aggression in his words are rivaled by how deeply knit his eyebrows are.
Kazuma steps between them, wrapping an arm to push Ryunosuke behind him. “Sir, please calm down.” He’s gone stone again—monotone and authoritative.
“I’ll calm down”—his voice rises and, with it, comes the attention of the others around them—“when I get some Hylia-damned answers! The Crown said they’d be sending us rupees and laborers to rebuild the ships we lost during the storms in the winter! And where the hell are they?!”
A woman just as strapping charges out from the nearby house and yanks the man’s arm, but he doesn’t budge. “Quit it, will you?!” she hisses. “Have you left your damned brains at the kitchen table too, you idiot?! Yelling at the prince like that!”
Ryunosuke’s mind goes blank—only the hammering of his heart filling the empty spaces. “I-I apologize, but I don’t—” Kazuma has shuffled him back a step, hand on his sword. “Those things take time. Th-There’s long processes to make sure funding gets approved and allocated and I’m sure they’re working on it and—” The words that spill out are the only things he can think to say; he doesn’t have any knowledge of this town’s request or how the financial departments operate to be of any use.
The man scoffs and the woman succeeds in pulling him away, if only for a moment. The space is short-lived, as it’s filled with a rushing crowd of people Ryunosuke didn’t notice approaching from all sides. It’s frenzied and cacophonous—any sense of control lost in seconds. His head spins.
“Raiten Menimemo, from the Daily Akkala here!” a man with thick sideburns and a paperboy cap yells over the increasingly louder crowd, notepad and pen clutched tight in each hand. “The Yiga Clan have been ramping up assaults across the kingdom, most recently in the bomb set outside Akkala Citadel. Yet, the spread of this news has been silenced outside of Akkala, seemingly from influence from the very top. How has the Royal Family planned to address these attacks and what steps have been taken in safeguarding the citizens from them?”
“When will the price of Voltfruit go down again?” Another voice.
“The tax increase on stuff coming from Castle Town is robbery!”
The comments and questions overlap over one another, without a single breath between them. The pounding in Ryunosuke’s head worsens as comment after comment melt into an incomprehensible din of shouting.
“Everyone,” Kazuma yells, “give some space!” He’s backed Ryunosuke up against the side of a house, shielding him as best he can. The scratch of peeling paint under Ryunosuke’s fingertips is the only thing that grounds him to the present. “Any questions or grievances regarding the Crown and their procedures need to be formally filed to the Council of Inquiry. If you wish to request a personal audience with the King of Hyrule, then you may also file a formal request with the Council of Inquiry. The prince will not be taking direct questions at this time! There are proper channels for these things; bombarding the prince will get you nowhere!”
Something bright and shiny blinds Ryunosuke from the side. Held up to his face are the gilded wings of the Royal Crest wrapped around a small jar. The woman lifting it has rough, strong hands and humble clothing patched together with a kaleidoscope of squares of different fabrics; the disparity between the woman’s appearance and the heavily decorated jar is as stark as blood on snow.
“My son…” she croaks out, voice jagged and fragile, “he was recruited by the knights within Akkala Citadel as an apprentice…”
Ryunosuke’s eyes shoot open when the pieces fit together and the once blurry haze of panic clears into pure, crystallized terror. The jar she’s holding in her hands—he recognizes it. He’s seen them displayed in ceremonies, at funerals. An urn. He tastes metal on his tongue.
“They said he wouldn’t ever see combat! That he was safe! He was only sixteen! That was the only reason I agreed to letting him go!”
“I’m—I’m so sorry for your loss,” Ryunosuke says. The words are stripped raw. “I’m sure you can take solace that his sacrifice was made honorably—”
She looks taken aback. “Honorably?” she scoffs, tone dripping with bile. “What honor is there in shoveling horse shit in your final moments?”
So he wasn’t in training to be a knight himself. The realization sears even worse. He knows he needs to say something, to assuage her grief—say anything at all—yet nothing comes out when he opens his mouth. Out of all the times his inner monologue has slipped out against his will, why is it now they’re both bereft of any words?
He feels pressure wrapped around his arm and air whizzing around him and wet colors streaking by and when he’s finally able to breathe again, he registers that Kazuma’s brought him inside the small cottage they’re to be lodging at for the next couple of days. And when the sobs escape him not a moment later, he knows it’s not merely the disappointment of the earlier visit to the Spring of Power that is the cause.
The Tumlea Valley is just as beautiful in person as it’s been described in text: striking trees suspended in autumn’s vivid auburn hues throughout the entirety of the year, fertile grounds as a conduit for a bevy of colorful and eclectic vegetables and fruits, the clear waters of the Akkala Sea as far as one can look. Tumlea Town may be small in population, but it’s anything but in its importance. Its close proximity to the sea, coupled with the protection of the Tumlea Heights around the Bloodlake River, made it one of the first population hubs of Northern Akkala. It’s an agricultural town through and through—the Akkala region relies on the food produced in this valley.
If the circumstances were different—if he were a different person entirely—then Ryunosuke would be content spending more time here, sampling the local delicacies and taking in the scenery. They had only just arrived, but he’s already anxious to leave.
He tightens his grip on his crossed arms as he leans against the window sill. “…I don’t want to become the king.”
There’s silence for a long beat and Ryunosuke can’t help mashing his lips together, cursing himself for announcing it like that. Then, the sound of a book slowly closing and the creak of the bed, the rustling of sheets.
“Don’t underestimate yourself,” Kazuma says with a low gentleness that’s revealed itself more and more often—careful and considered. “You are intelligent, possess great integrity, and are able to hold onto your convictions of what’s right even when other people are pressuring you to drop them—though, that part did take a bit of cultivating.” Ryunosuke can hear the chuckle lifting the end of that sentence and he dips his head to the side to look at Kazuma behind him. Kazuma’s sitting at the foot of the bed, eyes grown as soft as the smile he wears. “And, above all, you are kind. I’ve said it before: you have all it takes to become a good leader.
Ryunosuke bites his lip and his gaze falls to the ground. “Thank you, Kazuma, truly… But that’s not—”
“Say no more, partner!” Kazuma lifts a hand up. Despite the patient carefulness he’s been exhibiting more as of late, he still falls into his habit of interrupting when he’s made up his mind. He lifts two fingers to his temple and slips his eyes shut. “No more talk of these insecurities. If you’re worried about what happened earlier today when we arrived in town, that has nothing to do with your—”
“Kazuma!” Ryunosuke slams a hand on the window sill and Kazuma stills, eyes grown wide. “That’s not what I mean.” A sigh, a “Sorry,” then he’s slumped back against the wood frame. It’s quieter, coarser, when he continues: “It’s not about me worrying if I’m good enough to become the king, it’s—” He sucks in a breath. “I don’t want to. That’s all. It’s not me. That’s not the life I wish to pursue.” He holds himself high when he declares it, but the weight of it makes him duck his head, too heavy to carry.
Of course. How could he have not made the connection sooner? That nameless, extra anxiety whose thorns tore up his gut and constricted his heart like a vice—it makes all so much sense now. Priest, king—why are all of the roles given to him by fate ones he detests pursuing?
He feels Kazuma’s hand on his shoulder, feels it slowly move down the length of his arm and rest there at his elbow. “…I see,” Kazuma whispers. “I trust your judgment. You know I’ll always be there to support you.”
Ryunosuke lifts his head and sees those dark brown eyes of Kazuma’s staring right back, gaze gentle yet unyielding, like Ryunosuke is the only thing that is worth his attention in the moment. Heaven knows Kazuma is for him right now. He opens his mouth to speak, but the sound that ekes out is wet and thick and incomprehensible.
“I said I would protect you, after all,” Kazuma murmurs again. His thumb presses at the crook of Ryunosuke’s arm and he swipes across, stroking slow lines against the fabric. “No one believes in you more than I do. We’ll figure it out, just like we always do.”
It’s heavy and weightless all at the same time; Ryunosuke lets his leaden head slump forward, pressing his forehead into the warmth of Kazuma’s shoulder. He doesn’t cry, but it’s only just barely so. He releases a sigh that shakes like a gust against a metal roof. It’s not a deliberate decision when he grips the back of Kazuma’s tunic, but it’s one that feels instinctual. And he’s not surprised when he feels Kazuma wrap his own arms around his shoulders in kind, and they stay there, breathing in the spaces left between them.
“I’m sick of it all,” Ryunosuke mutters after a few moments have passed, “of being treated like some unfeeling object, or some walking replica of a goddess that can’t ever hope to meet anyone’s expectations.” The frustration is scalding, slowly and persistently simmering under the surface. “I just wish—” The tremor of his voice cuts him short. “I wish that I could just be seen as a normal person.”
Kazuma hums, low and deep into Ryunosuke’s ear. It’s dangerous when he gets like this: shrewd and calculating and, above all, impossible to expect what’s coming next. “Well,” Kazuma begins, an entertained drawl to the word that makes Ryunosuke’s hair instantly stand up in defensiveness, “if you’d like to be treated like an everyday person, then you can be the one to fetch more water from the well.” He wears a facetious grin when Ryunosuke pulls away.
“Haah… You just don’t want to do it, do you?” Ryunosuke cavils, eyes narrowing in accusation.
Kazuma’s only answer is to shrug, then laugh—not even attempting to put up a defense.
“Hello, Prince of Hyrule,” comes a tinny voice from behind Ryunosuke that almost makes him drop the bucket of water he’s filled.
“G-Good afternoon!” He tries to stifle the yelp, but the lack of confidence in his voice is not nearly as concealed.
Standing there is a young Hylian woman—taller than him, he can tell even without rising to stand. She wears adventurers’ clothes, more padded and sturdier in construction than the everyday wear of even the laborers in town; she’s a sentinel that roams outside of the town and wards off any stray monsters from approaching or something of the sort, he presumes. It would explain why she was wandering around up on the more rural hills above Tumlea Town like this.
“Is your guard not with you?” she asks. There’s a stretched out grin across her face, yet her eyes are like Kazuma’s in that keen and perceptive way, and the smile doesn’t seem to quite reach them. He feels his hair stand on end. “We don’t get your kind out here much, but I thought the two of you are s’pposed to always be together… That’s what I was told, at least…”
He supposes it makes sense for the town to gossip about such topics. “No, I’m just getting water by myself.” He lifts up the bucket for emphasis, never breaking eyesight.
The woman cocks her head slightly, the smile dropping. “Playing at being a commoner isn’t gonna make up for all you’ve done, y’know?” It’s a grumble, low, but barbed—he’s not sure if he was even supposed to hear it.
Ryunosuke tightens his grip on the bucket. “Excuse me?” Is this how everyone else feels when his thoughts slip out inadvertently? Whatever the woman’s problem with him, he doesn’t enjoy the callousness she’s giving off while they’re both alone, on top of a hill, with no easy exit route. He’s had quite enough people yell at him for grievances for the day—for the next few months, truly.
He moves to go around her, but she side-steps along with him. The words are quick out of her mouth, frenzied: “They said it’d be hard with the guard around. Must be my lucky break, then—guess they were wrong about you guys being joined at the hip all the time!”
It’s an explosion of red smoke and flash paper, and the glint of a blade.
It’s his personal brand of clumsiness that saves him: he slips backwards on the grass so suddenly that the Yiga’s sickle only cleaves air, sending water in a cascading arch up into the sky. Down the side of the hill he skids, the abrasions and burns against twigs and rock only a flicker in his consciousness as his heart pounds prominent in his ears and drowns out everything else.
“Kazuma!” he coughs out through a mouthful of grass and dirt when the world stops spinning, voice hoarse. It’s a futile effort—Kazuma wouldn’t be able to hear him where he’s at even with his full vocal capacity—
Where is he at, exactly? He scans the hill that he was just on the top of—or no, perhaps it was this other hill? He can’t see the well from here in the trough between nondescript, rolling hills of green grass and sienna leaves that all blur together. The lurch in his stomach when he realizes he doesn’t know which direction the cottage is in doesn’t help things, either.
It’s when his fingers graze against a smoothly lacquered surface that the anxious fog dissipates, just enough for a flash of clarity. The Slate! And all at once, he feels it: that spark of hope and a tug of something deep inside his ribcage. Yes, the direction where Kazuma is; he feels him slowly moving closer, no doubt impatient at Ryunosuke taking too long to come back—he’s never felt more relieved for Kazuma’s stubborn restlessness.
Or maybe he also felt that lunge when Ryunosuke fell down a hill too fast to be anything but suspicious.
“Kazuma!” he yells again, though he knows he’s still too far from Kazuma for him to possibly hear. He snatches up the Slate, scrambles to his knees, then onto his feet with a wobble, but his movement is curtailed when a kunai zooms past his head and sticks into the ground in front of him. He could only hear the sound of it gliding through air before it had already penetrated deep into the dirt.
He counts his luck—that the Yiga assailant he’s dealing with seems inexperienced and imprecise enough to miss the slow, vulnerable target he’s made of himself. But one look at the sheen of razor-sharp metal and how easily it lodged itself into the soil makes him swallow down the relief along with the lump in his throat. It’s a very real weapon and Kazuma’s a couple minutes away at best and Ryunosuke still can’t possibly take someone—no matter how amateurish they may be—in a fight and maybe he can try to use the kunai to defend himself to buy more time but it’s still a blade and—
And a blade can be stopped in time.
It was what he had learned about the Stasis rune on the Sheikah Slate that Kazuma had acquired while in the shrine’s trial. He had worked with Iris testing out this peculiar functionality—how it could still inanimate objects, as if suspended in time itself. The tests weren’t extensive enough to know the full scope and limitations of the power, but small weapons made of steel were proven to be affected—he would think even mighty Karuma couldn’t overpower it, if only Kazuma would allow them to experiment with her first.
He spins around, Slate clutched to his chest in a death grip, and backs away. The Yiga seems to care for neither stealth nor agility as they brandish their sickle again. Their slow, sauntering stride betrays what has to be a self-aggrandizing grin hidden behind their upside-down-eyed mask. Playing with their prey. Savoring it.
Ryunosuke taps the screen with such force, his finger stings with the impact. He swipes—no, that’s the camera, no, that’s the compendium— The Yiga’s shadow grows ever larger and larger. Even just a couple seconds with their weapon suspended in midair will make all the difference in running away.
There’s cackling. “Justice for Lord Stronghart!” The tone takes an upward pitch as the Yiga rears back.
Ryunosuke can see the afternoon sunlight reflect against the metal, down onto the screen. And he aims the Slate up to the Yiga and he flings a pointer finger against the screen and—
It’s a rush of wind, then a flash, then yellow chains burst out from the Yiga in all directions with a reverberating schwing. The weapon is cast in the rippling, amber glow of stasis, but it’s not isolated: the Yiga themself is also caught in its bind, trapped in that giddy pose of imminent murder.
Ryunosuke counts the seconds. One, two, three: he taps into the Slate and extracts a hefty, wooden rolling pin from his inventory of miscellaneous items stored within. He takes a step forward and swings, leaning into the motion with his entire body. He recalls Sholmes discussing the power of potential energy and the force of inertia in this suspended state—or something like that. If that rolling pin almost broke his toe when he dropped it while trying to pass it to Kazuma, he can only imagine getting slammed with it across the torso.
Four, five, six: he stores the rolling pin back into the Slate before clipping it back on his belt, turns on his heel, and runs towards where he feels Kazuma at. Orange and burnt red leaves toss up in the air under his feet.
Seven, eight, nine: he skids down the embankment and hops over the side of a low, roped fence. It’s a miracle how he doesn’t catch his foot in some way and eat another mouthful of grass in the process.
Ten: there’s the sound of chains breaking behind him, followed by a sharp grunt and a loud thump to the ground.
He gets a few extra seconds of distance from the downed Yiga before the flaming aura surrounded with scattered paper seals cuts him off. He side steps around the laughs that ring out and the smoke that follows, digging his heels into the meadow and pulling the Slate out again, high and ready. When the Yiga materializes again, they hold their low crouch, unmoving—not even trying to launch a surprise attack.
Ryunosuke can’t help the confident grin that worms on his face as he holds the Slate in front of him. “You’ve made the correct decision to be hesitant,” he says, the words rolling out as smooth as flowing waters downstream. “The next time, you might be facing something much worse than a mere rolling pin while you’re frozen.”
The Yiga flinches, ever so slightly—and then their limbs begin to quiver? They lower their sickle when they take an apprehensive step back, then another.
A sharp bubble of a laugh escapes Ryunosuke. “Not quite so pleasant when the victim can defend themselves, is it?” He plants his fists on his hips, chest open wide. It’s a new sensation, this confidence; he feels the heat of it coursing through him with each racing heartbeat, like an animalistic desire to take down his prey—addicting, almost. After everything the Yiga have done to him—done to the innocent people across Hyrule itself—he feels a sense of wicked pride at being able to offer some retribution in his own way. He can’t wait to see that shocked thrill on Kazuma’s face when he tells him.
It’s an instant series of events—so fast, it’s a muddled blur in Ryunosuke’s awareness. The sun gets blotted out. The Yiga disappears in a flash of smoke. The air chills. Ryunosuke feels a dry, torrid breath blast from behind his head that leaves the skin of his neck tingling.
It takes a moment for him to register—that the rest of the meadow hasn’t equally been darkened by a clouded sky, that the shadow’s silhouette has a sharp end point against the grass in a shape much too massive to be his own, that he hears the low rumble of a growl coming from behind and above him. He blinks and slowly cranes his neck around.
A shock of a wild, red mane; a towering torso of pure muscle; four hooved legs that could crater the earth as easy as stepping on rotting fruit. The Lynel stares down its broad snout at him, eyes a piercing jade that makes Ryunosuke’s stomach drop from its clarity: pure and utter malice with a single look. It yanks out a sword more than twice Ryunosuke’s size from its holster—and probably twice as heavy as him, too, though the Lynel wields it like it’s made of paper.
He’d heard stories of Lynels, seen their depictions: as intelligent as a human scholar, with twice the endurance and three times the strength. He’d been there when the banners were raised and the trumpets were sounded—squadrons of Monster Specialist Knights, assisted by the best of the Field Knights, deployed to neutralize a single one. And he’d been there when they returned, numbers a meager fraction and a requiem on their tongues.
The tales don’t do its size nearly enough justice.
The Lynel snorts and the sound is like cannon fire. The way Ryunosuke’s mind has gone blank tethers him to the ground, content to stay frozen in terror, but the little mouse running in the wheel that powers his will triggers that innate sense of self-preservation. The Lynel rears back and he slaps at the screen of the Slate with all the coordination of a toddler. It works, thankfully enough, and as soon as he hears the rattling of chains locking into place, he stumbles backward and bolts. Ten seconds of distance between them can easily be closed by a monster with hooves as thick as tree trunks, but it’s a small assurance he’ll take.
That is, until he hears the chains break only after a few strides. He doesn’t dare stop moving, but he looks back with a gaping mouth: the Lynel, unencumbered and shaking its body out like a dog coming out of water. It doesn’t immediately surge forward at him; the way confusion sculpts its face feels wrong to Ryunosuke, somehow, but he won’t debate a small blessing given to him.
Was Stasis weakening after multiple uses? No, when he was testing it with Iris, it was consistently ten seconds no matter how many times it was used in a row. Then, was it something to do with the Lynel itself…?
The Lynel recovers itself to send out a roar that leaves Ryunosuke’s ears ringing, that pelts him with pebbles and sharp bark lifted off the ground. The electricity of it throws him off equilibrium and he can’t help but wonder if this is how those knights felt right before meeting their end: balance off-kilter and dread heavy in their bones.
He tries to continue running, but his limbs feel leaden and unreliable with each step, teetering about like wading through sludge. He watches as time slows to a crawl: the Lynel puffs out its chest and sucks in a massive breath. He’d heard the warnings about trying to run: as if its physical and mental gifts weren’t enough, it was an elemental monster at its core. He remembers the one knight who broke down at an audience with his father post-mission, screaming that he couldn’t escape the fetor of incinerated flesh.
Just as the steam begins to billow out of its mouth, there’s a spark and the Lynel’s face is enveloped in a flurry of explosions and dark fumes. The creature shrieks, lurching back and pawing at its head.
Ryunosuke watches Kazuma lower his bow, peeking out from the backside of a tree. Then, his eyes are on Ryunosuke with a frantic edge, and he’s rapidly gesturing with his hand to move closer. Ryunosuke doesn’t think twice; he makes a beeline to the tree cover.
“What happened?!” Kazuma yells as Ryunosuke approaches, the urgency making his voice pitch wildly. Ryunosuke opens his mouth to reply, but he can only manage an out-of-breath wheeze in its place—far too much to condense in this precarious time frame, anyway. Kazuma slings the bow across his chest and snatches Ryunosuke’s hand, pulls him in the opposite direction Ryunosuke had come from. “Fighting a Lynel without a squad is a death sentence—we have to run!”
It’s weak, disguised under years of practice and an inherent undercurrent of overconfidence, yet Ryunosuke can feel it against his skin. Almost imperceptible: Kazuma’s hand trembles.
They run towards the edge of the tree line, right where the hill crests over the steep side of the cliff. Kazuma stops so suddenly, Ryunosuke smashes right into his side; without diverting his gaze from down the slope, Kazuma releases his handhold and steadies him from falling over.
“No,” Kazuma murmurs to himself. He turns to Ryunosuke and shakes his head with wide eyes, red fabric flinging about. “We have to fight it.”
It doesn’t register. “…Sorry?” Ryunosuke has to blink, has to clear his mind of the terror thrumming in his veins and dulling his senses because he’s obviously hearing things wrong now. That has to be it because if what he thinks he heard Kazuma say is true, then he was seriously suggesting that they—
Kazuma pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “Our only option that remains is to fight it. Hand me another bomb arrow, will you?”
Ryunosuke can feel his cheeks flare. He has to lean on the tree to balance himself, since the whole world seems to go off-kilter. The words are as fast as his hammering heart: “But, but you just said that fighting was a death sentence!” Yet, his shaking hands extract the bomb arrow from within the Sheikah Slate and pass it to Kazuma—the last remaining.
“There’s no other—” Kazuma sputters back before his eyes shoot open and in a smooth motion, he reaches down and scoops Ryunosuke up by the backside of his belt.
Ryunosuke’s stomach drops when he feels his feet lift off the ground with ease. “…Huh?” It’s an embarrassing squeak of a noise.
Then Kazuma tosses him deeper into the forest like he weighs nothing at all.
The trees are a blur when he hears the blistering crack of electricity, like a thunderclap. When his arms scrape against the dirt and the rest of his body collides with the earth again, the acrid smell of sulfur and burnt wood assaults his nose. Through the smoke and the tears lining his eyes, he spots Kazuma knocking a sizzling arrow and letting it loose—sending it directly into the head of the Lynel with a blast that makes the Lynel drop its own massive bow as it rears back in pain.
By the time Ryunosuke registers this in front of him, Kazuma’s back at his side and pressing the bow into his hands. “Lynels have three weak points: face, underbelly, and their back,” Kazuma recites, so fast it’s a whirlwind in Ryunosuke’s ears. “I need you to shoot at its face to allow me an opening.”
“But I’m not—I can’t—”
“Say no more, partner!” Kazuma claps his hand on Ryunosuke’s shoulder and squeezes. “You’ve been progressing well in practice. I know you can do it.”
Ryunosuke swallows thickly. It’s the first time he’s noticed just which bow Kazuma’s been using: a Phrenic Bow, a Sheikah speciality. The magnification scope attached to it reduces manual aiming errors—exactly why Kazuma never let him use it while practicing before. It’s beautiful, the craftsmanship—sleek and svelte. His fingers curl around the dark oak, yet he can’t limit the shaking.
“Stun it with an arrow to the face,” Kazuma says with haste, moving forward. “I’ll get close enough to get a couple swings in. I need to get onto its back.”
Ryunosuke’s head shoots up, eyebrows pinched in a high arc. “But, but its reaction time! If you get too close, it’ll retaliate with its sword and—”
“And I’ll dodge it.” The words are said with such a straightforward, easy confidence that it cools Ryunosuke’s fervor—just enough to not fall directly into a pool of dread. “Lynels are fast and hit hard, but they follow predictable patterns with attacks that can be avoided if you just time it right. You know I’ve improved my Flurry Rush.” A short pause, then quickly tacked on: “And parrying as well.”
Ryunosuke knows he has. The parrying continues to be a struggle point when it comes to the Guardians’ lasers, but he’s been a first-hand witness to the leaps Kazuma’s made since he started.
A beat, then: “Do you trust me?”
“Of course I do.” The words come out of Ryunosuke’s mouth like they’re automatic, like there’s no other possible answer it could’ve been. He grips the bow with newfound resolve; he won’t let Kazuma down—no, not here.
Kazuma gives him a smile, eyes soft. “Whatever you do, you must stay protected behind cover. Don’t follow me out into the open. And if it shoots arrows into the sky, run further into the forest.” Then, he turns to face the grassland.
“Kazuma, wait,” Ryunosuke says. His hand catches Kazuma’s arm. “The Slate—it’s not for long, but I can buy you some time with Stasis, too.”
Kazuma nods. “I trust your judgment.” He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
And off he goes. The Lynel scrapes its clawed hand against its eyes to displace the soot and ichor from the bomb arrow. Kazuma readies his hand on the hilt of Karuma and when he gets within range, draws her from her sheath with all the ease of cutting through butter with a hot knife. The Asogi Sword-Drawing Technique in action: he sends an arc of shimmering light into the Lynel’s chest.
This ignites a fire within the Lynel. It charges and with an easy single trot forward, it’s already closed the gap—just a blink, and you’ll miss it even moving. It pauses, rears back on its hind legs, and diagonally slashes down with its massive sword.
Kazuma keeps his feet planted, knees bent, headband flowing in the wind like a distinguished flag leading an army to battle. Despite its size, the Lynel’s blade swipes down in an instant and a sharp, little sound peals out of Ryunosuke. Then—like it’s nothing at all—Kazuma pushes off the balls of his feet and flips back. Ryunosuke’s eyes can’t even track it—he never can, no matter how many times he’s watched him do it—he just hears the whistle of a sword moving imperceptibly fast and cleaving through leathered flesh.
The Lynel lets out a bellow that quakes deep inside Ryunosuke’s rib cage and flees—no, it runs a rampaged circle, regrouping itself before lifting its sword to the heavens and lurching forward with an agility that belies its bulk. The sword skims across Kazuma’s shield—he’s actually using his shield for once—before the Lynel skids in its momentum to slow, ripping the grass out from under its hooves.
Ryunosuke nocks an arrow, though his palms feel slick. The Lynel turns around slowly; it huffs a rough blow of air from its snout. Kazuma was correct: for how otherworldly powerful they seem, there’s patterns to their movements that Ryunosuke is just beginning to decipher. Here, the Lynel always seems to take a moment to gather itself before launching a barrage of attacks—an opening for them.
The scope on the bow is incredible—he can almost see the individual hairs that make up the Lynel’s fire-red mane. He draws back the bow string with a deep nasal inhale and anchors, lines up the center above its forehead—right between its twin horns. Exhale, steadies. Then, he lets the arrow fly.
It barely scrapes the tip of his nose on release, but its trajectory is thankfully unaltered enough to hit its target. Somehow.
“Nice hit, partner!” Kazuma yells and, in the Lynel’s pain, carves a line across its legs, sending blackened crimson splattering against grass and dirt.
The Lynel yanks out the arrow and crushes it in its hand. Then, it falls back yet again, running circles and flourishing its sword before charging with a horizontal strike. Kazuma drops low, dodging it entirely. The Lynel plants its hind legs and spins, swinging the sword downward. Again, Kazuma times it perfectly—waiting just for the right moment to jump to the side and initiate a Flurry Rush that even the Lynel can’t track.
They have luck with this pattern: Kazuma’s fairing well dodging and allowing the hits to add up. Ryunosuke gets in another shot to stun the Lynel. It’s a sound game plan, but—
Each time it gets struck with an arrow, the Lynel grows more and more frenzied. (Not that Ryunosuke can blame it—if he was getting shot repeatedly in the face, he’d be angry, too.) And although Kazuma has been able to get close enough to slash when it’s distracted, a clear path to getting onto its back has been hard to establish. It’s making Ryunosuke antsy—how long can Kazuma keep this up?
The Lynel jumps back and fully inflates its chest. Kazuma must notice it, too, because he sheathes Karuma and sprints away from it. It pulls in a fiery breath and then sends a plume of flame towards Kazuma, then another, then another—Kazuma barely managing to evade each as they alight a smokey trail behind him. Ryunosuke can feel the air around him spike in temperature, oppressive.
The Lynel rears back on its hind legs, kicking its front legs up into the air with a guttural roar, before rushing towards Kazuma again, sword raised high over its shoulder. Kazuma skids to a stop, regains balance against the sudden change in momentum. It’s telegraphing its swings, even Ryunosuke can tell now, though most people wouldn’t have the athletic acumen to capitalize on that knowledge—but Kazuma isn’t most people. The first swing from the Lynel’s right deflects off of Kazuma’s shield—a necessary tactic to slow down the Lynel just a bit for Kazuma to dodge the backhand swing that’ll come from its left. Kazuma’s head tracks the movement of the arm as it pendulums back and his hand reaches for Karuma, waiting, waiting—
Until the Lynel kicks him.
It’s not a direct hit—its hoof grazing against the edge of his shield—but it clips him on the side of the chest with enough velocity that sends him flying into the air and slamming onto his side a few feet backwards, skidding against rock.
That’s it: the Lynels’ intelligence, far exceeding even the most shrewd of the other monsters. The tales stressed their power—their ability to level untrained armies in a few seconds flat—yes, but it’s their intellect that was noted as the most unnerving of the entire encounter: the way they would watch and analyze movements. The way they’d strategize.
Even a Lizalfos doesn’t feint.
“K-Kazuma!” Ryunosuke screams and he has to use all his might to not do something foolish like run out there in between him and the Lynel. He hasn’t felt his powers since their encounter with the Frost Talus; it may have worked out in his favor then, but miracles come scarce for someone like him—that much wisdom he has. He tightens his grip on the bow. If he can stun the Lynel again, then maybe he can extricate Kazuma from out in the open—
“No!” Kazuma rasps from the ground. He puts weight on his forearms and lifts his torso up, body quivering underneath him. He stares daggers, eyes alight with a vicious ferocity. “Stay back!” It’s a growl, gravely serious; Ryunosuke can see his teeth grinding as he speaks. Trust me, are the unspoken words. And Ryunosuke’s frozen to the spot. “I’m fine—just shoot it!”
Ryunosuke swallows down the lump lodged in his throat. No, he realizes, he can’t. Hit it with an arrow now and the Lynel will go into an uproar again—it’s much too dangerous.
The Lynel’s hooves beat across the field like war drums. Kazuma lifts off the ground with shaky knees and Ryunosuke sees it: the mess of red against the side of Kazuma’s face, the cut fabric of his tunic sleeve exposing bloodied skin below. He prays it’s not as bad as it looks, yet he still tastes metal on his tongue at the sight of it.
Ryunosuke releases his grip on the bow and slaps his cheeks so hard, he sees sparkles in his vision. His hands fly to the Slate.
The sound of chains restraining and a cloak of gold. The rush of air that flings Kazuma’s headband high into the sky. The Lynel’s face, frozen mere inches away from Kazuma’s, and sword poised to strike.
Ryunosuke makes sure to count: One. Kazuma unsheathes Karuma. Two. He grips the Lynel’s midsection strap and ducks under its arms. Three He leaps onto its withers. The golden chains snap.
And Kazuma drives Karuma’s blade deep into its back.
The Lynel wails, a low rumbling that reverberates down the entire length of Ryunosuke. It falls to its knees on one side. Kazuma carves a line down parallel to its spine, sword searing as it travels; Ryunosuke watches wisps of smoke billow out as steel scores through muscle and sinew with little resistance.
It’s a frenzy of red fur and flailing limbs: the Lynel writhes and bucks again and again. Karuma dislodges, the black ichor spewing out an ooze that sizzles and pops when it makes contact with air—thicker than any blood Ryunosuke’s had the displeasure of seeing. The blade shines bright even against the midday sun; she pulses, almost, as if thrumming along to the energy of her wielder.
Despite how much the Lynel thrashes, Kazuma’s able to backflip off it with a balanced poise, keeping his eyes trained on it for the entire motion. Midair, he reaches into his bag and pulls out a blade—a precision strike thrown into the back of the Lynel’s head. The grace is unlike anything Ryunosuke’s ever seen.
When Kazuma lands, it’s as if his toes barely skirt the surface before sprinting forward again in an upward strike with Karuma across the Lynel’s flank, featherlight in his mobility. Ryunosuke’s eyes flick between him and the Slate’s screen, watching the agonizing seconds tick by as Stasis recharges.
The Lynel twists, paws at empty air like someone trying to snatch an annoying gnat flying about. But Kazuma’s too agile, escaping its frantic swats and swings of its sword.
There’s something to the movements of the Lynel that gives Ryunosuke pause. They’re erratic, frenetic motions, mirroring the churning anger in its viridian eyes—a depth as dark as the blood that spills viscous into the burnt grassland. Desperate: it’s overextending.
He remembers a hazy memory of the world titled upside down and the crick in his back screaming. Of Susato peering down from above, telling him one of the most important things to remember in a fight is to stay balanced—keep your movements close to your body. Once you lose your balance, you lose your reaction time. Once you overextend, that leaves an opening for the enemy to capitalize on. It didn’t seem helpful at the time; he didn’t even know he had to be anticipating a surprise attack while just standing next to her in the Royal Library.
The Lynel is lunging with its sword with urgency, making sweeping motions that pull its center of gravity off balance. It’s hungry for it: revenge, for a belligerent survival. Stretching out its arms with each swipe, just to land a single hit—and a single hit is all that it needs. Kazuma dodges and dodges.
Ryunosuke sees the Stasis symbol flash out of the corner of his eye, the ten seconds of cooldown like five lifetimes have passed. He holds it up and aims. The Lynel raises both its arms in the air, then cross-swipes downward. Ryunosuke taps the screen.
The chains bind the Lynel mid-movement, its arms a perfect X-shape towards the ground. Kazuma plants a foot on its fist, leverages himself up its arms. He’s quick; Ryunosuke marvels at how he keeps his balance. His boots find footing in the mess of the Lynel’s mane, like standing on flaming grass. He flips Karuma down and breathes in a breath that Ryunosuke can hear reverberate against the trees.
Karuma plunges into the Lynel’s forehead.
Right between the horns, it’s as if she pierces through damp paper—no resistance against the gleaming blade. Ryunosuke’s heart thuds in his chest, bangs around between his ears. It’s a direct hit—no monster can survive that.
But that alone isn’t what makes Ryunosuke’s face grow hot with a breathless wonderment. Kazuma, there, standing on top of the beast—one of the most feared monsters in all of Hyrule—with a sword at his fingertips. Triumphant. It’s unheard of for one man to vanquish a Lynel. What a victory.
“Incredible,” Ryunosuke breathes out, delirium rattling his brain. He doesn’t even fully realize that his hands had moved on their own, capturing the scene with the camera in the remaining seconds as Stasis crumbles away.
Sure enough, the Lynel collapses into a heavy heap that quakes the ground. Red leaves tumble off the trees. There’s just a single, gutting rattle of a breath it sucks in before complete silence. The only sound left is that of a blade’s deafening squelch as it extracts from ichor and monster guts. And yet, the blade almost seems to hum—a sound far more pleasant than the blood that wicks off and steams against the steel. It sounds like metal and bells. It sounds like a celebration.
Ryunosuke walks forward. “Is it…?” He inspects the emptiness in the Lynel’s glassy eyes, the way its tongue lolls out of its mouth. His throat feels as dry as the Gerudo Desert when he swallows. “…Is it dead?”
“Yes,” Kazuma breathes, shaky. The whole of him is shaky—he’s trembling as his head hangs low. He wraps a hand around one of the Lynel’s horns.
Ryunosuke mashes his lips together. Kazuma’s drenched in sweat and gore; he can smell the acidic odor from where he’s standing, yet it’s not that which gives him pause it’s—
“Y-Your arm—” Ryunosuke croaks out. It’s a weak sound, as crepitating as stepping on the leaves underfoot. He stares at the exposed wound—at how his ripped tunic hangs loose off his bicep, at the blood trickling down his arm. He feels lightheaded. “It’s, it’s b-bleeding.”
“Oh,” Kazuma says, tone so airy, it’s a wonder that he’s even still grounded in conversation. “Is it?” His gaze falls slowly downwards, yet it seems to not register. Ryunosuke can hear Kazuma’s heart pounding rampant, like the hooves of the Lynel bounding around just before.
Ryunosuke lifts up the Slate and begins swiping through the inventory space. He keeps his eyes glued to it; he doesn’t dare to look up again. “H-Here, come down. You have to put pressure on it—that’s what Lady Rei said, is it not?”
“Wait,” Kazuma says. There’s a sharpness there, suddenly lucid. “I have to first—” He lifts Karuma up against the Lynel’s horn and saws. It slices cleanly off, with just the barest hint of resistance. “The horns, they—” He sucks in a breath. “Shaving even just a little off into an elixir recipe can have huge medicinal benefits. They’re beyond rare as a resource, as you can imagine.” Then, he removes the other. “The heart too—”
“No,” Ryunosuke retorts. He’s staring at Kazuma now, his expression resolute, steely. “Absolutely not.”
And Kazuma, after everything, has the gall to laugh. He slides down the side of the Lynel and hands Ryunosuke the horns, though his arm tremors. Ryunosuke grimaces at the touch of it—at the stickiness, at the smell; the extraction was clean, but the grime and blood continue to cling to its surface. He hopes that when the Slate stores it, it has some mechanism to isolate it from all else in there. And it all catches up to him: the stench of the Lynel—of the rot and viscera, heavy and thick with iron—begins to make him queasy. He gets Kazuma to move further away into the forest, but not before letting the Slate scan the Lynel into the Compendium.
“Thank you,” Kazuma says quietly when he’s sitting under a tree, pressing soaked gauze against his right arm. His shaking has stopped and his breathing has become more leveled, but his heart still beats loud; Ryunosuke can hear it as if it’s his own.
Ryunosuke tugs off the remainder of Kazuma’s undershirt sleeve. He had cut off the rest of what was still barely hanging together by loose stitches, along with the tunic sleeve. When they get back to the castle, the shirt will have to be replaced, the tunic repaired. He tosses the stained fabric into a pile next to Kazuma’s vambrace and cloth arm guard. “Hm?”
“For your help. Now”—he gestures at his arm with a jerk of his head—“and back there. You made the right call to use the Sheikah Slate when you did.”
Ryunosuke ducks his chin and grumbles, “I just wish I could have contributed more. I don’t know why it only lasted three seconds…” He pulls a cloth bandage taut around Kazuma’s arm.
Kazuma winces with a sharp inhale, then continues to press his hand against the bandage. “Three seconds can be the difference between life and death.” He looks off, down the row of auburn trees, and his mouth sets into a tight frown. “When it rushed me—right after I was hit—my timing was off; I still felt dizzy from the blow. Yet, that little extra time allowed me to recenter and use your opening to get on its back, instead of becoming a smear on its sword. Plus, your Slate has allowed us to take all of these supplies. Despite it being magic, my bag isn’t bottomless.” His gaze drops back to Ryunosuke and he smiles. “You’ve contributed plenty.”
Ryunosuke stares at him, at the pride that shines in his eyes. “...Thank you.” He feels he can still do more, but Kazuma’s right: that control over time, no matter how short, feels powerful in his hands.
Ryunosuke tips the vial onto the gauze, watches the shimmery water—or, whatever it is: it’s viscous, thicker than any sort of natural water he’s ever seen—dampen the cotton. He shifts closer and peels back the split clothing on Kazuma’s side, right along his waist. Ryunosuke tucks his bent knees under the weight of Kazuma’s legs, and there’s a safety there—security being cradled under the warm press of his touch; it’s comforting and something wholly familiar.
“You truly don’t feel it?” Ryunosuke asks as he tries to swallow down the burning sensation in his throat when some blood weeps on his fingers. He looks up at him through his eyelashes. “It—It doesn’t hurt?”
“Thankfully, not yet,” Kazuma says, quietly. “It feels dull—achy. Stings a bit. I’m unaware of how long it usually takes adrenaline to wear off.” He takes a deep breath, then mumbles: “If only the professor was here…”
Ryunosuke’s eyes wander back down to the task at hand: clearing the area of fabric. Aside from his arm, Kazuma’s injuries don’t look nearly as alarming as he thought before. His face is scratched and red—swollen a bit very soon, he assumes—but the bleeding has stopped. The Lynel must have swiped at Kazuma to leave this gash at his side, but it doesn’t look too deep.
Or, he thinks, at least; it’s not as if he has any real medical knowledge. Lady Rei had given him the kindest of crash courses on first aid when she visited (Ryunosuke swears that she is one of the very few pleasant medics around—besides Iris, of course). For small accidents. Like caring for a split open knee when you trip on the road or bandaging a small cut on your hand—not dressing combat wounds you get from fighting a Lynel, of all things. As far as he’s concerned, any amount of blood actively coming out of the body is no longer a small accident.
Ryunosuke presses the gauze to Kazuma’s side and Kazuma lets out a small sigh. “What is this, anyway? It feels soothing, like ice almost.” He lets out a little laugh, more bitter than joyful, when he continues, “I was worried it’d burn like an antiseptic.”
A beat, then: “I…don’t quite know.”
Kazuma makes a confused, strangled sort of noise that makes Ryunosuke bashfully look up at him, cheeks growing hot. Kazuma enunciates slowly: “…You don’t kn—”
“Hold it! I-I mean, Champion Sh-Sholmes gave it to me! H-He said it was medicine!” Ryunosuke really feels the embarrassment now, notices the tips of his ears starting to burn.
Kazuma levels him with a skeptical look. “Should we really be trusting Sholmes with this? Just how many times has that Rito almost blown himself up in our presence alone?”
Ryunosuke sighs, shakes his head. “Yes, I know! But, he is a master at creating elixirs, after all…” He continues to apply pressure. “He said he found some sort of cave spring hidden in the mountains above the Temple of Time. And he spoke with a doctor, who confirmed that it, in fact, had healing properties—extraordinary properties, actually, almost unthinkable! You see, it’s imbued with something that not only stops bleeding faster, but also speeds up the healing process. With this, it would reduce the need to ever see a doctor tremendously! …Though, I would presume that you’d still need stitches on your arm…” He shivers at the thought.
Kazuma’s brow furrows. “Your bias against doctors aside…is it magic, then?”
Ryunosuke purses his lips. “Well, you see, the liquid isn’t magical, but it’s not not magical, either. I believe it’s not entirely natural, either, yet it’s not synthetic—does that make sense?”
Kazuma gently thumps him with his leg, though the action holds no true heat. “You never do when you start muttering a mile a minute like this.” A smile, fond.
“Ah.” Ryunosuke shakes his head. He’d slap his own face to focus if he could. “The doctor said it was the result of a Sheikah invention. It merely mimics healing magic, but it’s created using machines—”
“You’re saying this is from ancient Sheikah technology?”
“Yes, it seems so.”
Kazuma hums, leaning his head back against the tree trunk. He murmurs, “‘Things tend to be more connected than you’d realize,’ huh?” There’s a moment of silence, just the sound of the wind soughing through the trees. “…For something so valuable, should you be wasting this on me?”
Ryunosuke sputters, at a loss for words. It’s almost ridiculous what he’s asking. He thinks, Do you need to be reminded you just fought a Lynel—
He’s pulled out of it when Kazuma cradles Ryunosuke’s jaw between his fingers, twisting it ever so slightly in his hand like picking ripe fruit off the branch, careful not to bruise. “Just look at you,” Kazuma sighs out, voice tinged with a wry exasperation. “Can we truly spare even a single drop with you around, as clumsy as you are? What even happened?” His thumb brushes along Ryunosuke’s cheek—a ghost of a touch that makes Ryunosuke shiver. “Did you fall down the hill running from the Lynel?”
“Haah…” Well, he’s only half right. With a pout, petulant: “…No, of course not.”
“You’re a terrible liar, partner.”
“I’m fine,” Ryunosuke mutters, shifting his gaze away. “Keep putting pressure on your arm. I don’t know if I tied it tight enough.”
Kazuma’s hand slides off his face without objection or further snarky comments, and he obliges.
“You were amazing back there, you know,” Ryunosuke says, then. “To think that one person could ever go toe-to-toe with a Lynel like that… I still can’t believe it, even for you. The Knight Academy really teaches you that much about Lynels?”
Kazuma shakes his head. “No. My father was a monster specialist. He had…” Kazuma trails off, a forlorn look settling across his face, yet his voice is dyed with pride, his smile wistful. “He had these notes, leather-bound into a small book he always carried with him whenever consulting with fellow knights. I would read them often during my time at the Academy—studying the words my father left behind about these illusive, highly dangerous monsters. It was a microcosm of who he was: a skilled knight who wanted to share his knowledge in order to best protect everyone around him.”
Ryunosuke shifts, feeling his knees begin to tingle. He can’t suppress the smile that twitches at the corner of his lips, at the way Kazuma speaks of his father. The topic doesn’t surface often, but Ryunosuke is honored to be witness to it when Kazuma feels like speaking about it. “Yes, we’re lucky to have such a valuable resource. Even the Slate didn’t have that much information on Lynels.”
“Yes, well, it’s not as if they’re particularly common to find. Even my father’s notes only had as much as I told you. You would know how rare it is for specialists to be sent out to try to dispatch one, after all. They don’t tend to come out in the open where people are around much…” He grunts out a sigh, lifting his arm with a cringe.
“Oh!” Ryunosuke unclips the Slate and, with it balanced on his lap, taps through the inventory with one hand. What materializes: an elixir, deep red and smelling strongly of durian and ginger and sharp medicinals. “Take that,” he urges with a wrinkled nose, carefully uncorking the vial while still pressing the dressing to Kazuma’s side, “Lady Rei said it would help with pain relief.”
Kazuma blinks at it, brow furrowing. “You had that the whole time?”
Ryunosuke wilts. “Well, I—You see, I might have forgotten…”
Kazuma just laughs, then winces at the movement. “Ryunosuke, you’d make a terrible nurse, you know that?”
Ryunosuke’s sweating. “Urk… But—but you said it didn’t hurt!”
Kazuma returns another small laugh. “I’d prefer to get the pain relief before the pain starts flooding in, thank you. As much as I’d love to have you as a caretaker when the hospital needs extra volunteers, your bedside manner is atrocious.”
Ryunosuke closes his eyes, pushes his lips into an as exaggerated pout as he can get, and tilts his head. “Well, seeing as how awful I am at this”—he motions towards getting up, makes a grand show of it—“I suppose I should then leave—”
“No,” Kazuma says quickly and there’s an arm wrapped around Ryunosuke’s shoulders, pulling him closer. If the motion causes him discomfort, he doesn’t let it show. With another giddy laugh: “No, please stay Nurse Naruhodo.”
And Ryunosuke can’t help but laugh alongside him—at the absurdity of it all. Kazuma hasn’t even drunk the elixir yet; he has no excuse for being under its influence yet. Bedsides, it’s ridiculous to think he’d ever willingly step foot in a hospital; no, not after the kind of torture doctors put you through under the guise of “treatment.”
“Help me?” Kazuma asks, motioning with his chin.
Ryunosuke sighs, but the annoyance is dispassionate and placid, like a rose stripped of all its thorns. He brings the elixir up to Kazuma’s lips and tries his best to not spill it on him.
It’s one mouthful, and he hisses out a breath like taking a shot of alcohol—and perhaps it’s close, with how it reeks of something resembling it, mixed with the pungency of durian. Ryunosuke doesn’t envy him; in his opinion, the price of pain is worth it to avoid the bitter sting of even more bitter medicine. Even the most unorthodox of non-medicinal elixirs never had that horrendous taste to them, coating your tongue in a lingering way as if it’s taunting you while you’re already low.
“Sorry,” Ryunosuke says as he again helps Kazuma empty the remainder of the vial.
“Not the worst I’ve had,” Kazuma responds after clearing his throat. “Despite its smell, using the Hearty Durian helps mask the flavor of the medicinal herbs. It’s a smart design, especially considering the boost in vitality the fruit provides.” He lolls his head back against the bark. “Are you aware that durian is quite the delicacy in Zora’s Domain, especially for the Zora royals?”
Ryunosuke’s breath catches. His voice grows chalky, brittle. “O-Oh, is that quite so?”
“Mhmm,” Kazuma hums. Then, after a small laugh: “When we were younger, I found myself as the designated test subject for a whole host of experimental medicinal elixirs Royal Advisor Susato would cook up. Her father is a highly decorated field medic, you know. Though, nowadays he spends most of his time teaching at Hyrule University.”
This is a rarity, even more than him speaking about his father. Kazuma’s not often this forthright about sharing anecdotes from when he was younger, especially unprovoked. It’s something that Ryunosuke’s come to cherish—he feels honored to be allowed some access into the private life of his past, though he never tries to pry too much despite how his curiosity gnaws inside him and his nosiness threatens to win out.
Yet, there’s something other than mere curiosity that nettles his mind now.
“Oh, yes… Professor Mikotoba?” Ryunosuke asks. He remembers the mustached man with the enigmatic smile alongside Susato, but not much more than that. “I believe we’ve met a few times, but never for too long…”
Kazuma nods, then glances back up to the treetops. “The man is very busy. For a span of time while he was gone on a research trip, Royal Advisor Susato took a shine to scouring through his books and coming up with all sorts of herbal concoctions—nothing dangerous, of course.” There’s a beat, then he grimaces, some sour memory bubbling to the surface. “…Some more successful than the others, mind you. Despite how gentle she looks, she didn’t always implement quite the soft touch when choosing her ingredients. I suppose I’m lucky that her dear companion seems more forgiving in that regard, at least.”
Ryunosuke’s stomach twists as he watches Kazuma chuckle. He still doesn’t know; he never felt right to ask—either of them. All that he’s aware of regarding Kazuma and Susato’s relationship is that their fathers were friends and that they spent significant time together while younger. But besides that…
“You and Lady Susato are quite close, isn’t that right?” Ryunosuke bites his lip, looks at him out of the corner of his eye.
Kazuma slowly lowers his head. He watches Ryunosuke for a bit, brows drawn as if in careful sort of confusion. Ryunosuke averts his gaze. “…I suppose.”
Ryunosuke recognizes it—knows he’s being outrageous to think it. After all, Kazuma’s really much too old for her, anyway. But with such a prestigious professor as a father, coupled with her many ties to the Crown… Arranging for the Royal Advisor and the Hylian Champion to be wed wouldn’t be too out of the ques—
“You’re correct,” Kazuma snaps, “it is outrageous to think that!” He hooks the arm that was previously hanging slack around Ryunosuke’s shoulders tighter, pulling Ryunosuke down loosely by his neck. “There’s nothing of the sort even remotely going on, so rid it from your mind entirely!”
“Urk!” Ryunosuke can feel the heat flooding to his cheeks as he’s yanked forward, embarrassment like a brand across his face. He tries to retain the pressure against Kazuma’s side, yet all the jostling has made it difficult. “S-Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“You did much more than imply while you were outright mumbling if we were arranged to be married, of all things!” He huffs out a frustrated sigh directly into Ryunosuke’s ear before loosening his grip. “What’s brought about all this, anyway? Did your father speak to you about arranging a marriage or something?” His tone’s turned serious, tight concern in the tenor.
Ryunosuke looks up at Kazuma, sheepish. There’s a tension to the way Kazuma stares back, eyes narrowed with a trenchant focus, jaw clenched.
“No, not at all! I just… Ugh…” Ryunosuke’s shoulders slump and, with it, his head falls. “There has…been increased gossip that Princess Rutipha of Zora’s Domain is going to allow for the attention of suitors soon, though there’s yet to be a formal announcement. Of course, many of the nobility and high-rank people around Hyrule have already made their interest known.” His wide eyes dart around. “I…simply fear that Father might put me on that list.”
Kazuma looks pale all of a sudden—probably from the loss of blood, Ryunosuke figures. He just continues to stare at him, then finally sucks in a sharp breath. “Do you wish to be?”
Ryunosuke’s mouth falls open. “O-Of course not!”
It’s like the tension slowly melts from Kazuma’s posture. Then, his eyes wander, searching through the forest, contemplating. Finally, he speaks, “I mean no disrespect, partner, but the prince whose powers to save us all from ruin are inconsistent at best isn’t the most attractive profile for a potential suitor, surely?”
Ryunosuke feels himself deflate further. He mutters, “Oh, that’s you not being disrespectful now, is it?”
Kazuma shakes his head. “All I’m saying is that I think your father has more pressing issues to worry about than arranging you in a marriage right now, no matter how politically advantageous it would be in the future.”
Ryunosuke can always rely on Kazuma’s ability to get straight to the heart of an issue, at least. He inspects the gauze he’d been holding against Kazuma’s waist and, sure enough, the bleeding has stopped—the potency of the medical fluid a true wonder. He tries to ignore the blood, the disgusting, sticky sensation left over on his hand, yet the nausea lurches his stomach all the same. With his cleaner hand, he extracts a Splash Fruit from the Slate and scrubs.
“So you’re saying that I should deliberately continue to mess up to avoid getting paired off against my will?” Ryunosuke asks.
This draws a heaving laugh from Kazuma. “Yes, quite!”
Ryunosuke smiles, lets the laughter flow through him and lighten the worry—even if only for the interim. He stows away Kazuma’s arm protectors into the Slate. “Can you move?”
Kazuma replies with an affirming grunt, shifting his weight. He takes Ryunosuke’s outstretched hand and, with a spinning head, is helped lifted onto his feet. Ryunosuke totters back with the moment; Kazuma clasps Ryunosuke’s arm, less to steady himself—though, he needs it with how wobbly his legs become as he stands—and more from stopping Ryunosuke from falling over himself. He drapes his good arm over Ryunosuke’s shoulders for support and Ryunosuke takes care to hold him close above his wound, feels the way his ribs bump under his fingertips.
Ryunosuke lingers when they pass by the Lynel, its corpse oozing under the late afternoon sun. Even felled, the way its massive eyes, glassy and hollow, stare forward is enough for him to hesitate, for a chill to travel down his spine; one blink, and it’s as if it’ll rise again like a cruel nightmare. You only truly understand the gravity of what’s happened to you after it’s well over.
“Why did you change your mind?” Ryunosuke asks, tracing the wicked curves of the Lynel’s face, its disheveled mane. “Why didn’t you run away from it?” He tightens his hold on Kazuma’s wrist. “Bravery or not, there’s a fine line between courage and recklessness, you realize.” He doesn’t know where it comes from, this anxious scolding that spills out.
Kazuma’s quiet. Then, “There wasn’t a choice—not here.”
Ryunosuke’s eyes flick back towards Kazuma, who stares at the creature in front of them, face full of steel. “What do you mean?”
“Just think about it,” Kazuma says, but it’s neither barbed nor teasing. Ryunosuke does—tries really hard to fit together the pieces—yet he can’t follow. “Why is it that you never see a Lynel in the wild?”
Ryunosuke squints, mouth drawn tight. “Because they stay far away from civilization.”
Kazuma hums, a deep trill into Ryunosuke’s ear. “Exactly. Lynels are highly territorial monsters who prefer isolated locations—up on Kamah Plateau or deep within the hinterlands of the Akkala Wilds. And yet, look where we are.”
Kazuma points a finger over the fall of the hill and Ryunosuke follows it. Ryunosuke shuffles them closer to the edge until finally, finally it all makes sense: there, directly below the cliffs are a string of houses, a town square, a glistening lake. He can see the smoke billowing out from chimneys right below him, hear the quiet bustling of activity echoing against the escarpments. He hadn’t realized just how close they’d gotten.
“Tumlea Town…” he breathes out, automatic.
Kazuma nods. “And unless the Lynels have recently gotten more friendly—doubtful, considering just how viciously the one attacked prior—its proximity to people is troubling… Either something is pushing them out of their territory or they’re getting more aggressive like other monsters recently. Whichever it is, a Lynel roaming free in the North Akkala Foothills is an extreme liability.” He sighs, a full-body motion that moves Ryunosuke along with him.
“As you know, Lynels are extremely intelligent,” Kazuma continues. “They know better than to pick a fight where humans are congregated—not out of fear, necessarily—but provoked enough… There’s very little guarantee a Lynel wouldn’t then charge the town. Or attack a child accustomed to playing in the woods above their house. The sentries around here aren’t trained to take on monsters of this caliber and any response from Akkala Citadel would be far too late.”
Ryunosuke gulps. He fills in the gaps: “…So you felt you had no choice but to fight it.”
He looks sidelong at Kazuma—at his steely face, forged in resolve and rigid benevolence. The red of his headband is like a bleed across his forehead, trailing down the side of his cheek where his wound presents, bright and raw. (Ryunosuke had been rebuffed, earlier, when he tried to remove it in order to better clean his face; it didn’t come as much of a surprise.) Ryunosuke’s heart swells, with pride perhaps—though, it’s always with pride that he holds for Kazuma: he’s his pride and joy, after all, that much is certain—but it also strains against the pressure of it, straining with that fear and worry.
What a burden to have to carry alone. It’s Ryunosuke’s wish to lessen the load, even if all he can do is buy him three seconds—to be there to help him with whatever he faces, for however long he’ll have him. For forever, even, if Kazuma allows it.
Kazuma turns his head towards Ryunosuke. “If you were in that position, would you have done anything different?”
Ryunosuke breathes in; he feels the weight of the Sheikah Slate on his hip—as heavy as responsibility, as featherlight as hope. He doesn’t even need to contemplate it.
“No, I wouldn’t have.”
Notes:
Ok it was complete coincidence that the first chapter during pride month was the one that included some of the susarei parts... It was meant to be, I guess! Also asoryu have some things going on too I guess..... :)
Some references: Kazuma hanging inside the Triforce during Ryunosuke's nightmare is referencing Link seeing Zelda in the castle at the end part of the Twilight Princess; Rutipha is a portmanteau of Zora princesses Ruto and Mipha!
Also, I'm so so happy we're at the point where Ryunosuke can use Stasis finally!! One of the best things Age of Calamity did was let Zelda fight using the Slate abilities. We can have a little Ryunosuke and Kazuma battle couple as a treat... 🥺
Chapter 15: Interstitials: Part 1 - Vah Medoh
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
It’s odd. The doctor who tended to Kazuma’s wounds (who was extremely kind, I must note, and much more pleasant than many of the other doctors I’ve had the displeasure of being acquainted with. Perhaps, not all doctors are truly all that bad… Especially when people like the brilliant Iris and Lady Rei exist!) said that he had several bruised ribs, bordering on possibly being fractured. She was stunned. She said he shouldn't have been able to simply breathe without experiencing sharp pain, much less move around as if he was barely injured at all, with only minor aches and soreness as a testament.
He had told me before his body was quicker to heal than most and I’ve seen it myself with how he would shake off tumbles much easier than even the most fit knights could, but this…? He just laughed it off after the examination, saying all he needed was some beef hotpot and some rest and he’d be all ready to begin the trip back home. It worried me deeply at the time, but he was right: the horse ride back seemed to give him only the smallest of discomforts. (Which I found very unfair, by the way. My back was proving to be a menace for the majority of the ride and I wasn’t even the one to fight the Lynel!)
Impressive even further, the restorative liquid began closing up the gash on his arm within hours—as if it accelerated the healing process by weeks. He didn’t even require stitches! I’ve truly never seen anything quite like it… I’ll have to be extra cautious about not spilling the small vial of the stuff I carry.
Some time after we arrived back, Champion Sholmes brought us to the cave with that healing water, hidden within the Great Plateau. It was an mysterious space carved hidden into the mountainside: the small, aforementioned spring, pooling under an odd device affixed to the ceiling; a segregated chamber in the back that housed a pedestal not unlike the ones found in the Divine Beasts and outside the training shrine in the Quarry, and a peculiar contraption that looked almost like a bathtub.
Lady Susato said the crude translation of the ancient Sheikah text along the apparatus seemed to say something about resurrection. Considering how the rejuvenating spring was directly connected to this machine with pipes and it seems to have a place to lay a person inside, Champion Sholmes believes this might just be some sort of highly specialized healing device. Furthermore, the depth of the machine makes him think that the injured person must have been submerged under quite a bit of the healing water—suggesting this was a device used for grave injuries.
It’s all conjecture right now, of course, as Champion Sholmes and Iris have yet to figure out how to activate it, much less run any sorts of tests on its functionality. But with how scarce and incredible a resource the healing water is, they don’t wish to be too wasteful with it if it does end up requiring a significant amount. For now, we’ve decided to call the place the Shrine of Resurrection.
As much of a boon finding something like this is, it does give me pause. I suppose the war against Calamity Stronghart ten thousand years ago would necessitate the creation of such a device, yet I can’t help thinking just how severe the injuries must have been where merely applying the healing water to a wound wouldn’t be enough… And just how many times did they use this shrine? How much of the healing water did they end up creating within that cave?
It is yet another crucial tool we’ll need to restore to working order for our preparations. I only pray we’ll never have to actually use the Shrine of Resurrection’s power…
The morning sun spilling into Ryunosuke’s chambers is like a lance to the eyes. When he stirs, he groans, muttering that it’s too early and, for once, the clock face agrees with him. He rolls over and pulls the covers above his head, attempting to pull that sleep-thread back under his control yet again, but it’s futile—the summer sun is bright and it’s eager, and once it has one in its attention, they’re at its mercy alone.
But, there’s luck to be found here this early: a trip to the morning market with stands filled with ripe Wildberries and Hydromelon before the crowds take their fill. (He could always get these fruits brought directly to the castle, and the cooks do, but there’s something unmistakable about how fresher the fruit tastes when he’s able to procure it himself. Outside of the stifling castle, berries are deeper in color, more flavorful; the juices trickle down fingers like rushing streams—a true taste of nature at his fingertips.) Perhaps there’s luck still to be had, maybe, maybe—
“Kazuma?” Ryunosuke mumbles, but he can’t tell if it comes out more slurred than anything articulate.
And yet, the absence.
There’s no answer, only the distant chittering of birds outside. He sighs, pulling the sheet off his face to peek at the empty spot next to him through heavy eyelids. He runs his hand across the other side of the bed—their bed, as it’s been established for quite enough time now—tracing the vestiges of heat that still somehow linger between the covers. For whatever else is waning, the evidence of him remains: the dip in the mattress that conformed to him the night prior, his smell persisting on his pillow.
This isn’t unusual. Kazuma is the paragon of discipline—promptly awake at dawn, off to morning training like clockwork. The man’s schedule is predictable and as unmalleable as he is.
And yet, and yet—
Ryunosuke squeezes his eyes shut again, breathes in deeply through his nose. Perhaps he can fill the hollows Kazuma left with air; it’s a poor substitution, but one that’ll have to suffice for now. He doesn’t know why Kazuma’s absence feels so much like an ache in his chest this morning, why it even bothers him at all—he knows, feels him to be at his private training spot below his chambers. But, Ryunosuke’s always been a worrier. He lets himself feel it.
Then, he rolls back over. Sleepsand in his eyes, he blindly paws at the nightstand and grabs the Sheikah Slate without knocking anything else over—a miracle, the luck of the morning rearing its head. If he wasn’t already lucid, the light off the Slate makes sure of it now, and he navigates through the menus with all the coordination of a newborn sand seal before rubbing his eyes for clarity. Even though he’s rarely awake to witness it, he knows the time before Kazuma’s return is quickly dwindling.
From out of the Slate materializes the project he’s been working on—or, more precisely, various shapes of clay in haphazard states of creation: a blob for the head, which he deemed the logical starting off point, then abandoned once he realized how difficult Kazuma’s hair shape was to mold (it made him really examine it when he next saw Kazuma, making him wonder if it’s just as thick and blunt to the touch as it looks—an obsessive thought that just wouldn’t leave his brain); another blob, abandoned after three nub limbs were attached; two straight strips, the easiest part for his headband. He twists what he purports to be clay-Karuma in his hand—it’s a fat, lumpy snake more than anything at this point—and squints at the reference picture he displays on the Slate.
He presses the backs of his hands into his forehead and groans. It’s too early to try to understand why a sword has so many details!
Ryunosuke’s heart is racing. He flits from merchant stall to merchant stall like an excitable Wizzrobe, eyes scanning the massive amount of creative and novel wares. He’s already procured enough little trinkets to fill handfuls, but with the power of the Slate, both his hands are free to fill once more—or both would be, if he hadn’t had one occupied with holding a stick of dango.
One merchant has a collection of woven fabrics of all manner of colors and patterns; across their table is an array of zigzagging oranges, wavy blues, and multicolored flowers. His gaze zeroes in on one in particular: a gaudy, red, kaleidoscope-paisley-with-flames-and-flowers pattern monstrosity.
It’s exactly the thing he didn’t know he was looking for. It’s perfect. He needs it.
Kazuma must’ve been distracted, because it takes until after Ryunosuke’s paid for the fabric and has held it up to the light to examine it further for him to comment: “And please entertain me with the reason for why you need the most ugly fabric that’s ever graced this Earth—possibly since the very beginning of time?” He’s giving him that exasperated look of his; for all the talk he gives Ryunosuke about his expressions betraying his inner feelings, Kazuma’s not free from blame in moments like these.
Ryunosuke stiffens, purses his lips. His eyes swim and he can feel the sweat begin to pool at his brow under Kazuma’s judgmental gaze. “…It’s a secret,” he blurts out before storing it into the Slate.
Kazuma raises an accusatory eyebrow. “…That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, partner.”
Ryunosuke lets out a warble of a nervous laugh, quickly moving to the next table. He lifts up a charm of a small, cute, cream-with-a-brown-ringed-tail animal with massive ears; its face morphs from adorable innocence to horrifying, grotesque fury when it’s twisted in view. Any apprehension is erased, replaced with awe.
“Look at this! Have you ever seen such a thing?” Ryunosuke asks with a smile stretched wide over his face.
Kazuma looks unimpressed, irritated even, though Ryunosuke can’t imagine why—how could seeing something like this spark anything but joy? “You’re a part of the Royal Family, you can have practically anything you want, yet you insist on buying these…oddities. Why?” He scrunches up his nose.
Ryunosuke has to swallow down a gasp. “They’re not odd—what’s odd about this?” He shoves the charm closer to Kazuma’s face; perhaps he’s not taking a good enough look to understand the craftsmanship. He makes sure to twist it so it’s showing the angry side. “And see here? It looks just like you! It’s making that same murderous glare you always have—”
“It does not!” Kazuma says with a glare that could probably kill someone, if given the chance. His headband flies behind him in jagged waves as he shoves Ryunosuke’s arm away.
It could’ve fooled Ryunosuke—side by side, they’re practically indistinguishable. “Come now, is it even possible to say no to this face?” He moves it back to the sweet expression, then mirrors it with the pleading jut of his lip.
“Quite easily, in fact,” Kazuma carps back. He leans in for emphasis, arms crossed. “No.” It draws a pout from Ryunosuke—petulant, almost—and Kazuma exhales a soft laugh in response. “However”—Kazuma pokes at the fullness of Ryunosuke’s cheeks, puffed out like a child’s—“this one may prove to be a bit more difficult, yet.” A smirk.
Ryunosuke just shoots him a glare of his own. “Quit it.” And he shoos Kazuma’s hand away. “I’m doing my part to help stimulate the local economy!” He tilts his head, lifts up a finger. “You of all people should appreciate that; you’re always emphasizing how important it is to support local artisans and vendors selling their own wares!”
“As much as I can’t fault your logic in that argument, that doesn’t mean you need to purchase every item of bric-a-brac you come across.” He rests his hands on Karuma and leans back. “For someone bestowed with the virtue of wisdom—”
Ryunosuke hands the vendor some rupees with a word of thanks. He hadn’t noticed it until right then, but the merchant looks at both of them with a wide-eyed, almost nervous stare.
“—It would behoove you to be a bit more wise about your spending habits. If Royal Advisor Susato comes into your study and it’s filled to the brim with these…curios, I’d say you’ll become well-acclimated to the view from the floor, indeed.” Kazuma lethargically rolls his hand, palm upward. “Sometimes, it truly is almost as if you were desperately scrounging for money in a past life and are now trying to make up for it.”
Ryunosuke’s shoulders slump. What are you, my handler?
Kazuma grins something wicked—something a little too excited. “Oh? Should I get a leash for you to behave?”
Ryunosuke’s cheeks flare. “Sush,” he hisses. He tilts his nose up, indignant. “You can’t speak to royalty in that way.”
Kazuma’s grin dies. “Playing the royalty card now, are we? Very classy, Ryunosuke.”
It’s not a tactic he deploys often—not even something he feels comfortable doing, in fact—but desperate times call for desperate measures. Etiquette goes out of the window when it comes to war, after all.
“Yes, well, I—” That smug satisfaction withers on Ryunosuke’s lips when reality comes crashing through the little dimension bubble where only him and Kazuma existed merely a moment prior, and he notices that a small crowd’s drawn around them. Not just any crowd, either—one in which every person is gawking in some manner: some covering their mouths in an attempt to hide embarrassed expressions, others fine with demonstrating their discomfiture with no pretense at all.
“Erm…” Ryunosuke whispers, shriveling. “Um, Kazuma, everyone’s staring at us…”
Kazuma cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowing as he examines the crowd. “I would hazard a guess that it’s due to them seeing the prince buy the most cursed artifact in all of existence right in front of them.”
“Haah… That’s why, now is it? Not possibly because you—”
He’s silenced by Kazuma wrapping an arm around his shoulders and yanking him through the throng of onlookers. “Come now, let’s get going before they find even more fodder for The Rumor Mill.”
Ryunosuke grumbles, “There wouldn’t be anything to report on if you wouldn’t just say th—” Kazuma leans over and rips a piece of dango off the skewer with his teeth. “H-Hey!”
“In the absolute worst case scenario that you are unable to manifest your powers on command, I have researched a few options,” Susato says, laying out a sheet of parchment that spans the length of the table. It’s detailed, with paragraphs of neat writing filling up the entire surface of the canvas—nothing less than expected from the royal advisor. She has to weigh the corners down to prevent it from curling in on itself.
She continues, “The first holds the highest efficacy and is most widely recognized among sealing rituals: binding a soul to a highly magical, holy location. The divine energy of the place—such as a sacred spring, for instance—will already act as a suppressant against any evil that enters it, but anchoring something to these sites tends to result in the strongest seals as the magic is multiplied within it. However, it requires Hylian magic from multiple spellcasters to perform the ritual.” She holds a finger up to her cheek, eyes flicking to the ceiling in thought. “The number of which is extremely variable…depending on how powerful both the creature to be sealed is and the mages.”
“…And if Calamity Stronghart appears in a location that’s not near a spring?” Ryunosuke asks, brow furrowing as he reads over the paper. “I wouldn’t profess to know anything about how much control it would have over it…but I assume if it had a choice, it wouldn’t choose to reveal itself anywhere near a sacred spring, surely?”
“Yes, that is a worry,” Susato says, lacing her fingers together. “Unfortunately, the largest drawback of this option is that we would have to lure Calamity Stronghart to one of these locations before performing the rite. Additionally, we would have to effectively mobilize the spellcasters to that same location and prepare the ritual.”
Kazuma shakes his head. “It’s not realistic. We don’t know what form the thing even takes, much less how to go about moving it. If we’re to believe that the entity Ryunosuke and I saw at McGilded’s mansion is an accurate depiction, then it doesn’t seem to be fully corporeal.” He brings a fist up to his chin. “If that’s the case, no physical bounds could allow us to drag Calamity Stronghart to a desired location that could potentially be halfway across Hyrule.”
Iris’s gloved hand pops up in front of Ryunosuke, palm up. He taps on the Sheikah Slate, produces an ancient screw, and hands it to her. Wordlessly, she retracts her arm and continues her work, never losing focus for a second.
“Yes, I agree,” Susato says. She points to the next column on the paper. “Instead of tethering it to a fixed location, there are also mobile means, but the tradeoff is the lesser strength of the bind. A magical item can be a vessel to trap a soul in. I’m sure we’re all familiar with tales about magical lockets or an ancient trinket box—anything that’s been imbued with magical energy can be used, really, as long as it can act as a container.”
“A container, huh…?” Horse meat isn’t often eaten, but Ryunosuke’s mind drifts off to the beast’s wicked, equine head and he can’t get the image of it being stuffed into a jar like potted meat out of his thoughts. His stomach rumbles.
Kazuma elbows him in the side. “Focus, please,” Kazuma huffs, crossing his arms, and Susato lets out a little laugh behind her hand.
“The addition of Sheikah purification seals can also help bolster sealing rituals,” Susato continues, drawing her finger across to the next section. “By themselves, they’re lacking in strength as opposed to Hylian magic, but add the two methods together and they’ll elevate the sealing capability.”
Kazuma hums to himself as he reviews the paper again. Then, his eyes flick back up to Susato. “We’ll still need numerous magic users to perform the ritual either way, yes?”
Susato nods. “That’s correct.” She lifts a hand to her cheek and looks away. “Unfortunately, that might be the biggest challenge of them all at the moment…”
“Prince Runo!” Iris’s singsong voice cuts through the deliberation. “May I request your assistance please?”
“Of course,” Ryunosuke says. For the first time, he looks at what she’s been up to—really looks at it. Yet, he’s at a loss; she’s doing some sort of maintenance on Darumy and Eggy, he can understand that much, but not anything further. What he does know is that she wants him to use Stasis as she expectantly holds up a Guardian limb. With a tap, the limb is suspended in air and she immediately dives back into work with a thank you.
Ryunosuke sets the Slate on his lap and sighs. “Then, we’ll need to organize and train these spellcasters much like we did with the Champions.” He stares at the back of his arm guard, flexes his fingers underneath it. It’s no use. No matter how hard he tries to draw upon the power he felt during that fleeting moment, it’s gone, like a leaf swept far away in the wind.
“Can we combine the two methods?” Kazuma asks then, hand returning to his chin and eyes now narrow slits in concentration. “Seal Calamity Stronghart into a vessel where it appears, then transfer it to a holy space and perform the sealing rite?”
“It’s certainly a possibility,” Susato replies with a nod. “Transportation remains the tricky detail, however… The stronger the entity, the more fragile the bind is. Moving something with Calamity Stronghart’s power will have to be done with extreme caution.” She pauses. “And we would need two sets of magic users for each step.”
Kazuma leans against the table and runs a hand through his hair. “Again, I fear the impracticality… Considering we don’t have any indication of where it’ll appear, we would need to prepare spellcasters across the land.” He shakes his head. “Will that even work—having enough people to have coverage?”
Ryunosuke purses his lips. “There’s plenty of temples scattered about… We’ll have to get in contact with them, I suppose. Perhaps if they all undergo similar training, we can set up some sort of communication system.” He navigates within the Slate and materializes the tiny, plush mouse Iris had gifted him. “If we can have more long-distance speaker devices like these”—he holds up the blue doll—“then one group could alert another to gather the necessary people. Or, or, even rudimentary, cascading smoke signals could be implemented to communicate along the way instead.”
Susato frowns. “I agree with Champion Kazuma that this solution is far from the most efficient way to go about it, but that does seem to be the best option we have currently, Prince Ryunosuke. Would you like for me to write up an official proposal for the king?”
Ryunosuke shudders at that. His father won’t be pleased with concessions and backup plans for Ryunosuke’s inadequacies, but perhaps her hand can sway him. “…Yes, thank you.” Susato is the best royal advisor in the world. He sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry, truly… None of this would be a concern if I just—”
Kazuma’s hand lands on his shoulder, sure and steady; his warmth bleeds into Ryunosuke. “You have nothing to apologize for. It’s impractical, yes, but not impossible. We’ll make it work, somehow.”
Susato supports that with an encouraging nod of her head. “The more people we have prepared, the better. It will be a challenging feat, but we expect nothing to be easy.” She pumps her fists at her sides. “Isn’t that right, Prince Ryunosuke?”
Their confidence is like a balm over the sting of his worries. A smile creeps out, small yet hopeful. They’re right, after all—no matter how difficult it gets, they’ll continue to keep trying. They have to. “...Yes, thank you, both.”
“And with that, it’s finished!” Iris cheers.
“Oh, marvelous, Iris,” Ryunosuke says immediately, excited to see whatever it is she’s been so resolutely working on. “What is it that you—”
“Oh!” Susato exclaims as a hand shoots to her mouth.
The three of them stare silently, mouths agape, at the scene before them: Darumy and Eggy holding long, glowing, blue blades. Electricity crackles off them in loud echoes across the lab. The small Guardians lift up their weapons with seeming pride, almost as if pleased with themselves for acquiring their new devices of destruction and eager for attention. Iris shares the look, beaming, with her hands clasped over her chest.
“Well? What do you think, Kazzy?” Iris asks. Her eyes are bright, illuminated further by the sparkle of electrical energy reflecting off them. “Are the swords similar to the one you saw in the training shrine?”
Kazuma is just as speechless as the rest of them are. It takes him a moment to answer: “…Yes, the resemblance is quite uncanny, Iris. Though, I don’t think it had electricity…”
Iris claps her hands together. “Yes! That was my special design! Do you like it?”
“O-Of course,” Kazuma says, stiff, shifting his weight. “It’s quite the unique touch.” She beams at this.
Ryunosuke watches as the diminutive Guardians chirp at each other, waving their swords in the air. “I-Iris, this is incredible work you’ve done”—then, Darumy takes a swing at Eggy, which Eggy barely dodges—“but should you have given them weapons like this?” The two begin to squabble. Sparks fly into the air.
Iris crosses her arms and puffs out her cheeks with a huff. “They need another way to protect themselves! You know their lasers are weak compared to the big Guardians!” Darumy and Eggy seem to take enough umbrage at this that they snap out of their quarrel to angrily beep at Iris. She lifts a finger at this and wags it in front of them. “You two play nice; don’t fight.” The Guardians seem to almost straighten their posture under her command, then fold the weapons, tucking them back into their body.
“W-Well, it is wonderful, I think,” Susato says as she eyes the two Guardians scurrying away across the lab to chase one another. “Thank you for your hard work, as always, Iris.”
Iris smiles before pulling the drawer of another desk open. “I made a couple others during the process,” she almost sings. True to her word, she takes out another sword and presses a button, sending an electric current coursing through its blade. “Look, Kazzy, we match!” She schools her face into a fierce frown then swings the sword from her hip, before smiling once again.
A grin forms on Kazuma’s face. “It fits you—very lively.” He pauses, considers it. “...Be sure to take care wielding it, however.”
Iris nods at this, powering the weapon down. She then takes yet another sword out of the desk and hands it to Ryunosuke. “Can you please keep it in Slatey in case Kazzy wants to use it, Prince Runo? Hurley has had his eye on this one. You know how much of a bad idea that would be if he got his wings on it.”
“Thank you, Iris,” Ryunosuke says as he stores the sword into the Slate. He doesn’t have to imagine Sholmes improperly using weapons; the holes burnt into the lab walls are evidence enough. “Speaking of”—he scans the too-placid lab, save for the small Guardians scurrying about, with suspicion—“just where is Champion Sholmes?”
“Ah, did you miss me, Your Highness?” As if on cue, Sholmes comes soaring through the window with a cheeky smile.
Ryunosuke wonders if Sholmes has configured Iris’s mouse charm to listen in on him sometimes. “W-What?” Ryunosuke’s mouth twitches into an exasperated frown. “That’s not—”
“There’s no shame in admitting to those most involute feelings, my dear prince!” He lands with a flourish of his wings. “I can see quite clearly the toll it’s placed on your conscience—most evident in the way your hair is in a particularly miserable state of disarray, tossing and turning all night as you were gripped with worry, no doubt.”
“What ar—”
Sholmes barrels on: “Not to mention the anxious disposition wracking yourself, nor the blue clothes you don in your melancholy. It is all very apparent my absence has thoroughly devastated you.” He points a wingtip to the air. “But, worry no longer, for I am here!”
It’s a few stunned moments as Ryunosuke attempts to figure out a way to address everything that was just said within the last minute. He opens his mouth to speak and—
“Silly Hurley,” Iris says, lifting her palms up and frowning, “Prince Runo’s hair is always a mess like that.”
Ryunosuke tries to object. “It’s—”
Susato lifts a hand to rest on the side of her face. She says sadly, “And he always has the temperament of a small, lost puppy.”
“That’s—”
Kazuma crosses his arms, closes his eyes. “He always wears the same shade of blue, as well.”
Sholmes seems to stiffen. “Ah… Is that so?”
Ryunosuke slumps over, feels the sweat run down the side of his face. “...Am I allowed to respond yet?”
“Of course!” Sholmes says, irritable, leaning forward and splaying his wings out in front of him. “Who was stopping you? Surely, you were informed how polite conversation works amongst your royal trainings!”
“Haah…” Ryunosuke groans. “While not using the exact words for how I’d describe it, they are all correct in that none of those things you listed are new. I was looking for you to ask about Vah Medoh.”
“Ah,” Sholmes says, then, straightening up and expression sobering.
“Well?” Ryunosuke asks. “How is Vah Medoh fairing?”
Sholmes nods his head. “Quite well, I’d say.”
“And how about your connection with it?”
“Like birds of a feather.”
Ryunosuke blinks—his replies are oddly terse, but it’s a good sign that there doesn’t seem to be any major obstacles stopping progress. “And have you found any special features within Vah Medoh? Some of the other Champions have found their Divine Beasts to have unique attacks, for example.”
Sholmes considers it for a bit. “I would say aerodynamics is quite the advantage, wouldn’t you?” He throws his head back and laughs.
It all clicks in a moment. The clipped responses, the lack of a long, self-aggrandizing rave about how well he’s mastered piloting or about a new discovery of its weapons—Sholmes would never waste a chance to boast about this.
“You…” Ryunosuke drawls out the word slowly. He feels himself deflate again. “You still have yet to begin training with Vah Medoh, haven’t you?!” The realization makes him want nothing more than to strangle the Rito in this moment—if he wasn’t well aware of how adept of a wing-to-hand combatant Sholmes is.
Sholmes leans over, his feathers puffing in agitation. “Is that what all these inane questions were about? Truly, Your Highness, you must learn to speak of what you’re talking about when you—”
A loud, screeching sound peals out from deeper in the lab. It’s a chaotic sequence of events that Ryunosuke fails to fully comprehend: Kazuma’s leaping and taking Susato down with him, Iris screams, there’s an explosion at the wall where Kazuma and Susato were just standing, Sholmes is yelling, Ryunosuke instinctively crouches down and covers his head. Wisps of smoke fills the room, before another round of rhythmic beeping begins, growing faster in its intensity. Ryunosuke eyes grow wide, recognition clearing a path in the haze of confusion: a Guardian.
Ryunosuke barely sees the piercing blue eye and the red-ringed oscillations through the smoke. The large Guardian skitters, painting a moving laser line across the lab, searching, searching—
Why is its body colored magenta and black?
With shaky hands, Ryunosuke fumbles to take out the Sheikah Slate. The Guardian looks lost, confused with what it’s trying to target and where it’s going. It provides an opportunity for Ryunosuke to pull up Stasis. The time before beeps shortens. He lines up the Slate and activates the golden chains.
When the Guardian freezes, someone darts up off the ground, swift and short—Iris, he can only believe. She’s got ahold of something, crackling bright in her palm. Not long after she moves, Sholmes follows, flying above and over the Guardian with a panicked, “Iris, are you quite alright?!”
There’s a loud buzz and sizzle, and Stasis breaks. The Guardian emits a sharp, high-pitched whirring noise as its eye ping-pongs in its socket. Familiar orange and blue bloom from its center, bleeding out like ink in water across its body, until the magenta is dispelled from its circuitry. Then, it shuts off completely before collapsing to the ground. A puff of violet smoke releases into the air.
“Is-Is everyone okay?” Ryunosuke asks, shaky, after a few beats have passed, after what just happened fully sinks in.
Kazuma’s already helped Susato to her feet and she issues her thanks with a grateful bow of her head. There’s a chorus of confirmations as Kazuma makes his way to Ryunosuke and helps lift him up as well.
“Hurley!” Ryunosuke hears Iris say as the three of them move closer. “You must be more careful! Poor Octy malfunctioned because you spilled your tea on her this morning—now we have to bring back all her system settings after this reset!” She has her arms crossed high over her chest, her face stern.
Sholmes paces around the Guardian, eyes glued on the relic with a severe intensity Ryunosuke’s never seen on him before. He replies distractedly without looking at her, “Hm, yes, quite so, my dear Iris…”
Ryunosuke’s attention is pulled to the movement he sees out of the corner of his eye. Like a bubble being popped, the lingering wisps of violet smoke flick out of existence.
Notes:
We're halfway through!!
Shorter chapter this week where everyone and everything is totally normal.
The little charm that Ryunosuke spins around is based on the Skyward Sword Remlit!
Chapter 16: Interstitials: Part 2 - Vah Naboris
Notes:
Warnings - click to view
- Overt misogyny in a character's dialogue
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
Darumy and Eggy seem to be making great progress in their use of their new swords. Natural-born—or, rather, should I say “unnatural-born”?—swordsrobots, it seems. Perhaps Kazuma could learn a thing or too, though that’s not to say he’s lacking in skill or is in need of drastic improvement! I merely just meant that their techniques could be a new source of inspiration and
I must admit, seeing a machine wield a blade with more precision than I could ever hope to be able to do is a little deflating… But maybe comparing myself to something programmed with that skill isn’t all that fair?
Their mischievousness is a worry, though. I do continue to question if we should allow them to run around with giant blades of electricity… More and more often, I’m often struck with the thought that just because a thing can do something doesn’t necessarily mean they should.
However, it does leave me wondering: if these are the prototypical Guardians, were they always meant to be mobile melee fighters? Or perhaps just another type—after all, the one in the testing shrine Kazuma saw was similar in build. Could there possibly be even more types out there that we haven’t discovered? I suppose only time will tell… I still can’t believe the thing I thought was a Daruma doll all this time ended up being sentient.
In other news, Champion Sholmes somehow turned all his feathers a bright, neon blue. I can’t say it fits him, exactly, but he’s easier to keep track of now.
We leave for Gerudo Town shortly. I’m excited to see Ursavra again.
The grating groan of the mattress rouses Ryunosuke just enough to notice Kazuma’s arm slide off from where it was once draped securely across his waist, his legs untangle themselves from his own—feeling that stark absence of warmth as his back is suddenly exposed to morning air. Groggily, he flops over, reaching blindly until skin meets skin; he’s far too under the lull of three-quarters-sleep to begin to attempt to discern what part of Kazuma’s arm he’s limply got ahold of.
“Ryunosuke…” comes through the layer of cotton in his muffled perception, the annoyance belied by the undercurrent of amusement that cuts through it.
How are you so awake at this time?, is what Ryunosuke imagines he mutters back. Stay, please?
He’s not sure what actually mumbles out of his mouth, only that he hears Kazuma huff out a light breath of a laugh in response. “Some people have things they have to do, you know,” Kazuma says, and his morning voice is low, husky. “We can’t all be lazing around the entire morning like you, partner. Besides, I promised Royal Advisor Susato that I’d train with her this morning.”
Ryunosuke grunts to that, hand slipping off Kazuma’s arm—whatever part it may be. It makes a heavy thunk on the mattress. Kazuma’s leftover heat seeps into his fingers.
There’s a pause, a lingering stillness. For a few seconds, a couple minutes—his current state of consciousness is so fragile, he can’t tell which. Then, he feels the dip of the mattress under Kazuma’s weight. Another pause. And then, there’s a gentle hand in his hair, smoothing back the short bangs from his forehead. Ryunosuke breathes out a contented sigh, his body melting further into the relaxation it brings with each stroke.
The back of Kazuma’s pointer finger trails down the side of Ryunosuke’s face, lingers there at his jaw. There’s another puff of a laugh before he swipes away the drool pooling at the corner of Ryunosuke’s lips. “How unbecoming…” Kazuma murmurs. “You’re quite lucky that I’m the only one to see you like this.”
Perhaps if Ryunosuke was awake enough, he would be able to hear the fondness in Kazuma’s voice, see the softness in his expression—process all that’s been said in that alone. Perhaps he’d raise an objection, fire off a witty quip in an attempt to protest it. Or maybe, he’d pull a surprise turnabout instead: wholeheartedly agree with him that he is lucky that Kazuma’s the one there beside him out of everyone else, that he’s grateful that Kazuma’s there to look after him at his most vulnerable. And then, he’d be able to see the rarity that is Kazuma Asogi being caught off guard and flustered—the way his breath would catch in his throat, the way his cheeks would flush in that same matching shade as his headband.
In the end, drowsiness wins out. Ryunosuke only feels the weight shift off the other side of the bed once again before he succumbs to sleep’s pull.
“The sixth six—” Kazuma looks haggard, utterly hopeless.
“The sixth sick,” Ryunosuke emphasizes. The words bounce against the rock walls of the Gerudo Canyon like an echo chamber—some sort of recursive nightmare mocking Kazuma.
“The sickith—Augh!” Kazuma grits his teeth and grips Karuma with a ferocity as if he’ll just cut the words down from out of the air if he has to. “Say it again, fully. I’ll get it this time.”
Ryunosuke shoots him a sympathetic smile. It’s futile, he knows it, and deep down, he thinks Kazuma knows it too, even if it’ll take another bloody tongue to finally get him to admit it. After all, Ryunosuke was just explaining that it was recently described by the Hyrule Tribune—much to Kazuma’s chagrin—as one of the hardest tongue twisters recorded. It even gave him quite a few stumbles when he first tried it.
Now, the syllables leave his mouth smooth and without hesitation: “The sixth sick Sheikah’s sixth sheep’s sick. Such a shock! The Sheikah’s shriek shakes shuttered shacks.”
It’s like a balm to his soul, to say those words out loud. Far too long did he try to suffocate this passion of his, suppress this part that was so intrinsic to him, it was like losing a limb. This past year of allowing himself to indulge in it again has been something he had been so desperately missing. Only after reclaiming it was he able to fully understand just how much a loss it really was.
Kazuma looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “Impossible…” he mutters. “And you’re sure you weren’t given special lessons growing up, or you’re using magic to clearly enunciate, perhaps?”
This draws a small, incredulous laugh from Ryunosuke. “You know very well that I have no deliberate control of magic… Not to mention how wasteful it would be to use magic on tongue twisters of all things!” And he’s grateful for it, too; an existence where he could use magic to make him speak eloquently but not to perform the light sealing to defeat the world’s largest evil would feel far too cruel. “As I’ve said, this one is extremely hard. Not just anyone would be able to say it, especially not someone who just tried attempting it half an hour ago!”
It was an impossible bet they had made from the moment it was settled. That Kazuma—talented in a number of things so great it could make Ryunosuke’s head spin listing them all, yet utterly hopeless when it came to even the children’s level twisters—could somehow speak, with perfect clarity, the latest tongue twister that’s captured Ryunosuke’s attention by the time they reached Gerudo Canyon Stable. Now, the stable’s clear in view, the music’s getting louder. It would take some sort of miracle for Kazuma to make this eleventh hour turnabout now.
“But you’re not just anyone.” Ryunosuke believes this is meant to be a compliment, but the force in which Kazuma says it and the intense fire in his expression makes him question it, just a bit. A beat, then Kazuma’s eyes slip shut, he tilts his head back, and sighs something heavy. “Fine, I concede. You’ve bested me once again and won the bet. I hope you’re happy.” He slows his horse and climbs off.
“It’s not as if I take pride in it…” Ryunosuke mumbles as he follows. But, maybe he does, just a little.
Then, with neither preamble nor shame, Kazuma says, “You must give me a demonstration on how you use your tongue.”
Ryunosuke almost falls off when trying to dismount Vanilla. “S-Sorry? You, you require a demonstration on…?”
“How you use your tongue,” he repeats with all the seriousness in the world, as if that clarifies anything further.
“Haah… I, I don’t quite understand…”
Kazuma huffs, impatient at what he clearly must view as an obvious request. “While I assume there’s a mental component like everything that requires high performance,” he says, “obviously there is something wrong with my speaking technique if I cannot seem to make progress on—how do you describe it? ‘Children’s level tongue twisters?’” He brings up two fingers to his temple. “There clearly is a deficiency somewhere in my speech mechanics—in the physical way I vocalize words. I simply wish for you to show me how you do what you do. How your tongue deftly shapes the syllables instead of catching itself in knots.”
There’s another sort of knot catching in Ryunosuke’s throat as his mind scrambles to figure out how to possibly respond. He’s gaining no clarity on the logistics of this entire notion. “…And how do you propose this demonstration to happen, exactly? Surely, trying just to watch how I speak words won’t be terribly useful…?”
“Well, there’s only one way—”
“Vassaq!” the stable hand greets them, a lucky rescue from whatever inane thing Kazuma was just about to suggest.
It’s later, when both of them are seated at a table inside the stable waiting for dinner that Ryunosuke feels himself being watched. He scans the crowd inside, once, twice, before he notices someone duck their head each time he looks near them. It’s difficult to confirm if they’re looking at him, for their glasses are thick and hide their eyes, but those same spectacles also give them away—when they tilt their head back towards Ryunosuke’s direction, the glass reflects the light. The way they attempt to dodge Ryunosuke’s gaze is timed too perfect to be mere coincidence.
“Kazuma…” Ryunosuke whispers, hand covering his mouth. “I think that person in the glasses is staring at us.” He gestures with a jut of his head.
“Who?” Kazuma fully turns around to look. Ryunosuke cringes; he was trying to be more discreet about it all. “The guy with the topknot?”
The bespectacled man seems to almost jump in his seat. He quickly turns to fiddle with the giant bag he has sitting on the ground next to him.
Pain… flashes in Ryunosuke’s mind, yet it has no tether, no clear connection to any other thought as far as he can tell. “Yes,” he says with a nod. “Call me crazy, but…I can’t help but shake the idea that I’ve seen the man before.”
“I would never hesitate to call you crazy,” Kazuma says blithely, turning back around to face him. Ryunosuke grimaces. “He’s probably just awestruck that the prince is here. Besides, look at the bag he carries—the man’s clearly a traveling merchant. I’d wager you’ve seen him around selling his wares at some point.”
“Perhaps, but that’s not exactly what I mean…” Ryunosuke waves a hand in the air, attempting to catch whatever loose string of thought he’s trying to form. “I don’t know. It feels deeper, somehow. Almost as if I knew him in a past life or something—” He groans immediately when the words come out.
“Right, then, I will absolutely call you crazy.” Kazuma gives him a wise smirk.
Ryunosuke drags a hand down his face and collapses into the table. “Forget it—I don’t know what I’m talking about,” he mumbles into his sleeve.
Kazuma laughs. “Perhaps you’re hungry.” The chair screeches when he goes to get up. “I’ll check to see if the food is ready yet.”
“Mhmm. Please just make sure there aren’t any—”
“No onions, of course.”
It’s not nearly as much of a shock as it should be when Ryunosuke lifts his head and is met with the man with the topknot and glasses hovering next to his table, yet Ryunosuke startles anyway. The man is older, sweaty. Ryunosuke prays Kazuma will come back soon.
“H-Hello…?” Ryunosuke manages, forcing a smile.
The man responds by clasping his hands together in front of him and leaning forward, his head shaking back and forth in nervous delight. “Oh, what a marvelous honor this is!” His voice is shrill, and it leaves Ryunosuke’s ears ringing. At once, the man drops to the floor in supplication, nearly slamming his head on the ground in a low bow. “Your Highneesss!”
“It, it’s a pleasure,” Ryunosuke says. “And your name is…?”
“Taketsuchi Auchi.” He straightens himself up and, slowly, lifts himself up off the ground to clutch his hands in front of his chest again. “Those of us in the Auchi clan have been proud traveling merchants for generations, selling our wares across the entirety of Hyrule! I’m sure a judicious person such as yourself has a discerning eye for quality! Tsh huh huh!” He cackles.
Ryunosuke’s interest is piqued, but he knows Kazuma would chastise him again for buying anything more than he already has recently. “While I’ve no doubt your goods are impressive, I’m sorry to say that—”
“Wait!” Auchi’s voice cries out like a sonic arrow. He immediately rears back, a closed fan pulled out from his belt at some point in the motion, as sweat drips down his forehead. “I’m, I’m sorry, Your Highness! I didn’t mean to shout at you, please forgive me!” He bows again.
It’s a hollow apology, considering he shouted the words. “It’s fine…” Ryunosuke scratches the back of his neck. By now, heads have turned at the tables nearby, chatter has erupted between them. “Please, keep your voice down…”
“Of course, of course! Whatever you say, Your Highness!” His volume only slightly decreases, yet his enthusiasm remains high. He taps the folded fan against his forehead. “While the Auchi family’s high-quality wares are our great pride, my son, Takeshi Auchi, is even greater than that: a knight! One whose name I’m sure you recognize, considering what a rising star he is.”
“Oh, um…” Ryunosuke’s never heard the Auchi name at all, in fact.
If Auchi notices his hesitation, he doesn’t show it—or, he doesn’t care. “Nevertheless, I come to you with a humble proposal: accept my son as your new personal guard.”
“Oh.” Ryunosuke blinks; his mouth hangs open. “I-I’m sorry, but—”
“Takeshi graduated at the top of his class at The Knight Academy last summer. He even helped lead a group of knights chase out an entire pack of Bokoblins from a town—five of them to be exact! These accomplishments speak to his prestigiousness quite clearly, wouldn’t you agree? Enough to ditch that pompous-looking headband boy, I’d say!”
“Um, yes, that’s great…” Ryunosuke’s eyes dart around. What is taking Kazuma so long?! He swallows. “One contradiction I have to point out, first…”
Auchi’s back to sweating. His smile’s gone brittle, shaky. “Yes, of course, Your Highness. Whatever is your objection?”
There’s something about the exchange that smells dubious—and it’s not the smell of perspiration coming off of Auchi. Chasing off five Bokoblins as a group isn’t that praiseworthy of an accomplishment, either. “Um, the top graduate last summer was Kazuma Asogi. I don’t—I apologize, I don’t recall any Takeshi Auchi…? Is, is he a member of the Royal Guard now? Since he’s so skilled?”
Auchi’s smile tightens into a frown. He goes back to tapping his fan against his temple. “I’ll have you know Takeshi is one of the most decorated Patrol Knights of Castle Town’s Irch Island Division!”
Patrol Knight… Irch Island Division…? Ryunosuke slumps over.
Separated from Castle Town Prison Island by the Regencia River, and only connected to land by a small bridge to the north, Irch Island is one of the safest islets after Hyrule Castle itself. And as a Patrol Knight meant to solve citizen disputes instead of engaging in active combat…
He wasn’t even in the same graduating class as Kazuma, was he?
“Please, Your Highness, I beg you to at least consider appointing Takeshi as your guard! Headband boy can’t possibly—”
“Is there a problem here, sir?” Kazuma says, voice like thunder. He places the two bowls of the stable’s special, Chilly Mushroom Risotto, on the table with force—no onions, as promised.
Auchi yelps backwards. “P-Pardon, I was simply—”
Ryunosuke gleefully slides his bowl in front of him. “Kazuma, do you know of a Takeshi Auchi from The Knight Academy?”
Kazuma ponders it for a moment as he takes his seat, forcing Auchi to stumble back. “No, the name doesn’t ring any bells.” His glare narrows on Auchi.
The amount of sweat that’s dripping off of Auchi’s face reaches an all-time high; he’s gone white as a sheet. He mumbles, “Tsh huh huh… Is that how it is, is it? Brat thinks he’s too much of a hot-shot to remember the pride and joy of the Auchi family, does he? Well then…”
“Excuse me?” Kazuma growls. “Perhaps you would like to repeat that; I’m afraid I didn’t hear clearly.” He flicks the guard of Karuma up with his thumb, flashing the shimmering blade underneath.
Auchi’s mouth clamps shut. After a few agonizing moments, he’s gained the courage to speak again in a panic, saying, “N-Nothing! Nothing at all!” He turns back to Ryunosuke, who’s already taken a large mouthful of risotto, then clasps his hands together again with a pleading smile. “P-Please, Your Highness, I entreat you. If you can’t provide my son an appointment, at least grant me one other favor.”
Ryunosuke chews slowly; the absurd ramblings of a man desperate for glory and status won’t stop him from enjoying his dinner. Since when did I agree to grant him any favors?!
“It’s vitally important. I must be allowed passage into Gerudo Town to trade!” He extends his arms—each one at a time to really make a show of it—presses them to his side, then folds over for a low bow.
“Are you…currently banned from entering?” Ryunosuke asks. For the limited time he’s known the man, this somehow doesn’t come as much of a surprise.
Auchi straightens. “Of course, Your Highness, of course! Those guileful vixens deny passage to all men, after all!”
Ryunosuke and Kazuma share an uneasy look.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Auchi,” Ryunosuke says slowly. “That policy has been revoked for a great many years now—since before I was born, even. They only allow trusted tradespeople and individuals approved by their government to enter their borders, now. Gender isn’t a factor.”
“But, but that cannot be!” Auchi pleads. “I would never doubt the judgment of Your Highness, but to imply that somehow the great Auchi clan is somehow not trusted…! Well, well, that’s just the very definition of inanity!” He straightens his posture, then fans his face with enough force, even his topknot sways ever so slightly. “The Auchi family, well-renowned for having the highest quality wares available, has garnered the greatest respect across the land. There is nothing I could’ve ever possibly done to make those hysterical females not trust me! Nothing, I say!”
Ryunosuke almost chokes on his risotto. He watches, wide-eyed, as Kazuma grips the hilt of Karuma with his mouth drawn taut into a flat line.
Auchi slaps the fan closed again—tap, tap, tap against his forehead. “Tsh huh huh,” he snickers. “That’s right; that must be it. As pretty as they may be, those Gerudo women are far too emotional to be making sound economic decisions.” Ryunosuke grips the fabric of his pants tight enough that his hand begins to shake. “Whose idea was it anyway to let a group of females lead the highest levels of government, anyway?” Kazuma glare grows deeper and deeper. “Your Highness, you have the right sense to know what’s best for these poor, lost girls—just give the directive, and those senate seats can be replaced with real, smart men who truly know what’s best for the land! Maybe then they can find true prosperity without that bitch-chief Ursavra—”
Ryunosuke slams his hands on the table. “That’s quite enough—”
Before he can utter another word, Kazuma has steel soaring through the air. Auchi rears back with a grating squeal of a yell. It’s over in an instant: loose hair falling; Karuma’s deftly placed back into her sheath; Ryunosuke leaning over the table, still seeing red.
Auchi palms at his head in a frenzy, the flowing curtain of locks a ring around his balding head. “Y-You insolent, little…!” The blood has drained from his face. “My, my Taketsuchi Auchi Signature Topknot! Have you gone mad?!”
“I apologize,” Kazuma says coolly. “There was just so much utter excrement coming out of your mouth, I’m afraid I mistook that puff of hair as a tail. It looked in need of a trim, is all.”
“I’ll, I’ll never forgive this brazen assault!” Auchi whips his head towards Ryunosuke. “Is this barbaric behavior the sort that’s desired by the Royal Family of Hyrule?!”
Ryunosuke draws back an arm, then flings a pointed finger at Auchi. “The only barbaric behavior here is how you speak about the Gerudo women! Then to weasel your way by using flattery and cheap insults in order to curry favor for your own personal gain…and to do so using my name in your mouth…it’s despicable!”
Auchi grits his teeth, sweat like a rushing river across his brow. “This, this is absurd… Ryunosuke Naruhodo…” The syllables drip off his tongue like something rancid, committing the acrid taste to his memory. “I thought you’d have much better judgment than that, but you’re just as foolish as all the rest of them! No matter how many generations pass, the Auchi clan will never forget this insulting contempt from the Naruhodo family!”
Kazuma straightens in his seat, his glower intensifying. He growls back before Ryunosuke can even open his mouth: “And may you never forget that you reap what you sow! Make no mistake: a thousand millennia may pass, thousands of lifetimes may follow, and still you’ll be nothing more than an annoying stain compared to this man!”
The embarrassment and frustration manifest in the gnashing of teeth and a quiet, high-pitched cry from deep within Auchi’s chest, like the squeal of a deflating balloon. He spins on his heel then, his long hair a fan behind him, and run-walks to throw his massive traveling pack over his shoulder. He doesn’t look back when he exits the stable.
Ryunosuke’s chest heaves as he watches Auchi leave. It takes but a moment for the triumph of the moment to come crashing down as he feels the eyes of tens of stable patrons and workers staring at him—some mixed with laughter, but most in a stupefied captivation. He sinks back down into the chair, gluing his vision solely on the bowl of risotto. At least the Chillshrooms can help douse the furnaces burning behind his cheeks. “…Did we perhaps cross a line?”
“Perhaps.” Kazuma just leans back, ankle now resting on his knee. “But he deserved it.”
A small laugh bubbles out of Ryunosuke, despite it all. Kazuma can always make things feel so earnestly simple—he’s come to admire that about him. He chances a glance at Kazuma. “He did. But did you have to go and cut off his hair?”
Kazuma hums to himself, a grin teasing at the corner of his mouth. “Did you see any hair hit the ground? I merely cut the tie.”
The Gerudo Chief and Champion sits atop the center stone throne embossed with gold and engraved with Gerudo inscriptions. She’s there with all the commanding poise of a bolt of lightning itself—straight posture and imposing presence, a sizzling flash of bright red hair against the desert backdrop. With a sharp smile between teal-painted lips: “I, on behalf of the rest of the Gerudo, welcome you to our wonderful town, Prince of Hyrule.”
Ryunosuke bows his head. “Thank you for your hospitality as always, Chief Ursavra.”
Ursavra’s grin pricks up at the corner. “You may leave us,” she says, voice a thunderclap, and waves off her attendants and guards. The gold of her bracelets catch the light off the lamps, sparkle against the reflection hitting the famed Thunder Helm that rests to her side.
Once they’ve all filed out, Ryunosuke feels like he can finally breathe. He’s moving forward before he even realizes. “Ursavra,” he sighs out, “it’s so good to see you again.”
“Likewise, little mouse,” she replies, voice as warm as hot tea, and she envelops him in a towering hug. “It’s been much too long.”
The woman is made out of sharp edges—of golden armor and all muscle—and yet, he’s only known her to be nothing but the softest of comforts. It’s a pattern of contradictions he’s come to find more and more often in those he gravitates towards. He only comes up to her upper stomach, but, despite it all, it lacks any sort of awkwardness in the embrace.
When he pulls away with a big smile on his face, he opens up his stance, sweeping an arm out behind him. “And you remember, Kazu—erm, Champion Kazuma, right?” He notices her quirk up an eyebrow, ever so slightly.
Since their arrival, Kazuma has had his head down, genuflecting against the room’s deep burgundy rugs. “Chief Ursavra,” he says in acknowledgment, not looking up.
“That’s quite enough of that, boy,” she replies, gruff and kind. “We are in private now; there’s no need to maintain formalities. Relax and join us.” She pauses. “…That is, if the prince wishes for it.” There’s a hesitancy to her voice—a space open for Ryunosuke to politely distance himself from Kazuma, if he so chooses. He truly realizes in this gesture that much has changed since his last visit to Gerudo Town; perhaps written correspondence failed to convey the true depth from the passage of time.
Ryunosuke nods his head. “Yes, I would very much like for him to accompany us.” He watches as Kazuma stands to his feet and bows his head, before settling at Ryunosuke’s side.
“Your letters this past year have been a great comfort to come back to after long travels,” Ryunosuke continues. “Though, I’d be lying if I didn’t say seeing the Divine Beast in action brings me some of the most excitement.”
Ursavra laughs, then looks over him with those calculating, green eyes. “I sense quite a shift in you, little mouse.” She taps a manicured nail to the hilt of her scimitar. “I’m quite delighted to see you in such high spirits.” Then, she turns on her heel and leads them out the archway.
Down a flight of stone stairs and along winding adobe passageways, they’re brought to a secluded fenced-off area, nestled right next to an exit towards the western desert. It’s commotion: the barking of sand seals in their pen, the splash of water from a fountain in an alcove, one of the caretakers desperately pleading with one of the seals to return the hat it’s claimed as its own between its tusks.
Ursavra doesn’t even need to say anything to the caretaker who approaches her, just a decisive nod of her head. “You’ve come to see the grand Vah Naboris in all her glory, have you not?” She takes the reins of the sand seal brought to her and flashes a grin, wicked. “Well, then. Hop on.”
Ryunosuke’s stomach drops. He has ridden behind a sand seal once, as a small child, huddled between Ursavra’s legs on that tiny shield as she slid down the sands with as much grace and power as the very wind itself. He’ll never forget the terror as she navigated the most treacherous of dunes with a speed that made him never open his eyes—a location specifically chosen for an adrenaline addict like her, he had no doubt. Now further bolstered by the shield surfing incident at Hebra Lodge, he had vowed to never again get behind one of those infernal seals again—
And that’s why when he finds himself clinging around Kazuma’s waist, eyes squeezed shut underneath his goggles and face buried into his back, atop a shield racing across the sands, he can’t suppress the yelp that escapes when they hit a particularly large bump that sends them cascading into the air.
“Relax your grip,” Kazuma shouts over the whizzing air when they land with only a slight lurch, “it’s starting to hurt!”
But the thought of doing anything but holding tighter seems utterly absurd. “Not until we’ve stopped!” Ryunosuke yells back, and he hopes that the whir of the wind masks the way his pitch climbs.
He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that they’re near the Divine Beast; he feels the way the static pricks at his skin, how it makes his hair stand on end. A few seconds later, the shield comes to a sudden, sliding halt, spraying them both with a shower of sand. And if he wasn’t distracted by the bout of fearful nausea that sweeps over him, he might feel embarrassed how he almost slips off the shield when trying to dismount, even though Kazuma steadies his arm to help him off.
When Ryunosuke sees the mechanical camel lying still in the East Barrens, it leaves him with a different sort of dizziness—awestruck and left dazed with humility. It never fails to leave him reeling when he truly takes in just how massive the Beasts are; even Ursavra looks like an ant in comparison. Vah Naboris lies motionless, yet there’s something ethereal, something almost otherworldly about its presence—like, in a moment, it could begin moving on its own volition, without a pilot there to control it.
“Vah Naboris is just as formidable as when I last saw it,” Ryunosuke mutters out in awe, spitting out the lingering grains of sand that fell in his mouth.
“Of course,” Ursavra says with a smile when she pulls the goggles off her face and spins around, knocking the sand out of her hair. “I would expect nothing less from something named after the great Lady Nabooru, after all.”
Lady Nabooru: the legendary sand pirate and one of the revered Seven Heroines of the Gerudo region. Patron saint of the East Gerudo District, she is known in legend for her immense spirit and strength. Out of all the Heroines Ursavra brought up to Ryunosuke when he was younger, she’s the one she spoke of the most; it was of no surprise to him why after reading the stories of her fiery defiance against injustice and her immense bravery.
Ryunosuke nods. “And you’ve said in your past letters that progress has been made in training,” he continues. “Have you been able to control it?”
Ursavra lets out a gritty laugh, canines flashing and eyes with a suspicious glint. “Have I?” Then, she snaps her fingers.
It’s a quick thing, how electricity sparks between the horns of Naboris before a piercing lightning bolt strikes the ground beside it—much stronger than any lightning Ursavra’s conjured before, despite how hard that is to believe. The landscape flashes a bright white, so stark, it’s like looking right into the sun for the briefest of moments. Thunder follows, cracking like a whip directly in Ryunosuke’s ear, and he yelps, gripping Kazuma’s arm and cowering behind him. Ursavra throws back her head and lets out a boisterous laugh.
“Ugh, I hate when she does that…” Ryunosuke grumbles, slumping down. “It’s as if she does it on purpose, I swear…”
Kazuma lets out a sharp exhale of a laugh, the grin he gives Ryunosuke just as keen. “It’s because your reactions are just so entertaining to watch.”
Ryunosuke’s already dejected face deflates further. “Haah… Speaking from experience, I suppose?”
Kazuma lifts two fingers to his temple and tilts his head. “Perhaps if you reigned in those wild eyes a bit, then you’d be given less of a hard time?”
“Oh, so it’s my fault now, is it?”
Kazuma just laughs at that. When Ryunosuke peels himself from off of Kazuma’s arm, Ursavra is giving him an inscrutable look behind her smile—amused, perhaps, something knowing. For a second—even though she was the motivating factor of all this—he’s forgotten she was there entirely. Whatever it is in her expression, he’s not in the mood to investigate further. He dusts himself off and marches forward with his chin raised, saying, “Well, thank you for the theatrics, but let’s take a look inside, yes?”
Inside Vah Naboris, Ursavra pilots the mechanical camel with the deftness of someone with decades of experience, as opposed to mere months. A telepathic bond established to control the Beasts, she positions lightning strike after lightning strike against the dusty barrens of the eastern desert with a fling of her finger into the air, with the shift of her glance, all without having to speak a single word. She explains how easy it was to connect with Naboris after completing her trials to pilot it—training was less learning to control the Beast, but more to explore just what heights they could reach together. “Naboris is like another limb,” Ursavra says, “I feel as though I’ve known it since birth.” Even her own lightning power feels amplified near it, she explains—a symbiotic relationship. The electricity she sends down burns a cactus to a crisp.
Ryunosuke thinks about a certain other Champion. Ursavra found connecting with her Beast the easiest of the four of them, but he wonders how Sholmes fares—if he’d just take the time to practice for once. Perhaps he had integrated just fine after his own trials; Ryunosuke would never know, given how the Rito likes to dance around ever giving a straight answer.
The Divine Beast is surprisingly agile—Ursavra commands it to rush, surging forward with the speed of a Lizalfos and decimating everything in its wake. It’s terrifying to Ryunosuke to feel anything of that size race through the wind with all the ease of its living, breathing, smaller mirror image, much less imagine how a group of monsters would feel seeing Naboris racing towards them while on the ground.
“Now, let’s show them our secret weapon, Naboris,” Ursavra says through a smirk. She places her palms together and closes her eyes, drawing up deep power from within her.
Vah Naboris rattles in anticipation: the cylinders that comprise its humps whir and spark above, the mechanics and gears begin to accelerate. Ryunosuke can’t see it while inside its body’s chamber, but he hears the intense spinning from above and the screech of its movement—he can only surmise it’s from Naboris’s horns, where he watched the electricity build from earlier.
The frequency of the wail above climbs to a fever pitch. Ursavra’s eyes fly open and she throws down a snap with a resounding battle cry. It’s a split second of silence; Naboris stills. Then, as if all its energy got sucked into a vacuum instantaneously: a thunderclap that makes Ryunosuke cover his ears in a wince as a beam of pure energy surges from Naboris’s head.
The laser cleaves off the top section of a rock formation in the distance, like a hot knife through butter; a cascade of falling debris and a shroud of dust that’s kicked up into the air are the only things left as evidence. The echo rings inside the chamber.
A thought flashes in Ryunosuke’s mind, quick and as transient as the dust floating along the wind: perhaps it’s for the best that Sholmes hasn’t been practicing with Vah Medoh, actually. Otherwise, there might just be a new hole carved into Hebra Peak.
Ursavra turns towards him and Kazuma, hands planted on her hips and stance tall with confidence. “That should be explanation enough for why Naboris lives in the East Barrens, I assume. So, are you impressed yet, prince?” Her emerald eyes glint like the very jewel itself.
“It, it was—” Ryunosuke starts, but then stops himself. His heart pounds fierce in his chest. “Incredible isn’t enough of a word to describe it—it’s simply unbelievable! It’s as if a hundred Guardians all shot their lasers in tandem with one another!”
Ursavra nods, pleased. “Calamity Stronghart won’t know what hit it. Add to the mix the Guardian forces beside our Gerudo soldiers…” Her eyes narrow as her grin grows. “We’re well positioned to counter any attack that wretched fiend might make.”
The thought makes Ryunosuke’s head spin. To have a weapon this powerful, this destructive… He’s both anxious and completely, utterly exhilarated by the fortuity that the Divine Beasts are on their side of the fight, that the Champions can be relied upon to lead them headfirst into battle with this massive advantage, that the armies of Guardians and soldiers will be following right behind. With all their strength combined, there’s no doubt that they’ll be able to weaken Calamity Stronghart enough for Kazuma to strike the finishing blow. What’s more is that with Susato’s steadfast assistance—and, surprisingly, his father’s approval after extensive persuasion—they’ve been able to secure the promise of various temples across Hyrule to begin working towards a standardized training for sealing rituals. If Ryunosuke’s powers can’t be relied upon, there’s still alternatives to suppressing the threat—besides, if it’s under the constant barrage of Divine Beast and Guardian lasers, how could it ever have the chance to recover?
Optimism is a scarce resource—as evasive as a Blupee in a forest—yet it reveals itself in bright abundance at this moment. Perhaps Kazuma was right; his nightmares are merely that after all: nightmares.
Ryunosuke’s eyes land on the portraits that hang on the northern wall of Ursavra’s chambers: one of her, younger and smiling wide, with her arm wrapped around a Hylian woman’s shoulders—his mother, he’s been told, though her face doesn’t strike familiarity in him. The sketch is unrefined and messy, almost candid in the way they don’t seem to face the artist, how relaxed the body language looks as if they don’t even realize they’re being captured at all; it’s a far cry from the stiff portraits that hang on the halls of the castle of a woman he paradoxically recognizes even less. More evidence to fill in the gaps he can’t confirm from his memory alone: his mother had black hair, after all.
Next to it is a portrait of him, around ten or so, sat next to Ursavra—he’s like one of the Minish described in myths beside a Hinox with how she towers over him. This one is planned and posed, more rigid, but it doesn’t feel inauthentic. He can understand why Gina would confuse this for a family portrait—just a little bit.
“Well then,” Ursavra says, “I bid you a good night, little mouse.”
Ryunosuke’s gaze lingers back to that unrecognizable woman with the smiling face. “Ursavra, why is it that you call me little mouse?” He realizes he’s never asked before.
The question seems to catch her by surprise. She crosses her arms and leans against the doorframe, the gold of her armor and jewelry shimmering in the candlelight. Her stare grows long out into the distance way past Ryunosuke, eyes softening in the wistfulness that sets in her face. “When you were but a baby…” she says, finally, after a pause that stretches just as long, “my dearest friend called you that, with the sweetest smile that ever graced our land of Hyrule.”
Ryunosuke’s eyes grow wide and he turns towards her. “That—You mean Mother?”
Ursavra nods, a small smile on her face now. “You were always so quiet, so timid as a child. She said you reminded her of a mouse.”
She doesn’t say it with any disdain or mocking—the exact opposite, as fondness shapes the memory. Yet, he feels something about the comparison bother him—
As if she can read his thoughts, she lets out a soft laugh to dispel that worry. “And just like a mouse, she recognized just how intelligent you were, even as a small baby. As though your timidness wasn’t out of fear, but as a way to sit back and watch—to observe and analyze before making the next move. Just waiting to cultivate that resolve until it was ready to all come spilling out with a ferocity unmatched.”
Ursavra pushes off the doorframe and draws closer, the sound of her heels against stone an echo in the room. She takes Ryunosuke’s chin in her hand, gently lifts his face up. “And look just how you’ve grown…” She stares down at him with all the love in the world, all the warmth of the Gerudo Desert in the softness of her eyes. “You’ve become exactly that beacon of light Hyrule needs.”
It twists in him, gets stuck in his throat. Tears threaten to prick at the corner of his eyes; he wills himself not to cry. “But—” He falters, then tries to swallow down the knot that forms. “M-My powers are still—I can’t access them on command. How, how can that possibly be true?”
Ursavra releases his face to put her hands on her hips. She gives him that confident look—always a beacon. “Because you share the same wisdom as your mother did. Whether all the people of Hyrule know it yet or not, you’ve brought us hope. All your efforts to bolster the Guardian research, your work with us Champions to utilize the Divine Beasts—that is our advantage in this fight. Unreliable powers or not, you’re right where you need to be.” She breathes out, slow, and closes her eyes. “…Your mother would be quite proud to see what you’ve accomplished.”
Ryunosuke can’t answer to that—doesn’t know how to answer to that. He hopes it to be true—he hopes it to be enough. Though the anxiety and dread weigh heavy, he feels that optimism ultimately tip the scale. A tear slips out.
“It’s been sixteen long years already…” Ursavra murmurs as he scrubs his face with his sleeve. “Sometimes I forget myself…and get lost in the past.” She rubs her thumb against one of her bracelets—a matching gold as the others, but inlaid with sapphires. Then, she looks at him again. “You look so much like her, you know that?” Something snags in her voice when she says the last word. “You have her exact same eyes. Just bursting with potential.”
It’s late when Ryunosuke returns to their room, but Kazuma’s still awake next to the candlelight. Kazuma doesn’t react when Ryunosuke quietly closes the door behind him, even when his footfalls hit heavy across the rug. Kazuma’s back is turned, but he’s scratching a pen at his journal furiously.
Ryunosuke chuckles to himself—no doubt, Kazuma’s lost in that all-engrossing concentration yet again. “Hey,” he says, low and cautious, as he approaches.
Kazuma flinches anyway, spinning around in his seat with panicked eyes. His hand has flown to his side instinctually, where Karuma would normally rest, though he grasps at only empty air now. He shudders out a sigh when he recognizes Ryunosuke, shoulders relaxing.
“I’m, I’m sorry,” Ryunosuke says, both hands raised in front of him, “I didn’t mean to scare you—”
“No,” Kazuma replies quickly, slumping forward and running his hand through his hair, “it’s alright. I didn’t hear you come in—sorry.”
Ryunosuke swallows. Kazuma looks inordinately frazzled—why? “You didn’t feel that it was me?”
“No, I—” Kazuma shakes his head again. His eyebrows are knit tight between his eyes, his mouth carving a grim frown. He looks pale under the harsh candlelight. “Again, I’m sorry, I was focused on something. I—” He pauses again, wets his lips. “I didn’t think you were coming back until later tonight?”
Ryunosuke quirks up an eyebrow with a smile as he grasps the back of the chair. “It’s nearly midnight… Any later would be tomorrow, surely?”
Kazuma laughs, scraping the back of his hand across his forehead. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“And what exactly were you so very focused on…?” Ryunosuke glances over onto the table: the papers scattered across its surface, the torn pages crumpled up into a pile in the corner. “Fighting the wording on a journal entry”—his eyes scan across an open book with a mess of bookmarks stuck between its pages—“or perhaps some disappointment with what happened in your novel…?”
Kazuma turns back immediately, hastily slamming his journal and book shut, and shoving his papers away. There’s just one phrase Ryunosuke makes out before it’s out of sight: The Professor. “Oh, no, it’s nothing, really. Just some research on something of interest.” He begins to collect the wadded balls of paper. “…This desk is starting to look as messy as yours back at the castle,” he says with a wry laugh, but it’s strained almost—lacking that bite of his usual teasings.
It makes Ryunosuke frown, unease worming under his skin. Kazuma hasn’t talked about that case in quite a while—why now? And why is he acting so odd? It’s clear to him that Kazuma’s troubled in some way, though he’s not sure how. Or why.
The questions burrow in his mind, but he breathes deep and falls back on what binds them together stronger than even the Triforce itself: trust. He trusts that if Kazuma wanted to discuss something bothering him, he would. He trusts that if he can’t find the words right now, he will when he’s ready to. Kazuma knows he’ll wait for him. And he always will.
So he drops the issue. “…Alright.” And a yawn escapes him. “Well,” he says after smacking his lips, “as was established before, it’s already quite late. Time for bed, I would think.”
“Yes,” Kazuma replies, “I’ll join you after I get this all sorted.”
It’s only after they’re both washed up and Kazuma sits down on the side of the bed next to Ryunosuke that Kazuma speaks again, keeping his voice low. “…Ryunosuke?” Hesitant.
“Mhm?” Ryunosuke’s eyes are closed, his arm slung over his face to block the light.
“There’s something I want to ask you, actually.” Kazuma’s still turned away from him. “…Something important to me.”
Ryunosuke lowers his arm, pries open an eye. His heart skips a beat. “What is it?”
“Will you…” Kazuma trails off, stays quiet for what feels like an eternity. The way the light distorts and casts shadows of his figure make him seem like a phantom, but he’s getting less transparent by the second. “…Will you accompany me to the Hydromelon shaved ice stand tomorrow before we depart from here? I've been wanting to try it.”
It’s an obvious yes from Ryunosuke. Of course he would; he’s been eying the place himself. But the unease—
“Of, of course I will,” Ryunosuke says, attention fully drawn now.
Kazuma turns to him and smiles, but his expression is…odd. All of it—everything is odd. His voice is strained and tired: “Glad to hear it, partner.”
Ryunosuke furrows a brow. His voice is a mere whisper when he says, “…I’m always here if you want to talk, you know that, right?”
Kazuma’s eyes soften, the peculiar tension held in them relaxing. “…Yes, I know that quite well.”
At that, Kazuma snuffs out the candle and climbs into bed.
The sound of strangled whimpers rouses Ryunosuke in the middle of the night. The details are masked under the dark shroud of nighttime, but what little streams of moonlight filter in illuminate the gnarled expression on Kazuma’s face, how his bangs are matted to his forehead around the headband.
Kazuma has assured him that he doesn’t have the same nightmares Ryunosuke gets, filled with visions from a calamity that may or may not arise. That they’re of the mundane variety, that they’re rare to even occur. Kazuma reiterates that nobody has to worry about him. And Ryunosuke fully believes him—of course he does, of course.
But Ryunosuke’s not nobody, is he? He can’t help but worry—how could he not, when Kazuma’s there beside him, tangled up in the sheets in pain and fighting imaginary battles alone?
Ryunosuke slides his hand against Kazuma’s, palm to palm, and interlaces their fingers. It’s a few minutes, but Kazuma’s breathing eventually slows and steadies, his fidgeting ceases. Kazuma sighs, still heavy with sleep, and presses his forehead against their entwined hands.
It’s true: it helps having someone there.
Notes:
There's many reasons why I wish tgaa (or, I guess, Ace Attorney in general!) had more female characters, but a selfish one is because I struggled to find a canon one that would fit the role of Ursavra here haha so we do just get Urbosa 2.0... but Urbosa rules sooo :)
Anyway, remember when Kazuma bloodcursed Auchi in canon? Much like how Beedle seems to reincarnate alongside Link and Zelda, Auchi shares the same fate here. The Auchi-as-Beedle thought came to me quite early when plotting out this au, so I'm glad to finally get to it haha!
Chapter 17: Interstitials: Part 3 - Vah Ruta
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
The oddest thing happened today. Kazuma and I had taken a break at an unassuming part of Rabia Plain—not a single other person in sight for what must’ve been hours in our journey. Then, almost out of nowhere, a man came bounding along, hopping like a rabbit and doing some peculiar dance. He was wearing a skin-tight purple outfit except for some puffed-out shorts that, in my opinion, resembled underdrawers quite a bit, adorned with a large clock slung around his neck and various gaudy jewels (that I could tell, even without closer inspection, seemed to be of dubious authenticity) attached to his bodysuit. Tucked under a purple, pointy hood was golden hair, curled into tight ringlets.
Even more bizarre was his manner of speech: it was as if something right out of the olden tomes Elder Impa would make me attempt to read when I was younger. It was difficult to understand most of the time, but he spoke of fairies and some hidden treasure he said he was “entitled to” and got quite belligerent at any further questions. (Not that I was truly that interested, mind, but just trying to make polite conversation out in the middle of nowhere…) After he recited some inane lines that must be from some ancient play or something, he seemed to have had enough of our company and jingled away, back towards the path to Lanaryu’s West Gate—not to the Lanayru Promenade, I’d hope…
The world is sure full of oddities.
Ryunosuke wakes to the fleeting scent of cassis and lavender as feathery hair grazes across his forehead. He’s more lucid this time—just barely, anyway. It’s enough that when the body in his arms (it’s a surprise to him, even in his half-groggy state—perhaps his sleep-self is more bold than he’d ever give himself credit for) shifts to sit up ever so gently to avoid disturbance, Ryunosuke encircles his arms tight around Kazuma’s waist, presses his face to the warmth of his hip.
“Don’t go…” Ryunosuke mumbles into the curve exposed from Kazuma’s shirt hiking up. “Stay here.” It comes out as much more of a command than he meant it to be. He amends: “Please…” He clings tighter, squeezes his hold. It’s early, of course—early enough that the summer heat hasn’t yet been given the opportunity to overpower the dawn’s lingering chill. Early enough that soaking up the warmth Kazuma radiates is still a comfort instead of a nuisance.
He expects the same song and dance he’s become accustomed to: the exasperated amusement as Kazuma scolds him and perhaps, if he’s lucky, a gentle touch much more sought after—something he cherishes when it happens, but always wishes he was more awake for to fully appreciate. Either way, the distance always wins out in the end.
“…Alright,” is what Kazuma whispers after a long pause, instead—the very last thing he’d ever expect to hear. Kazuma’s voice trails low: “How could I refuse when my prince gives me such a direct order?” And Ryunosuke wants to scoff at the ridiculousness—does, just a little bit: an exasperated, fond exhale to stifle the objection hiding beneath his tongue—but Kazuma says it so softly it smooths out the sharp, teasing edges of the quip, leaving only a sweet sense of sincerity.
It’s unprecedented territory; Kazuma’s never delayed his morning training willingly like this. Perhaps Ryunosuke is still actually asleep, perhaps the world is actually ending without Calamity Stronghart anywhere in sight, perhaps—
The evidence of its veracity leaves no room for doubt: Kazuma sinks back into the mattress, wraps his arm around Ryunosuke’s shoulders, draws him near. A soft sigh escapes Ryunosuke, placated for now, as he settles into the warmth of Kazuma’s chest. Curled up against him, his cheek presses against Kazuma’s collarbone. He feels Kazuma’s face nuzzle into the crown of his head.
It’s a simple bliss, how something as small as sleeping in can feel so much more monumental, so much more significant than it is. Every tension point in Ryunosuke’s body oozes away, fully relaxed in the embrace. Ryunosuke sinks into Kazuma like water settling into the spaces between riverbed rocks. Effortless.
“Your heart’s racing,” Ryunosuke murmurs after a few long moments. Like horse hooves pounding against dirt.
Kazuma laughs something sweet and deep and melodic into Ryunosuke’s ear. “Can you blame me?” The walls are thick around this room and sequestered away from the normal foot traffic of the castle, yet they both speak no louder than a mere whisper—a private secret kept between the two of them. “It’s the only thing that makes sense when you consider the position I’m in, really.”
Ryunosuke breathes out a wisp of a laugh. “It’s just me.”
Just how many times now have they shared this easy proximity? How many times has Kazuma curled up next to Ryunosuke’s side like a lazing cat, resting his head into the crook where Ryunosuke’s neck and shoulder connect as if that space was specially made for him? How many times has Ryunosuke haphazardly sprawled across Kazuma’s legs, head cradled in his lap, as he launches off into a meandering monologue about the Slate and its capabilities, all in the private safety of the hidden corner of the Gardens, tucked behind the overgrown wisteria tree? How is this any different?
Resolute: “That’s precisely why.” It brushes warm against the tip of Ryunosuke’s ear.
It’s this that makes the air catch in Ryunosuke’s throat, brows drawn together in confusion. He’s fully awake now, no doubt about it, as that giddy delirium scrambles whatever ties to normalcy that kept him anchored down previously. He lifts his head, angling his neck back to look at Kazuma’s face. He needs to know what expression he’s wearing—he needs a clue to what he’s thinking right now.
Kazuma’s gaze is as intense as it is gentle. His eyes are dark, flecked with syrupy, honeyed browns against the morning light filtering in. And at this angle, Ryunosuke can see so clearly the long-drawn brush of his eyelashes—a deep veil engulfing that careful scrutiny. Appearances never interested Ryunosuke much, but he’s reminded once again just how frustrating it is how someone can be so objectively beautiful. He watches how Kazuma’s unrelenting stare falters just a moment, dips down lower—lingering there.
“O-Oh,” is the only sound that skitters out of Ryunosuke’s lips, his heart following suit with the jolt of electricity the look sends coursing through him.
It’s fast—so barely perceptible, Ryunosuke almost thinks he imagined it—but Kazuma sucks in a sharp inhale; the stutter of his breathing under Ryunosuke’s fingertips is physical evidence enough. So is the way a subtle rosiness blooms on his cheeks.
And maybe it’s different in the way that a caterpillar metamorphosing into a butterfly is different: a natural progression. Familiar yet foreign. But after all the times Ryunosuke’s blindly stepped into the unknown with Kazuma this past year, he knows there isn’t a single other person he’d rather have by his side. Especially through something like this.
Warmth lapping at the sides of his face, Ryunosuke ducks his head back down with wide eyes, smothers the side of his cheek flush against Kazuma’s chest. He can’t quite tell whose heart is the source of the pounding in his ears.
“I welcome you to Zora’s Domain, Prince Ryunosuke.”
The Zora princess, Princess Rutipha, is striking, in more ways than one: the way she dominates the room with her dignified posture and poise; the scintillating pink coloration of her scales, dotted with little specks like human freckles, that give a contrasting pop against the relaxing blues of the Zora architecture. Not to mention the way she towers over Ryunosuke even while seated on her throne—tall and lithe, commanding attention and respect. Yet, her sharp eyes betray the kindness held within them, soft like the smile she greets him with.
“We are beyond honored to host you for your stay. Please do not hesitate to make yourself at home here.” Her accent is strong, refined. Each word comes out precise and enunciated—as sharp as the very teeth they pass through. She tips her head slightly, the jewelry adorned to her headdress clinking like windchimes.
The paragon of royal grace.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Princess Rutipha,” Ryunosuke replies, bowing his head in mirror. “The domain looks as beautiful as ever.”
Rutipha nods, then inclines her head towards the curved awnings of aquamarine stone and steel, exposing the brilliant waters below. Every inch of the domain sparkles and glows. “Indeed. Our land has been thriving lately. We owe our thanks to the Goddess Hylia for the blessings.” There’s a knowing awareness in the look she gives him: it’s a comment directed towards him as well, though he knows well that he’s not responsible for any windfalls they have encountered.
Something needles in Ryunosuke’s stomach. He pushes it down. “Y-Yes, I’ve heard talks about how the bountiful fishing year so far has paid off quite handsomely”—Rutipha’s eyes flicker down, then quickly back to Ryunosuke, before settling at a point above his head—“is that correct?” He’s heard—from Kazuma, who brought it up after reading a newspaper article about it before they departed. It seemed dull at the time, but he regrets not paying better attention. Polite small talk is always awkward, but with another royal, it’s insufferable.
“Yes. It is…” She falters, distracted. Her eyes are drawn again to Ryunosuke before bouncing back down and above again. Then, she holds up a hand to her mouth. High on her cheeks, there is a shimmering ruby color peeking out from behind her ringed fingers—a trick of the light against her scales, perhaps. She clears her throat and reclaims the slightest centimeter lost of her pristine posture. “Pardon me. Yes, we have been quite lucky, indeed, to have an abundance of sustenance lately. You and the Champion must try the delicacies of our kingdom. It is a mighty shame that Hyrule Castle is landlocked so.” Her eyes never fully maintain contact.
The pit in Ryunosuke’s stomach calcifies and it drops. It’s ridiculous—he knows it—to even think she’d be acting shy around him. Even more so that it’d somehow be in some infatuated way. After all, they barely knew each other, only ever speaking in these limited, stilted meetings in a show of royal discomfiture. Yet, the blush on her cheeks can no longer be rationalized away as anything other than such, as it persists even as she moves her head. The news of her prospective betrothal hangs over him.
Ryunosuke stiffens, snaking a hand against the back of his neck. “Thank you for the suggestion. We’ll be sure to do that. Well…” He bows his head. “My meeting with Champion Wilson draws soon, so I must get going… Thank you again for your hospitality.” In the corner of his eye, he sees Kazuma lower his head even further, despite his already kneeling position.
“Wait!” Rutipha raises a hand. Ryunosuke swallows. “I must apologize for delaying you further, but, please, I must inquire before you go. Your knight…may he please present himself?”
“Oh, um…” Confusion sparks in Ryunosuke’s chest. They’d both been introduced when they entered the room. “Yes, of course.” He steps sideways, sweeping out a hand.
Kazuma rises, exchanging a brief look that’s just as unsure as Ryunosuke imagines himself wearing. It’s replaced instantly as he pulls a hand over his chest and bows. “Your Highness,” Kazuma says, subdued and gallant. Then, he straightens to his full height, folding his arms behind him.
Rutipha must find amusement in this somehow, because she laughs something light and breezy. “Please, call me Princess Rutipha.” Kazuma nods, stiff. “…And does the Hylian Champion have a name of his own…?”
“Kazuma Asogi, Your—Princess Rutipha.”
She fiddles with her long, hair-like frills, twirling the end around her finger absentmindedly. “Champion Kazuma…” she repeats, slow, the sounds crisp. “And that is it then, hanging on your hip? The legendary sword?”
“It is.”
She makes a thoughtful noise, tilting her head appreciatively. “But a blade is only as mighty as the one who wields it, is it not? Truth be told, I have heard a great deal about your successes in battle… ‘The Hylian Champion who single-handedly defeated a Lynel’…” she muses. The warmth settled on her cheeks endures.
“I mean no disrespect by the correction, princess, but it wasn’t just me alone,” Kazuma says. “Prince Ryunosuke provided invaluable assistance in defeating it.”
Ryunosuke turns to Kazuma, surprised, only to find Kazuma looking back at him, a proud grin on his lips—the only one he’s worn since they entered the Domain. Ryunosuke can’t suppress the bashful smile of his own that worms its way out; he dips his head and focuses on the scintillant blues of the stone floor.
“Is that so?” Rutipha asks. “Either way, it takes extraordinary skill to slay a Lynel with merely two people, much less with a close-range weapon like a sword. There are entire Zora platoons specialized to neutralize the errant Lynel that sometimes take residence in the Ploymus Mountainside… You must be an adroit swordsman, indeed.”
Kazuma simply closes his eyes as he tips his head. His no-nonsense expression has returned. “Thank you, Princess Rutipha.”
She laughs behind her hand. “Well, thank you for indulging my curiosity. I do not wish to take up any more of your time meant for our own esteemed Champion. However, I have a final suggestion—no, more of a request I suppose, before we depart: I do sincerely hope you both will attend the opera at The Zora Hall tonight.”
With that, Ryunosuke and Kazuma bow a final time as they say their farewells, and they’re led out of the throne room.
That pit never fully leaves Ryunosuke, settling deep in his belly. He can’t even find the words to voice it. It’s odd—all of it is very odd.
The medical research laboratory building that houses Champion John H. Wilson’s office is lavish and pristine, set apart from the world-renowned hospital facilities in location—to Ryunosuke’s relief—yet ever loyal in its clinical, aseptic aesthetic. In Ryunosuke’s eyes, it’s better than having to visit inside the hospital itself, but only just barely so—its overly sterile white stone walls and floors give him a chill, as do the extensive displays of historic medical equipment that fill the lobby area. If it was possible, he would scrub the memory of that one syringe with a needle almost as long as his hand, the original use of which he has no interest in theorizing about nor researching further.
It’s the combination of this and the giant flight of stairs he has to climb that contributes to his distracted state. So it’s no wonder when he rounds the corner too tight, he ends up bumping into someone coming the opposite way.
“Excuse me!” rings in his ear as Kazuma helps steady him, having grabbed his shoulders to stop his fall. The words are apologetic; the tone is more combative. Even more so are the way the girl’s arms shoot up in front of her as if ready to strike, the way her face twists into feisty intensity.
Ryunosuke rubs at his jaw, eyes screwed shut. “S-Sorry, I didn’t—”
“Wha?!” the girl exclaims with an exaggerated vivacity. She flails back, arms wild in the air, before hunching over in a jitter with both hands in front of a flabbergasted face. “Is, is that…? What what what what?” The words rush by so fast and frenzied, Ryunosuke feels the whirlwind left in their wake—and he recognizes it immediately. “Is that truly you, Prince Ryunosuke?! Champion Kazuma?!”
“It is,” Kazuma says with an amused huff of a laugh as he pulls Ryunosuke to his feet.
“Oh no no… Oh Goddess, I’m so very sorry!”
“It’s, ah, good to see you again, Lady Rei,” Ryunosuke manages out. “I apologize for not paying better attention to where I was going, though. I’m sorry. I hope you’re unharmed?”
She throws her head down into a deep bow. “I am, but—that’s of no concern! Running into someone anywhere in the lab is unacceptable—running into the prince is even worse! Please, hit me—”
“Huh?!”
“—I deserve it! No! Send a Guardian out to get me! No, that’s still not enough! Throw me off the cliff of the Veiled Falls!”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Ryunosuke holds up both his hands in protest. “That, that’s not at all necessary! It was a simple accident, after all, and partially my fault too, so…”
Rei gasps, lifts a hand to her mouth. “Oh! Um…”
“You’ve been keeping busy, I see,” Kazuma says, gesturing at the messenger bag bulging at the seam at her hip.
She ducks her head at this, gripping at the bag’s strap. With an embarrassed laugh, she says, “Yes… I can’t talk about it too much since it’s a confidential project, but if we can figure out how to reliably synthesize what we’ve been researching, it could be a huge step in advancing toxicology! Our team’s been working closely with Dr. Sithe’s team, so there’s quite a lot of paperwork and samples to be transported at any moment. Champion Wilson has been pretty preoccupied through this whole process, as you can probably imagine.”
Ryunosuke nods. “Speaking of, we were just on our way to meet with him.”
Rei smiles. “It’s amazing, truly, how he can keep up with all his work here and still allow time for training with Vah Ruta. I do wish for his health that he’d take a vacation more often… Can you believe that he’s only been to a show at The Zora Hall once?!” She pumps both her fists down. “Ever since I’ve moved here, I can’t get enough! There’s such a variety of acts performing there; if I had my way, I would go every night!”
“As I’m sure you’ve regaled Royal Advisor Susato about in your letters many times…” Kazuma muses, a teasing lilt to his tone. “I figured there had to be a reason why she would bring up the topic so often lately.”
“Ah, yes, that’s right, isn’t it?” Ryunosuke asks. “She expressed the same desire to visit to me as well.”
This causes Rei to jolt up and turn away, covering her mouth with her sleeve. “O-Oh, she has, has she…?” A flush creeps onto her cheeks.
Ryunosuke taps his finger to his jaw, furrows his brow in thought. “We’ve just come back from meeting with Princess Rutipha. She also recommended the opera that’s playing tonight. Have you attended it?”
Her eyes light up. Whatever bashfulness that befell her mere seconds ago is replaced in an instant: hands clasped in front of her, mouth hanging open in a dreamlike bliss. “Oh, you must go see it! It is truly the most romantic story ever told—it brought me to tears the first time I watched! Yes, the both of you must go, especially since it’s said to be the perfect spot for a da—” Wide-eyed, she slaps a hand over her mouth. Her face grows almost as red as the princess’s scales.
“…Sorry?” Ryunosuke asks.
She viscously shakes her head, hand still a clamp over her mouth. A panicked muffle: “N-Nothing, I’m so—”
“Back already, Lady Rei?” A dulcet voice asks, saccharinely sweet—the way that begets a toothache. The orange Zora swans in, still wearing the bird-shaped hat she donned in their first meeting together. “Truly impressive time to make it all the way to Dr. Sithe’s lab and back when I asked you to transport the documents mere moments ago… Perhaps it’s that wily Sheikah blood in you aiding your agility, hm?” Jezaille’s painted smile is sharp under the shadow of her hat.
Rei’s mouth twists. “O-Oh! I’m sorry, Lady Jezaille!” she flusters. “I’m right on my way to deliver them!” She bows quickly, silver hair spilling over her shoulders.
“Um, I should be the one to apologize,” Ryunosuke says. “Please don’t reprimand her; I was the one to distract her in the first place.”
Jezaille turns her face to him. He can’t tell what she’s looking at exactly—the way she’s looking—under the thick shadow of her hat, but she seems to regard him for a moment so agonizing that it makes him sweat. Even without seeing the evidence of her gaze, he feels self-consciousness like taking a cannonball point-blank to the chest; in that absence, he fears that she can see something he doesn’t realize, like she’ll point out his fly is down or something equally as embarrassing.
“Hmph,” she finally breaks the silence. “Very well, then. Come along.” She makes an abrupt heel turn that causes her feathers on her outfit to flit about as though they might just take off in flight as well. Ryunosuke still can’t imagine how she moves—much less does any research—in a dress so ornate as hers, lined with ruffles and feathers and flowers. It seems constricting, not to mention unnecessary.
“Please give my warmest regards to Susato when you return, won’t you?” Rei asks, words fast.
“Yes, of course,” Ryunosuke says with a smile.
Rei returns it, before saying her rushed goodbyes and hurrying off down the stairs. Then, Ryunosuke and Kazuma follow Jezaille to Wilson’s office.
And it’s a split second before they pass through the doors when Ryunosuke sees someone turn the corner and make direct eye contact with him behind the sheen of circular glasses. Salt and pepper hair tucked under a surgeon’s cap, medical scrubs over a tall body—utterly conspicuous, considering the building is not part of the hospital proper. The man flashes him a smile. Ryunosuke finds he can’t help but gape as he’s ushered into Wilson’s office.
“Please make yourself comfortable while you wait,” Jezaille says sweetly—demeanor completely shifted—as she places a stack of documents on the large, ornate, wooden desk that sits near-center of the room. “The Champion is quite busy today, as he is every day, and your patience is requested until he has a moment to meet with you.”
Ryunosuke feels his mouth twitch into a grimace. Typical doctors, he thinks, when they’re not poking and prodding you, they’re making you wait well past your appointment time to anticipate the pleasure. Kazuma elbows him in the side.
Jezaille leaves them sitting in the giant office, only the sounds of the babbling water pathways that feed throughout every building of the Domain filling the silence. Kazuma sits patiently, posture as straight as ever; Ryunosuke can’t seem to stop fidgeting against the uncomfortable wooden chairs with scant padding. It becomes too much to bear after a few minutes, and he’s up exploring the office—Jezaille did say to make himself comfortable, after all.
While still maintaining the clinical whites and sharp lines of the medical facility at large, Wilson’s office folds in a mixture of the traditional Zora architecture: deep blues, ornate carvings into Luminous Stones (to Ryunosuke’s envy—he wishes Castle Town still contained natural deposits of the stuff, but the chunk that Kazuma had gifted him will have to suffice), an artistry for form and shape that the Zora are known for. There’s a ceiling-to-floor length window stationed behind Wilson’s desk. Peering out of it, Ryunosuke can see a breathtaking view of the entire Domain—only rivaled by the Throne Room itself, he can only imagine. He traces the grand, spiral staircases, the streams of water cutting through structures before spilling off in waterfalls, the soft lights that glow even during midday.
Ryunosuke wanders further, still, meandering along the large bookshelves stuffed with medical books and tables filled with folders and papers. The knowledge in this room could jockey with Sholmes’s lab for the most information contained per square foot, but, in a competition of organization, Wilson’s office has him beat handedly.
One bookshelf is dedicated to various awards and prestigious certificates. He murmurs, “…Conferred for excellency in forensic medicine…” The accolades stretch quite literally from floor to ceiling. “Hey, Kazuma, what prize do you give someone who’s been bedridden for a long time?”
Kazuma looks at him like he’s stupid. “…Be careful with your words, now. Remember that we’re in a medical facility and there is a thing called being in poor taste.”
And maybe he is. Ryunosuke slumps down. “A-trophy…” he mutters, but the words peter out like a candle being snuffed.
Despite himself, Kazuma laughs anyway. He attempts to disguise it under a loud groan, but he can’t seem to school his smile away. “Will you cease pacing about?” Kazuma asks after he’s able to wrestle most of his composure back. “I can hear your incessant muttering all the way over here. It’s rude to be sticking your nose into other people’s stuff, you know.”
Ryunosuke considers this for a moment with a hand tucked under his chin. “Hmm… Yes, perhaps so, but it’s also awfully rude to leave your guests waiting too long, isn’t it?” He flashes him a playful grin. “Champion Wilson should hurry up if he doesn't want me to be interested in this riveting room and all its contents.”
Kazuma sighs flippantly. “Even if he were here in this very room, I’ve no doubt that you’d still make judgemental comments about his effects. Isn’t that about right?” He cracks a smile.
Ryunosuke grins back. “Perhaps so. You know me too well.”
Ryunosuke hovers over another smaller desk placed up against the wall. On it: a book, page open to an encyclopedia article of sorts about some poison called curare. He only skims the words “immediate paralysis” before flipping the pages, trying to stuff down the sickness he feels in his stomach. It’s not helped any when he lands on the entry about arsenic, instead, and—
The book is slammed shut right in front of him. Jezaille regards him with such a scowl to her mouth, he doesn’t have a single question now about any derision held in her eyes. He gulps. He didn’t even hear her come into the room.
“Please excuse me,” she snarls, snatching the book away. “I wasn’t aware that the Prince of Hyrule had a proclivity towards unsolicited investigation into others’ personal spaces. Perhaps if I had known this was customary behavior, I would have taken greater care in ensuring there was someone here to assist you while you waited.”
“Ah! Um, t-terribly sorry…” He shuffles away with a hand scratching at the back of his head and takes a seat.
Kazuma doesn’t have to say anything; the impatient, “told-you-so” look on his face is enough to convey everything. Ryunosuke feels like a child next to a disappointed parent.
“Thank you for meeting with me, Your Highness. Vah Ruta is functioning well,” says Wilson then as he briskly enters the room with no preamble, plopping down a massive stack of papers onto his desk. The cream-colored Zora with the mustache-like barbels slides into his seat. “Controls are as smooth as wielding a scalpel at this point.”
Ryunosuke shudders. For all he’s heard of Wilson’s supposed amiable and gregarious personality, he’s never found him to be anything but brusque when he’s met him. He’ll take the more affable curtness he’s receiving here than being persecuted for not getting the Divine Beasts in operational order fast enough like in past encounters, however. “You’ve taken well to the training, then?” he asks.
Wilson nods. “Yes, but I will readily admit that it didn’t come easy at first. Controlling the mechanics of the technology is a great deal different than drawing forth magic or wielding a trident, of course.” He groans, stretching back into his seat. “But, as is true with anything, the skill can be learned. Ruta’s combat capacity has been coming along quite swimmingly, I’d say. Indeed, just recently, I have discovered that it can shoot a blast of ice out from its tusks—”
Something catches in Wilson’s throat, sending him into a fit of raucous coughs. Jezaille moves swiftly, well-practiced by now surely, and coaxes tea out of the pot and into a cup with a mere flick of the wrist; water manipulation magic has its hidden perks, Ryunosuke supposes. She stirs a generous amount of something—some mixture of medicinal therapeutics that’ve been specifically curated, Ryunosuke can only surmise, and it makes his chest feel tight—into the steaming liquid.
“I…don’t wish to pry,” Ryunosuke asks, carefully, “but has your affliction seen any progress…?”
Wilson sets down the tea after taking a long sip. “…I am afraid not. Somewhat worse, I fear.” It’s when he looks down like this, that the shadows pool within the hollows of his eyes. “I’ve run plenty of diagnostics, yet I still cannot find a suitable cause. Tea like this has become a loyal companion for my persistent sore throat and to help settle my stomach… It’s a rarity to get Castle Town-processed tea blends around here, but I have to say they are some of my favorites. Thank you for the kind gift.”
Ryunosuke’s brow furrows. “I neither doubt your judgment nor your skill,” he says, “but I have to ask if you’ve considered finding a replacement for your role as Champion…? I simply fear that your health may suffer if—”
“Absolutely not.” Wilson’s face hardens. “Your Highness, may I remind you which one of us is the qualified doctor here between us? I’ve already examined the strain exerted while piloting Vah Ruta and come to the conclusion that I am well enough to perform my duty.” Wilson clears his throat. “I may not be the best warrior of the Zoras, nor of the other Champions, but it is an honor I take with great pride. I won’t have anyone attempt to take it from me.”
Ryunosuke draws upon all of his self restraint to not slump forward. Urk, doctors and their stubborn arrogance… Kazuma covertly elbows him in the ribs yet again. “No one’s trying to remove you from the position, I assure you,” Ryunosuke grits out, trying to silence the pang in his side. “If you feel confident you won’t overextend yourself by continuing to pilot, then I’m relieved to hear it.”
It’s true—Wilson is one of the sharpest minds within all of Zora’s Domain. He was selected for a reason and, with his extensive prior experience as a field medic, his battle-strategy acumen is an advantage any army would want on their side. However, as much as Ryunosuke does worry about the endangerment to his health for Wilson’s own sake, Ryunosuke can’t shake the more selfish reason: the risk of someone with a fragile constitution having an emergency at a critical moment in the event of an attack is one much too great. If there’s a doubt about his fitness, it puts them all in danger.
Ultimately, the doctor is right: he has the medical knowledge to make the informed decision. If he believes his affliction won’t interfere with him piloting Ruta, Ryunosuke has no expertise to argue against it. Ryunosuke can only follow that and trust him.
“Right,” Ryunosuke says, rising to his feet, “can you give us a demonstration with Vah Ruta, then?”
The mechanical elephant is as much a marvel as Vah Naboris was. It’s slower in mobility, creating large, rippling waves with each step as its trunk sprays a not-so-light shower of water over the East Reservoir Lake. The cold shock is refreshing—the summers in Zora’s Domain bring a humidity not nearly as suffocating as the Faron Woods, but it imparts its own unique challenge of discomfort.
Wilson exhibits a showcase of attacks the Divine Beast can do with a controlled mastery. Icicle blasts, a laser of frost, a blast of high-pressured water—the machine is formidable in combat. As expected, Vah Ruta also bears a powerful laser much like the one found in Vah Naboris, yet evidence of its might is left to trust; Wilson explains he had to steer Ruta out to the Lanayru Sea in order to practice with it due to the lake’s proximity to not only the much-important Rutala Dam, but the Domain proper. He assures it’s just as devastating as any of the other Beasts’.
Hope rears its intoxicating head again, jubilant and sanguine. It floods Ryunosuke’s chest with a giddy optimism, fast like a rushing river—progress, progress, progress. It’s something Ryunosuke can get used to feeling for once.
The massive fish-shaped throne room, the crashing Veiled Falls, the iridescent cliff faces, the weapon-like sharpness of the lampposts and decorative columns that line the Domain, the open clam shell architecture that forms the venue of the Zora Hall—Ryunosuke captures photos of them all on his Slate. For Lady Susato, Ryunosuke mentally takes note. It’ll never compare to seeing the real thing in person, but he hopes it’ll make a passable replacement for the meantime.
A flash of blue flutters into a tree, chittering a high-pitched, solo symphony in the branches. Ryunosuke circles the pine, attempting to find an opening to capture, yet all the shots he can get from this angle are of a blue tail obscured by thick, green needles.
“It’s no use,” Ryunosuke says with a sigh, lowering the Slate. He takes a moment to examine the tree again: higher, there’s an aperture in the branches. It’s a risk of scaring off the bird, but he’ll take it; he jumps, holding the Slate high above his head, muttering, “If I can just…!” All he gets for his efforts is a blurry smear of color on the screen and a dejected sigh out of his lips. At least the bird pays him no mind.
Kazuma hums in thought beside him. “If I lift you, you could reach it easily.”
Ryunosuke lifts his fallen head with a languid effort. “What?”
“Sit on my shoulders and I’ll lift you up. You’ll be able to take a photograph that way.”
Ryunosuke stares up at him incredulously, trying to ascertain if he’s joking. Kazuma’s too straight-faced for far too long—it draws a cautious “Haah…” from Ryunosuke. “…You won’t drop me?”
Kazuma bristles at this, crossing his arms in front of him. “Are you doubting my strength, Ryunosuke? I’m confident I could lift you with one arm if I had to.”
Ryunosuke doesn’t know if he should be insulted with that comment or not. His face screws into a grimace. “How could you possibly even do that? …Would you lift me by the belt, or one arm wrapped around my stomach or something?” Either way, it sounds uncomfortable.
Kazuma lifts a hand to his chin. “I suppose both would work. I was imagining a situation where the weight would be more equally distributed… If you were folded inside a suitcase or something similar—”
“Why would I be in a suitcase?!”
“It’s merely a hypothetical,” Kazuma huffs.
Ryunosuke curls his lip. “Well, I’d prefer for it to stay that way, if you’d please.”
Trepidation aside, Ryunosuke climbs on top of Kazuma’s shoulders. Or tries to, anyway—it’s an uncoordinated, clumsy few attempts for him to scramble up correctly. Somehow, Kazuma doesn’t fall over in the process, though Ryunosuke doesn’t make it easy for him.
Kazuma was right: at this height, he can get a clear shot of the Blue Sparrow. But, the angle isn’t conducive to giving the cleanest picture. He stretches his arms out just a bit more, just a bit—
Kazuma’s hands bear down tighter against Ryunosuke’s thighs. “Quit squirming,” he grouses and he totters a step over.
“Wait, I’m almost…” Ryunosuke tilts just a smidge. “Almost…” The sparrow turns its face, looks directly at the person with the weird device spying on it. Ryunosuke presses the button.
It’s clear—a perfect shot of the blue bird nestled up in the pine branches. He lowers the Slate, resting his forearms on Kazuma’s head, eliciting a surprised huff from the man at the unexpected weight. Ryunosuke’s review of the photo is interrupted when he notices the reddened tips of Kazuma’s ears.
It’s a stray thought, errant and fleeting: are Kazuma’s ears just as sensitive to the touch as his are? It was something about Hylians he had heard before, that in addition to their length as a conduit for hearing messages from the goddess, it also made them highly reactive—
“Did you get it?” Kazuma asks, impatient.
Ryunosuke blinks, tears his eyes away from staring. “Oh, um, yes! I just—”
It all happens in a sequence so fast, it almost seems simultaneous: a sharp, pinching pain at the top of Ryunosuke’s hip; a yelp from Ryunosuke as his body violently flinches in response; Kazuma yelling out as he loses his balance; the blur of the world as they both fall. Ryunosuke lands hard on his back, knocking the air out of his lungs for a good moment, and he watches with a dazed repose as the Blue Sparrow flies further and further away into the distance.
That same pinch comes again not too long after. He fishes blindly into the pouch tied to his waist and pulls out the little felt mouse doll. He still doesn’t understand how the thing works.
“Hello?” Ryunosuke answers.
“Oh, Prince Runo, you’re there! It’s me, Iris!” Her voice crackles through the receiver. “I sure hope I’m not calling at a bad time!”
Ryunosuke tips his head back, looks at Kazuma upside down. He watches Kazuma slowly rise to his knees and spit out a mouthful of dirt. “Um, yes, you’re perfectly fine, Iris.”
He can practically hear her smile through the audio. “I wasn’t sure that you’d be able to have a signal in Zora’s Domain,” she says. “Something about the way the cliffs around there surround the city tended to interfere with it before, but it seems the new tower Hurley installed in the Lanayru Heights did the trick! Well, that’s all I wanted to see. Thank you for talking to me! Tell Kazzy I said hello!”
“Yes, Iris, it was nice to hear from you.” When the audio line cuts off, he lets his arm fall heavy to the ground. A sigh, more of a groan.
Kazuma peers down at him, grime still smeared against his cheek. He holds the Slate in his hand.
Ryunosuke gives a sheepish grin. “I got the photo…”
Kazuma only quirks an eyebrow and deepens his frown. He outstretches his hand and helps Ryunosuke get to his feet.
Kazuma reads the playbill. “Ah, Anju and Kafei, huh?” An excited smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Ryunosuke takes a moment to stare at the pamphlet again; maybe this time it’ll spark his memory. It’s no good. “…Am I supposed to know what that means?”
Kazuma looks like Ryunosuke just insulted his grandmother, with his eyebrows all furrowed and a sharp curl to his lips as he recoils back in his seat. “Considering it’s known as one of the greatest tragedies around—one of the greatest romances ever told, mind you—yes, I would say so!” He leans forward, then, really gets into Ryunosuke’s space; Ryunosuke pays it no mind, just frowning down at the cover art that brings no recollection.
“Greatest romances…?” Ryunosuke repeats, skeptical. It can’t be that great, surely, if he’s never heard of it before.
Kazuma pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes, you know: Anju and Kafei, Zelda and Link—”
“Are, are those their actual names?” Ryunosuke’s mouth twists.
“Don’t give me that look,” Kazuma scoffs. “It’s unbelievable how uncultured you are sometimes. Truly, how do you not know these stories? You love the theater, after all.”
Ryunosuke sighs, locks eyes with Kazuma across the two-inch span of space between them. “I watch comedic theater. They usually aren’t focused on tragedies or great romances or what have you.”
Kazuma relents, slumps back into the space of his own seat. “It wouldn’t kill you to expand your horizons sometimes, you know. Now, make sure to pay attention to this; it’ll change your world, I’m positive.”
Ryunosuke hums. His eyes wander across the sprawling venue, sweeping along the ceruleans and pearlescents that leave a shimmering glow across the theater. A giant clam shell structure makes up the main stage, opening up to give way to a speckled, starry night nestled between—the sky as striking as it would be in the middle of an open field, much less in the center of a bustling city. Flowing water cuts through the spaces between the aisles and encircles the stage. Countless articles have waxed poetic about the artistry of the Zora people, but no writing could ever truly do the real thing justice. Ryunosuke wishes Susato was here to see it.
Kazuma’s assertion wasn’t unwarranted, Ryunosuke finds, as he’s sucked into the story almost immediately. It’s a tale that starts unassuming, yet quickly spirals into chaos: a jovial carnival in a town with a large clock tower at its center is cut short under the threat of an encroaching moon and blood-red sky. To Ryunosuke’s surprise, the opera’s beginning follows a young boy clad in green as he’s tormented by an imp in a horrifying mask, forced to transform into different species as he dons magical masks. With the help of an enchanted ocarina, the boy is able to control the flow of time—however, he can only go back three days, forever stuck in a loop of impending doom as the moon slowly descends again and again.
The presentation is enthralling; the dynamic lighting mixed with the Zora’s water magic creates illusory effects in time with the songs: a red haze to create suspense, a spray of light mist to surprise, ever-fluid water manipulations created in an instant to evoke otherworldly enemies and environments. It’s nothing like Ryunosuke’s ever seen.
It’s also more terrifying than anything Ryunosuke would ever expect from one of the so-called “greatest romances.” The hopelessness of watching the end of the world approach closer and closer, and being utterly unable to do anything to stop it—it’s palpable, and something a bit too relatable for comfort. In a show of uncanny ingenuity, the giant moon is some amalgamation of illusion and physical prop, and the rushing sounds and flashing lights that accompany each end of the three-day-cycle could give Ryunosuke nightmares for the rest of his life.
“Kafei, Kafei, my son, where have you gone? You there, you there, a savior, find him and what has been done!”
Ryunosuke’s ears prick as the mayor’s wife belts out a wail of mourning for the boy to find her missing son, entrusting him with a mask resembling his face. The boy searches the town, until he finds an understated, timid woman working as the receptionist of an inn. Despite the simple nature of her clothing, her pink scales almost dazzle under the lights, freckled with spots of darker color. She recognizes the mask immediately and gasps, hands covering her mouth in an instant.
The lights turn low and her head falls, illuminating a single spotlight on her as she walks towards the front of the stage. Her eyes are full of sorrow.
“He sent me a letter. It’s him, no doubt…” The vibrato feels like an earthquake through Ryunosuke’s body.
“Well,” Kazuma whispers as he leans towards Ryunosuke, “it seems as though the Zora princess has some surprises up her sleeve…”
Ryunosuke’s mouth falls open; he spins his head to look at Kazuma before returning to the actress on stage. He lets out a hushed hiss: “No, that can’t possibly…?”
“…Kafei, my fiancé. Pure of heart and soul… Anju is waiting for you. Please come home…”
Her performance is nothing less than enchanting, packed full of raw emotion. Water spins and falls with precision around her, like her own personal manifestation of worry and grief. The man Anju loves is missing—dead, she had once thought, but she knows his writing, knows his mannerisms of speech, knows him even if she can’t see his face or hear his voice. Even if he was cloaked in disguise or hidden under a mask, she’d know.
The boy follows the postman delivering Anju’s letter, sees a short figure wearing a yellow mask with two pointy, black-tipped ears, and confronts him. Behind the mask: the face of a child. Kafei, he announces himself.
The lights dim again, then are replaced by dark reds that make the violet of Kafei’s hair pop in contrast. The sounds that accompany the scene make Ryunosuke squirm, makes the hair stand up on his arms. The imp in the evil mask from the beginning is back, chittering as its shadow seems to grow with each bob of its body, floating in front of adult Kafei. Skull Kid’s head writhes and twitches in violent, erratic movement; the bright, bloodshot, amber eyes of the mask almost seem to follow the viewer no matter where they sit. Skull Kid pulls his arms in close and then—
When his violent scream cuts through the theater, Ryunosuke jumps back with an impossible-to-contain yelp, grasping Kazuma’s hand and arm beside him, and squeezing his eyes shut. His heart pounds as loud as the harsh screech in his ears. He feels even Kazuma shudder.
It’s a good few seconds later when Ryunosuke cracks an eye open, slides his right hand off Kazuma’s arm, watches the fog that’s been deployed dissipate. His left hand stays gripped to Kazuma’s—he needs some anchor, after all, to root him to safety. He may just leap fully out of his seat next time if he doesn’t.
Kafei appears face down on the ground, clutching his head. His limbs are shorter, his voice higher in pitch when he cries out. Skull Kid only giggles with that harsh, tinny tenor before disappearing completely.
Confused and out of options, Kafei rushes to the Great Fairy, but he struggles to move; his body is unknown and clumsy in its childlike frame. A bounding man slinking around in the shadows takes advantage of his disorientation, robbing him of an intricate, golden mask—a jewel as bright as the Sun inlaid in its forehead.
In a month’s time: he would exchange the Sun Mask with Anju’s Moon Mask and be married. He made a promise that the next time he saw her, he’d present to her his wedding mask. She’s the love of his life, he sings; he can’t bear to face her with anything less than the full depth of devotion the mask represents.
Ryunosuke swallows down the lump forming in his throat, his breathing gone thick and heavy with emotion. But his breath skitters in his lungs as he notices Kazuma shift beside him, ever so slightly. Under his palm, Kazuma’s hand flips over. Ryunosuke feels it bloom open like a Silent Princess bud, fingers threading through his own, flush against him.
Kazuma’s looking at him sidelong with a fierce fondness, dark eyes sparkling with a soft intensity—a dizzying contradiction that sucks out whatever air is left in Ryunosuke’s chest until only that look remains to fill the hollow spaces. Kazuma had lauded this story—told Ryunosuke to pay close attention, even—yet here he is, watching Ryunosuke as if he was the leading actor atop that stage.
Something electric within Ryunosuke makes him exhale a laugh, embarrassment and exhilaration flowing through him in equal measures as heat rushes into his cheeks, pools there. He ducks his head, shifts his gaze away for a beat, before looking back at him through his lashes. He gives an acknowledging squeeze back, letting his hand rest comfortably in the spaces between Kazuma’s.
Kazuma returns a breathy laugh of his own as his gentle stare lingers just a bit longer, before returning attention to the stage. He knocks his boot against Ryunosuke’s, presses his thigh against his—like it’s the most casual position of all.
Ryunosuke finds that concentrating on the show becomes much more difficult.
Some things filter through, though: Kafei and the boy recover the stolen matrimonial mask and rush back to the inn as the moon consumes the crimson night sky. It’s a story where, in the end, the power of love doesn’t triumph, doesn’t stop the moon and save the world. It’s late into the final day when Anju and Kafei embrace in that inn, unbothered by the latter’s transformation, and combine their masks into the Couple’s Mask. The boy hasn’t yet found all he needs to defeat the great evil; the moon is undeterred as the clock tower chimes as if crying out in help. Yet, it matters not to them. They will greet the morning together, no matter what happens.
It all culminates in a bombastic duet between the two lovers, violins soaring and water rushing and piano keys a flurry of sentimentality—a crescendo both touching and utterly devastating at the same time. And maybe it’s the tears welling up in his eyes or maybe it’s the feeling of despair that makes his heart feel heavy and mind distracted, but Ryunosuke swears when they both utter the final, bellowing “I love you” and outstretch their arms out to the audience, Princess Rutipha directs her attention right up to the box that Kazuma and he are sitting in.
Kazuma gives his hand a squeeze, runs his thumb absentmindedly across Ryunosuke’s own. Ryunosuke pries his gaze from the stage and chances a look at Kazuma, yet his eyes are firmly glued to the show, face pinched. If he’s on the verge of crying, Ryunosuke wouldn’t blame him—it’d make the two of them, at any rate.
The boy will leave them. He must return to the first day; he must abandon this reality. The lovers will face their fate. Abandoned, but not alone.
And, Ryunosuke thinks, maybe therein lies the true power—the truth strength—of their love. Perhaps they couldn’t stop the great evil at that very moment, but they could forge some semblance of a future in their own way—one that transcends the single lifetime they lived. Facing that inevitability, they accept the unknown, together.
Notes:
We got Auchi as Beedle last chapter and Shamspeare as Tingle this chapter!!
Even in another universe, Ryunosuke is still NosyTM and will look through all your stuff whether you're present or not.
The scene with the Blue Sparrow came from a few different ideas: the Capcom survey saying that their Halloween costume was Kazuma carrying Ryunosuke on his shoulders (???? 🤨) with a sheet draped over them as a ghost for some reason and then they both fell over on top of each other (?! what kinda shoujo ass...), that one Nuri art where it kinda looks like Ryunosuke's fully sitting on Kazuma's shoulder, and also of course the actual canon fact that Kazuma smuggled Ryunosuke on that boat to go halfway across the world with him to Britain by hiding him in his suitcase.
While I personally don't think Anju and Kafei are the greatest love story in Zelda (Skyward Sword Zelink my beloved), I was trying to think of a suitable story to highlight for the play and hmm partners that are split up and one is disguised in a mask? Where have I heard this one before...
In honor of E•MO•TION's 10 year anniversary (HMMM 10 year anniversaries for both this album and tgaa so close together?? peak confirmed), here's an accompanying song that just so happens to fit nicely with the beginning segment :)
Chapter 18: Interstitials: Part 4 - Vah Rudania
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
We’re coming up on the last Divine Beast to visit. Champion Jigoku never fails to intimidate me, no matter how jubilant he always seems. The Goron’s quite accomplished and well-respected for all he’s done; I know very well that he’s not to be underestimated. Something about his presence always makes me feel uneasy, though, like I’ll do one wrong thing in front of him and he’ll immediately give me a guilty sentence. It’s ridiculous, I know—he’s never shown to be anything other than pleasant and fair, but I suppose you can’t overstate how much of a formidable presence a large Goron with piercing eyes towering over you is.
One more Divine Beast to inspect and then we’re back to the castle. Then, in only a short few months, it’ll be my twenty-third birthday. It’s all coming up too quickly. Yet, I haven’t felt anything more. Kazuma keeps reassuring me, but I can’t stop worrying about it…
Entering Goron City is always a struggle. The heat is even more oppressive than the Gerudo Desert. Thankfully, we have plenty of elixirs that Champion Sholmes had concocted to help beat the heat———————
Sorry, ugh, I’ve ruined that part of the paper… It’s just due to the aforementioned heat, Kazuma’s been walking around our room without a shirt on and it’s not as if I’ve never seen him unclothed before, but it’s still
I’m getting distracted. That’s enough of an entry for today. We make the journey up the mountain tomorrow.
“It’s not as though I would ever object to a visit to the Goron Hot Springs, but I will press against your insistence that I desperately need to come here,” Ryunosuke says. “I’m doing quite fine, actually.”
It couldn’t be further from the truth. His chest feels like a writhing snake of thorns, coiling and constricting on itself. And, honestly, if he’s experiencing a pounding headache and knocking knees and the sweats, then that’s his problem and his alone to know; it’s not as if Kazuma could ever tell, anyway—
Kazuma makes an unimpressed face, skeptical, and looks him up and down slowly. It makes Ryunosuke feel starkly exposed and vulnerable under the scrutiny, and in more ways than one—it doesn’t help much that he’s wearing only a towel around his waist as they make the trek from the changing rooms (a fixture constructed primarily for the Hylian visitors, what with their particular hang-ups about nudity that the local Gorons have never acknowledged, much less ever fretted over) to the spring pools themselves.
“Are you really now,” Kazuma finally drawls, a statement more than a question. “If it wasn’t already obvious from your…” He motions with his hand, sweeping it in the air dramatically from head to toe. “...Everything going on with you, your unceasing inner thoughts would give it away instantly, partner.”
“Quit doing that,” Ryunosuke fires back before turning his nose up into the air and walking away down the path. He presses the small wicker basket holding his belongings to his hip. The heat and steam are starting to get to him, surely, as he feels his face start to grow warm, his head start to spin. The decision to come to a hot spring in Goron City during the middle of summer is becoming all too tangible.
It takes but a quick few steps for Kazuma to match his pace. “It would do you a great deal of good, is all I’m saying.” His hand lands on Ryunosuke’s shoulder, before his thumb softly sweeps over his skin.
When Ryunosuke looks sidelong at Kazuma—at the gentle concern that leaves a crease in his brow and a softness to his eyes—whatever tempered defensiveness he was feeling before fizzles out. “It would do you well, too,” Ryunosuke says, hushed. “I know I’m not the only one who’s stressed between the two of us…”
Ryunosuke’s seen it since Gerudo Town, after all: that tenseness Kazuma’s holding within himself, wrapped tight like some nightmarish wind-up toy. He’s been pacing more than usual, too—more distracted in general. Relaxation feels as much of a stranger to Kazuma as it’s been to Ryunosuke lately; Kazuma’s headband even ripples in tight little zigzags behind him.
Ryunosuke mashes his lips together. “…Are you alright, yourself?”
Kazuma stiffens at this, looks down the path in front of them instead. “Yes, I…” His pace quickens, just a bit. “I haven’t been to Goron City since I was a child. It just dredges up some unpleasant memories, is all.”
Kazuma leads them to one of the hot spring pools—secluded, tucked into the corner and far from the entrance and the other visitors. Before Ryunosuke can turn the comment in his head quick enough to find a suitable response, Kazuma sets down his basket on the side of the spring and says, “Merely some lingering nerves. But that’s precisely what a trip to the hot springs is for, as I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s a place to let the water wash away your stress”—he unceremoniously yanks off his towel, then quickly folds it and stashes it in the basket—“and let your mind shut off for a moment—come now, Ryunosuke, if you continue to make that wide-eyed look of panic, your face will surely freeze that way.”
Ryunosuke gulps and averts his eyes, stooping to set his own basket down. He hears Kazuma wade into the pool. “Oh?” Ryunosuke manages out. “And since when have you ever been able to shut your mind off before?” Kazuma barks out a laugh, echoing against the rocks. Ryunosuke continues through a smile: “Even now, you’re still wearing that headband… Doesn’t seem like words from someone willing to relax, now does it?”
When Ryunosuke peeks over his shoulder, Kazuma has laid back against the stone-lip of the pool, arms splayed out on the rocks, and he smiles something sparky—inviting challenge. “Some things are simply too important to let go of; you know this, Ryunosuke.” Somehow, the red fabric stays aloft. “Listen, we’ll face Champion Jigoku, then handle whatever comes next when we get to it. Just take it one step at a time.”
It’s rich, really, coming from the person who’s Ryunosuke’s only known to ever think five steps ahead of everything—to a compulsive degree, even. Being rooted in the present isn’t the first thing he’d ever use to describe Kazuma as; he’s not sure he fully buys it. Ryunosuke mutters, “You say that, but…”
“Say no more, partner!” Kazuma shuts it down. “Just try to relax, will you?”
Ryunosuke draws in a breath, then slaps his cheeks, the sound carrying far louder than expected. Kazuma seems unfazed by it, for when Ryunosuke tosses his towel into his basket and gets into the water, his eyes are shut—a valiant simulacrum of relaxation that’s only betrayed by the way his brow stays creased through it all. Not that Ryunosuke can blame him.
The hot spring pool is a small thing, long enough only for a single person to stretch their legs out in front of them. The width is better, but not by much: Ryunosuke settles himself beside Kazuma, still retaining some distance between them, but still encircled by Kazuma’s hand resting behind him. He reclines back, closes his eyes, tries to find an angle to rest his head against the smooth rocks that feels comfortable.
Breathe in, breathe out.
The way the rocks press against the back of his head begins to hurt. He shifts. This position’s not much better. He shifts again. His chin dips into the water. The heat’s getting to him at this point. And, ugh, the smell of sulfur is strong—was it this bad just a moment ago? His eyes open. Vah Rudania sits at the top of Death Mountain in all its robotic lizard glory, visible clearly from this vantage point. And then he thinks about the Divine Beasts and the sealing powers and Mount Lanayru and his birthday coming up and—
The scorching water that smacks directly into Ryunosuke’s face feels as intense as a direct slap. “Ow!” Ryunosuke hisses, drawing a hand down his face. When his vision clears, he sees Kazuma wearing a scowl.
“You’re muttering in spirals again,” Kazuma says with an exhaustion that feels as deep as the groundwater reaching below them. “I will move if you don’t stop talking to yourself, you know.”
“S-Sorry…” Ryunosuke sinks into the water, letting it cover half his face. Little bubbles reach the surface. Embarrassment burns—what’s a little more heat?
With a sigh, Kazuma says, “Here, turn around.” A confused noise from Ryunosuke, then: “Just trust me?”
So, Ryunosuke does.
And he practically squeaks when he feels Kazuma’s touch. Kazuma’s fingers knead into Ryunosuke’s shoulders, down his back—pressure applied with such delicate precision, it’s a wonder to Ryunosuke just how deft his hands really are from the years of swordwork. And it’s a balm, truly, the way his calloused fingertips work deep into the painful knots in his muscles, how he draws relief from the stress that’s wound itself inside Ryunosuke with something as simple as a touch. Each stroke like a brush of warmth—Ryunosuke sinks deeper into the water, melting without realizing it. The little sound of pleasure that escapes him barely registers.
“I’m sorry,” Ryunosuke murmurs then, eyes still closed. “This was meant to be enjoyable for you, too. I can’t imagine any of this being relaxing…”
Kazuma breathes out a laugh. “Quite the opposite, really.” His voice is low, an accompanying lullaby against the quiet sounds of sloshing water. “There’s something to preoccupying yourself with your hands—allowing that movement to center you.”
Ryunosuke peeks a heavy eyelid open, as if he can look behind him and see Kazuma’s expression. It’s a languid affair—lethargic—as exhaustion hits as potent as it is sudden. “Is that similar to your morning sword drills, then?”
“Mhmm,” Kazuma affirms. “The katas are for practice, yes, but they also help me both focus and relax. Just feeling that intentional flow of movement”—Kazuma’s thumb, pressure consistent, sweeps down that sensitive part right at the nape of his neck and makes Ryunosuke shudder—“that grounding as you feel the weight of the sword with each swing… That is true tranquility.”
It slips out, so easily: “And have you heard her recently—Karuma, that is?”
Kazuma fingers pause, stutter ever so slightly, then resume like nothing had been asked. “No,” he says, “it’s been quite a bit since she’s last spoken…” The way his voice wavers almost makes Ryunosuke sober from his sleep-strickenness, almost makes him turn around to see him fully, but Kazuma continues ahead, tone level and confident once again. “But I don’t necessarily need to—she’s my soul, after all. Whether I can hear her sing or not makes little difference; I can feel her, always, forever connected to me.”
Ryunosuke’s words are as loose as his muscles: “It must be a relief—knowing it’s something you can always count on without worry. If only all things were that easy…”
Kazuma’s hands still for certain this time, squeezing against Ryunosuke’s shoulders. Soft, but firm: “Ryunosuke, look at me.”
Kazuma’s breath ghosts across Ryunosuke’s face when he turns around, a hair’s breadth away. Ryunosuke sucks in a surprised gasp, yet Kazuma is unreactive; Kazuma’s steely gaze anchors him in place. Where else could he look?
Kazuma leans in, then, placing his hands on either side of Ryunosuke’s head, the tips of their noses almost pressed up against each other. “Listen,” Kazuma says, “I realize it’s rooted in your nature to incessantly worry, but there’s no need for it. It’ll do you little good, you know.”
Ryunosuke’s gaze flicks to the water. “Are you not anxious about it all? The prophecy states that Calamity Stronghart will resurrect after my twenty-third birthday…” That pit in his stomach again, like a sinking lead weight. “That’s in only three months, Kazuma, I—”
Kazuma scoffs, the heat of it a puff across Ryunosuke’s face. “And it didn’t specify an exact day. For all we know, we have a full extra year—maybe longer than that, even—of time left to do exactly what we’ve already been doing: preparing.”
“I suppose, but…” Ryunosuke folds into himself slightly, then manages out a shaky laugh. “Is it foolish of me to have hoped I’d just wake up one day and feel it? Like she’d finally see how much work I’ve put into all this, and decide to bless me?”
Kazuma considers it. “Perhaps,” he says, “but maybe it’s less foolishness and more of the case of having read too many fantasy novels, huh, partner?” He lifts an eyebrow, a teasing grin spreading on his lips. And Ryunosuke can’t suppress the groan-laugh that bubbles up, even at his own expense. “We both know it’s highly unlikely for something to manifest without an inciting force first. Very rarely do blessings come by mere chance.”
A groan, as Ryunosuke slides a bit further into the water. “Just imagine how much simpler this would all be, though?”
“Yes,” Kazuma hums, “most things in this world would be with the help of divine intervention, I agree.” He tilts his head. “What’s made this simpler is all the help from the Champions, the Divine Beasts, the Guardians, the sealing forces, and all the other plans you’ve helped arrange to defend ourselves. I know you realize this; we’ve spoken about it at length. And yet you still worry—why is that, truly?”
Ryunosuke sighs. “Because…” Another deep inhale. The words are unsteady, slippery to articulate: “I, I don’t feel like I’ve done enough—that I’m enough, even. I just—” He looks at Kazuma, finally finding his unyielding gaze, never once having wavered. It’s a fragile thing, the way his voice crumples in on itself when he says, “Since the moment I was born, everyone has been relying on me to protect them from this curse. I, I can’t bear to be the one that lets them all down.”
Kazuma’s face scrunches, that deep wrinkle carving into his forehead. Then, he shifts, lifting a hand underneath Ryunosuke’s face. His fingers skirt across his jaw, lingers against the skin, before putting the slightest bit of pressure against his chin. Cradling Ryunosuke in his hand, like the most delicate of fruit.
“You are enough—are more than enough,” Kazuma says, each syllable sharp out of his teeth. “And anyone who tells you otherwise will have Karuma to contend with, I swear to you.” And the way his eyebrows are drawn so fiercely, the way his mouth forms such an imposing line—Ryunosuke believes it entirely.
And Ryunosuke laughs, feels the strain of it against Kazuma’s grip. “Surely, threatening seems like a bit of an overreaction, don’t you thi—”
“I’m not joking,” Kazuma cuts him off then with all the same intensity, leaning forward and gently tugging Ryunosuke towards him. “And I do mean anyone. Don’t think you are exempt from that.”
Ryunosuke gulps, but he can’t fight away the shaky grin that stays plastered on his face. He believes this to be true, as well.
Kazuma continues, “You’ve heard it time and time again from the Champions during this trip: we’re in a good place. And it was all spearheaded by your efforts, not the goddess’s. No matter what happens up on that mountain after your birthday, what you’ve done can’t be erased. Never forget that.” Kazuma pauses, his hand growing pliant against Ryunosuke’s jaw and his expression growing just as soft. Quiet, then, as though they aren’t the only ones tucked into this corner of the springs: “And never forget that I’ll be by your side through it all. So, have faith in yourself. After all, in any battle, there can be no victory without faith. And I believe in you—unwaveringly. Come what may, we’ll face it, together.”
And there’s a warmth that wells up in Ryunosuke as blazing and brilliant as the lava plumes upon Death Mountain. Something not new, but something ever growing in intensity that it’s become difficult to ignore—not that ignoring it was ever an option Ryunosuke truly considered. The easy closeness and support he and Kazuma have shared ever since they began to find common understanding of one another, that simple intimacy, as effortless and uncomplicated as simply drawing in a breath—it’s something he’s coveted as soon as he was given the briefest of tastes of it, as soon as he realized how much it heightened the joy he felt in his life with its presence.
Ryunosuke only realizes he’s been staring at Kazuma’s mouth when Kazuma sucks in a hitched breath. And it’s a surprisingly pleasant, almost delirious realization when the only thoughts his mind can supply are about how pretty his lips look—how defined his Cupid’s bow is, how it looks when the seam parts and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. A ridiculous observation, Ryunosuke acknowledges, but it’s made nonetheless.
And one that’s heightened further by the thought of how utterly easy it would be to lean in just a bit closer and—
It’s the split second of the smacking sound of impact before feeling the wave of water cascade against him that makes Ryunosuke truly jump out of his skin.
“Ahh! Awesome day for a dip, eh, goro?” the Goron that’s unceremoniously plopped themself into the cramped remaining space of the spring says, smile bright.
It was barely enough space when it was just the two of them, but add a Goron in the mix…? Kazuma grumbles out a sigh, clumsily moving to squeeze himself between Ryunosuke and the Goron as they both shuffle over in a futile attempt to make room.
Despite all that came before, it turns out there are, in fact, times where Kazuma’s bare skin pressed up against Ryunosuke’s own is completely and utterly uncomfortable. Kazuma’s elbow digs into the side of Ryunosuke’s ribs as they’re smushed into each other.
The Goron doesn’t seem to mind the closeness. “I’ve never seen anyone ever come to my favorite spot in the springs before—‘specially not Hylians! Great, isn’t it, goro?” they say, stretching out to make themself more comfortable. With a frown of his own, Ryunosuke watches Kazuma nearly boil the water in front of him as he stews. The Goron then tilts their head, confusion appearing there. “Sorry, am I interrupting somethin’?”
“Ugh,” Ryunosuke bleats as he turns his pocket watch around in his hand, “what happened?!” The black surface is a far cry from the shining silver it once was. “Uncle just gifted me this, too…”
Kazuma looks over his shoulder. “I warned you that you should keep it in the Slate. Everyone knows that sulfur tarnishes silver, after all.”
“Haah…” Ryunosuke slumps over. “I forgot to take it out of the pocket of my coat…”
Kazuma shakes his head in his hand. “We’ll have to get Iris to look at it when we get back.”
“Ack!” Ryunosuke shrieks, jumping back with a leg lifted. They’re a ways away from the lava pool, taking cover behind a boulder, and yet the stray sprinkles of lava still threaten to burn a hole in his pants. He’ll be lucky if he comes out of this without a single hair scorched.
Jigoku throws his head back and laughs. “Best be careful, young prince! Rudania’s Lava Bomb is nothing to be underestimated!”
He’s named the attack—when Vah Rudania lobs a ball of molten lava at something with its webbed hands like it’s playing a lethal game of baseball. If Ryunosuke had to rate the Divine Beasts by how dangerous their attacks using the forces of nature are, he’d struggle, but right now, under this oppressive heat and in constant fear of lava errantly splashing on him like it’s water, he wouldn’t hesitate to put it at the top of his list.
Jigoku strokes his dark beard as he watches the robotic salamander slowly squirm into the molten pool. “I have to say, no matter how many times I see it in action, I’m always surprised at the sheer power the Beast holds. Just imagine the chaos if someone like the Yiga Clan got their hands on this.”
Ryunosuke shudders. “Yes, well, we’re awfully lucky we found them first… Though, with how difficult activating the technology proved to be, I wonder how far they’d get even if they were the ones to uncover them…”
Jigoku hums at this, hand still stroking that beard. “Lucky indeed…” he mumbles. Then, he reaches into his pocket and flicks open the face of a pocket watch. “Unfortunately, I will have to cut this viewing short. I trust you’re satisfied with what you’ve seen already?”
Ryunosuke nods. Just like the others, Jigoku has mastered his control over his Beast. And just like the others, Vah Rudania is something to be feared.
“Excellent,” Jigoku says. “While I take my title as the Champion of the Gorons with great pride, my duties as a Magistrate can’t fall to the wayside. I’d be honored if you’d visit the courthouse to see a trial in action, Prince Naruhodo.”
It always struck Ryunosuke as odd—how he insisted on calling everyone by their last name. Perhaps it was the level of professionalism he always needed to engender.
“Yes, thank you.” And with that, Jigoku makes his exit.
When Ryunosuke turns around, he finds Kazuma staring up at Rudania, evidently so lost in thought that he doesn’t even budge until Ryunosuke gives a small tug on the end of his headband.
“Hey,” Ryunosuke says softly with a smile when Kazuma finally returns to the present, blinking out of the daze. “What’s on your mind?”
“Ah.” Kazuma shakes his head. “It’s nothing—just reminiscing. Shall we?”
It’d take much less to convince him to get out of the boiling furnace that is the peak of Death Mountain. With a nod, they both turn to leave.
The courthouse is a stifling, imposing thing—stone walls climbing far into the sky, with jagged, natural shapes and façades that prioritize function over form. Pillars of steel reinforce the stonework like a cage. This building and the Elder Chief’s Citadel are in stark contrast to the other structures naturally carved out of the rockface—evoking a sense of intentionality, stature, importance.
The trial is one of murder. A nervous Goron named Igne Ocent stands accused of throwing a Hylian knight over a tall safety barrier on a cliff side. The victim, Falen Ouvir, fell from a great height to his death, ultimately landing in one of the mine carts below.
“The coroner confirmed the damage to the body was consistent with being dropped from around six stories high,” the prosecutor says as they submit their written statement of the evidence to Jigoku. “No chance of Ouvir having fallen by accident—Ouvir is 5 feet, 7 inches and the height of the safety railing stands at 7 feet, 5 inches.”
“Isn’t that…?” Ryunosuke clasps Kazuma’s arm when he hisses under his breath. “The accused—weren’t they stationed in Castle Town before?”
It was a rare sight: a Goron Patrol Knight in Castle Town. Gorons becoming knights was uncommon in itself—those who came to live in Castle Town were often shopkeepers or worked in construction, very rarely attending the Knight Academy for a variety of reasons—but the vast majority that did became specialists on the field, providing their strength and expertise in combat (Jigoku, himself, was one prior to becoming a Magistrate). In fact, Igne was only the third Goron Patrol Knight Ryunosuke had ever seen before, and for that they stood out.
Kazuma brings a fist to his chin. Hushed: “I remember seeing them before… Western Castle Town, wasn’t it? Near the Water Reservoir? Falen was stationed there, too, if I recall correctly.”
Ryunosuke swallows down the sinking feeling. He didn’t know the Goron personally, but even he knew of their kindness. When heavy rains caused the Reservoir to overflow and flood the nearby part of town years ago, he remembers that they carried stranded residents atop their shoulders to bring them to safety. He remembers—he’d been stuck in a breakfast with a noble that had lasted far past its welcome, and he had been forced to read the interview in the newspaper out of boredom—that the water reached up to Igne’s chin and despite being terrified, they still went back until every resident was accounted for. It’s something that stuck with him—that bravery, that benevolence in the face of fear.
Would someone like that truly murder someone else?
Two witnesses are brought to the stand to give their testimony. The first is a smaller Goron—young and uncomfortable, with a green cap upon his head—who claims to have seen the very moment of the crime. “I, I saw a Goron pick up the little Hylian over their head and throw ‘em over the wall like it was nothin’, goro,” the witness says, grip tight on the stand.
Jigoku flips through the papers the prosecutor submitted. “And you saw the moments after, as well?”
The witness nods. “Sure did. Didn’t see their face, but they immediately bolted as soon as they threw ‘em. Didn’t even look to see if the guy was okay or nothin’!”
“As I’ve outlined,” the prosecutor says, “this was no accident. Investigators confirmed that there were no raised platforms or steps of some sort on this cliff. It was done with intent to kill. That’s exactly why the culprit didn’t check for his wellbeing.”
The second witness, an older Goron with a flowing white mustache, testifies that he saw the accused’s face as they fled. “They did it, alright. No doubt about it!” The witness tells Jigoku that he was concerned when he saw Igne running away with a crazed look in their eyes, both hands placed atop their head in shock. “Ever since they came back from Castle Town, I haven’t trusted them one bit!”
When both the witnesses are done, the prosecutor gives a final summary of their findings. Jigoku strokes his beard as his eyes scan the documents.
“Igne Ocent,” Jigoku says, “there has been no written statement submitted of how you plead. You may give your final verbal appeal here, but I will warn you without a written argument, your case will suffer greatly.”
“Isn’t there usually a lawyer with the accused?” Ryunosuke whispers to Kazuma.
“Usually, yes…” Kazuma replies. “Perhaps they don’t have one?”
Igne shifts awkwardly, eyes darting about. “Sorry. I’m not good at writing—never’ve been, since I was a kid. Almost didn’t pass the Knight Academy…” They scratch at their arm. “A-And I didn’t get what it was all askin’ in those big words, so…” They then look to the small gallery, eyes apologetic when they lock with another in the crowd—another Goron, holding a swaddled baby. “Uh, but, but I can say that I didn’t do it! I couldn’t k-kill someone! Especially not Falen!”
Even without any experience in a courtroom, Ryunosuke can’t help shaking the feeling that everything seems wrong. No defense, the accused doesn’t know how to file documents that could help prove them innocent, the way their personality seems at odds with the charges—even Jigoku looks hesitant in a way.
“And why is that?” Jigoku asks.
“‘Cause he was my friend! We worked together!”
“Indicative of a motive?” the prosecutor supplies.
Jigoku leans back in his chair with a sigh. “Alright, thank you. I will take into account all that’s being presented here and review the case. Tomorrow, I will be handing down my verdict. That is all. Court is dismissed.”
When they enter Jigoku’s chambers, he’s reclined in a chair, reading through a file. His feet are propped up on the desk.
“Ah, Prince Naruhodo, Champion Asogi, come in.” He sweeps out a hand towards the chairs facing his desk. “I was pleased to see you join us for the trial. So, what did you make of it?”
Ryunosuke’s brow furrows when he takes a seat, grip tightening on his pants. “It was…interesting, to say the least. A sad situation, surely.”
Jigoku hums before sitting up and closing the file. “Yes, quite so. The victim and the accused were supposed friends…” He lets out a bitter exhale of a laugh, sardonic. “Anyone who would betray and backstab a friend like that… They’re scum, indeed.”
When Ryunosuke nods in response, it’s in an unconvinced manner. “Um, yes, well… One thing I found curious was how the defendant was up there alone… Did they not have any representation?”
A sigh from Jigoku as he rubs the scaly rocks along the back of his neck. “As you are aware, anyone accused of a crime can hire an attorney to submit their defense. However, attorneys can also refuse to take a case for a great deal of reasons. We try our utmost to secure representation, but even our public defenders wouldn’t touch this case—too risky.”
“Why’s that?”
“The identity of the victim: a Hylian knight from Castle Town, temporarily stationed in Goron City. Most attorneys would balk at the mere possibility of having to deal with the Castle Town’s judiciary.”
“That’s absurd,” Kazuma growls, and it surprises Ryunosuke to hear him speak with this ease when not addressed directly. “It was a crime committed in Goron City; Castle Town has no jurisdiction and should have no sway over how you conduct court.”
But, Ryunosuke recovers quickly, following Kazuma’s lead. “And, and Igne was a Castle Town knight as well, anyway!” he adds, leaning forward. “If it’s Castle Town that’s the worry, then they should be just as concerned about Igne!”
Jigoku takes a moment—considers it—shooting a long glance at Kazuma before focusing back on Ryunosuke. “Was a Castle Town knight.” He sighs, shakes his head, swaying the stiff puff of his ponytail. “There’s complicated politics at play here, Your Highness. Ultimately, the Goron is viewed as an undesirable client and is stuck defending themself.”
Ryunosuke bites back an objection. It feels unfair, all of it. Tries to swallow it down, package it behind clenched teeth into something palatable. “Something doesn’t feel right here. I realize that this is a highly unusual ask, but I urge you to delay your verdict just a bit—”
Jigoku flinches back, eyes wide. His gaze flicks back between Ryunosuke and Kazuma wildly. “‘Highly unusual’ is quite the understatement! Forget interference by Castle Town, having a member of the Royal Family attempt to influence a trial is beyond reckless! Just think about what would happen if this were to come out to the public—I spent my entire career building trust and upholding the very highest standards of impartiality and fairness. I’ve never bent under special interests before, and I certainly am not ready to risk losing my career over it now!”
Ryunosuke cringes; he knew from the moment he voiced it that the request was ridiculous. “O-Of course. I simply meant to ask outside of my capacity as a member of the Royal Family…”
Jigoku sighs, pinching the bridge of his brow. “Your Highness, with no disrespect, I realize you’re a bit…naïve when it comes to politics and even more so when it comes to law, but it isn’t as easy a matter to just say you’re acting as an average person… Distancing yourself from what you were born into is something nigh impossible. This isn’t something you want to risk sticking your nose into, believe me. Stick to what your duty is, and I’ll stick to mine.”
Ryunosuke ducks his head, yet it’s not shame that causes his limbs to shake and his teeth to grit. “You’re right. I may not know much about law or politics, or even how to properly conduct myself when it comes to royal matters…” Ryunosuke grips the fabric of his pants. “But what I do know is that I can’t turn my back on someone in distress when they haven’t been given a fair shake. I don’t think Igne did it”—he shakes his head—“and I don’t think their guilt should be taken as an inevitability merely because the ones who were meant to defend them were too much of cowards to risk representing them! So, I ask you again, not as the Prince of Hyrule, but as someone who wants to see justice prevailing: what can I do to ensure Igne’s trial is fair?”
Another deep sigh from Jigoku, as he sinks back into his chair. Sharp eyes bore into Ryunosuke, endlessly assessing the situation in a way that never surprises Ryunosuke, but always catches him off-guard. He’s searching for something there: the depths of Ryunosuke’s resolve, perhaps—sussing out how much he’s willing to sacrifice to defend a single Goron he barely knows.
It’s a few, long, excruciating moments before Jigoku finally says: “Decisive evidence.” He sits up, hunching forward on his desk, strong fingers tapping against the metal. “It’s impossible to delay a verdict with the facts as given, but a court of law hinges on evidence. Before court resumes tomorrow, bring me decisive evidence that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that Ocent couldn’t have committed the crime. Then, I will factor that into my ruling.”
Ryunosuke releases a giddy breath, one so freeing that his body feels lighter. He must smile because Jigoku is quick to add: “But only if it’s decisive—remember that! As it stands, the evidence so far paints quite the guilty Goron.”
Ryunosuke nearly leaps out of his seat to bow deep. “Thank you, Champion Jigoku!”
Not even three steps out of his office, door barely closed behind them, before Kazuma hisses out an “Impartial? Fair? Ridiculous.” They’re huddled conspiratorially as they walk through the hall, arms pressed together.
“Agreed,” Ryunosuke whispers harshly back. “I mean, how can any of it be fair if Igne can’t submit a proper statement to defend themself? You can’t expect any average person to understand the jargon to do the paperwork required and then judge them on that—it’s a losing game from the very beginning!”
Kazuma’s about to voice something; he makes a sound that is aborted, then nudges Ryunosuke with his elbow. A pointed finger down the hall perpendicular: a Goron sitting on a bench, head hanging low, holding a swaddled baby in his arms. The rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath is a jittery quake.
A shaky draw in of breath, and Ryunosuke’s already moving forward without thinking. “Um, hello? I recognize you from within the courtroom. Are you perhaps acquainted with Igne Ocent…?”
The words take a moment to sink in—to permeate through a thick wall of dissociation—before the Goron lifts his head and acknowledges the two standing before him. His eyes are red-rimmed, just like a Hylian’s might be. The baby in his arms is asleep, peaceful.
He says, “Y-Yeah… Ig’s my life-partner.”
It isn’t that Theralin isn’t hospitable—far from it, in fact, with the way he ushered them in like they were starving wanderers spotted outside a family’s Harvenia celebration, with frazzled murmurs of “I’d never’ve thought the Prince of Hyrule would set foot in my home—never, no! I’m so sorry for the mess, how embarrassing, goro!” as he rearranged rock pillows—but it’s simply the fact that Goron hospitality is incompatible with Hylian sensibilities. The boiling hot water with a chunk of flavored rock—flavored sweetly, Theralin insists—that Ryunosuke thinks is meant to dissolve but never quite seems to lose its solid form just isn’t an appetizing refreshment no matter the sentiment behind it. And that’s to say nothing of the thinly-sliced pieces of rock hors d’oeuvres laid out on the table.
“It was a mistake coming back here, honestly,” Theralin says with a defeated drawl, before popping a slice into his mouth.
“What do you mean?” Ryunosuke asks.
Theralin swallows, takes a few moments to answer. “Ever since movin’ back here, it’s been one disaster after another… Baby Chert got sick a few months after being born, then that jerk started bothering us, and now this… Murder…? No way, never.” He picks up another rock slice, then gestures around, like an agitated conductor. “Ig tried to convince me for us to stay in Castle Town, but noo, I thought it would’ve been better to raise our child in Eldin! What a stupid decision that turned out to be!”
He stuffs the rock slice into his mouth. “Sorry, I like to eat when I’m nervous…”
Well, Ryunosuke can definitely relate to that. “I’m sorry to hear about everything that’s happened… But, did you say that someone’s been harassing you?” It’s a shock—Gorons have always been known for their jovial friendliness. Or so he thought.
Theralin nods. His eyes go glassy and pained, staring off into the distance. “Yeah, ever since we moved here, one guy’s been constantly giving us trouble: reporting noise complaints, making up fake stories to get the patrollers to show up, tellin’ us to go back to Castle Town… Imagine my surprise when I see him up on that witness stand today!”
“Sorry?” Ryunosuke says quickly, his mouth falling open. “D-Did you say the Goron that’s been doing all those things was a witness?!”
Theralin nods again. “Lye Inschist. Says he saw Igne run away, so they must’ve done it… Doubt he even was there!”
Ryunosuke exchanges a stunned look with Kazuma, who seems to be just as concerned. “Do, do you happen to know why this Lye has it out for you?”
A sad, deep sigh. “I mean I don’t know for sure, but I have a good idea…” His fingers twist around each other, back and forth. “It’s not some super popular thought, but there’s a group of Gorons—especially some of the elders—that don’t really…like the Gorons that move out to Castle Town. Think they’re no longer ‘one of the real Gorons’ that live here in Eldin. Like you’ve turned your back on your home.”
He shifts again, sliding a hand along his arm. “If you’re a seller who returns a buncha times a year, yeah, you’re fine, but the ones that live there? That want to be a part of that culture? Well, you’re like a traitor, in their eyes, I guess.” There’s no anger—no heat—in the words, only an empty sadness that stains the syllables.
“So, then there’s Gorons like us that grew up in Goron City, then lived in Castle Town for years—and we love both. Livin’ in Castle Town as a Goron wasn’t exactly easy either, but now we can’t even fit in in our hometown because we aren’t seen as being ‘Goron’ enough anymore! So where does that leave us? Where are we supposed to go if we’re outsiders to both places?”
It settles in Ryunosuke's stomach like a lead weight. “I’m sorry; that’s horrible…” he rasps, voice a scrape against his throat. “No one should ever feel like they don’t belong.”
“But, that’s why you’re here, right?” Theralin asks, brightening. “You’re gonna help us? I mean, you’re the prince and all! You can tell them Ig didn’t do it!”
A witness that has a prejudiced, personal vendetta and is a known liar—that’s enough to put his credibility to question. But it wasn’t exactly decisive evidence that Igne didn’t do it, was it?
“No, I can’t just tell them to drop the charges, unfortunately,” Ryunosuke admits, ducking his head. The motion isn’t quick enough; he still sees Theralin’s expression crumple out of the corner of his eyes. “But, I want to believe that Igne didn’t commit the murder. So, I will do my best to help prove that.” He lifts his head, meets Theralin’s eyes with determination. “If you can tell us anything at all you know about the incident—it all helps.”
Theralin takes a big gulp of the rock tea. “...We’ve been down on our luck. At Castle Town, I found out I’m pretty good at makin’ rock sculptures and, actually, a lot of people bought ‘em! But here, there isn’t much interest when there’s dozens of other rock artists… I had to take another job at the mines, though I swore I’d never go back there.
“Igne, they were getting desperate trying to find work. Most of the jobs involve lifting stuff—out of the question for them now. But then the day this all happened, they saw Falen right here in Goron City, of all places! They were stationed in the same knight’s group back in Castle Town for a while before Falen got transferred. Went up to ask him if he could put in a word to get work somehow—after getting discharged, it’s not like they could work as a knight again, but they thought maybe he knew something else he could do. Falen said he was happy to see ‘em and that he’d ask around. Then, Ig left.”
Theralin stops, then, gritting his teeth in a wince. “It’s horrible. Igne and Falen were friends. It’s bad enough they lost a friend, but to be blamed for it, too? Sick—that’s what it is! Unfair, too!”
Ryunosuke’s eyes fall to the floor, tracing the depressions and outlines of the stone there. Even if they could cast doubt on Lye, there’s still one witness that saw someone throw Falen over the barrier. If Falen and Igne were alone before that, with no one to witness their conversation, it would be a flimsy argument to insist that Igne walked away.
“Did you say that Igne was discharged from knight’s duty?” Kazuma asks. “What happened, if you don’t mind?”
Theralin falters, gaze trailing until it lands on the mantle of the hearth. Atop it, two medals emblazoned with the Royal Family’s seal: one for service, one for excellence. “Igne got injured in a pretty bad way. Can’t be a knight if you can’t lift your arms higher than your shoulders, turns out…” A laugh, coarse. “That’s part of the reason why we decided to move back ‘ere. That Zora magic helped a ton, but they’re still in pain… Nothin’ an Eldin hot spring can’t help in the morning, goro.”
Kazuma must come to the same realization as Ryunosuke does because they both turn to each other with the same breathless, frantic look. “The, the witness said they saw a Goron pick up Falen above their head!” Ryunosuke manages out.
“And the barrier was tall, as well,” Kazuma quickly adds. “There was nothing to step onto at the scene of the crime, so that rules out the possibility of Igne dragging Falen over the edge, anyway.”
Heart pounding, Ryunosuke slams his palms onto the low table, leaning over it, almost knocking over the rock tea in his wake. “Theralin! When knights get medically discharged, they’re given a letter that includes their condition! Please tell me you have it!”
It takes a few seconds for Theralin to comprehend the whirlwind of frenetic energy coming towards him. Dazed, he shakes his head fast, before almost falling out of his seat with a panic. “Yes! Yes, I do!” Curling into a ball of rock, he rolls down the hall with a loud screech against stone, the heat of it like standing in front of an oven.
He slams the document on the table when he returns, eyes wide and filled with something almost forgotten, something that had eluded him since this very incident first occurred—hope.
The letter, stamped with the royal seal and signed by both the Commanding Officer of the Western Division’s Castle Town Patrol Knights and the Chief Medical Officer, reads in clear black ink against bone-white parchment: “Patient has incurred severe bilateral shoulder impingement, making shoulder flexion difficult and painful. These injuries are inconsistent with a knight’s expected duties, as the patient can no longer raise their arms past their shoulders.”
Ryunosuke feels it thrumming inside him—rattling in his bones, coursing through his veins, churning deep inside his core where euphoria and satisfaction flourishes. The evidence was enough to acquit Igne and after days of further investigation, evidence was found implicating Lye Inschist of the murder. Theralin was right; Lye had fabricated it all: he had thrown Falen Ouvir to his death before fleeing the scene, then used the nearby Igne as a scapegoat to cover his crime. And he was so close to having it work.
That’s exactly why Ryunosuke finds himself unable to sit still, pacing the long halls of the Elder Chief’s Citadel at night. The lava’s glow in the distance and the ruddy light that casts off the metal lamps bathes the open-air walkways in a deep scarlet hue—if anything, it makes the beautiful paintings on the stone walls even more enticing. Kazuma was summoned by Jigoku to meet for a reason unknown to him, so the odds of him staying put in their room were already slim. No, staying still was never really an option after all, not with this light in him, like floating—buzzing around lighter than air.
Even the heat can’t slow him down; he outraces lethargy enough that it can’t hope to touch him. Jigoku’s room must be somewhere here in this wing, for he feels Kazuma grow ever closer, yet the feeling is suppressed by the joy, a mere footnote of the night. He flits down the halls, ducking in and out of open, empty rooms like it’s a museum—and it kind of is, in a way, with how each room has at least one piece of Goron artwork decorating the place (in Kazuma and his room: an intricate metal sculpture of a dragon with whiskers that curl like flame). He wonders if any of Theralin’s pieces could possibly be housed here.
When he reaches a bend, there’s a muffled commotion coming from one of the far rooms. Firelight flickers from under the door. It seems heated, whatever it is. What’s a few seconds of listening in?
“—I trusted you,” a voice snarls from inside, and Ryunosuke’s stomach drops. He recognizes the voice in an instant, just like he’d recognize his own: Kazuma. And that tether between them feels all too heavy now.
Ryunosuke hears Jigoku scoff over the sound of his pounding heart, when he presses his ear to the door. “And how is that my problem? I gave you the information you wanted, didn’t I? You now know who the man is and I merely suggested what was in your best interest—”
“Enough,” Kazuma says quickly. “I’ve had enough of your suggestions.”
He hears Jigoku sigh in frustration. “Quit acting out like a little boy. You’re being unreasonable—”
Ryunosuke’s eyes grow wide when he hears footsteps suddenly draw closer; he flinches back from the doorway, but the door’s already being thrown open before he can turn away. Kazuma looks at him like he’s seen a ghost, the way the terror draws color away from his skin. So he didn’t feel him approach either. Ryunosuke’s mouth opens to explain—to apologize—but Kazuma’s eyes dart back towards the room before he grabs his wrist and hurriedly pulls him down the hall, away from Jigoku’s chambers.
“What—What are you doing here?” Before he can answer: “What did you hear?” Kazuma hisses, attempting to keep his voice low, when they’re far enough away. His eyes are wild—scared, more than angry. His hands are like a vice around Ryunosuke’s shoulders, just enough to hurt.
“I, I was—Nothing that I could understand. I just walked up at the end—I don’t—” Ryunosuke shakes his head, tries to reign in his confusion as he searches Kazuma’s tight face for any sort of answer. “...Kazuma, what is going on? Are you alright? Is something…” The words escape him, but the tension hangs heavy in this hallway, this entire building—in a blink, the heat is stifling, even for Death Mountain. “...Are you in danger?” He almost feels ridiculous the moment it leaves his mouth; it’s Jigoku after all, the Goron Champion, The Justicebringer of Death Mountain. What could he possibly—
Kazuma seems to let out a deep sigh at that, tight shoulders loosening, just a bit. His grip relents, lingers around Ryunosuke’s shoulders. There’s a long pause before he answers: “No, I’m fine. It was…merely a disagreement about something we’d discussed last year—I lost my head. I’m sorry you heard that.” Ryunosuke’s hands come up to slide down Kazuma’s biceps, settling in the crooks of his elbows.
Kazuma’s head dips, long eyelashes a shadowy curtain to hide whatever expression his eyes hold. His thumbs trace gentle circles into Ryunosuke’s shoulders. “This place… I think I’ve just hit my limit being here in the heat. It’s good timing that we're leaving tomorrow.” Brittle.
It soothes something inside Ryunosuke, but the carryover worry still lingers in his gut. He wants to hold Kazuma’s face in his hands and promise him it’ll all be okay. He attempts a small smile, instead. “I, I wasn’t aware that you two knew each other…?”
Kazuma flattens his lips into a stiff line—that, Ryunosuke can see. “No, I don’t think we ever did.”
“I know you’d like to leave as soon as possible,” Ryunosuke says softly, thumbing the small wrapped package he holds behind his back, “but, would you hate me if I delayed us just a bit?”
Kazuma’s been antsy the entire morning—all pacing and tapped toes and furrowed brows. “What for?” The uncertainty in his voice enough that Ryunosuke knows exactly what expression he’s wearing without him even needing to face him.
The heat that pools high in Ryunosuke’s cheeks is negligible—the way his heart skitters like it’s about to burst even less so; it’s a worthwhile temporary discomfort for what will follow. “For this.”
“What?” is the airy question that breathes out of Kazuma before he finally turns around. He’s greeted with a small package resting in Ryunosuke’s outstretched palms: golden, crinkly paper tied up with a strip of scarlet fabric in a messy knot.
“I truly hope you didn’t think I’d forget your birthday, partner,” Ryunosuke says through a smile.
Kazuma blinks at the gift in a wide-eyed stupor, before his gaze slides up to meet Ryunosuke’s. And he’s beautiful like this—innocent and vulnerable, the morning sunlight filtering into the room drawing out the specks of honey in his gray-brown eyes like sparkling amber. It only makes Ryunosuke’s smile grow; his eyes soften in response.
Kazuma takes it gently between his slender fingers, deftly examining it like it’ll dissolve into the wind if he makes a single wrong move. “What is—” Kazuma stops, swallows down the strained tone. When he starts again, his voice has gone soft, almost apologetic: “Ryunosuke, you didn’t have to do this…”
“Of course I did,” Ryunosuke replies, and it’s only the truth. He nudges up with his chin: Open it.
And so, Kazuma unties the knot and peels back the paper. A small, ceramic statue of a man holding a sword, draped in little cut cloths sits in his palm.
Kazuma breathes out a laugh. “Is this supposed to be me?” he asks, warmth in each word. His fingers smooth out the red fabric that wraps around the figure’s forehead and hangs from the back of its hair in twin tails.
“Well, yes,” Ryunosuke laughs. He hams it up: “The gallant knight with mighty Karuma… He’ll cut down any evil—unless it’s a monster that needs a tongue twister recited to be defeated, I suppose.”
Kazuma laughs hard at this, but makes no attempt to argue, only marveling more at the figure. “No, this isn’t…?” He traces the tunic with his finger, and—oh Hylia, after months of working on it daily and now after not having looked at the thing for a couple days since he’s wrapped it, it looks atrocious doesn’t it? Perhaps Kazuma was right about that garish red fabric he bought at the Castle Town Market being ugly, after all? And look at the face—he swore it looked better before, not this monstrous caricature unbefitting of one of the most handsome people he’s ever laid eyes on. The sword’s not even remotely straight, even for a katana!
“S-Sorry, I know it looks odd,” Ryunosuke sputters, the heat flooding his cheeks now the exact wrong sort of discomfort. He waves his hands in front of his face in an embarrassed panic, like if he covers behind the motion, he’ll be able to hide away and disappear entirely. “I, I wanted to try making you something, but I really should’ve commissioned an artisan! I didn’t mean—”
Kazuma catches his left wrist. “Ryunosuke…” he says, barely above a whisper—immeasurably fond. Amusement there, too, with the crinkle of his eyes. Slowly, ever so gently, his fingers slide down Ryunosuke’s hand—past the end of his arm guard; along the length of his fingers, now slick with sweat; coming to rest at his fingertips, held delicately in Kazuma’s own.
“I love it,” Kazuma murmurs, the breathy words as light as a spring breeze; it blows through Ryunosuke and catches the air out from his lungs. It’s all too easy, then, when Kazuma lifts Ryunosuke’s hand up to his lips. It’s too easy, how the touch lingers there, how Kazuma’s warm breath skitters across Ryunosuke’s skin and even under the eternal heat of Goron City, it makes him shiver. It’s both an eternity and far too quick when Kazuma lowers their hands and looks up at him through long eyelashes; a sweet pink tints his cheeks. “Thank you.”
And Kazuma keeps a hold of his hand, even when they’re left dangling between them both like a rope connection. And how utterly easy it is, how Ryunosuke finds himself lost in that saccharine look Kazuma gives him, like he brings with him the sun of the forthcoming dawn after a cold night. Like it’s something he could get used to—something he could rely on.
How easy it is, indeed.
Notes:
Ohhhh things are simmering (quite literally here)
We got some actual law stuff in this chapter... What is this, Ace Attorney or something?? In this case (ha), juries aren't a thing, the prosecution and defense hold much less importance in a trial sense—only submitting their cases orally and in formal writing, rather than fully holding a trial like in Ace Attorney-verse—and the Magistrate reviews what's been submitted and makes the ultimate determination. Defendants aren't guaranteed representation if no one wants to take the case and, thus, are forced to tackle the process alone. This comes with a lot of obvious problems, as shown with Igne.
If it isn't already obvious, the pun names are:
- Igne Ocent - "innocent"; igneous rock
- Falen Ouvir - "fallen over"
- Lye Inschist - "lying shit"; includes both lye and the rock schist
- Baby Chert - chert rock
- Theralin - I'll be perfectly honest I don't remember what this was referencing LOL I know I looked up a list of rocks to make names for the Gorons but I don't see what this was in my notes sorry this is what happens when you write something almost a year ago
Credit for the fan-made Zelda holiday of Harvenia
Next week's a BIG one and the start of the final arc (I can't believe it's already that time!!)—very excited! :) Thank you as always for reading!
Chapter 19: Culminations
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
We’ve gotten word from the various sacred temples across Hyrule confirming that their sealing ritual training has been fruitful. Some Guardians have been dispatched to major towns where none were previously excavated and the local defense forces have also undergone training in how to properly utilize the machines. While Iris and Champion Sholmes said it wasn’t feasible to create so many felt communication dolls without the channels becoming unusable, smoke signal language has been developed—four colors for certain instances: green for the presence of a disturbance, but internal forces will be able to handle it; yellow to call for reinforcements in face of a larger threat; red as an urgent cry for help; Iris and Sholmes’s uniquely-concocted fluorescent pink, for when the threat is catastrophic.
I don’t wish to jinx it, but I’m truly, finally becoming more confident that we have this aspect of defense down. That’s not to say I’m still not worried about my own powers, but it helps to ease the nerves just a bit to think there’s backup plans in place.
It hasn’t come without any bumps in the road recently, however. Champion Sholmes has said there’s been some rare reports of Guardians acting odd—shooting off lasers erroneously or having bizarre, unpredictable movements. He said it was an easy fix: much like how Iris did earlier at the lab, an electric shock will reboot them and they’ll be just fine again. I suppose glitches such as these make sense, considering they’re thousands of years old technology; it’s honestly incredible that they work so well as is. Champion Sholmes seems puzzled by it, but ultimately said it’s not a real cause for worry, especially since it’s happening so sparingly. He’s pushing to supply the other towns with Guardian armies with the electric swords Iris made just in case, however.
As much as looking at the ceramic figure I made for Kazuma makes me cringe a bit in embarrassment, I don’t feel too bad about it anymore considering how much he does seem to enjoy it. He even keeps it on his low desk now, after some hemming and hawing about whether it feels egotistical to have a figure of yourself displayed (I convinced him it was fine, considering I was the one to make it for him and he didn’t commission it himself, after all).
In fact, he’s sitting there right now, furiously scribbling away at a letter or some sort. Once he’s in these moods, he always loses track of time… I should try to get his attention soon; it's almost dinner time. Since we’re leaving for the pilgrimage in about a week, I’ve requested the kitchen to serve beef stew for dinner. Kazuma doesn’t know yet—it’s my little surprise to him, too, since it’s our favorite meal. And, of course, Fruitcake for dessert!
(…Again!)
Ryunosuke tugs on the right pauldron to sit on his shoulder, the clank and clatter of golden metal an annoyance in his ears. The left side slips down. He yanks the strap at the top to attempt to secure it, but it’s futile—he can’t tie the knot with one hand.
Feasible or not, perhaps he’d have a better chance of getting changed into his royal regalia in a timely manner if he could just concentrate on the task at hand, but his mind is preoccupied by a great many things—in no small part by the way Kazuma looks with his hair slicked back like that across the room from him. It’s become something of a major distraction the past hour, not to mention the way the Royal Guard Uniform somehow hugs his figure, despite being made of loose hanging fabrics.
He pulls on the straps again—maybe he simply did it wrong the first time, and the next time, and the next—but to no avail. He hates wearing the pauldrons—how constricting they are, how the weight of the gold feels encumbering. It’s been customary for millenia, Elder Impa’s told him, for the children of the Royal Family to wear the golden pauldrons as part of their royal regalia. It’s a sign of strength, of a connection to the generals and soldiers that don their armor every day to protect this land. Yet, the way the metal presses exhaustingly down on his shoulders only makes him feel weak, far from the projection of strength he’s meant to embody. Almost impossibly, they feel even heavier this time.
He hates wearing the outfit, as well—the long sleeves that always seem to catch on anything around him, the long tails that catch in the exact opposite direction, the weighty golden crown on his head that makes his head hurt when it scatters reflections off light. It’s stuffy and restrictive, and it makes him feel like he’s wearing a costume. An imposter in fancy clothes, pretending to be someone he’s not—someone he’s never been.
But most of all, he hates what wearing the outfit represents. A momentous occasion, his father had said, a celebration to send off the Prince of Hyrule on the holy Coming of Age Pilgrimage on Mount Lanayru—as if this is an event for lighthearted revelry and not a chance for Ryunosuke to assuage worries of every noble and person of importance that yes, the Goddess Hylia’s powers have been illusive in the past, but, yes, traveling to her holy mountain will absolutely awaken them for good. There’s nothing for you to fear.
(As if turning twenty-three somehow makes him more wise. It’s a ridiculous notion on its face that someone with barely two decades of life experience is somehow the pinnacle of wisdom—you never stop learning, after all. But, wise or not, he hopes the goddess finally sees something in him up there.)
And there is nothing for them to fear. Maybe not in the way they quite envisioned it, but they’re ready—they’re all ready for what’s to come. It took a long time to convince himself of it, but even Ryunosuke can no longer deny that their preparations make him feel confident for once.
(But yet, he still hopes.)
“Ouch!” Ryunosuke yelps when there’s a sharp, pinching pain in his cheek.
Kazuma’s looking at him, mouth drawn into a frown. “You were spacing again,” he says. “Normally you’d mumble to yourself, but you were completely quiet. Just staring off into nothing awfully disturbingly…” He’s already fully dressed, even the beret he called silly earlier secured on his head. It looks even sillier now sitting on top of his headband, now fully exposed with his bangs slicked back. “I realize you’ve given me permission to slap your cheeks like you always tend to do, but that didn’t seem quite right.”
Oh, so you slapping me in the back with all your strength when you’re excited about something is fine, but this is the line? “Um, yes, thank you… Sorry, I just can’t…” He motions to the pauldrons sliding down his arms.
“Here, let me,” Kazuma says as he steps closer, a hair’s breadth away. The cologne he’s wearing inundates Ryunosuke’s senses in an instant—cassis and lavender. Then, he’s quickly off to work pulling the straps into their proper places and tying the needed knots. “Breathe,” he coaxes. “You’ve got this.”
Ryunosuke lets out a big exhale—one that shakes his whole body like a quake. “Do I?” he asks. “I already know they’re going to swarm and ask about it. Like vultures to carrion.”
Kazuma secures the left pauldron, then moves to the right. His hand slips under Ryunosuke’s bicep, holding it there as he tightens the strap. “Which is exactly why we spent those late nights trying to figure out the perfect answers,” he almost hums. Kazuma moves to fluff Ryunosuke’s cravat, then smoothes out the lapels of his coat. “Remember, it’s best to give a canned response…”
“The Goddess Hylia will hear our prayers,” they both say in unison.
Ryunosuke closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath. “Yes, I know that, but I just don’t…” His face falls into a pained frown before letting his head slump forward, landing on Kazuma’s shoulder. “I don’t want to do this,” he whines.
“I know, I know,” Kazuma laughs, a warm tickle against Ryunosuke’s ear. His hand rubs Ryunosuke’s back in gentle strokes. “But, don’t forget I’ll be there with you the entire time. If one of them dares to make a scene, they’ll have to deal with Karuma next.”
Ryunosuke groans. “Threatening them won’t help the situation…” he mutters into Kazuma’s shoulder.
Kazuma’s hand comes to rest at the dip in the small of Ryunosuke’s back. It settles there comfortably, like the space was carved there for the size of his palm. “Think of it less as threatening and more like a reminder that you’re a living, breathing person, not some effigy of the goddess where they can direct their vitriol to—and that you deserve to be treated with basic respect.”
Ryunosuke breathes in deep before turning his head, nuzzling into the curve between Kazuma’s chest and shoulder. “…Thanks, Kazuma.”
“Mhmm…”
When Ryunosuke and Kazuma step into the Throne Room, it’s already bustling with activity. The lower level is a writhing ocean of animal masks—a masquerade theme, though the masks do little to conceal any identities. Being disguised behind Ryunosuke’s own mouse mask does nothing to hide the golden ornamentations adorning him nor the fact that he sits on a seat next to the throne of the king, after all.
Who, of which, is missing—already mingling at the lower level, Ryunosuke supposes. Wonderful for him… Ryunosuke can’t seem to bring himself to find the same sense of levity.
It’s still quite early in the evening; the band hasn’t even fully set up their instruments yet. When it comes to the complexity of social posturing, he’s inexperienced, but one thing he’s picked up for certain is that only a single crowd arrives to a royal party with such promptness: those who are desperate. People comfortable in their place have no need for punctuality—they can come and mingle at their leisure later in the night—but someone eager for opportunity? Well, a few minutes where the crowd is at its sparsest might just be the exact moment it takes to garner attention from the King of Hyrule himself. Timing is just as important as the pitch, he knows that much.
And being able to catch the king while he’s taken a few early drinks—Ryunosuke scans the crowd and sees his father far off, gesticulating wildly with a drink in his hand—provides a crucial chance, indeed.
From here, in the absence of music, it’s like watching a sea of sharks sniffing for blood. It’s a celebration of his coming of age, but most of the attendees aren’t interested in him. No, these sorts of soirées are for more important things: learning the recent gossip, brokering business deals, fostering connections, finding potential romantic prospects. The few that hold any intrigue in him are the most dangerous of all—looking to him for their own personal gain, or, worse, looking for someone to blame for their own fears.
He at least can empathize with the latter to some degree, though it does little to make the venom sting less.
The motion below and the way the boisterous chatter echoes off the chamber walls leaves his mind a spinning mess, the ridge between his eyes throbbing. It’s a minute, ten, thirty—who knows? It’s long enough for the music to begin, anyway—as he watches the area fill. Somehow, in all his worrying, he’d forgotten just how boring these sorts of balls were. He wonders how Kazuma fairs through it all, staring at his back as he stands there in front of him, posture impeccably straight and disposition as stolid as a rock slab. The ears of his white and gold cat mask peek over the gelled slope of his hair.
His eyes wander to the massive banners suspended from the walls, watches how the scarlet, gold, and navy sway gently in the breeze. With a sigh, Ryunosuke tips his head back, closes his eyes. It comes with some relief, but it’s fleeting; he’s starting to feel the physical sensations of his stress now, too: a tickle against his brow, a tingling on his cheek, the feeling like someone’s watching him…
A shrill yell rips out of his throat when he opens his eyes to see two, green eyes staring back only an inch away, blonde feathers a ruffled mess in his periphery.
“Good Goddess, Your Highness!” Sholmes dramatically rears back from his perched position atop the backing of Ryunosuke’s chair. Ryunosuke clutches at his chest, heart pounding and face as white as a Cucco. “I was under the impression that this was a festive celebration, not a funeral!”
“Ch-Champion Sholmes!” Ryunosuke rasps out, air thin. “What on earth were you…?!” He looks at Iris standing in front of him—on the ground, like a normal person. She merely shrugs her shoulders, palms thrown up in the air. On her face sits a pink bear mask with sparkling rhinestones.
“Confirming your safety, of course!” Sholmes says as he hops down from the back of the chair. He wears a mask of a blue hare, with almost comically long ears sticking above his plumage. He has on a slick taupe-colored ensemble, decorated in intricate black patterning. “With your motionless, dour expression, I figured your trusty—yet distractible—knight must have slipped up and allowed a successful attempt on your life!” Ryunosuke can hear Kazuma growl out a protest, though his back is still turned to him as he converses with Susato. “I took it upon myself to check—it’s what a Champion does, after all.”
Ryunosuke slumps in his seat. He mumbles, “With how you scared me half to death earlier, a funeral might just still—”
Sholmes lifts up a wingtip to his forehead and flicks his hair feathers. “And, now I can confirm with modest certainty that you are, in fact, alive and well!”
“…Only modest certainty? I’m clearly still alive and speaking with you right now!”
“Yes, that is so, isn’t it?” Sholmes leans forward, wings spread as wide as his grin. “If I hadn’t jumped into action as swiftly as I did, then the outcome would have been quite more grim, indeed! No need to shower me with gratitude here; I have no qualms about waiting for a delivery of rupees at my lab’s doorstep—or even your finest made jewelry will suffice!” He throws his head back as he lets out a raucous laugh, clutching at his stomach.
Iris frowns at Sholmes before stepping forward. “Oh, Prince Runo!” she cheers then, clasping her hands in front of her. “You look wonderful in that mask! I’m so glad!”
Her sunlight melts the tension and irritation of her lab partner away. “Thank you again, Iris,” Ryunosuke says, bringing a finger to rest on the navy mouse mask, adorned with pipings of gold. “It’s beautifully constructed. I wouldn’t trust any other person with something as important as this, that’s for sure!” A smile, returned by an ever widening grin by Iris. “And your dress came out just as lovely. You look quite dashing!”
“Oh, thank you, heehee!” Iris does a twirl, the intricate lace and frills of her pink and cream dress spinning like a rose rolled between two fingers. Despite making the outfit herself, she looks just at home as the other nobles with their professionally crafted gowns. Is there nothing she can’t do?
Susato giggles behind a gloved hand as she separates from Kazuma’s side, teasing eyes only ever leaving him at the last possible moment. She bows when she gets to Ryunosuke. Her mask is a light cream with a subtle silver, floral design etched into it: a rabbit, with ears more proportionate than Sholmes’s. Her dress is also a frilly, tiered thing—a soft, pale pink embossed with subtle florals. “Good evening, Prince Ryunosuke. You are looking absolutely dapper tonight.”
“Thank you, Lady Susato. And you are looking as graceful as ever.” He hesitates before saying, “…Is Lady Rei not with you tonight? I was hoping she would be able to join us.”
Susato’s smile falters for the slightest millisecond before returning to composure. “Unfortunately, she couldn’t attend. Dr. Sithe has reached a breakthrough with their research and it’s all hands on deck to make as much progress as possible before Champion Watson joins you at Kakariko Village.”
It’s understandable, of course, the precedence of a scientific breakthrough that could help others, but Ryunosuke would be lying if he says he doesn’t feel disappointed by it. Susato always seems most cheerful whenever Rei is around, and if anyone should be able to make the most of a night like this one, he would want nothing more for it to be Susato after all she’s done for him—for everyone. She deserves a night of carefree fun every once and a while.
Ryunosuke nods. “I see. Well, I believe we should take it upon ourselves to engage in enough revelry to make up for her absence” He grins. “While she works hard enough to compensate for both our dallying tonight, yes?”
Susato raises a hand to her lips and tilts her head with a smile. “Indeed, I believe so, too.” When she drops her hand, something quick flashes in her expression—something barely there, transient in the way her eyebrows slightly knit. “I apologize for my bluntness on the matter, but I wanted to say that I recognize how difficult this event is for you, Prince Ryunosuke. I…wish you an uneventfully eventful night.” A smile then, of concern and compassion. It’s something she’s always been much too good at.
Ryunosuke gives his own shaky smile, gratitude and apprehension in equal measure making him unsteady. “…Thank you, Lady Susato. Truly.”
With another polite bow, she leaves, taking Sholmes and Iris with her down that long staircase into the undulating crowd below. She deserves tonight, undoubtedly. They all do, after how hard they’ve worked.
“Surprisingly, I think Champion Sholmes has a point,” Kazuma says as he looks over his shoulder. “Hiding up here all night will make the gossip worse, no doubt.”
“Yes, I know,” Ryunosuke relents with a sigh, clutching at the arms of the chair. He stands, legs unsteady. “…It’ll be a long night. I hoped to delay it just a bit more.”
“You can do it. I believe in you,” Kazuma whispers into Ryunosuke’s ear as he passes him, loud and clear over the swelling piano and violins. The back of Kazuma’s fingers brush over his knuckles. And somehow, just like that, Ryunosuke has the courage to descend the stairs.
Ryunosuke is only a couple steps into the lower level of the Throne Room when a hornet of a Hylian woman buzzes in, all furs and mustard-and-brown stripes and feathery hat, with an upper lip curled so sharp it could pierce through anything and a demanding presence to match. She wastes no time curtsying in front of him, with a “Your Royal Highness” greeting.
Ryunosuke smiles. “How do you do, Madam…?”
“Quinby Altamont, of Kolomo Town,” she says, chin lifted. “A pleasure, surely, but I have a matter that must be addressed with the utmost urgency.”
Ryunosuke feels his stomach constrict. Here it is. He knows all too well what follows: the question of whether he has unlocked the sealing powers (not about progress, no—merely the end result is all that ever matters), the beratement about how long it’s taken to achieve, the frustration taken out on him for being the reason they all will suffer—
“The evil spirit nonsense. Will it reach underground to affect my gas pipes?”
“The Godde—Huh? Sorry?”
Quinby takes out a large, ornate fan and waves it at her face. “While destruction on the surface is of course not ideal, installing the pipe infrastructure underground cost us quite a pretty rupee. We can weather the loss of repairing home lines, but—”
“I’m sorry,” Ryunosuke says, wide-eyed and off-kilter, “I don’t think I quite understand what it is you’re referring to…?”
“Gas, Your Highness, gas! It’s the fuel source of the future!” She snaps the fan shut. “Oh dear, Kolomo Town has been using our gas pipes for three years now—I’d forgotten that Castle Town is woefully behind the times… Imagine, for a moment, a world where you no longer have to lug around and wait for coal or wood to begin burning. Instead, you can have gas contained in pipes running through your entire house. No more waiting about stoking your hearth’s fire; in an instant, you can create a flame!”
Ryunosuke tries to not let his bewilderment show on his face, but he suspects it’s not a successful venture. The idea, admittedly, sounds intriguing and awfully convenient, yet…very flammable.
Her face remains utterly steely, never wavering from her business pitch. She taps her fan into her palm—tap, tap, tap. “You’re a smart, young, forward-thinking man. I can tell you see the value gas provides. Which is exactly why I need assurance that the Royal Family is seeing through that whatever this evil spirit is will not interfere with my family company’s gas pipes!”
“I…” That was her concern? Not the destruction Calamity Stronghart may wreak, not the suffering it may cause—no, only about the gas lines of her company? “Of, of course. We will make our best effort to neutralize the threat to our land. The Goddess Hylia will hear our prayers.”
She regards him with stinging calculation for a few moments under her bee mask, before reaching into her dress and procuring a small slip of paper from who knows where. “Please feel free to visit our town. We’d be honored to show you what the true power of gas can be. Thank you for your generous time.”
He turns the paper over in his hand: Altamont Gas Company, emblazoned with a bee motif. “Th-Thank you, Lady Altamont.”
Another curtsy from her and she’s back to bumbling into the dancing crowd. Ryunosuke shoots a confused look to Kazuma, who only shrugs back.
The rest of the evening follows a similar pattern, though some more predictable than others. He’d be approached by someone and engage in an uninspired waltz—a vessel for conversation rather than any sort of real entertainment. A lord seeking special deals from the Royal Family here; a lady expressing her concern in a tight-lipped, but polite way about Calamity Stronghart there; another noble expressing their concern in a not-so-polite suggestion about how he’s abetting the death and destruction of Hyrule by not acting quicker, though the language is carefully couched and considered. Another dance, another talk, another canned response. He’d take a goblet of wine, or two, or—
He blinks up at the waiter when he plucks the cup off the tray, arm still frozen mid-reach. Salt and pepper hair, round glasses, chameleon mask.
“…Hosonaga…?” Ryunosuke manages through the stunned silence. It’s the most unassuming of the disguises Ryunosuke’s seen so far—if he can even call it that.
Hosonaga smirks, leaning forward conspiratorially. He says, low, “Ah, I shouldn’t be surprised at all, Your Highness. Of course you’d be able to see right through my elaborate disguise!”
Is it all that elaborate? he thinks. Anyone could tell it was you!
“What are you doing here?” Ryunosuke asks, lifting a skeptical eyebrow. “And as a waiter, no less? Surely, there are more pressing matters to attend to as a detecti—”
Hosonaga quickly hisses out a sush, eyes darting about. The sound catches in his throat, sending him into a coughing fit. He wipes the blood that dribbles out of his mouth with his sleeve at once. “I’m undercover, you know.” Then, he straightens up, fiddling with the spacing between the goblets of alcohol on his tray, setting them back to before they were disturbed. “Besides, the Crown needed as much help as possible tonight. Naturally, I leapt at the chance to provide my support for the most important aspect of any party: making sure the guests are properly served sufficient food and drink!” He pushes his glasses up. “I strive to carry out all my roles flawlessly, after all, no matter what they are.”
Ryunosuke downs the wine and nods, returning the cup to the tray. “I see. Well, I won’t keep you, then. Thank you, Hosonaga. Keep up the great work as always.”
And with that, Hosonaga stalks off into the crowd, offering his drinks to the partygoers. Ryunosuke’s just about to find another waiter with the aforementioned appetizers when a gloved hand flashes in front of him, upturned.
A Gerudo man with a square jaw and slicked-back hair like a flame and kind-looking eyes behind a fennec fox mask bows in front of him, flashing a dazzling smile. “May I have this dance, Your Royal Highness?”
Despite being the one to offer his hand initially, the stranger is the one to lay his hand on Ryunosuke’s shoulder, allowing Ryunosuke to take the lead. They line up in formation with the others.
“Not that it’s surprising for the Royal Family, but it’s an extraordinary party…” the stranger says. “Castle Town seemed to be buzzing as well.” He laughs, light. “It’s my first time attending an event such as this at Hyrule Castle, so I do hope you’ll excuse me for feeling a bit starstruck.” A pause. “…And that you don’t think of me as being too forward when I say that you are looking quite dashing tonight.”
“Ah, uh…” Ryunosuke blinks. “Thank you. The, um, same goes for you.”
This is peculiar. Of course some small talk is to be expected, but considering how short the dances tend to be, normally, the guest will all but jump to introduce themself. It’s something that piques Ryunosuke’s attention—until he looks past the man and sees pink, shimmery scales; an elegant, almost floor’s length rippled aquamarine dress; a sea otter mask below a shining tiara. And the person being led onto the dancefloor: Kazuma.
The music begins, slow and rhythmic and controlled. And they’re off, tracing movements that have been rehearsed too often.
“Um, Your Highness?” the stranger asks.
It feels like it takes all the effort in his body to rip his eyes away from watching how Kazuma keeps his hand on Princess Rutipha’s back, how bright her smile is as she rests her hand in his.
“I—” It’s more a wheeze than a word. Ryunosuke has to pinch his eyes shut, shake his head. “I-I’m sorry, what?”
The stranger breathes out a laugh again, but it’s neither impatient nor annoyed, to Ryunosuke’s relief. “I was asking you if you could share how you deal with it all, if it isn’t too personal a question… The birthright destiny, the prophecy, the pilgrimages—it sounds awfully difficult.”
Ryunosuke’s eyes drift again, but he’s able to reign them in when he spins out of his eyeline of Kazuma. The focus, on the other hand, is spotty, blurred. Just as foggy as his mind is; he can barely think over the roar in his ears. All the turning involved in the dance doesn’t help, either. His mouth opens, then closes just as quickly. He can’t even process the question.
No, no, he has an answer for this. It was a line of inquiry Kazuma suggested to rehearse during their late night preparations. Ryunosuke wasn’t convinced at first; it would be highly unusual for anyone to ask a question of him that direct—of his personal opinion or feelings on a matter.
But, it’s also highly unusual that someone would ask an on-duty member of the Royal Guard to dance with them.
“…You’re correct, it is difficult,” Ryunosuke says, though the words feel like sandpaper against his tongue. “But, I’d do anything to protect Hyrule. I just have to—”
“—take it one step at a time,” Kazuma’s voice echoes in his head, overlapping with Ryunosuke’s own words.
The stranger nods. “I suppose that’s the best anyone could do, given the circumstances.” A pause, uncertain. “…Thank you for indulging me.”
The stranger arches his head when they turn again. “…You and the Hylian Champion are quite close, aren’t you?” The stranger asks.
It causes a little jolt down Ryunosuke’s back. “Wha—What?”
“You seem…distracted.” He inclines his head towards Kazuma with a slight smile. “Oh! I, I’m not offended in the slightest—I mean, it’s hard to feel insulted that the Prince of Hyrule cares more about the Hylian Champion than little ol’ me!”
Ryunosuke’s shoulders slump. “I’m so sorry. It’s beyond rude—unexceptable, really. You’ve been nothing but gracious. The most out of anyone else I’ve met tonight by far and yet, I…”
The dance has been a disaster, and he knows it. Aimless, distracted, sloppy. He’s meant to lead—he was designated to lead—and he’s failing, once again. Why is the only thing he can focus on always the one option not presented to him?
But they look so commanding dancing together. She towers over him, but it’s like she almost leans towards him, a plant growing toward light. And Ryunosuke can’t quite see Kazuma’s expression from his angle, but she’s smiling—laughing. But—
Ryunosuke’s eyes snap back to the stranger in the fennec fox mask. “…I haven’t even asked your name after all this time, have I?” He twirls the stranger, on cue with the rest.
The man smiles when they reconvene. “My name is Koloju. I come from Birida Town.”
“Koloju… Birida Town…? You’re not the son of the councilwoman, are you?”
His smile grows. “I am, indeed.”
Ryunosuke extends his arm and lets the man spin out, before curling back in. Ryunosuke catches his hand from behind him. They step together into a full rotation, until both their arms come above their head and Koloju twirls Ryunosuke in turn.
And he can’t see it—the movement too involved to be looking anywhere else—but he wonders how Kazuma and Princess Rutipha managed with their height difference. Surely, since Kazuma is leading, it would make the motion—
“May I bother you with one final question, Your Highness?” Koloju asks, and Ryunosuke affirms. “All this talk of destiny has been on the forefront of my mind. I can’t help but wonder…if you were always destined to meet someone, how do you know that you genuinely enjoy their company, rather than it being some sort of cosmic obligation? You know—do I truly like this person, or have I been told I need to like this person and have convinced myself that it’s true?”
Ryunosuke makes a sputtering noise. His gaze flicks to Kazuma, then back to Koloju. “It, it is true! I care about Champion Kazuma, of course I do—he’s my most trusted friend… I, I wouldn’t be anywhere without him by my side through it all!” His heart is pounding in his ears; his cheeks are burning flame. “Mere destiny never could’ve devised that!”
A flash of embarrassment and bewilderment twists Koloju’s face at once. “S-Sorry, I didn’t mean to insinuate anything otherwise! Forgive me, it was merely a hypothetical question… Though, I see now, one that was inappropriate…”
Shame floods Ryunosuke like diving headfirst into the Goron Hot Springs. It’s a disaster, all of it. “I, I apologize,” he tries to explain with a panic. “It’s not your fault. I simply misunderstood the intention—” His mouth clamps shut. “…I’m sorry.”
The music reaches a crescendo—swelling, swelling as the violins pick up. The abashed flush on Koloju’s face. Kazuma’s hand holding hers. Princess Rutipha bending over to whisper something in his ear. Kazuma, Kazuma—
“How can you not be afraid of it—destiny, that is?” Ryunosuke had asked, voice kept low. He had snuck a slice of Fruitcake into his room late after supper. A harmless secret, shared between only them with their thighs pressed together and each of their hands holding opposite sides of the plate—huddled in confidence, as if there was any risk of being disturbed.
“How does it make any difference?” Kazuma had answered, just as hushed. There’d been whipped cream left on the rim; Ryunosuke watched as Kazuma scraped it off with the pad of his thumb and popped it into his mouth. His lips had curled into a confident grin after. “You deal with the future the same way whether you know it beforehand or not: you make your own decisions as they come, just like always. I don’t believe for a second that our choices somehow don’t matter.”
The music ends in a rousing culmination, as Ryunosuke dips Koloju. “I’m sorry…” Ryunosuke murmurs again as they take their bows, rueful and filled with regret.
“Don’t be,” Koloju says with a depth of understanding that Ryunosuke doesn’t feel deserving of. It’s a quick motion, when he reaches for his hand and lifts his knuckles to his lips with another bow. He raises their hands like lifting a glass to toast and says, “Good luck. It was a pleasure.”
Ryunosuke nods slowly. “…Yes, likewise,” he says, throat tight, before slipping his hand out from Koloju’s grasp.
Not a moment to process it before his head swivels again, searching within the sea of moving bodies dispersing. Princess Rutipha is anything but inconspicuous, yet he strains to see her in the crowd. It’s like something skitters in his stomach as he feels his heart strain against his ribcage. Where? Where?!
Two strips of red fabric fly up from the night’s breeze—across the room, moving through the open archway towards one of the side balcony overlooks. Is it numb surprise or full-blown dread on his face when Ryunosuke sees Kazuma look over his shoulder? Kazuma had always teased him for wearing his emotions on his sleeve, after all. Teased—never admonished. Maybe then, that’s why when Kazuma meets Ryunosuke’s wide eyes, Kazuma’s face crumples in a way he’s never seen before. Especially not in public—not when all eyes are on him to be a bastion of strength and composure.
There’s a hand wrapped around his wrist. It’s only a split second until the archway eats him up completely.
Two heaving breaths before Ryunosuke can will his body to move, though each step feels like wading through sludge. And maybe it’s the chaos in his mind or maybe it’s some trick of the light or maybe it’s the alcohol finally catching up to him, but through the throng of people, standing in the shadow of nighttime spilling in from the exit below the thrones, he sees a cloaked man. Dark, pale, purple hair. An x-shaped scar peeking out from below a plum-colored cat mask.
The Reaper of the Yiga. Barok van Zieks.
“Hello?” Ryunosuke calls out. He doesn’t expect his voice to carry over the distance and the chatter of the crowd—it slips out before he realizes he utters it—but the man still turns. Piercing blue-gray eyes meet his and his blood runs cold. Ryunosuke begins to move forward. “‘S-‘Scuse me!” he yells a little louder.
Van Zieks takes a step back, before turning on his heel towards the entrance, his cloak whipping behind him.
“Wait!” Ryunosuke yells, shifting through the crowd. Grumbles erupt as he forces his way through the mass, but it does nothing to deter him.
What is he doing here?!
A magistrate, Kazuma had said. Highly decorated and feared by criminals. A reputation for underhanded means—but never any evidence to corroborate the claims. He’s high society enough to attend a celebration like this, but to have the audacity to do so after McGilded…?
When the shocking chill of the night air hits Ryunosuke’s face, he’s left stumbling alone. He tries to scan the dark pathways, but it’s nothing but shadows and low torchlight. Kazuma’s words ring in his head: “Wherever he goes, the Yiga are always close to follow.” He clutches at his arms as a shiver wracks through him. Another sweep of the perimeter. He counts the number of guards posted outside—tripled for the event.
“Hello,” he says as he walks up to one of the Royal Guard stationed next to the exit of the Sanctum.
“Y-Your Royal Highness! Sir!” The woman strikes a stiff posture, heels clicking together with a salute. She strains to avoid eye contact as her gaze flicks to Ryunosuke for one a second before quickly drawing away.
“Did you see a man just leave right before me? Where did he go?”
The woman’s lips twist. “Um, y-yes, sir! He left down the western path toward the front entrance, sir!”
Ryunosuke stares down that pathway. If Van Zieks is already gone from view, by the time he walks down there, he’ll already be long gone—whether it’s to the front entrance or not. Since the guards are still relatively relaxed and unconcerned, Van Zieks must have not alerted any suspicion—no running or questionable movement. And he was spotted in plain sight; there was no attempt to conceal himself or move covertly.
It’s curious, but…
“I see, thank you very much,” Ryunosuke says. “There’s no cause for alarm, but I request to please be on the lookout for any activity from the Yiga Clan. I…” The memory flashes in his head: Van Zieks stopping the Yiga member who attacked him. “…Have no reason to suspect any threat, but I think it’s good to stay vigilant during a large gathering like this.”
The woman nods. “Yes, of course…Y-Your Highness.”
“Thank you,” he says with a rigid smile. One final look at the dark parapets, before he turns and trudges back inside, head hanging as he traces the stone walkway.
It’s only the familiar tug he feels deep in his heart that gets him to finally lift his head and, in a second, there’s two hands wrapped around the crook of his arms and a warm breeze like stepping into home after a chilly evening walk and a face that’s too much like a beacon in the fog to be dimmed with the concern currently etched there
“Ryunosuke,” Kazuma breathes out, frazzled, “are you alright?”
Ryunosuke nods, slow. And the only thing he can say in response is the first thing that comes to mind: “Can, can we go outside?”
So they each grab a goblet of wine, then leave behind them the party and the chaos and the people that expect too much of them. When the harsh lights of the Sanctum leave way to inky torchlight, Ryunosuke reaches for Kazuma’s hand and tugs him ever so eagerly down the stairs, to the Gardens, behind the shroud of the overgrown wisteria tree. They toss their masks and Kazuma’s Royal Guard hat aside. Kazuma lights the lantern.
Silence hangs between them, but the whisper of music still reaches even here—light, not oppressive. It’s easy, like this. To sit there, half a world away from everyone else, finishing their drinks somewhere no one can disturb them. It’s easy—it is—but—
“...What was Princess Rutipha talking to you about?” Ryunosuke asks. The words pass through him like he’s a wind chime hung up with frayed string.
And he doesn’t want to look over—he doesn’t, he doesn’t—because there’s some inane, insecure part of him that fears if he looks over at him, he’ll see something on Kazuma’s face. Something that calls into question a fact that he’s never once doubted before, not for a second. Something that gives him pause, even now, even when they share that same easy closeness as always, legs and arms pressed against each other on this bench despite the extra room left on the seat.
They’ve never uttered it aloud before, but actions have always spoken louder than words. Of course they do—words spun with sugar are sweet, yet dissolve quickly on the tongue, but that steadfast loyalty, reaching far beyond anything that could ever be expected of either of their roles? No mere words could ever do enough justice to reaffirm a bond like choosing each other again and again, day after day.
Ryunosuke would recognize Kazuma by posture, by smell, by the way his heart beats in sync with his own. That pull, undeniable.
But the way Kazuma sighs out like it’s painful and how he dips his head forward while clutching that goblet makes Ryunosuke look over anyway. He watches how the lantern shadows bounce off the anguish that carves into Kazuma’s features. It’s the worst Ryunosuke’s ever felt to be reassured.
“…She offered me a handmade necklace,” Kazuma says, slow and unsteady. He rolls the goblet between his fingers. “…It’s a traditional gift given to establish your intent to court someone.”
Something inside Ryunosuke lurches and drops. So, it was true, then—that feeling of giddiness he was reading off her. Directed at Kazuma.
The worst part is that Ryunosuke can’t even begin to deny that it makes sense; the Princess of Zora’s Domain of course would search for a suitor in the most accomplished knight of Hyrule. Of course she would—it’d be irrational not to. Together, they’d build a coalition that would leave their land in a strong position, with Kazuma right at the helm beside her. And it makes sense she’d fall for Kazuma, after all, simply because it’s Kazuma. Who wouldn’t?
“O-Oh?” The words come out like broken glass underfoot and Ryunosuke winces at how his voice cracks. He blinks away the moisture that builds on his lashes. “And, and did you accept it?”
Kazuma doesn’t look at him. “Of course…”
Ryunosuke can’t take it; it’s too much. He turns his face away before Kazuma can notice the tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. The only thing that keeps him rooted to the bench instead of him rushing away is how weak his legs feel under him.
So, that’s it, then. He’d stay with him to complete his pilgrimage, that’s for certain. And perhaps, Kazuma and Princess Rutipha would make do with letters and occasional visits for some time while they’re apart. But, there would be a point where Kazuma would leave—where they’d get married, Goddess forbid—and he’d only get to see him maybe once or twice a year at best. What would he do, without him there to—
There’s a hollow thunk noise, followed immediately by sharp pain radiating from Ryunosuke’s forehead. “Ow!” Ryunosuke recoils.
“…Not,” Kazuma says, retracting his hand, post-flick. “I could never accept something like that, not when I—” He hesitates, just for a moment. “I have no interest in political marriages. Besides, I’m still your assigned knight; I’m loyal to you only.”
Some needy, embarrassing, utterly relieved noise peals out of Ryunosuke before he can contain it. “I, I see…” The pain is instantly smothered by the joy that floods him. He scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand—though, he can’t quite tell whether the tears are old or new.
Through his blurry vision, he sees Kazuma’s head titled, peering up at him from below. Faint, contrite: “Did you really…?” Kazuma purses his lips, knocks his knee lightly against Ryunosuke’s. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be cruel.” He feels the cold rush beside him when Kazuma gets up. Then, he feels Kazuma gently pull his left hand off from his face.
“Would you forgive me if I offered you this dance, Your Highness?” Ryunosuke’s mouth falls open when the scene clears in his vision: Kazuma’s down on one knee in front of him, Ryunosuke’s hand cradled in his. “…Ryunosuke?” Kazuma lifts his hand, brushes his lips against his knuckles. “…Partner?” The warmth seeps through his glove, saturating deep.
Ryunosuke can’t force himself to speak other than a weak noise scraping out from his throat; he merely nods, gaping at Kazuma as he stands up and draws Ryunosuke close to him. One hand intertwines with Ryunosuke’s own, the other slides across his waist, settling itself there. Perhaps, in the Sanctum, it would be seen as scandalous. Here, Ryunosuke can’t find it in himself to care.
It’s far from the only thing that would be seen as improper if behind castle walls: the proximity between them is much too close, and the way they slowly sway without following any set pattern would leave the Royal Dancing Master red in the face. The dances have their own role as a form of control, of course—you play the same, safe music; you keep a sterilized, polite distance between your partner; you always follow the steps.
To deviate is to disgrace, after all—to dishonor. Perhaps actually enjoying a slow dance is a silent rebellion itself.
It’s times like these when Ryunosuke feels like Kazuma’s courage has rubbed off on him the most. A year and a half ago, Ryunosuke would’ve never dared to think about leaving a royal party midway. And yet, here he is: not only secluded far enough away where the partygoers in the distance are but a background thought, but truly savoring every moment of it.
“Not quite the same as back in Snowfield Stable, is it?” Ryunosuke says through a grin. His eyes haven’t left Kazuma’s for a second.
“No,” Kazuma says, returning gaze as intense as always. “I don’t think anything ever will be, outside that stable. That’s part of the magic of that place, isn’t it?”
“You’re right. We should go back sometime…” And Ryunosuke doesn’t miss how Kazuma’s gaze dips, how it lingers there. He swallows; something flickers in Kazuma’s eyes like sparks off of flint.
“Mhmm,” Kazuma murmurs distractedly.
With a fluttering stomach, all Ryunosuke can do is rest his head on Kazuma’s shoulder. It doesn’t help how his pounding heart seems to echo off of Kazuma’s bones, but the way his warmth seeps into his skin is something he can never quite get enough of. Here, staring up at the blanket of stars above, he feels much less small—the unknown before him a place of possibility rather than fear. He sighs out, content, and settles closer into him. They sway and sway.
“…I’d follow you until the ends of the world, you know that, right?” Kazuma whispers into Ryunosuke’s ear, voice husky and full of longing. It reverberates through every part of him. “To every spring, to every stable…to every ridiculous food stall you somehow sniff out along the way, though we’d just eaten an hour prior.” Ryunosuke breathes out a laugh, and he can hear the way Kazuma’s smiling through his words. “Through every failure and every success—I will stand beside you, forever. No courtship proposal could ever threaten that, I swear to you. So, don’t ever worry.” Slow, resolute: “You already have all of me…partner.”
What makes his smile grow wider, Ryunosuke wonders: Kazuma’s declaration or the way he feels Kazuma’s heartbeat skitter faster under his palm? He merely laughs to himself, light and fond.
“It’s funny,” Ryunosuke murmurs, then, “how time works the way it does… I spent so, so long thinking you despised me”—Kazuma’s hand presses a bit tighter on his waist—“and now you’ve become such a permanent, irreplaceable presence in my life, I can’t even imagine that there was ever a time when I felt like my life would be better without you in it…
“And, and it’s not as though I take it for granted now, but it’s like how you never fully realize just how comfortable your own bed is until you have to stay in another. And once it’s gone, you truly notice that vacancy—just how much you really cherish it.”
“Ryunosuke…” The words like air.
Ryunosuke shifts, nuzzles his cheek deeper into Kazuma’s shoulder. He purses his lips together before he speaks: “It’s when it all clicked, I think—seeing you there with the princess, I mean. I… I think I’ve known for a while, deep down, but it finally all came rushing to the surface, crystal clear. I just simply—” He draws in a breath, steadying himself. “I realized I don’t ever want to regret not having done something I wanted to while I still had the chance.”
Ryunosuke feels Kazuma stiffen against him, feels the way he sucks in a breath and holds it deep inside his chest. “…Look at me?” Kazuma asks, then, the words hoarse.
Of course he does. They’re close—close enough for Ryunosuke to truly appreciate the way the moonlight spills slices of shimmering silver across the contours of Kazuma’s face. Close enough to watch the way his dark eyes seem to almost sparkle without the shroud of his loose bangs obscuring them, some heady mix of trepidation and expectation swirling deep within them. Close enough that Kazuma’s breath ghosts across Ryunosuke’s face when he lets out a stuttering exhale.
“…And what is it that you want to do?” Kazuma whispers, barely audible.
Ryunosuke slips his hand out from Kazuma’s now-gone-lax grasp, trails it up his arm, until it finds its way against Kazuma’s jaw, stroke featherlight. Kazuma’s breath hitches under his touch. “This,” Ryunosuke exhales out. He applies the slightest bit of pressure against his skin, gently tilting his face just so. He leans in, slowly, slowly. “…If you’d also want to…?”
Kazuma closes the short distance. It’s a clumsy affair, at first—when Ryunosuke’s nose smushes into Kazuma’s cheek, and they laugh against each other’s lips as their foreheads knock, grown uncoordinated with eagerness. Yet, they adapt like they always do, finding a rhythm their very own against the distant music. One step at a time.
But there’s the way that Kazuma’s hands snake around Ryunosuke’s waist: how he pulls him closer, closer, even when they’re already flush against each other, the urgency when he presses yet another kiss to Ryunosuke’s lips—that desperation there. As if he’d been yearning for this all night—for the last year, the last lifetime, the last ten and however many more lifetimes before that.
And it’s that same pull that makes Ryunosuke return in kind, running his fingers through Kazuma’s neatly gelled hair—surely mussing it up now. He sighs against Kazuma’s lips when he feels Kazuma shudder against him. Kazuma smells of cassis and lavender and a scent that is so wholly him; he tastes of sweetness and of alcohol and of a future so addictively ambrosial, Ryunosuke can’t see himself ever getting enough of it.
And that’s exactly why it’s so hard to stop himself from leaning back in for another kiss after they’re forced to remember to breathe, especially when Kazuma holds the side of his face like hands cupping the clearest water and his thumb skirts across his bottom lip and—
The clock tower bell tolls for the midnight hour and they both almost jump out of their skin. Ryunosuke’s lucky Kazuma is able to keep his wits about him enough to maintain his hold around his waist because—between his already racing heart and dizzy mind—he can barely stay standing on his own. Not to mention the way he can’t form a coherent thought over the pounding in his ears and the way his face burns like he’s standing right in the middle of the Gerudo Desert.
In the haze, he hears Kazuma snort, before descending into an ever-growing intensity of snickers that wrack his body. Kazuma drops his head into the nook of Ryunosuke’s neck, right in the space where his pauldron ends.
“Wha—What is it?” Ryunosuke asks, and he can’t suppress the laughter of his own that bubbles up in response. Shock from the clock tower subsiding, his own giddy joy finds its way back to the surface on its own.
“I was just—” Kazuma manages through peals of laughter. It tickles—his breath against Ryunosuke’s skin. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”
Ryunosuke’s eyes grow wide. “What?” The grin on his face is starting to hurt. “…Since, since when?”
“I don’t know,” Kazuma laughs out. He shifts, wounds his arms tighter around Ryunosuke. His face feels scorching against his neck. “I don’t think there was a singular moment, but would you think of me as ridiculous to say I began to feel fond of you since our first meeting?”
“Wha—Sorry?” Ryunosuke’s flailing now; he slides his hands resting on Kazuma’s chest up towards his shoulders, just so he can ball the fabric between his fists and ensure he won’t topple over. He remembers that day—the apprehension, the envy, the misunderstandings of it all. Embarrassment and horror now, for how unfairly he treated Kazuma when he was still too wrapped up in his own feelings of self-loathing and doubt. He hopes the way his face flares even hotter in shame doesn’t creep down his neck for Kazuma to feel. “Wh-Why?!”
Kazuma hums to himself for a moment, perhaps putting it to words for the first time himself. “Because it was one of the darkest periods of my life and despite everyone in Hateno swearing the Royal Family was made up of only humorless, out of touch elites, there was the Prince of Hyrule rattling off a bunch of nonsense phrases faster than I’d heard anyone ever speak before right in front of me, like a man possessed. And it was the first time I laughed in weeks.” He nuzzles his face deeper into Ryunosuke’s neck. “You so thoroughly disarmed me… Everything was so overwhelming, but just for that ephemeral moment, it felt like things might just be bearable—that I was transported back to before everything crumbled and I could just forget about it all for a short while. I suppose it just grew from there, dormant as it may have been until we met again.”
“I, I see…” Ryunosuke murmurs. Dread drops his stomach with the realization, fully forming in his consciousness. “K-Kazuma…?!” His hands are shaking now, tight fists clutching to Kazuma’s collar like a lifeline. His voice is scraped hollow with horror: “Oh Goddess, I really thought you hated me that entire time…!”
Kazuma barks out a loud laugh. He draws his head back, so Ryunosuke can see all of him under the beauty of the moon. And he looks back at Ryunosuke with such profound, attentive fondness in his eyes, it’s almost as if he encompasses the entirety of his vision. The terror quickly begins to melt away; comfort fills the empty space left. “Well, I suppose we can put that question to rest once and for all at this point, don’t you agree?”
Ryunosuke sighs out a shaky, “Yes…” Gives him another bashful smile.
Kazuma pauses, continues to search for something in Ryunosuke’s eyes. He seems to find it when he finally says, “I love you.” So easy, so casual. So undeniably true, it’s as self-evident as the sky being blue on a clear summer’s day.
Something wells up inside Ryunosuke’s chest, massive and jittery and all-encompassing. Something warm—homey, even. His right hand slides across the back of Kazuma’s neck, fingers threading through the little hairs at his nape. Gratefulness, maybe, or relief. Or perhaps something straightforward: complete and utter adoration.
So, it’s of no surprise when Ryunosuke’s response is just as effortless: “I love you, too.”
Kazuma’s eyes crinkle before he kisses Ryunosuke again. It’s slow, languid, drawn-out—like only they exist in this world at this very moment, with no sense of duty or prophecy or expectation on their heels. Just them: a beacon of warmth amongst the October chill, rooted in place.
“W-Wait, wait!” Ryunosuke laughs out after, pressing gloved fingertips to Kazuma’s lips when he attempts to continue further. They rest their foreheads together, breath intermingling within the inch left between them. “We should”—he laughs again, unbidden—“it’s gotten late, we should get back before someone notices we’ve been gone.” He pulls away, despite how much effort the action takes, a little dizzy and a lot reluctant. “Though, perhaps we need a bit more time before we’re presentable…” He motions his hand towards Kazuma’s face—blown out pupils and reddened face and disheveled hair plenty evidence of their actions.
“Yes,” Kazuma sighs out, tilting his head with closed eyes and a mouth screwed in an almost childish pout, petulant, “I suppose you’re right…” Then, he steals another mischievous look before pressing a final, quick peck to Ryunosuke’s cheek. He turns on his heel, snatching his mask and hat up from where they had tossed them away earlier. He passes Ryunosuke’s mask to him, then secures his own headgear. “Let’s go, then, shall we?” Sly eyes gleaming through a cat mask.
Ryunosuke nods, adjusts the mouse mask to once again cover half his face. He slips his hand into Kazuma’s and pulls gently, ushering him to join him at his side. Golden light flickers there on the backs of their hands, past the fabric of their gloves—an outline of three stacked triangles. With a smile: “Perhaps a long walk is just the cover we need, then… Are you still willing to follow me?”
Kazuma grins, squeezes his hand. “Of course. Always, partner.”
Notes:
Ohhh we've come so far since the days of Ryunosuke thinking Kazuma hated him!
The kiss chapter coming on the week of the 10th anniversary of the first game too is such a wild coincidence 😭 If you've seen some of my older fics I do headcanon Ryunosuke as being demiromantic/sexual and Kazuma as being grayromantic/sexual, so I never wanted there to be one Big Confession MomentTM—instead, I wanted to really focus on the slow burn build up of them becoming closer until we got to the easy and casual way they're so supportive of and affectionate with each other like we see in canon, with this being the ultimate culmination of their relationship. To have it less of a sudden realization, but a slow, mutual understanding of the depth of their feelings and acting on what feels right until they're both ready to take that next step forward.
Their masks are obviously based on their canon
fursonasanimal mascots, with Kazuma's specifically being inspired by the concept art of the mask he wears as the Masked Apprentice with the cat ears. Also his gelled-back hair is from another concept art on that same page of the art book.We may have not gotten tgaa3 for the 10th anniversary
yet, but canon lore talking kitchen appliances (I'm hearing something about Kazuma and corn?) must suffice right?? If not, maybe this can help fill the void just a little :)
Chapter 20: Bonds
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
I’ll be the first to admit, when it comes to matters of the heart, I’m severely lacking in sensibility. I’ve seen the depictions in plays, I’ve read plenty in the stories Kazuma has lent me, and yet there’s always been a disconnect. These narratives—always depicting romantic love as an all-encompassing force that can single-handedly save the world. And, furthermore, something that every person yearns for the most out of life. And yet, I had never experienced anything resembling it all these years.
Granted, it’s not as though there’s been much chance for me to foster something like that, living in Hyrule Castle. But, the ease at which the stories and even the people around the castle spoke of infatuations forming made it seem like it would be a common occurrence—you see someone and you just know, as your heart skips a beat. Sudden, immediate, overwhelming. The feeling evaded me.
What was described was nothing like how it felt with Kazuma, not really. It wasn’t a sudden realization at all—one day I feared him and then before I knew it, time passed and it was as though I'd known him my entire life. Gradual, sneaky. And more than anything, it feels so comforting, so very simple. No story ever explained just how soothing it all feels, simply just to have him there by my side.
That’s not to say it isn’t exhilarating, navigating through this all. It’s quite embarrassing to commit this to writing, but I can’t deny there comes a certain thrill from stealing kisses around the castle, ducking into passageways after making sure no one else is around… That’s more in line with the stories, I suppose; maybe I do understand them a bit more…
Anyway, perhaps the power of my love for Kazuma can’t save the world (wouldn’t that be nice if it could? It would make it all so much easier), but I don’t believe it matters. I trust him more than anyone. He’s my best friend, my partner, my pride and joy. That’s enough.
Staring at the large family portrait that hangs within Hyrule Castle is like looking directly into the jaws of a beast. It’s always bothered Ryunosuke how this is the closest physical depiction of his mother he’s had growing up—stiff and stone-faced while sitting for the painting. He’s three in this, sat on her lap, and looks just as forlorn; he always wondered how much of a fuss he must’ve put up before even getting to that point.
It’s an empty feeling, viewing the portrait. He’s long since made peace with her death, but the discernable strokes of paint fill him with unease, still. How much is true behind artistic interpretation? He hopes she didn’t always look like this. His thumb sweeps over his arm guard. Goddess, he hopes he didn’t contribute to it.
“Ryunosuke,” a deep voice jolts him out of his thoughts and he has to stifle a yelp.
He spins around, heart sinking. “H-Hello, Father.”
The King of Hyrule stands before him, face as impassive as ever. The eternal scowl he wears is the exact same as in the portrait, even when the lines on his face carve deeper now, even when his hair is streaked thicker with white. “I had…” He pauses, eyes drifting down for a beat. “Hoped to find you before your departure tomorrow. You have been quite elusive.” A climb in pitch there at the end; if Ryunosuke didn’t know better, he’d almost mistake it for a laugh. “I wished to speak with you.”
What is this? Brambles sprout in his stomach, sharp barbs piercing him from within. He has no idea what the king would possibly want to say to him. He realizes easily that he has little interest in finding out, either. He nods stiffly in response.
King Naruhodo’s gaze lifts past Ryunosuke, up to the portrait. Something flickers there—falters. “It’s a wonder just how swiftly time passes… How cruel it is, is it not?” A contemplative sadness in his eyes, a dourness in his tone. The question lingers in the thick of the tension. “You’re no longer that small boy… A grown man, now—fully recognized by the goddess, quite soon, too. Though, still just as wide-eyed.”
The king’s face twists: a rueful smile. “Yes, I wish your mother was still here to see it…”
Ryunosuke sucks in a sharp breath. His heart skitters frantically in his rib cage. He was meant to quickly retrieve something from his chambers and meet with Kazuma outside right afterwards, not deal with this—whatever this is. He grabs at his wrist, over his arm guard, just to stop his arm from shaking.
“She always had such fanciful dreams of climbing that mountain, though I could never begin to understand why. It never came to pass, obviously. I believe she would have been delighted to see you undertake the pilgrimage.”
Ryunosuke swallows down the discomfort. What does he say to that? He still can’t catch a foothold in this conversation—can’t understand what the point he’s getting to. Casual conversation, reminiscing of the past with wistful laughs? The king never did this with him, not once.
King Naruhodo clears his throat. “Anyway, that’s enough distractions from the past. As I mentioned earlier, I have found it prudent that I voice this to you before you leave…” It’s subtle, but Ryunosuke notices the way the king’s brows draw together ever so slightly—so, he’s feeling just as awkward as Ryunosuke does after all. “Make no mistake, I have seen the turmoil in your heart lately. And though I am loath to admit it, I realize that I have contributed to it.”
The king’s gaze drops to the lush rugs. “After our…argument…the year prior, I believe it’s plain to see the disquiet you hold within you. The pain you’ve experienced. There is little doubt that this has played a part in impeding your progress with unlocking your sealing powers, as well.” He draws in a breath when his staid eyes meet Ryunosuke’s. “And to that end, that is exactly why I must say that I…” He hesitates, then, voice crumbling just enough to be perceptible.
Ryunosuke’s eyes grow wide, his mouth falling open. Is that what this all is? An apology? After everything he’s done—after all the years of pressure imposed on him and the accusations and the criticisms and the belittling thrown his way—he’s finally, finally going to acknowledge his abuse and take steps to make amends? To admit he was wrong? It’s something Ryunosuke never thought he’d hear—never allowed himself to hope to hear—and yet here the king is, remorse in his features and body language.
Ryunosuke has to clench his jaw tight to stop from tearing up. His heart thuds like a drum.
“…I forgive you,” the king says.
Something falls through Ryunosuke, breaks against the stone floor under his feet in an instant. “…Sorry?”
“I see now that nothing good can come from holding such malignant tension within yourself. Regret can be a terrible burden—one which you must learn to let go.” King Naruhodo shakes his head. “Despite whatever has transpired, you are still my son. And you find yourself a year older now, even. The Guardians have been a worthwhile contribution, but I am hopeful that you have found the true wisdom to agree that your sealing powers are of the highest priority, as I’ve stressed since you were but a child. I cannot—and should not—hold you to past squabbles. So, for that, I forgive you.”
There’s nothing Ryunosuke can do but allow the numbness to freeze him in place. He hears static in his ears. Scooped out hollow, he stares, dumbstruck, at the King of Hyrule. Why did he ever think—?
The king merely nods, seemingly satisfied. “That is all I wanted to say. I’m pleased to settle this lingering matter with finality.” He approaches Ryunosuke, then claps him on the shoulder; Ryunosuke feels like a bell being rung. “Do well for the Goddess Hylia up there. Bring honor to the Naruhodo name and peace to the kingdom. We all are counting on you.” A beat, then: “…Keep your posture.”
Ryunosuke straightens.
The discordant sound screeches in his ears—it echoes, it echoes. The world seems to shrink to a mere line of brightness in front of him. The heaving breaths come fast, shrill and thin, never quite filling his lungs. After all the evidence he’s gained, how utterly foolish could he have—
He watches the blur of the king walk away and turn the corner, and it’s like the room tips. The pain that shoots from his knees when he collapses to the ground is barely noticeable over the way the world pitches around him, leaving his head light. Hot tears prick the edges of his eyes, until everything in his vision is clouded over.
How could he be so stupid?
Two things hit Ryunosuke the second he steps onto the second floor of Sholmes’s lab: the waves of warmth coming off the hearth, and the heavenly waft of intermingling sweet and savory notes in the air. It’s so overpowering, he has to keep from drooling all over himself.
And it’s a marvel when he shucks off his coat and gets a glimpse of the spread sitting on the dinner table, already filled enough with various salads and sides that could act as an entire meal by themselves. Kazuma has to physically steer him towards the kitchen just so he doesn’t lose focus and immediately beeline towards grabbing a roll out of the basket.
They’re greeted by familiar welcomes and bright smiles and spilling laughter. Susato, ever punctilious, perfectly juggling putting the finishing touches on five different dishes like a conductor in an orchestra. Sholmes, trying to sneak in a quick taste of a piece of meat left on the cutting board to rest. Iris, swatting his wing away with the austereness of someone four times her age. Darumy and Eggy skitter across the dining room floor.
Remaining duties are allocated: Kazuma’s welcomed into the threshold of the cooking area with ease, guided to a pot of potatoes that need to be strained and mashed; Ryunosuke’s met with Susato looking askance at him as she hoists up a steaming pot filled with Salt-Grilled Greens, until finally, she motions to the silverware that still needs to be set.
“I can’t express how absolutely incredible this all is, Lady Susato. You and Iris have outdone yourselves,” Ryunosuke says as he follows her to the table and begins to properly place the utensils down. “But, truly, doing all this for me… You really didn’t have to go through all the trouble.”
Susato sets the pot down in one of the few scant remaining open spaces on the table. “I mean no disrespect, Prince Ryunosuke, but I can’t help but worry that if your ego were to inflate your head any further, you would float right away like a hot air balloon.”
“Sorry?”
She smiles, something sly and teasing under the softened veneer. It peeks out from behind the fingers that conceal her lower face. “You forget that two others are accompanying you, yes? It’s as much of a big send-off for Champion Kazuma and Champion Sholmes as it is for you.”
“Ah,” Ryunosuke squeaks out, face growing hot. A fork slips out of his hand; it clangs against the wood, table cloth not thick enough to stifle the noise. “Y-Yes, well, I suppose that’s true…” It’s times like these—despite the embarrassment of it all—that always sneak up on him, coated in a sour-sweetness: how much more commonplace these ribbing comments are. How much less pressure there is when pretenses are dropped. He sets the silverware into straight lines. “…But, genuinely, thank you. Are you sure that you don’t want to come along? Travel alongside us to Kakariko Village?”
Susato shakes her head. “I already have prior obligations. Besides, I promised Father I’d help him watch Iris while Champion Sholmes is away.”
“Ah…” He spots, in his periphery, a metallic claw pawing blindly into the air. He cranes his neck to see Darumy sitting on one of the wooden chairs. “I wasn’t aware that Professor Mikotoba and Champion Sholmes were acquainted…?”
“Neither was I. Supposedly, Father feels indebted to Champion Sholmes due to an encounter from quite some time ago…” Susato shifts to follow his sightline and gasps.
Darumy has two claws on the corner of the table cloth; one is yanking higher, higher, like he’s trying to climb up it. But, it won’t work—of course it won’t work, only sliding the cloth and the contents upon it lurching forward when he pulls in another futile attempt to lift himself. Ryunosuke feels his blood run cold. All the food Susato and Iris prepared, all the effort, all the love—all for it to go to waste? No, he can’t possibly let that happen—
“Hold it!” Ryunosuke extends an accusatory finger towards the diminutive Guardian. “Stop!”
Darumy freezes immediately, grip releasing from the cloth. Its sapphire eye dims as is sinks backwards into the chair. Ryunosuke breathes a deep sigh of relief as he gathers the Guardian into his arms and sets him down onto the floor, away from the table.
Ryunosuke says, “I guess it is true that Champion Sholmes has made a name for himself in many pl—” When he turns, he’s met with the cutting eyes of Susato, hardened, with brows drawn tight. “Wh-What is it?”
“How did you do that, Prince Ryunosuke?” she asks.
He blinks. “Do…what…?” A look down at Darumy, whose eye flickers bright blue before chittering and shaking a shiver down the length of him like a dog. The robot seems confused for a moment about his surroundings, before looking up at Ryunosuke and making a beep at him in such a vitriolic tone, he can only describe him as acting frustrated in some way. “I, uh, merely told him to stop and he did…?”
Susato’s face softens, dropping into a troubled frown. She quickly shakes her head. “Forgive me. Perhaps I’m feeling a bit more tired than I realized; I must’ve been seeing things.”
Ryunosuke ignores the metal banging against his shin and the frantic chirping. “Please take care of yourself, Lady Susato. I wouldn’t want you to go and overexert yourself over all this.”
But, in ordinary Susato fashion, she merely nods and utters a “Thank you,” before returning back to the kitchen.
It’s not long until the main dishes are brought out to the table. Roasted Cucco, grilled fish, pumpkin soup, mashed potatoes and gravy—all of it piping hot and just as delicious as it smells. Alongside all the sides already laid out on the table, it’s almost too much to handle for a single meal. Ryunosuke barely has enough space in his stomach to fit in Iris’s special Fruit Pie, topped with a massive scoop of rich and creamy peach ice cream.
When Ryunosuke all but collapses into the settee, Sholmes has already begun bowing away at his trusty violin to create a melody so enchantingly rhythmic, he fears he may drift away right to sleep if he’s not careful. That particular worry is short-lived, however—replaced with another entirely when he notices Iris fidgeting about, expression uncharacteristically glum.
“…Iris?” he asks. “Is something the matter?”
Her eyes lift in surprise, wide aqua like swirling oceans. “Oh… Well…” she mumbles. Her hands twist and wring within each other. “…Prince Runo?”
“Yes?”
“Promise me that you and Kazzy’ll be safe on Mount Lanayru?” A trembling lip.
And Ryunosuke’s heart fractures. For all her genius, it’s eclipsed by the size of her compassion. A child of her age shouldn’t need to be concerned about such things.
“Of course, Iris,” Ryunosuke coaxes and he pats the cushion next to him. Slowly, Iris moves to sit beside him. “You needn’t worry about us; we’ll be just fine. What brought this on?”
Iris worries her lip. “I feel…uneasy whenever I look at that mountain. You can never see into it; it’s always covered by some thick storm around it. Hurley can’t even get close to fly in!”
Ryunosuke frowns. “Yes, I believe it’s shrouded in strong magic… The only entrance is through Lanayru Road and the Naydra Snowfield, and you must be of age or else you’ll be denied passage. Are you worried we won’t be let in?”
Iris shakes her head vigorously. “That’s not it. I… I had a dream recently. About the dragon that’s said to guard the mountain…” She lets her head droop down as she clutches her skirt between her small fists. She says in a low voice, “It got angry and conjured up a nasty storm, and then both you and Kazzy got trapped under the snow…” Then, she lifts her head, wide eyes filled with a swirling mix of fear and wild determination. “But, Darumy was there to melt a way out with his laser and you all escaped! So, please, you’ll take Darumy with you in Slatey just in case, won’t you?”
Ryunosuke sighs, a smile forming on his lips. “If it’ll ease your mind, of course I’ll bring him with us.” Iris brightens to this immediately. “But, there’s really no need to worry about us. We’ll be fine, I swear to you.” He holds out a pinky. “So promise me that you won’t burden yourself with fretting over us while we’re gone, alright? I couldn’t bear the thought.”
Iris wraps her pinky around his without a second thought. “Y-Yes! And I’ll have a brand new special blend of tea waiting for you all when you return!” Her eyes shine; her smile dazzles. And after she draws in a deep breath, she wraps her arms around Ryunosuke’s torso and squeezes tight.
He hugs her back. “I’ll be looking forward to it,” he murmurs through a smile so wide, it aches his cheeks.
When she pulls back, she looks up at him with newfound resolve. “Right!” she cheers, hopping up off the couch and clasping her hands in front of her. “I must find Susie now!” And she’s bounding back into the kitchen area as the music guides her off, undoubtedly to pull Susato away from whatever compulsive work she’s decided is necessary at the moment.
With another contented sigh, he sinks back into the settee. It’s not long before he feels a sudden warm breeze at his side and he’s not surprised at all to find that it’s Kazuma who flops down next to him, arm slung over his shoulders.
“I’m surprised to see you still lucid. I would’ve bet 100 rupees on you having fallen into a food coma by now with how much you ate tonight,” Kazuma drawls. He leans in and his grin is full of mischief. Softer in volume, but more sharp in tone: “Don’t worry, you can always lean against me if you can’t sit anymore.”
“Haah…” Ryunosuke grits his teeth. “You’re one to talk; you ate just as much as I did!”
“Is that so? I distinctly remember seeing you go back for seconds after devouring a full plate!”
Ryunosuke huffs, drawing his head back, but never breaking eye contact. “I think that’s rich coming from the man who got an entire plate of Glazed Beef especially made for himself—”
“—Which you stole off of, might I add.” And, oh, Kazuma’s grin is wicked now—filled with self-satisfaction.
“—And you didn’t object to…?”
That gets Kazuma to clamp his mouth shut, cheeks dusted in a lovely pink that Ryunosuke can’t help but find himself marveling at. It doesn’t do much to temper his own pride at drawing that out of him so easily.
“Iris spoils you too much, you know that?” Ryunosuke teases.
“Perhaps,” Kazuma recovers, “but who did she go out of her way to procure out-of-season fruit for, just because it’s his favorite of her desserts?”
Ryunosuke breathes out a laugh. “Yes, well…”
And Ryunosuke watches the scene in front of him: Sholmes swaying wildly as he plays his violin; Iris and Susato, hand in hand, dancing along in front of a crackling fire; Darumy and Eggy hopping about, just as jubilant. He sinks into Kazuma’s side, rests his head there against the reliable slope of his shoulder, feels Kazuma lay his own head against his in response.
It’s times like these he will never forget—the moments that have etched so deeply in his memory that even in the darkest, murkiest times, he’ll still be able to trace by feeling alone. Here, at Sholmes’s lab, air warm and fragrant from floral teas, surrounded by laughter. Here, where he never has to fear his place or his worth or what confines destiny has laid out for him.
No matter what‘s to follow, they’ll always be the guiding light that will bring him back to clarity.
The greatest family in the world, standing steadfastly behind him.
Wilson coughs into a handkerchief. “…Now, I don’t wish to be the one to address the elephant in the room,” he says, “but we’ve failed to pose the question of what we’re to do if the prince fails to awaken his sealing powers tomorrow, seeing as it’s his last attempt, by most measures.”
Ryunosuke and the Champions are seated around a table in a quaint room within Kakariko Village—a private offshoot of the Village Elder’s residence. Much like the village proper, it's quiet here, only the background babble of the small streams that wind through the town and the fluttering wind chimes a reminder of life outside the enclosed space. The air smells of green tea.
Ursavra clicks her tongue. “And who’s deciding that, exactly? It comes as a surprise; as a doctor, I would think you should know better than to give up on a patient until you’ve exhausted all options.”
“Yes, that’s quite true.” Wilson sighs. “However, we must exhibit a level of judiciousness to also know when to call the time of death. There’s no use resuming compressions for a body that will never draw breath again.” A shiver runs down Ryunosuke’s spine; Ursavra leans back in her chair in a huff, nails agitatedly tapping at her golden bracer. Wilson waves a hand in the air dismissively. “From my understanding, he has visited all the remaining sacred springs and has little progress to show for it. If tomorrow is a wash, are we not left with relying on little more than mere luck, considering the holy sites failed to act as the expected triggers?” He clears his throat.
In actuality, Ryunosuke is more surprised by the fact it took this long for the question to be brought up between them. It’s only been a little over two hours or so since the last of the remaining Champions filtered into the village, but after discussing tomorrow’s plans, it seemed like the natural line of questioning to follow.
Ryunosuke bunches his jacket in his fists. “Be as it may,” he says, “that’s precisely why we have taken countermeasures to account for that possibility. I’m confident that the spellcasters we’ve dispatched from the sacred temples will act as suitable replacements, if the need be.”
“Yes, I’ve no doubt of their magical abilities,” Wilson says after taking a long sip of his tea. “However—and I mean no disrespect, Your Highness—I can’t help but be concerned about the scale we’re talking about here. Calamity Stronghart is no ordinary monster or evil spirit; this is a malicious entity that threatened to raze the kingdom once before, presumably with the possession of the Triforce of Power! I’m sure they’re formidable at sealing away Moblins or what have you, but are we truly sure these spellcasters are up to snuff?”
Jigoku strokes his beard. “I’m inclined to agree. Those brought to Goron City struggle enough just with the climate. It doesn’t exactly instill confidence in their constitutions.”
A bit late with bringing up these complaints, isn’t it? Ryunosuke sinks back in his seat, lips mashing together. He feels a boot bump his foot under the table and stay locked against his. He glances over to Kazuma, who’s shooting him back a look of reassurance. Kazuma gives him a small nod.
“May I?” Sholmes speaks up, then.
“No,” comes a chorus of groaning voices. The Rito had been blathering up a storm since they arrived—the entire time since they set off from Castle Town, in Ryunosuke and Kazuma’s case; Ryunosuke belatedly realizes that it’s been far too quiet until now.
Sholmes throws his head back and squawks out a laugh. “Now, now, your hospitality is overwhelming, my dear fellows!” The rejection does little to deter him, for he continues on without missing a step, face becoming uncharacteristically staid. “I thought I’d interject, seeing as I helped orchestrate the gathering of the spellcasters, after all. While your concerns are quite valid, I would advise to not underestimate these mages. I can assure you all that they’ve gone through proper vetting of their abilities.”
Sholmes lifts a wingtip to his forehead and closes his eyes in contemplation. He continues, “Furthermore, as a fellow scholar of science, Champion Wilson, you should be all too aware that we change our approaches when new information is made available to us. We may have insufficient information regarding the strength of Calamity Stronghart now, but utilizing the amount of spellcasters we’ve gathered will no doubt make things that much more difficult for it, no matter its strength. Once we get a better estimate, we’ll adapt as necessary.”
“I wish you all would cease your references to my profession in such a manner…” Wilson mumbles into the rim of his cup before taking another drink. “Well, Champion Sholmes, for all our sakes, I hope your confidence in them doesn’t prove to be unfounded.” He scrapes a hand across the top of his head, brows knit. “However, I can’t ignore the fact that the inhabitants of Zora’s Domain are concerned about all this. In fact, there’s skepticism about this whole charade we’re currently in: what is the point of bringing all of us Champions out here merely to see off the prince, other than King Naruhodo trying to save face and convince the masses that he has a plan?”
“It’s important because it’s the coming of age ceremony for the prince,” Ursavra says, frustration drenched in her tone. “Being allowed entrance into Mount Lanayru in itself warrants celebration, no matter the extenuating circumstances surrounding it.” She curls her lip, biting back a snarl as she continues, “In Gerudo Town, we understand the significance of supporting one another for important moments such as these. I take it that this isn’t a concept unique to us, yes?”
Wilson merely grumbles to himself and he suppresses another cough.
A ghost of a smirk crosses Ursavra’s face before it’s ground into a resolute frown. “All this discussion is missing a key point, however.” Her grip tightens around her crossed arms. “We’re assuming that Prince Ryunosuke will be unsuccessful tomorrow. We are called ‘champions,’ and yet, we’re already laying down our weapons before the battle has even begun? It’s pitiful. At the very least, we should keep faith in the prince and reserve our judgment until after he’s returned from the spring before meekly accepting defeat.”
“The chief makes a most excellent point!” Sholmes chimes in.
Ryunosuke sighs out, lets the tension ease within him just a bit—at least there’s no immediate target on his back anymore. He watches how Wilson and Jigoku seem reluctant, but don’t seem to be poised to issue an objection.
“As, as I was saying before,” Ryunosuke speaks up, “while a vast majority of Guardians remain in Castle Town, we’ve been dispatching more to the various outposts and garrisons to support the knights stationed there. Of course, the few excavated Guardians within your areas remain as back-up to your own defense forces, and major towns where no Guardians were found have been given a small platoon to aid efforts—your governments should be handling those matters. This is exactly why I must reiterate that, once Calamity Stronghart reveals itself, it is of the highest priority to get to your Divine Beasts.”
Ryunosuke leans forward against the tabletop. He wraps his hands around the yunomi cup, trying to draw out the warmth from under his fingertips through the ceramic. “If need be, use the strength of the Divine Beasts to begin assisting the towns nearby, but as soon as your defense forces are stable enough to deal with the monster threats on their own, you must focus efforts on turning the lasers towards Calamity Stronghart.” He grips the cup tighter, his mouth setting in a firm line. “It’s of the utmost importance that we weaken it first with the Divine Beasts. Then, we can proceed with Champion Kazuma’s charg—”
The words catch in his throat. He knows, of course, that this was coming—he’s known from the very beginning, since Elder Impa began reading him the historic tomes as a child. One priest and one knight to face the blighted monster: using the power of the Sword that Seals the Darkness, the wielder of the Triforce of Courage will engage in battle with Calamity Stronghart until it’s sufficiently weakened, then the wielder of the Triforce of Wisdom will seal it away.
But, there was something always so fantastical about it all—surreal, intangible, abstract, above all else. Kazuma arrived at the castle with the sword already found—already attuned to him. There was no years-long expedition of disappointment and failure for him like it was with Ryunosuke’s powers, no constant reminders of just exactly where his path would lead him to in the end.
Ryunosuke knew, of course, but it takes voicing it for it to finally, truly sink in.
Kazuma’s going to have to fight Calamity Stronghart.
The breaths come labored, shaky. He can’t feel the tips of his fingers. He looks towards Kazuma. “You need to protect him…” The whisper is like a wisp in the wind, so quiet he doesn’t know if anyone else can even hear him.
Ryunosuke watches as Kazuma’s brows furrow, concern etched in every line of his face. He feels his boot rub against the side of his own.
“I believe what the prince means to say is,” Kazuma says with speed but not hastiness, breaking the silence he’d long committed to upholding this whole gathering, “for how powerful the Blade of Evil’s Bane is, she’s not infallible. As much as I wish I could defeat Calamity Stronghart on my own, your support with the Divine Beasts is paramount to us succeeding. Only after, can we bring in the spellcasters to perform the sealing rites.”
It’s like something slows around Ryunosuke, time grinding to a halt. Candlelight frames Kazuma’s face, plunging half into shadow. His brave Kazuma—unflappable even when speaking of battling an evil so destructive, it’s been forewarned for centuries. He knows him. Knows how his fears shape his behavior, as subtle as it may be; knows he’d never willingly voice them without putting up a fight. That’s why he knows Kazuma’s afraid at this very moment by the way his knuckles grow white, his hand wrapped around Karuma’s hilt under the cover of the table.
Cursed, the both of them.
“Indeed, indeed,” Sholmes says, and it’s like static at the back of Ryunosuke’s mind. “In case the fact has slipped your mind, any questions regarding the Divine Beasts may be directed towards me.” With a whirling flourish of his wing, he bows. His head swivels to his right when he straightens again. “Hm, how about you, Your Excellency? You were awfully quiet during that exchange, I must say.”
Jigoku grins, crossing his arms. “I believe it to be important to actively listen sometimes, rather than to always fill the silence with drivel.” Sholmes seems to smirk at this back. A moment passes, before Jigoku speaks up again, “But, now that you bring up the matter, I do have a question that’s pertinent to our discussion… What exactly is to happen if one of our Divine Beasts isn’t able to fire its laser?” He strokes his beard; his eyes narrow, in rapt concentration. “If the Calamity is expected to unleash hordes of monsters, it wouldn’t be too inconceivable of an idea that one of us may not be able to board without great delay, after all. What then?”
Sholmes brings a wingtip to his forehead and closes his eyes. “A good question, indeed. Now, the good doctor can attest to this surely, but a body tends to atrophy without proper use, yes?” Wilson replies in the affirmative. “Then”—Sholmes opens his eyes and flicks his hair feathers, holding up a pointing pose—“think of the weakened state an entity held under sealing magic for a whole ten-thousand years would be in? Mind, this isn’t to say we should be slacking towards getting into the Beasts, but I would figure we may be able to get by with one laser missing, if the worst comes to worst.”
Jigoku continues to stroke his beard. His face hardens then, darkening in expression. “And if two are missing?”
Sholmes lowers his wing slowly, straightening himself to face Jigoku head-on. “…Well, if two Champions are absent, we have bigger problems to worry about, now don’t we?”
Fingernails tapping against the wood in impatience. “Your defense forces should be trained to make your path towards the Divine Beasts the highest priority,” Ursavra says with commanding force. She shoots everyone at the table a fiery glare. “We’ll worry ourselves sick if we have to litigate every bad what-if here. Get to your station and fire at Calamity Stronghart. That’s it.”
Sholmes raises a wingtip and smiles. “Succinct and veracious! Now that we’ve gotten all this serious talk out of the way, how about I regale you all with a grand tale from one of my adventures?” Groans spread from across the table. “Have I told the story about the stowaway on a boat set to Eventide Island before? One may think it difficult to believe a Hylian man could possibly fit inside a suitcase, but I assure you that…”
Sholmes’s tale fades into the background of Ryunosuke’s thoughts. He can only maintain his focus on the man sitting beside him: Kazuma’s always pristine posture now hunched over like a wilting flower; his complexion gone pale, even against the harsh candlelight; the way his hand continues to tremble around Karuma.
Reality sinking in—deeper, deeper, before it threatens to swallow them both entirely.
“I was thinking…” Kazuma says, swiveling away from the writing desk in his seat, arm resting on the chair’s high back. The darkness of night stretches out from the window behind him, speckled by the flicker of paper lantern light in the distance.
“Oh?” Ryunosuke questions as he finishes hanging his coat on the rack. He inclines his neck; the crackling fire and many lit lamps cast the room in a warm glow, bathing Kazuma in a lovely orange hue. The air still lingers with the scent of smoke from the celebratory fireworks outside. “A dangerous notion… Should I be afraid?” A smile, roguish.
This catches Kazuma by surprise, because he scoffs out a small, startled laugh. He visibly recoils just a bit, incredulous, before shaking his head.
“No.” The smile can be heard clearly through his words. “I think you’d be quite pleased, in fact.” Kazuma pushes himself off the chair. The red ties of his headband stream behind him, like tails propelling him forward. His eyes, dark and honeyed in the candlelight, glint with something mischievous. It makes a shiver run through Ryunosuke—makes the dread from earlier in the evening melt from his memory, if just for now.
“Oh? Is that so…?” Ryunosuke tilts his head, smile playful, as Kazuma stands before him.
Kazuma reaches out, runs his hands up Ryunosuke’s arms, settling there just above his elbows. He sweeps his thumbs across, almost absentmindedly—gentle, gentle. “I was thinking,” he continues again, “that when we leave all this here, perhaps you’d be partial to ditching Sholmes—”
“I’m listening…” Ryunosuke emphasizes.
Kazuma barks out a boisterous laugh, the motion shaking them both. “—and taking the southern route back home this time. To visit Hateno Village along the way.” The words falter just a bit at the end, subtly fracturing like hairline cracks as he utters the location, trepidation threatening to expose itself. Kazuma puts on a brave face as always, but even he, with all his practice, can’t fully suppress the troubled wrinkle etched between his eyebrows that always gives him away. Maybe the way he holds onto Ryunosuke is an attempt to steady himself, too.
Ryunosuke’s eyes grow wide, his mouth falling open. “Wha—What? Are, are you sure?!” It only takes a single look into Kazuma’s eyes, resolute even when the apprehension makes them quiver ever so slightly, for him to know he’s serious. He draws in a breath. “…You’re not rushing into things, are you?”
“No,” Kazuma says, shaking his head. “I’ve thought about it quite a bit and I believe I’m finally ready to visit again.” His expression softens, then. His voice grows just as gentle: “Besides, I think it’d do me a great deal of good to face it with you there by my side…” An audible inhale. “…What do you say, partner?”
Ryunosuke holds onto Kazuma’s forearms. He gives him a small grin. “Yes… Yes, absolutely. I’d be honored.”
Kazuma smiles, squeezes Ryunosuke’s arms gently. “I’m glad.” A beat, then, until his gaze flickers downward, his mouth pulls back down into a solemn frown. “…On a similar subject…” Kazuma says, voice gone taut. “…There’s something very important I have to do.”
Ryunosuke sucks in a breath. “Your dream?” he asks. He tilts his head, trying to fall into Kazuma’s sight line.
With that, Kazuma returns eye contact again. His eyes are desperate, pleading almost, behind the intensity. Like Ryunosuke holds the key to whatever he’s searching for—like he expects to find the answer residing somewhere there within him. Ryunosuke can only hope he’s able to. “Yes,” Kazuma says, and it’s barely above a breath. “There are…many great injustices in this world—corrupt, vindictive individuals who escape justice, and innocent people who are caught in the crossfire. I want…to bring about change to Hyrule. To see that justice is served and those who wish to bend truth to satiate their own self-serving desires are held accountable. And I’ll sacrifice anything to make it happen.”
Ryunosuke blinks, wide-eyed and owlish still. There’s something to the way Kazuma shines when he gets this way, fueled by a righteous conviction; it’s hard to look away, no matter how blinding it is. “That’s, that’s quite a laudable dream, indeed. Awfully ambitious, too… I’ve no doubt if anyone could do it, it’d be you, but it’d still be quite the undertaking, surely.”
“That’s true. It’ll be no easy task.” Kazuma sighs out a chuckle. “Yet, nothing feels quite so daunting when I have you there with me… I feel like I’d be able to brave anything that comes my way.” His thumbs rub gentle strokes across Ryunosuke’s biceps. “…That’s why I’d appreciate you seeing it through with me.”
Ryunosuke swallows the lump that begins to form in his throat, nods his head. It’s not even a question. “Of course I will.”
Kazuma smiles something brilliant and beyond relieved. He pulls Ryunosuke forward, wrapping him in an embrace that utterly engulfs him. Kazuma nestles his face into the crook of Ryunosuke’s neck, murmuring a “Thank you” against the fabric. Ryunosuke hooks his arms around Kazuma’s back and buries his head into his shoulder. Kazuma’s heat bleeds into him.
It’s a long while until they separate, slowly peeling away from one another until only but a short distance remains between the two of them. Ryunosuke’s hand trails up Kazuma’s arm, taunt with muscle against the tight under-tunic he’s wearing, until coming to rest against his chest, fingers splayed across his collarbone. He feels the hardy beat of his heart under his palm, feels the way it begins to accelerate.
It’s funny, Ryunosuke muses, how something so very simple could fortify one’s resolve—could cause one to become bold.
Incessant, Ryunosuke’s hand snakes along the back of Kazuma’s neck, past the blunt hair that never ceases to amaze him with its deceptive softness, until his fingers wind their way around scarlet fabric. His index finger slips under the fold of the knot.
“May I?” Ryunosuke asks, and the words are as light as air.
“Yes—only you.” Kazuma’s voice: strained, caught in a breathless sort of reverie. “You’re the reason for it, after all.”
Ryunosuke tugs at the knot. It doesn’t come easily at first—putting up a silent fight against releasing itself—but Ryunosuke persists, ever so patiently, until he feels the fabric slip under his fingers. He works the knot again and it loosens without resistance this time, loyally following Ryunosuke wherever he guides it to.
The red headband slides down Kazuma’s temple, a striking banner of pride and devotion and resolve draped across his face. And when Ryunosuke takes it in his grasp and strips him of it fully, he finally sees the tantalizing mystery for the very first time since they met: the exposed swathe of skin of Kazuma’s forehead. The only red that remains is the ruddy bloom left high on his cheeks.
Ryunosuke feels the silken texture against his palm. And he thinks of all the many different ties that bind people together—how this strip of red fabric bound them to one another this entire time, no matter distance nor cognizance. He recalls a myth he once heard from long ago, the red thread of fate: two lovers bound by destiny, connected by a red string between them.
And that’s how this entire thing started, didn’t it—this concept of destiny? Their original red string of fate in the shape of three golden triangles on the back of their hands. The idea that existence is cyclical—Wisdom and Courage would be reborn again and again, always destined to find each other in every life.
Ryunosuke, still holding the headband, wraps his hand around Kazuma’s—scarlet fabric pressed between them. He looks up at him with a gentle ardor. “Of course I’ll be there with you,” Ryunosuke repeats, voice low and immeasurably fond. “I’d help lead you to wherever it is you need to go, always certain that you’ll be right there beside me. To every town, no matter how long and arduous the travel. To every stable, where we can dance together like fools and it wouldn’t matter a bit if you think you can’t dance because I’d enjoy it all the same.” He bobs his head slightly, voice gone thick and eyes grown wet. “To every ridiculous food stall that always calls out to me even though we’d just eaten, yet you continue to indulge me anyway each time.”
Even through the cloudiness, he sees Kazuma laugh, continue smiling down at him—something affectionate and wistful in the way his eyebrows knit ever so slightly, now laid bare without anything covering them. “Trying to one-up me now, are you?” Kazuma’s free hand rests at Ryunosuke’s waist.
Yet the idea of being reborn into another life always troubled Ryunosuke—somehow being someone else, or someone else being him a concept so repugnant, it wound him in knots. Always filling in someone’s shoes, always expected to fulfill the duties of another he’d never known—never will know, especially if they stay silent when called out to.
And it’s here, holding the hand of the man he’s supposedly been tied to since birth, that makes Ryunosuke consider the possibility of rebirth and reincarnation through a different lens, just for a moment: perhaps there’s the possibility that each life isn’t a discrete, new identity at all, but it’s simply them, deliberately carving out a bit of that ruthless destiny with their own hands, time and time again—ad infinitum.
He thinks about the possibility of them in another world, in another life. Maybe they’d both be scholars at a university, sailing across oceans together in pursuit of knowledge and societal advancement. Maybe Kazuma would be a baker and Ryunosuke his regular customer, always eager to sample the daily special—or eager for a chance at something a bit less tangible, yet just as enticing. Or maybe they’d be a unique type of Magistrate in their own rights, dueling across a courtroom in order to find the truth together, always trusting the other to hold them accountable.
Or maybe, they’d once again be just as they are now: a prince and his knight. Floating in the clouds, skyward bound; adrift in time, swept up in melody; bridging darkness and light, steeped in the embers of twilight; exploring ancient worlds, afloat across an enormous ocean. Over and over again.
And it’s that same pull—that red thread of fate, an aged, scarlet gossamer forever connecting them to one another—that impels them together through it all. Like roots growing deep under the soil, the binds of the Triforce brought them together. But mere fate is but a trifle—a detail so insignificant that it’s nothing but a footnote in their story. After all, a tree firmly rooted may live, yet never blossom; it takes much more than simple foundation to truly flourish.
After everything they’ve been through—after all the strife they had to navigate to get to this point, after all the decisions they made to strengthen their bond—how could the depths of their love be explained by something as simplistic and frivolous as being preordained by fate?
Ryunosuke’s free hand slides along Kazuma’s jaw, up to his cheek—cradling his face in his palm. He strokes his thumb along the flush of Kazuma’s cheekbones, feels the addictive warmth radiating off there. “Through every struggle and every celebration—I will stand by you, forever,” Ryunosuke says through a smile so wide, it aches. “I’d do it all because I want to be there for you. I want nothing more than to be by your side as I watch you fulfill your dream.”
Ryunosuke swallows thickly, the fear of Kazuma’s inevitable battle with Calamity Stronghart rushing to top of his attention—those words holding a gravity far more reaching than he expected, even knowing full well what he’s insinuating. Sealing powers or not, he pledges to support him in any way he can. He’ll protect him with everything he has. And he’ll be there to watch Kazuma realize every hope he has for the future, steadfastly beside him through it all.
He squeezes Kazuma’s fingers, pleased and not surprised in the least to feel Kazuma return it right back, the red headband still threaded between their hands. “Whatever it is,” Ryunosuke says, “I’ll see it through to the end with you.”
Kazuma sucks in a breath and leans into Ryunosuke’s touch, eyes slipping shut. “Ryunosuke,” he whispers in that gentle way he only does around Ryunosuke, the syllables enunciated so clearly, it’s almost hard to believe it came out of the same mouth that stumbled over tongue twisters as a boy. The heat of his breath against Ryunosuke’s palm feels electric. “Thank you… I knew you wouldn’t let me down, partner.” And when his eyes open again, their intensity is galvanic.
Tomorrow, at the Spring of Wisdom, Ryunosuke will be judged. And with it, the last remaining holy site will be visited; the last best lead they have will be exhausted. But right now, only a single thought stands at the forefront of his mind, bright and blinding in its brilliance—enhaloing the darkness until all the trepidation and dread is burned away, crystallizing into something that resembles hope.
It’s that feeling that reinforces itself within Ryunosuke’s beliefs. It wasn’t destiny or prophecy or the brand of the Triforce that brought them to the point where they are now—no, that was theirs to decide, and theirs only. Destiny doesn’t have half the strength of the resolve needed to deliberately choose someone again and again, no matter how difficult it gets.
Ryunosuke feels the weight of the red headband clasped between them, and he knows Kazuma feels it, too. A promise. A red thread of their own making.
“I love you,” Ryunosuke says with all the clarity in the world.
And he presses his lips to Kazuma’s.
Notes:
Spring of Wisdom time soon...
Sometimes I think about asoryuu during this small stretch between last chapter and them leaving to Kakariko..... they'd be so fluffy sweet on each other it makes me SICK
Anyway, one of the core themes and character motivations when making this has always been this pull between destiny and self-determination. Ryunosuke has been destined to become this priest-figure and unlock his sealing powers above as else, no matter how much it destroys him. Kazuma has to become this unflinching hero despite the pressure it causes. There's this rigid, constant expectation to follow your predetermined duties even if it's not who you really are or if it causes you misery.
So, part of the growth are these characters (especially Ryunosuke, since we follow him the closest) is starting to reject those restraints. And one of those ways I wanted to highlight was the idea that Ryunosuke and Kazuma's relationship here was some predestined thing, rather than one that was forged with intent as they grew together, which the whole fic focuses on cultivating. As fun as the whole 'destined to love you' scenario is, I really find the intentional building of the relationship to be much more impactful. No better place to do it when Kazuma literally created their own red string of fate just for them.
Also a small callback line from Chapter 1 with the "being someone else or someone else being him" line—it's how you know we're getting towards the end haha
(I'm a little late to checking this out, but the fan-mod Zelda/Ace Attorney crossover Hero of Law is fantastic and feels like spiritual sibling in a way to this fic lmao)
Chapter 21: Emergences
Notes:
Warnings - click to view
- General warning for potential religious trauma
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
This entry will be awfully brief. I’ve only the time between Kazuma dragging me out of bed and him drawing our bath to write.
Before said dragging, this morning was quite wonderful despite the unconscionable early start; last night: even more wonderful—though, that may be an understatement. It makes up for the disastrous meeting with the Champions yesterday.
I’ve been avoiding saying it. You can tell, can’t you?
Today’s my twenty-third birthday. We climb Mount Lanayru to the Spring of Wisdom.
I can only pray the goddess will be kind.
Massive waterways have carved a valley into the Lanayru Highlands. The result: a natural wind tunnel, bringing chilly breezes tumbling down from the ever-frosty Mount Lanayru with ferocity. Tall, labyrinthian stone structures were constructed with this in mind—sturdy, long-lasting, effective at acting as windbreaks.
It’s not surprising in the least why the buildings often exhibit carvings of Loftwings along their façades; the prehistoric bird with a massive, shoe-shaped bill was often depicted as loyal companions and the main form of transportation of the fabled people who once lived on islands floating in the sky. It was even said that the Goddess Hylia once rode a Loftwing with a striking crimson plumage, before bestowing it to her chosen hero as his soaring steed.
Indeed, this is holy land, blessed by the goddess herself—it’s little wonder that Kakariko Village sits at its base, as devoted as the Sheikah still are to her. While Mount Lanayru may not be the highest peak in Hyrule, it is the tallest site for a sacred spring, and thus, a prayer offered here would be akin to whispering into the goddess’s ear. After all, a location sitting where the mountain pierces the firmament is as close to the Goddess Hylia as you can get.
That’s why, at the mountain’s base, the Lanayru Promenade was constructed. Past the western gate of Lanayru Road and into the Lanayru Promenade proper resides only those of the Hylia Chantry, composed of followers who have devoted their lives to serve the goddess. Few ever leave this area; even fewer have been allowed in.
(Ryunosuke and his royal retinue had been invited inside, once—after the fortune teller spoke of the prophecy while he was still a young boy. Mount Lanayru and the Spring of Wisdom were off-limits until he was of age, but the Peak of Awakening offered promise at a quick resolution his father had so hoped would come. He returned, instead, with only frostbitten toes and a deep-seated feeling of failure to show for it, though he was still too young to understand why the adults acted so very disappointed when he did all they asked him to.)
The “Spider’s Nest,” it was often referred to. An apt name, Ryunosuke had mused before, if not only for the way the place is swarming with Chantry members—skittering about with cutting, calculating eyes and fangs sharp enough to punish any dissenters that would threaten their strict order—but because of what the colony represents: the cooperation and dogged patience needed to create, to weave the quilt of fate they believe they were chosen by the goddess to depict in her name. Hylia’s blessed grounds—the mountain of sagacity, the Peak of Awakening, the crystal waters of Lanayru River—could provide boons to those who visit, but only those of clear mind could ever hope to awaken to true wisdom. Unswerving discipline is expected above all else; after all, indolence is never rewarded.
A shiver quakes through Ryunosuke as the massive doors come into view. They’re sturdy wooden things, outlined by an intricate stonework archway. Statues portraying Loftwings are carved into the marble, guarding the entrance. Chantry Sheikah are posted outside the gate, clothed in pure whites and glistening naginata resting against their shoulders.
He knows what follows once they pass through Lanayru Road’s West Gate. The rituals are extensive and, above all else, stringent—enduring through the years. Ryunosuke confirms this when the second he comes into the sightline of the guards, they genuflect with no hesitation, as if in sync with one another.
“We’ve eagerly awaited your return, Your Divine Grace,” they both say in unison and it’s not the chill in the wind that makes Ryunosuke’s blood run cold.
It wasn’t something he had forgotten, merely repressed to limit the unease it made him feel deep within his bones. Here, he is no longer Ryunosuke or even the Prince of Hyrule—is no longer a person at all. He is the walking avatar of the Goddess Hylia, and addressed only as such.
Only a few moments later, and the large wooden doors scrape open, kicking up dust in their wake. There’s a few quiet gasps from their group as the scene in front of them comes into full view: a great deal of the members of the Chantry, heads bowed and down on a knee, surrounding the black-painted rock path leading towards the hut Ryunosuke remembers from long ago. They’re like white poppies sprouting beside a trail.
Dawn crests over the tall mountainside and floods the promenade with gold. Ryunosuke sucks in a breath, steels himself, and steps into the light.
The first phase of the purification ritual: without veering off from the black path, one is to enter the hut it leads to, strip themselves of all their belongings, then take a cleansing dunk into the waters of Lanayru River. In a push for privacy, one individual goes at a time, fencing erected to block the view from others and siphon water from the river into a small, man-made lake for this very purpose.
Taken clothing and effects will be cleansed by the Chantry—in what way they achieve this, Ryunosuke hasn’t the clue—and kept for the entirety of the stay within the promenade. Only after leaving through one of the gates will possessions be handed back. The last Chantry man explains, never once looking up from the ground: “By letting go of worldly possessions and attachment to appearances, we will leave space open in our souls for the Goddess Hylia’s blessings.” Just like the rest, the man wears a white hood fastened tightly around his head with a purple-jeweled clasp—a blank slate, devoid of all personhood; a steward without identity, much like he is.
Ryunosuke wonders: Is the emptiness worth it? And the man seems to tense.
Ryunosuke finds he hesitates when he places the Sheikah Slate into one of the wicker baskets for collection.
His dip into the river is just as unpleasant as he expected: freezing, but nothing worse than he’s experienced before. Jolting away any lingering morning lethargy is the single upside to the whole ordeal. He changes into the provided customary ivory vestments and hood, and his hand stills around the single thing that differs from the uniform of all the rest: a tightly-woven crown of flowers and thick stems, golden metal threading between the green. He sucks in a deep breath before sliding it over the hood. He exits the hut, handing off the baskets of his belongings as they’re dutifully carried off.
The Champions follow suit, one by one cleansing themselves. The factions are split into two groups: the quarrelers (Ursavra, insisting that no, she won’t remove the makeup she just barely put on less than an hour ago, and yes, if it’s waterproof enough to withstand sweat from the sweltering Gerudo Desert heat, then it’ll last through any amount of water; Sholmes, who pontificated that while he recognized the stimulating effects of an ice bath, it was far too early in the morning for such things, which Ryunosuke wholeheartedly agreed with; and Kazuma, who, predictably, fought tooth and nail to keep Karuma and his red headband, much to the dismay of the numerous terrified Chantry members who, ultimately, reasoned that Hylia’s own divine blade may stay with her chosen hero and offered him a strip of red corded string that they got from somewhere, which paled in comparison to the original’s bold fabric) and the agreeables. Wilson and Jigoku went through with the cleansing ritual with no complaint, despite the latter’s reluctance and, later, loud yelp in shock.
Ryunosuke can’t help but wonder if any other group of visitors the Chantry has met before has been even half this much trouble. His mouth quirks into a smile when he realizes: probably not. It’s moments like these where he wishes that all six of them could spend more time together—too many of them mere acquaintances brought together by their duty, rather than companionship. Perhaps, once he gets back to the castle, he’ll make it a priority to bring them together more often—get to know the couple he feels still a stranger to better.
The entire time, Chantry members stay genuflecting, surrounding Ryunosuke like a wall of bodies. Their heads stay low. They never once look at him.
Once the Champions have all changed, they’re led down the expansive, stone walkways that snake parallel to the waterway. Kazuma lightly elbows Ryunosuke in the ribs, whispering a, “You look like an overly-swaddled baby that fell into a flower bush,” as if he doesn’t look exactly the same (minus the bush part). Ryunosuke merely shoots him a surly look—no doubt making any defense he has of himself worse.
There’s a sharp growl from beside them, when two of the Chantry leap forward, yanking Kazuma away from Ryunosuke. “Show your respect for the Goddess Hylia,” one of them hisses through their teeth. Ryunosuke can’t see their faces—they don’t acknowledge him at all, other than crowding him away—but their shoulders are tensed, hunched over themselves. “You may be the Goddess Hylia’s Chosen, but you have no right to touch Her Divine Grace.”
Kazuma gives Ryunosuke a look—a mix of offended and discomfited—which Ryunosuke returns back, eyes wide. White robes block his sight, then, steering him further away from the rest of the group. Ryunosuke gathers the fabric clung to his hips in his fists, ducks his head, curls his lip.
Peals of bells echo down the valley, reverberating against the cliff walls and multi-tiered stone passageways. It truly is a web in construction: full of right turns into a flight of stairs, to then walk across the width of the promenade, only to double back the direction they came at a criss-crossed intersection—full of linear lines that interweave and overlap, until there’s only confusion. Sholmes is spared from it all, creating an updraft and lazily gliding to the top of the building to watch.
After what seems like an eternity down winding bridges—the sun’s gone bright behind the mountainside already—they’re brought before a small patio. The second phase of the purification ritual begins: bathing in the Lanayru Sage smoke burning from the large, earthenware incense burner sitting at its center.
It’s a brief affair, to Ryunosuke’s relief, as he barely manages to tamp down the way the strong smoke sticks within his lungs and makes him teeter on the edge of a coughing fit. Either way, his uncomfortable expression must give him away; Kazuma looks at him with concern laced with an amusement he can’t seem to fully hide away. Wilson doesn’t fare quite as well, hacking out violent coughs that make Ryunosuke’s ribs hurt in sympathy. He’s quickly ushered from the patio after the smoke covers him.
The final step of the ritual is the only one that Ryunosuke can say he’s looked forward to at all: the multi-course breakfast to fuel the pilgrimage. Once they file into the stone temple, Ryunosuke’s ushered away from the large table set up in the middle of the circular sun pattern on the floor stonework, and instead, up to the dais where the sole throne and table sit. Striking mosaic-work frames the setting—the Goddess Hylia, holding a harp in one hand and a sword in the other, haloed by majestic light. His body freezes when he gets to the steps, transfixed in terror.
“Now, now, my dear fellows, this has all been very quaint,” Sholmes says behind him airily, “but I didn’t know the members of an esteemed congregation such as this had such a sense of humor! You’ve made your joke; now, kindly show us to our own Champion tables like our dear prince has.”
The silence that rings out in response snaps Ryunosuke out of his reverie. When he spins around, he sees partially-obscured faces of stone all turned towards Sholmes.
One finally speaks: “Only the Goddess Hylia may sit alone. Her stewards belong below Her Divine Grace.”
“Ah, I see,” Sholmes says, brusquely, with a humorless laugh. He seems to shrink in size, just a bit. “The kids’ table it is, then…” And he slides into the seat before him. The other Champions look similarly uneasy as they take their own seats.
With a thundering heart and a tightness in his chest, Ryunosuke climbs the low steps and sits before them all, Hylia hovering over his shoulders.
The breakfast arrives in a series of courses. Fresh mint and Cold Saffina tea is served first, a companion to the upcoming dishes.
“F-For Your Divine Grace,” the Chantry woman who presents the tea pot and cup manages out, voice shaky and fragile. She bows, then crawls up the steps on her knees, face fixed downwards, even when she leans over the side of the table to pour the tea. Despite the angle, Ryunosuke still can’t see the upper half of her face behind the hood. She bows once more before slinking backwards down the stairs.
He takes a large gulp of the piping hot tea. The burn from both the temperature and the mint gives him what he needs to press on.
The same woman—or perhaps it’s different people each time? Ryunosuke can’t distinguish either way—brings each dish with similar pageantry and avoidance. A clear broth is provided, garnished with Hyrule Herb and thin slices of Hearty Radish—for clarity of the soul, mind, and heart. Next, a small piece of rolled omelette, topped with Stamina Shroom, Chillshroom, and Sunshroom—a tribute to the creation myths of yore and the three goddesses of antiquity, birthing the world and bestowing dominion of it to the Goddess Hylia. For clear judgment ahead, a small plate of Bright-Eyed Crab Risotto is served next. This is followed by the main dish: Glazed Hearty Salmon laid over a bed of salted, sauteed Hyrule Herbs and a medley of vegetables fortified with rich vitamins. The fattiness of the salmon and the Courser Bee Honey glaze are said to aid in enhancing mental acuity, while the greens are nutrient dense and meant to honor the fertile land of Hylia’s Hyrule. Finally, the breakfast ends with a Bright Lemon Sorbet to cleanse the palate, and Egg Pudding topped with Cold Saffina and berries—a burst of energy with cold-resistant properties in the form of silky bliss.
Despite the way his stomach ties itself in knots about what’s to come, Ryunosuke tries to enjoy it. And it’s not difficult to do so—the food is expertly prepared and leaves him satisfactorily feeling full. It’ll have to last the duration of the climb; the Kakariko Village Elder warned that Mount Lanayru has been restless recently—winds unceasing and snowfall particularly thick—and a fire will be impossible to sustain atop the mountain. And with the cold as impenetrable as it’s been, any moisture in exposed food will instantly freeze.
The voice that comes from his side makes Ryunosuke start: “We s-sincerely hope you’re satisfied with the offering, Goddess Hylia.”
Thorns bloom in the spaces between his ribs. “I’m not her,” Ryunosuke snarls back. Then, his mouth snaps shut, eyes blown wide—a slip of his inner thoughts once more. This time he knows it.
A bowl clatters to the floor of the dais, tumbling down the steps.
And for the first time since arriving at that stone archway, a face shoots up to meet him: an errant lock of chestnut hair escaping the hood, a crooked nose, a small crescent of a scar above gapped teeth. Someone who’s young—a teenager, perhaps, the fullness of the face still one of a child’s. And above all else, big, round, brown eyes staring back at him—utterly terrified. There’s embarrassment within them—shame, too—but it becomes clear that it’s not because of what was spoken. The Chantry member quickly averts their gaze and ducks their head, crawling back down the stairs to retrieve the bowl they dropped. Somehow, it didn’t break.
But it was at that very moment that there was human connection, if even for the briefest of time. Not just a faceless member of the Chantry, no, but a full-blown person, with a personality and a story behind them. He wonders, did they feel it, too, when they looked at him? Did he become a person to them just as well, not merely some proxy of the goddess?
He doesn’t know. He won’t know. The person never looks back once they gather the dishes and exit the room, a group of rigid-postured members much bigger than them dogged at their heels.
“Ah finally, some sort of privacy,” Jigoku bellows out with a sigh, collapsing into the couch. “I think it’s fair to say that I wasn’t the only one creeped out by that place, yes?”
There’s a chorus of agreements in response. “I concur,” Wilson says. “This is speaking of the obvious, but it’s awful unnerving feeling eyes on you incessantly.” He makes a move towards the small fireplace to light a fire.
Between the Lanayru Road East Gate and the Naydra Snowfield sits a small cabin next to Purifier Lake. A normally uninhabited house, it allows for those leaving the Lanayru Promenade to change and prepare their items for the trek ahead once they’ve been cleansed. Since Ryunosuke and Kazuma are the only ones to climb the mountain, their possessions were prioritized and found waiting atop the table once they arrived. The rest of the Champions’ items will follow, eventually. Kazuma’s already gone into the other room to swap clothes.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about the privacy thing just yet,” Ursavra says, plucking the blinds open, her narrowed eyes surveying the adjoining area. “Outside the gate, yes, but this land is still protected by them… I’d hardly be surprised if they weren’t still watching in some way.”
It’s at this that Sholmes hops down from the top of a shelf he was perched on, wingtip raised. “The chief makes an excellent point. Lend me your ears, please, if you will.” He moseys to the wall where Ursavra is standing at the window and knocks at it; it gives off a solid sound, barely any echo at all against the dense wood. “Now, listen here.” He moves to the wall perpendicular, at the very back of the cabin, and raps against it. It rings—hollow.
Sholmes moves back towards the window; Ursavra’s mouth falls slack. “And if you’d be so kind as to inform the rest of the room what you see as you cast your eyes to the left, Champion Ursavra? Is there anything you can perceive that might seem amiss, considering this cabin is supposedly uninhabited except for the occasional pilgrim climbing up a dangerous mountain?” Sholmes asks, a smile forming out from his beak.
It takes a few moments of Ursavra scanning the view outside until she lets out a hushed “Huh?” Whatever it is, she changes her position, pressing her face closer to the glass to better find the angle. “Well, would you look at that…” she murmurs, awed.
“Come on now, are you going to leave us all in suspense? What is it?” Jigoku asks, leaning forward now on the couch.
Ursavra spins on her heel, resting a hand on her hip. Golden jewelry rattles. Her face grows steely before tilting her head and saying, “There’s a well-worn trail from the tree cover directly towards the back of this cabin. Now, why do you think that’d be there, leading towards a particularly thin wall, at that?”
Ryunosuke shivers. “…You’re, you’re not suggesting that the Chantry is—” He snaps his mouth shut, wide eyes darting to the closed door where Kazuma’s changing in.
“A bunch of perverts?” Sholmes supplies.
Ryunosuke shakes his head, eyes still flitting about. Heat floods his cheeks. “I, I didn’t say—”
“Oh, but you plainly thought it, didn’t you?” Sholmes asks, amused grin still apparent. He waves a wing in the air, starts pacing. “Now, there isn’t enough evidence to jump to that hasty conclusion just yet”—and Ryunosuke has to slump over, muttering a “Since when have you ever stopped yourself from jumping to wild conclusions before?”—“since the trail seems to end right at this very wall. Furthermore, I’ve already investigated the other room and there are no windows nor any privacy-invading openings of the sort for any such indecent motives.”
Sholmes stops and turns towards the others in the room with a dramatic spin, wingtip pointed up. “So, we can deduce that—”
“They’re merely snooping in on conversations,” Wilson says, then. He manipulates water from out of the carafe into the pot above the fire.
Sholmes pauses, mouth still mid-word. Then, in an instant, he hunches over, wings like claws. “After all that, you’d not let me present my own findi—”
“Well, it’s good to know,” Ursavra says, unphased. She rolls an upturned palm in the air. “As long as they aren’t watching us, I’d much prefer sitting here to wait than spending another moment in that nest.”
“Agreed,” Jigoku says, sinking back into the couch with a sigh.
Ryunosuke watches Sholmes stew for a few, extended moments, before he pops up again as if nothing happened. “Never mind all that,” Sholmes loudly proclaims. “I’ve been tarrying over bestowing these to you all.” He reaches into somewhere in his white robes and presents a wingful of little, felt animal dolls: a camel, an elephant, a salamander. “Inventions courtesy of my brilliant research partner.”
Jigoku takes a hold of the salamander. Ryunosuke passes the elephant to Wilson. “…And what exactly is this?” Jigoku asks.
“A communication device, my dear fellow!” Sholmes says with an edge of agitation, like it’s obvious. “Any one of us with a doll like this can instantly speak with one another, all with but a simple tug.”
A fist up to her chin, Ursavra holds up the small camel, twisting it between her fingers. “Where on earth did you—” She snaps her attention to Sholmes, then, eyes fiery. Her grip tightens on the doll, finger pointed like a dagger. “You snuck these in even when they confiscated our things?!” When Sholmes’s answer is only a tilt of the head with a too-proud-of-himself look on his face, she says, “Unbelievable… How?”
He brings a wingtip to his forehead and flicks his hair feathers. “It’s quite elementary, good chief. Nothing a little misdirection at the right time can’t accomplish.”
Ursavra gives a thoughtful look—impressed, perhaps, at the audacity and execution. But she relents, probing at the transceiver.
Jigoku chuckles to himself, shaking his head. “I have to say, as a Magistrate, I don’t advocate for such unscrupulous means, but this seems harmless…” He turns the doll over in his hand—so tiny compared to the Goron’s. “This thing actually works?”
Ryunosuke nods his head. “Yes, it has quite an impressive range across Hyrule, I can attest to that. Anytime you need to contact someone, you can rely on it.”
The door creaks open behind him and Kazuma enters, fully dressed in a thick, red winter coat and scarf. “Your turn,” he says to Ryunosuke.
The climb up Mount Lanayru is just as treacherous as it was warned—snow falling so thick, it’s like a shroud laid over them. Just like in Hebra, the Sheikah Slate becomes imperative to navigating; without it, they’d be left wandering along the steep slopes without any semblance of direction, any identifiable landmarks covered in pale white and sheets of ice. They stay close, hands clasped through padded gloves, as they climb the vestiges of a path hollowed out—the walkway now filled with fresh snow.
Sholmes had given them plenty of his most potent Spicy Elixirs before they left his lab, but the bitter chill still finds its way to burrow deep in their bones enough to feel sluggish while moving. It feels almost humorous, in a way. The Hebra Mountains are of higher elevation—are much colder, with whipping storms a common occurrence. Mount Lanayru is meant to be milder, with comparatively warmer air and a more tranquil snowfall. This blizzard now, on his birthday of all days, just feels like yet another cosmic test of the goddess’s. Always another challenge.
Hours bled away as they climbed. Howling winds scraping their ears until they’d be left ringing. Another elixir drunk. Giant clouds of breath escaping their pale lips like smoke. The storm was too intense, the winds too ferocious to even consider building a fire, just as the Kakariko Village Elder had warned. Sometimes, they’d be lucky and find some tree cover thick enough to block the barrage of the wind to rest for a brief moment—heaving lungs like fire in their chests.
Monsters even prowled here; stray Lizalfos and Keese would lurch out from their hiding places—were the Chantry aware that their holy mountain had been breached? They were little match for Ryunosuke’s Stasis and Kazuma wielding Karuma, but the threat still wound Ryunosuke’s nerves. An omen, perhaps. A warning.
When they finally approach the peak, things begin to slowly temper: the snow thins out and visibility increases, the wind grows limp, endless snow banks turn to stone then to ice pillars. Hardy vegetation even pokes through the blanket of white on the ground. Rushing water echoes ahead.
The sight is breathtaking around the corner: clusters of huge pinnacles of ice surround the flowing water of the Spring of Wisdom, like numerous hands outstretched towards the heavens. Shining blues and purples and greens reflect against the sunlight that steals through the heavy cloud cover. The air almost stills up here—so quiet, Ryunosuke swears he can hear the snow twinkling. The calm eye of the storm.
Ryunosuke dumps the wood and kindling out of the Slate while Kazuma starts the fire at the spring’s base. He collapses when he sits, back pointedly facing towards the spring, and draws his knees to his chest. Kazuma ignites the fire, begins prepping the pot as Ryunosuke hands him the materials out of the Slate: broth to boil, a packet of seasonings and herbs Iris packed for a soup base, thin slices of vegetables and beef. Hotpot—something filling that’s both easy and quick to cook, and a warm comfort atop a lonely mountain.
“Do you feel anything?” Kazuma asks, dumping the vegetables into the pot.
Ryunosuke takes a long sniff; he can barely feel the tip of his nose. “Cold, mostly.”
Kazuma laughs, gives him an amused look. “You know what I mean.”
Ryunosuke does, of course. He hugs his knees tighter, toes at the snow a bit. “No, not at all.” It’s not the complete truth, not entirely. He feels something—feels that stone statue of the goddess’s stare boring holes into his back. Nothing new.
Kazuma merely responds with a sound of acknowledgement—it’s the only reply necessary in that moment, after all, considering everything that needed to be said had already been spoken once before. And they stay like that for a while, catching their breaths and chasing warmth and filling their bellies before Ryunosuke has to swallow down another Spicy Elixir and shed his outer coats before stepping into the freezing waters, clad only in his ceremonial robes.
Walking into the water feels like being stabbed by thousands of daggers. The elixir helps mitigate the seizing of his muscles as the frost-caked waters lap against his legs, but it does little to stop the moisture from freezing to his clothes, his limbs. He tries to keep his arms aloft as he wades closer.
Despite being in the Spring of Wisdom, the Goddess Statue is no bigger in size compared to the other major sacred springs. There’s little ornamentation or pageantry to distinguish the spring at all, really; he’d half-expected the Chantry to have maintained the site and adorned it with as much rigorous attention as within their priory. As unassuming as it looks, its blank stare betrays its grimness.
Ryunosuke clasps his hands together. “O, divine Goddess Hylia, apotheosis of wisdom, holy sovereign of light and time,” he starts, trying to imbue the words with energy to avoid them being only a hollow, rote recital like so many times before. “I am Ryunosuke Naruhodo, the one who bears the Triforce of Wisdom.” He mutters under his breath, “…As I’m sure you’re well aware…” He breathes in, straightens again. “I, um, I am here again to humbly beseech you for your audience.”
When he bows, the wind kicks up, disturbing the uneasy stasis atop that mountain. An intense shiver rips through him. He rises, clasps his hands tighter, tries to hold that little bit of warmth between his palms. “I realize we’ve been here together quite often, and I’m sure you’re tired of hearing the same scripture—or, perhaps you haven’t heard it at all?” He shifts then, the chilled water like slush against his legs. “I, erm, I’m not entirely positive if you’ve heard any of this at all, actually, but I can only assume that since you didn’t react to those words before, it wasn’t what you were looking for, anyway. So, I hope you’d be willing to listen to just me talking this time?”
He’s rambling and he knows it. This is the last sacred spring, the last chance he has, yet it feels like any other. Nothing feels different or special or like a key finally fitting into a lock. He just feels like him, standing in freezing water, talking to himself as if someone else is listening. Why not make it more conversational, just for last time’s sake?
He clears his throat. “Today is my twenty-third birthday. From what everyone else has said, this is the age at which you, the almighty Goddess Hylia, finally recognize someone as having obtained true wisdom…” He pauses, gaze lowering down to the water. He watches a piece of ice crumble off the side of the bank and get swept down the flow of the water. “However, I’m seeming to struggle with this assertion. In fact, it feels like the exact opposite, really.
“I’ve been fortunate enough to travel this kingdom in search of your springs and met a great deal of people—one of the high points of all of this, honestly—and it made me truly understand just how little wisdom I do have. In truth, as paradoxical as it sounds, it feels as though the more I learn, the more I realize I don’t know very much at all…” A laugh escapes him, more incredulous than anything resembling humor.
“I’ve been met with so many people… So many expressions of joy I’d never known before”—he remembers the dance at Snowfield Stable: how such a diverse group could all come together and share a moment of uninhibited fun, no matter who they were or where they hailed from—“and…” He falters, runs his thumb across the other. “And so much pain, too. More than I ever understood before.” He’ll never forget the look of that bereaved mother’s face back in Akkala, desperate to find meaning after a meaningless death, or of how terrified Igne Ocent was after being left alone to defend their innocence in a system stacked against them.
Ryunosuke’s gaze lifts and connects directly with that stone statue towering over him. He takes a labored step forward and the ice shoots sharp against his legs with the movement. He ignores it, raises his tone a bit more. “It’s seeing that very pain,” he continues, voice gone thick, “that pushes me to want to help these people. To protect them from whatever danger and strife that might befall them. But, I can’t do it all alone.”
When he squeezes his eyes shut, the frost clinging to his lashes pricks like needles. He shakes his head anyway, ridding it as best as he can. “This existential threat—this evil force that’s already devastated our kingdom once before—it takes so much more to defeat than I can provide. We’ve all prepared, we’ve taken steps to fight, but with your sealing power on our side? We wouldn’t risk any more than what’s necessary; I’d be able to eliminate Calamity Stronghart and restore peace.”
He clasps his hands tighter, pressing his fingers together, if only to feel the blood surge through them under the skin. Then, he jerks his head up, so that whoever may be watching can see him clearly—see how determination molds his face, resolve firm and full of fire. “So, that’s why I ask you today for you to lend us your power! In your eyes, I may still be deficient—” His lashes flutter when he blinks rapidly, teeth gritting. “And, and I’m not denying that by any means! I know very well that I’m lacking in a great deal of ways—but, if not for me, then how about for all of your people in this kingdom, instead? Don’t they deserve your protection?”
He pumps his entwined hands down, when he shifts in the water. His face burns; he feels the heat rush through him, threatening to burst out of his cocoon of frost. His voice carries louder, louder: “Maybe I’m not good enough to reach whatever standard you’re looking for—that I still haven’t found whatever it is you want me to, but—!” He draws in a sharp breath through his teeth. “But what I do know is that I can’t—I won’t—just stand by doing nothing while lives are at stake! So, please, I don’t care about becoming strong or powerful or even keeping the sealing powers once this is over… I just want to help!”
His lungs heave, burning inside him with every trembling breath. And it’s some cruel irony of a joke that his mind plays on him, because he swears that for some infinitesimal, ephemeral moment, he sees a flicker of gold coming from that forsaken statue—gone as quickly as he imagines it. A trick of the sunlight reflecting off snow, perhaps, as the clouds part some more and the powder ceases its descent.
Ryunosuke stays in the water for as long as it takes the elixir to wear off, utterly silent. The only feelings that remain are the ones created by his own self.
When he wades out of the spring, the icy fabric clings to his skin, tangles around his legs. His breath puffs out like a pleading smoke signal; luckily, it doesn’t take long for help to arrive, for Kazuma is right there beside him, draping a thick towel over his shoulders and ushering him towards the fire. He presses another Spicy Elixir into his quivering hands before tousling his hair with another towel.
Numbness seizes Ryunosuke’s body—physical and emotional sensations intimately intertwined. But they’ve become practiced at this, even as Ryunosuke finds it difficult to force his body to move: Kazuma unbuckles the belt and unhooks the straps of his robes until it splatters against the stone in a wet heap at Ryunosuke’s feet; Ryunosuke lethargically swipes the towel against his upper body as he sips the elixir. Kazuma works with as much care as he does urgency, drawing the plush towel across Ryunosuke’s body with precision. And Ryunosuke lets himself feel it all: his pounding heart, the searing cold, the scorching fire, the way the air burns as he inhales it in, Kazuma’s calloused hands against his bare skin.
The empty bottle slips out of Ryunosuke’s hand. Shatters into tiny pieces against the stone.
“Remember, it’s all speculation—best guesses off of incomplete information,” Kazuma says, voice low, kneeling there before him. Tone taut with something—frustration? Solace? It’s no matter; Ryunosuke just watches him as he continues to dry him off, eyes grown heavy and tired. “Nobody truly knows how any of this works; even your mother didn’t. The fact of the matter is: you did all you could. No one can ever change that.”
“Mhmm…” It’s the only thing that can slip out of Ryunosuke’s mouth as he continues to stare at Kazuma as he rises, mind still muzzy. He can feel the elixir slowly work through his body—can feel heat begin to surge through his veins and his heart pump slower, gradually returning back to baseline. As if nothing changed at all.
The silence hangs between them as Kazuma helps him dress, the only sound against the soft sough of the breeze that of fabric jostling and metal being clasped. Feeling returns to Ryunosuke; he fastens his cloak securely over his shoulders. He forgets his scarf—he always does—but Kazuma drapes it over him like it’s the inevitable next step, ties the knot at the base of his neck, before Ryunosuke crouches down to that pitiful pile of white cloth discarded on the ground. The half that was submerged under water is fully frozen now, delicate silks ruined from the very thing it was made for withstanding. Not like it matters anymore; there are no more sacred springs to pray at. Even his father wouldn’t be so much of a fool to retread this approach—as desperate as he is.
He lifts the limp robe, examines it in his grasp. He grits his teeth until his jaw begins to quiver. Anger runs through him like a sword to the chest; grief pours out of the wound, free-flowing and stinging. The robe crunches when his grip tightens. Resentment boiling over.
With a yell, he throws that thing at the fire. Flames stoke, embers popping like cannon fire. Kazuma flinches, hisses out a startle, but he doesn’t dare say anything in response. He doesn’t need to; Ryunosuke knows full well that if the roles were reversed, he would’ve done the same thing—would’ve done it well beforehand. The drier half of it catches alight easily, before sizzling against the frost.
Ryunosuke’s fingers tremble, held aloft and empty. “I just…” he mumbles out, watching the way the fire steams and flickers. “I simply don’t understand why she would choose to desert us, after all this.”
Kazuma steps up next to him; the warm breeze he carries envelopes him. “I don’t know,” Kazuma says plainly, voice just a soft whisper over the crackle of the flame. His hand runs across Ryunosuke’s back.
When Ryunosuke blinks, his vision goes cloudy, eyes pricking at the hot tears that well up. He sucks in a shaky breath, then turns, burying his face into Kazuma’s shoulder.
“I don’t know,” Kazuma repeats again, holding Ryunosuke in his arms as he weeps and weeps.
When Ryunosuke and Kazuma make it back down to the base of the mountain, Lanayru Road is already bathed in the golden sunset. The Champions file out of the small cabin to meet them. They’ve already dressed back into their ordinary clothing.
Sholmes is the one to greet them first, skidding to a halt in flight in front of them. “Well, dear fellows?” His eyes flit between the two of them. “Don’t keep us all in suspense now—were you able to come to a satisfactory result up there?”
The urgency and strain in his voice makes Ryunosuke think he knows the answer already—he can probably read it clearly on his face, anyway. He shakes his head.
There’s a sharp, collective draw of breath, and Ryunosuke regrets looking up from the ground in response, only to be met with the looks of despair and dejection from the group. He ducks his head again.
“Really? Not even a vague feeling at all?” Wilson asks.
Ryunosuke bites his lip. “No, I’m sorry.”
Ursavra’s quick to approach him, resting her hands on his shoulders. “Then let’s put it to rest.” Her thumbs rub small, soothing circles, though her voice remains steady—a pillar of strength befitting a leader, as always. “You tried your best. There’s no point in moping around about it now. After all, it’s not like your last shot was truly up there on Mount Lanayru. We’ll just have to keep searching for that thing that finally sparks your power to seal Calamity Stronghart away, whatever it may be.”
“The good chief is quite right!” Sholmes exclaims, pacing about. “In any scientific experiment, we can’t simply give up when a hypothesis turns out to be incorrect. We must examine the evidence we’ve collected and reforge new pathways. Surely, we’ve exhausted the sacred springs route now, but that doesn’t mean we can give up just yet!”
Wilson nods along. Jigoku stays quiet, face concerned. Ryunosuke looks over to Kazuma, who gives him a decisive nod back.
Ryunosuke mashes his lips together. “…Thank you.”
Ursavra releases her hold on Ryunosuke, then, and turns around to address the group. “Right, we’ve all had an exhausting day—the prince especially so—so I think this is our sign to head back to Kakariko Village before the evening gets too late. Tomorrow morning, we can discuss next steps. But for now, we put this out of our minds for the time being and have a big, relaxing dinner once we get back. How’s that sound to every—”
A horrible splintering sound rings from far off, like a door wrenched off its hinges. Heads swivel west.
Wilson asks, “What in the goddess’s name was tha—?!”
In an instant, the earth violently lurches under them. Ryunosuke stumbles backwards; Kazuma jerks towards him to steady his balance. The other Champions fight to maintain their footing.
Any questions Ryunosuke may have are quashed when his breath seizes in his lungs—the sharp pain so severe, he fears his heart might’ve stopped for that brief moment. A shooting sensation in his head follows, disappearing as quickly as it came about. He’s certain Kazuma feels it too, for he sees the way his eyes go far-off and glassy, complexion blanching.
Wind buffets him when Sholmes shoots up to the sky. “It can’t be…!” Sholmes cries out.
They all see it, spilling out from over the Lanayru Heights’s peaks: black and magenta flames fanning against the orange sky. Dark clouds form in their wake; peals of thunder and lightning strikes follow close behind, as the ground shakes below. Though the floating malice continues to encroach closer, the epicenter is still quite far away from them—towards the direction of the castle.
“It’s here, dear Champions!” Sholmes yells from above, voice strained. A blood-curdling roar reverberates deep in their bones, despite the distance. “Calamity Stronghart has surrounded the entirety of Castle Town and Hyrule Castle!”
Ryunosuke’s heart drops. “N-No…” The feeble sound is ripped out of him. His legs grow weak under him. If it wasn’t for Kazuma there with his hands still clenching his arms, then—
“Then we have no time to lose!” Ursavra yells out, not a single visible clue that she’s been rattled at all. She jabs a finger out, sweeping her outstretched arm across the rest of the Champions. “All of you, get to your Divine Beasts at once! Prince Ryunosuke and Champion Kazuma will head to the castle to meet this piece of shit face-to-face, but they need our support. It’ll take some time for us to travel, so for those of you closer, do what you can to help with any local emergencies—we don’t know what forces it has up its sleeve. Then, lay it on the fiend!”
Sholmes lands on the ground in a heavy drop, kicking up a large cloud of dirt. “I’ll, I’ll head with you two to Castle Town!” he utters quickly, the words tumbling out of his mouth. “Iris—I must—I can’t simply—”
Ursavra growls, “Sholmes, you can’t seriously—”
Kazuma steps forward. “We will find her.” Resolute. Absolute confidence in his tone. “Believe me, we’ll make sure Iris is safe. However, the last thing we need is any delays with you getting to the Divine Beast—that will be the thing that endangers her the most.”
Sholmes flinches back. His gaze falls, shifts to the sides, before meeting Kazuma’s again. He nods slowly. “Yes…Yes,” he says hesitantly. Then, with growing conviction: “Yes, you are absolutely, indubitably right, my dear fellow!” A shiver runs down him, until he shakes his feathers. He lifts his head to address the others, now adamant: “See to it that the communication dolls don’t slip your minds, either! If you require assistance, communication is paramount!”
There’s a murmur of agreement across the group. Ryunosuke swallows, feels the way the lump in his throat feels like sandpaper.
Ursavra nods. “Right, now let’s go!” A beat, then: “And I better not see any of you die out there, understood?!”
Then, they disperse. Jigoku’s the fastest, curling into a ball of rock and ripping along the dirt. Sholmes takes to the skies above, while Ryunosuke, Kazuma, Ursavra, and Wilson run towards the Lanayru Promenade. Once water is in reach, Wilson dives in and leaves them all in his wake.
And they run and run until Ryunosuke’s lungs burn for yet another time today. They push past the throngs of people fleeing the opposite direction, chasing deeper towards the inky black heart of the storm.
Notes:
Mount Lanayru more like LanaRYU ohhh Ryunosuke we're really in it now...
Truly the worst birthday you could possibly have to have to wake up before dawn just to be treated like some weird, dehumanized idol only to then have to climb a freezing mountain to be ignored yet again. And if that isn't bad enough THEN the big Calamity awakens!! (don't worry, it's not shown here but the Champions do wish Ryunosuke a happy birthday before they left Kakariko... 🥲)
The white hoods that the Chantry wear and make visitors wear are based on Iris's Hood from Trials and Tribulations!
Chapter 22: Enormities: Part 1
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The moments that follow are a dizzying blur of adrenaline and anxiety as darkness bleeds across the sky, swallowing up the dying light of day and the emerging stars.
Ryunosuke, Kazuma, and Ursavra had run through the Lanayru Promenade, the pounding of their feet against cobblestone and the neighboring cries and incoherent prayers of the fleeing Chantry periodically deafened by shrill roars from far away. The mountainside was too tall; it blocked all visibility besides above—that charred shroud suffocating over them. The unknown over those mountains proved to be just as exhausting to Ryunosuke as the sprinting.
At the gate between Kakariko Village and Lanayru Road, they’re intercepted by a trio of masked, heavily-armored Sheikah—the Village Elder’s infantry, sent to find Ryunosuke wherever he might’ve been on Mount Lanayru and usher him back to the village as soon as possible. Kakariko had long since been designated as a town of sanctuary and the Castle Town knights had been instructed as such: should anything happen to the capital, civilians were to be evacuated towards Kakariko Village or Fort Hateno due to the way the landscape pushed battle conditions in their favor—natural mountains that bottleneck enemies would prove to be the best defenses an army could hope for.
Kakariko Village is a frantic mess when they arrive. People whiz by as they’re led into the heart of the village—frenzied shouting and crowds so clumsily surging around, Ryunosuke’s not even noticed as they pass, not that he minds. A cacophony of sounds rattle his ears: babies and children crying as they’re rushed into houses; machinery scraping across stone; yells as nearby merchants and travelers are directed away from the main entrance; Cuccos squawking as they fly out of their coops, trying to fly east—anything to escape being trapped here. He watches as a woman struggles to control her dog into their home, the scared thing whining and pulling away, away. Anywhere else.
Doors slam open at one of the pagodas. A woman walks down the stairs with poise and absolute purpose, glittering headpiece like a golden halo reflecting the many lanterns and torches lit about the town. Flowing robes of deep grays and vivid reds trail behind her. One of the sealing spellcasters, no doubt—most likely the priestess Susato once told Ryunosuke about before, blessed with a deep prowess of magical power.
She passes a long line of people handing out weapons and fitting armor. It’s clear, the way the people of Kakariko have embraced their status as a safe haven: they’ve chosen to fight above all. Once, a people living in the shadows; now, a lighthouse shining their beacon for all those who need it. There is no option to run, not now.
The Village Elder greets them at the bottom of her residence’s steps with rapid words of relief and promises that the Sheikah will do everything in their power to support the Royal Family. And when Ryunosuke has to tell her that the pilgrimage was a failure, the way her heavily wrinkled face crumples is obvious.
“What will you do once you reach the castle, then?” she asks, voice thin. Without the sealing powers, what can you contribute? is the implied follow-up.
Ryunosuke pauses, tries to settle himself. “…Anything that I can.” He unhooks the Sheikah Slate from his hip. “Perhaps I don’t have the Goddess Hylia’s blessing, but I have the blessing your people have given us all, long ago.”
She gives him a small, sad smile. Then, she fishes something out of her pouch and presses it into his hand: a cobalt blue ocarina. “Take this with you. Should anything befall you, play this instrument, and one of our soldiers will find you. The ties between the Sheikah and the Triforce of Wisdom run deep, just as music does with us; the sound will carry.”
It’s an odd declaration, surely, and Ryunosuke is dubious, but in a state where a thousands-of-centuries-old demon king can rise and tar the sky, nothing seems truly that far-fetched anymore. “I will. Thank you.”
They continue towards the stables, as the stable hands prepare their horses. Ursavra animatedly speaks to another group of Sheikah a ways away, gesticulating wildly in the air. Demanding information, Ryunosuke surmises.
Words tumble down the communication device from the scouts above: “Castle Town: green, Mabe Village: yellow, Hyrule Garrison: green.” It brings some relief to Ryunosuke to hear the green warning; even under the direct siege of Calamity Stronghart, they’ve been able to hold their own enough to not request reinforcements. He wonders how many monsters have been summoned—how many have been mowed down by the Guardians, already poised to defend. Whatever it is, it seems to be working. Messenger pigeons will arrive in time with more details.
Kazuma’s hand brushes the side of Ryunosuke’s. “Are you alright?” he asks, sidelong.
It’s a ridiculous question—if not only for the fact no one could possibly be “alright” in these circumstances, but also because he is asking it. Kazuma’s the one who’s going to face that thing, after all. Ryunosuke should be asking him, not the other way around.
Ryunosuke wraps his hand around Kazuma’s. “No, of course not,” he murmurs, letting out a coarse, dry laugh. “…Are you?”
Kazuma knits his brow at that, eyes surveying the chaos. “Not as long as we don’t know what’s actually going on.” He nudges his head towards a ladder leading up to scaffolding on the mountainside. It’s an instant agreement to climb up.
“Send a small squadron out to Mabe. Their farmers won’t be able to handle attacks without help. The garrisons will be sending reinforcements, but having a few of our own out there to get a closer look will help us here—” The masked Sheikah’s eyes widen, lifting that thick scar etched across her brow. She drops to a knee immediately—a swift movement. “Your Highness. Champion.” Even Ryunosuke can recognize the ornamentation hanging over her navy suit: a captain of the Sheikah forces.
“We’re looking for more information on what the situation is like currently,” Ryunosuke says as he inches forward. Bunches of glowing, bright blues illuminate the mountaintops—Guardian sentinels activated and ready to neutralize threats from a distance.
Then, he sees it, far enough away that the castle barely stands out against the dark backdrop: an elongated, horned equine swirling around the top of it, a magenta and black mass of smoke and malice that blazes like fire across the sky.
Ryunosuke’s breath dies in his throat before she can answer him, the blood draining from his face. “I-It looks exactly like—”
“The same as at McGilded’s…” Kazuma hisses out.
The Sheikah captain rises, locks her arms behind her back as she walks forward. “We won’t know details until the messenger birds come in, but the fiend’s just been circling for what we can tell. Almost like it’s taunting us—trying to hold the king captive.”
Ryunosuke can’t help the image from his nightmare of his father’s lifeless body draped over the side of his throne flashing in his mind. He tastes iron.
“And the threat?” Kazuma probes.
“Monster hordes, from what we can tell,” she says. “Blue Moblins, Blue Lizalfos, and the lower monsters, all coming from Castle Town.” She pulls out a spyglass and hands it to Ryunosuke, then she directs his view. “Mabe Village is the easiest to make out.”
Indeed, he sees the smoke billow out from the small farming community. Moblins and Bokoblins infest the village, spilling into the north entrance. He can just make out sporadic flashes of Guardian laser fire in the distance.
Ryunosuke lowers the spyglass, handing it back to her. “…But, that doesn’t make much sense, does it? This is a beast that caused a legendary calamity ten-thousand years ago—that had to be beaten using a legion of mechanical weapons, along with sacred power. Surely, flying around the castle and sending these only-slightly-stronger monsters to attack doesn’t fit that image…?”
“Perhaps what Sholmes said was correct, about being atrophied after having been sealed for so long?” Kazuma supplies.
“I suppose…but I don’t like it,” Ryunosuke says. He rubs the back of his head with his hand, still staring at that swirling apparition amongst roiling thunderclouds. “Captain, I’d advise you and your forces not to underestimate it. Maybe it’s weak, or maybe it’s playing some sort of game—lulling us into a false sense of security so it can take advantage, or, or something, I don’t know. I just don’t have a good feeling about this at all.”
“Understood.” The captain nods. A beat, then: “I’m sorry to ask, Your Highness, but were you able to unlock your powers up on Mount Lanayru?”
The words are dry as they come out of Ryunosuke’s mouth: “No.”
If the captain felt any way, Ryunosuke can’t make it out over the stolid expression she wears, utterly unreadable. “Understood. We’ll continue operations as planned, then.”
A jagged bolt of lightning cracks next to the stable, and Ryunosuke jumps out of his skin. When he peers over the edge, he sees Ursavra with her arm still lifted, holding her hand in the aftermath of a snap. “Get your asses back down here!” she yells. “Our horses are ready!”
The fork in the road at Sahasra Slope is where they need to separate.
“Well,” Ursavra says after a particularly long breath, “this is it then, little mouse.” The blue light of the ancient energy-fueled lanterns illuminates the moroseness carved into her face, all knitted brows and pursed lips. She smoothes down the lapels of his coat, runs her hands down his arms. Fretting over him, like she would when he was a child. “I just wish we had more time before we had to say goodbye like this.”
“T-Then, we won’t have to!” Ryunosuke says, forcing the words out of his constricted throat. “We’ll, we’ll defeat it and see each other again soon—not a ‘goodbye,’ but a ‘see you later,’ isn’t that right?” He clutches his hands together in front of his chest.
Something breaks in her expression. A solemn smile, despite it all. The gold of her jewelry glistens against the light. “Yes,” she breathes out. “You’re exactly right about that. There’s that wisdom showing itself again. We’ve come this far, haven’t we?” She leans in with a scheming twinkle in her eyes, saying in a low voice, “Nothing can stop us.”
Ryunosuke gives a nod. It’s just like Ursavra—even in the most desperate of situations, she’s always brought that confidence like an eternal flame, as fiery as her hair. The feeling that nothing could truly ever be impossible. It gives him something infectious, addicting—something quite rare: hope, above all.
She lifts his chin gently. Her words are soft when she speaks, but they’re as definitive as any rallying cry: “Make no mistake: I am so proud of you. If your mother could see you now, she’d—” The words catch in her throat. “She’d marvel at how much you've grown, just like I have. I’ve said it before, but it’s you that is the light Hyrule needs, not some fickle powers from the goddess.”
And it burns when he squeezes his eyes shut and a tear slips down his cheek. His hands wrap around her arm. It sinks down deep—the realness of it all. After so much preparation—after so much time—it almost felt like an abstraction. But here, he sees the cracks in what always seemed like her impenetrable armor, backdropped by that massive gaseous beast circling the castle far away. She’d have to pilot the Divine Beast; Kazuma would have to fight Calamity Stronghart; he would have to find a way to help, all while under the same oppressive, icy gaze that paralyzed him in his vision under the Temporal Timepiece. There’s no denying its factuality, not anymore.
She swipes away the tear with the pad of her thumb as she cradles his face in her hands. “Promise me that you’ll stay safe—that you won’t take any rash risks around that thing.” She pauses. “Su’vona suru vashiru: only the foolhardy refuse to retreat. This is a well-known saying in Gerudo Town; disengaging from a battle is just as viable a strategy as any other. If anything unexpected happens when you face it and you find yourself backed into a corner, promise me you’ll run. The Divine Beasts will be suppressing Calamity Stronghart. We’ll have plenty of time to gather backup to come assist you.”
Ursavra releases him, hands slowly slipping off his face; the cold floods in to fill the space between. She turns around. “That goes double for you, Champion Kazuma. Now don’t look so surprised; you’re just as embroiled in this circle of mine as Ryunosuke is.” She places her hands on her hips. “Hero of Legend or not, you can’t afford to be reckless. I don’t want to have to find out that you’ve been badly hurt after all this, you hear me? You have a great honor in protecting him, so don’t fail to protect yourself, too. You are his sav’voe, after all.”
Beloved. Ryunosuke feels heat flood his cheeks as Kazuma looks at him, expression thoroughly confused and at a loss for words. “W-Wha—Ursavra!” he sputters.
She merely throws her head back and laughs, then pulls Ryunosuke into a tight hug. “Take care of yourself and stay safe. We’ll see each other soon, yeah?”
He clings tightly. “Yes, we will.”
Ryunosuke looks up from the Slate. “…That’s the last of the Endura Carrots.”
“Shit,” Kazuma hisses, and it’s the only response necessary.
They’d only packed a couple, for emergencies. Endura Carrots were high in demand for workers, less so for travelers—it simply wasn’t deemed as a necessity. Those in Kakariko Village were kind enough to give them a few out of their harvest, but with the increased demand, their supply had grown thin.
Ryunosuke strokes Vanilla’s muzzle. Their horses have tolerated the mix of Endura and Swift Carrots fed to them over such a short time well, but even added endurance has its limits—they noticed their horses getting slower with each one, until they were forced to take a break, much to both Kazuma and Ryunosuke’s dismay. Despite that, even as they lie down to rest, the horses still seem energized underneath the momentary fatigue. Ryunosuke’s relieved to see it—they haven’t pushed them too hard, after all.
Their horses and the carrots have done their jobs, at least: what would be an almost-six-hour-long trip to the outskirts of Applean Forest has been cut into a little more than two. Eyes softening with a sigh, Ryunosuke lifts up a chunk of apple, which Vanilla inhales immediately. The reaction is much the same when he gives the other half to Kazuma’s horse, Justice, nosing him for more. He feels compelled to comply, of course, after all they’ve been asked to do.
He settles next to the fire where Kazuma is cooking; Kazuma had dumped a pile of wood out from the Slate to grill up some hastily-made skewers of beef and Stamella Shrooms. Neither of them have been in the mood to eat, but Kazuma insisted—they’d need all the energy they could get for what’s to come.
The monsters were a light occurrence along the way, easily dispatched by a swing of Kazuma’s sword on horseback or a shot of an arrow (which, to both of their surprise and confusion, Ryunosuke was almost more accurate at shooting on horseback than stationary, as nonsensical as it seemed). It matched what the Sheikah captain had reported when she said the monsters were funneling from Castle Town and spreading outwards. They knew the monster encounters would only increase the closer they got.
Calamity Stronghart continues its swirling spiral around the castle. Leisurely, almost, in its slow loop. And perhaps it was taunting them, with the way it seems utterly unaffected by the whole situation.
No matter, Ryunosuke’s eyes can’t leave the sky. A deep, endless black—devoid of more than just its usual nightly fixtures. His stomach churns.
He pulls out the felt mouse from his pocket and starts pulling at its large ears. “Um, Champion Wilson…? Are you there?” He waits a beat, then another, until the silence stretches long enough that it’s clear there’s no response coming.
He pulls the ears again. “Champion Jigoku, do you hear me?” It’s a stretch of time in silence before static noise peals out of the mouse, before ceasing entirely. Puzzled, Ryunosuke tries again, yet silence is the only answer.
Kazuma sits down next to him, setting the plate of skewers between them. “You’re thinking through your face again—what’s wrong?”
“Ah, I…” His fingers wrap around the felt mouse, if only in hopes it’ll coax out a reply. “Well, it’s already a bit past midnight… Champion Wilson should’ve gotten to Vah Ruta a while back, and with Champion Jigoku’s speed, he should’ve already made it to Vah Rudania by now at the very least… We only really know that the monster hordes around here are coming from the castle—are the density of monsters in the other areas truly that bad if it’s taking them this long?”
Kazuma swallows his food, gives a thoughtful look. “And you’ve received no response?” Ryunosuke shakes his head. Kazuma rakes a hand through his hair. “There’s little we can do here except trust that they’ll pilot their Beasts before we get to the castle.”
And it’s the answer he expected, but not the one he wanted. It does little to settle him. “I suppose…”
They eat their skewers, only the pop of the fire and their horses’ soft nickering cutting through the tense, suspended quiet. Occasionally, the rumblings of Guardian laser fire can be heard in the far distance.
It’s quiet—until the ear-splitting screech of birds flying over them eastward, wings beating ferociously, echoes across the still plains. Vanilla and Justice follow suit, whinnying and kicking up thick clouds of dust as Ryunosuke and Kazuma try to control their reins. They can hear the sounds of other animals’ feet further away pounding against the dirt—whatever that chose to stick around before now fleeing in earnest.
When Ryunosuke first sees the black and white and magenta specks floating skyward, he mistakes it for soot flying off the fire and catching an updraft. But the particles become denser, clumping onto themselves like flames of their own licking towards the sky. And the sky itself: it lightens, brightness flooding in in a ruddy hue within an instant. Shadows of clouds surge across the ruby grass, as if time itself has sped up.
Something gleaming cascades above, fiery and resplendent: a blood-red moon a backdrop of Hyrule Castle’s tallest spire. And before Ryunosuke can even form a coherent thought, the ground quakes yet again—stronger, this time. Something explodes a ways off, closer to Castle Town; through the dirt thrown in his face when he falls and the rock raining down from its epicenter, Ryunosuke can barely make out jagged pillars of slate puncturing through earth and air. Calamity Stronghart rears back, letting out an ear splitting bellow as these massive, rocky columns ascend like pistons towards the sky. Magenta bleeds out of their swirling designs.
Ryunosuke hacks out a cough, pushing himself up off from the grass. “What is…?” he mumbles out, gaping at the sight before him. His head spins.
His eyes track blurred movement: Kazuma calming the frantic horses, globs of smoking tar erupting out of Calamity Stronghart in far-flung streaks across Hyrule Field, a large amount of something pouring out of those giant stanchions like heavy rainfall. A hunk of flaming miasma craters on the opposite side of the tree cover. Then, he sees, shimmering into that red sky: yellow flares of smoke. One, two, three, four—all shooting off from different sides of Castle Town and Hyrule Castle.
Ryunosuke’s forcibly lifted off the ground before he can register it all properly. “We have to go now,” Kazuma snarls as he hoists Ryunosuke up to his horse, as if he’s a saddle himself. “Whatever that red moon is, it’s making things worse.” He clicks his tongue, teeth grit, when his gaze lifts to the sky. “If we beat Jigoku and Wilson to the castle—”
Trees snap and crash to the ground. Ryunosuke slips when he tries to get on Vanilla in the scramble, but Kazuma all but shoves him up before climbing onto his own horse. And they’re off. They race through the forest, trees being felled closer and closer to them. Thick, skeletal legs slowly reveal themselves behind the thinning tree line—ivory bones steeped red. With each movement closer, the ground quakes, wood splinters violently.
Ryunosuke chances a look to the side, only to see a colossal, dark eye framed by the remaining forest staring right at him—its glowing slit of a pupil like its own tree of light. He feels his stomach lurch; a panicked noise escapes him. The thing advances with new ferocity, locked in. Ryunosuke screams out, despite himself.
“It-It’s bones?!” Ryunosuke yells with a shrill twang when Kazuma has to yank Vanilla’s reins to right Ryunosuke’s distracted riding.
“Focus,” Kazuma grits out. “Look at that eye—it’s just asking to have an arrow sunk into it, isn’t it?”
Ryunosuke swallows down his fear just enough to fumble the Sheikah Slate off his hip. A Stalnox, it says when he takes a picture—reanimated remains of a Hinox. He activates Stasis.
Without missing a beat, an arrow flies from Kazuma’s bow, then another. Before Ryunosuke can pull his own bow from the Slate, the Stasis breaks and the Stalnox clutches at its inflamed eye, falling on its behind. The land lurches below them. Kazuma leaps off his horse and slashes at the bones, Karuma gleaming under the ruddy moonlight. Thrumming. Ryunosuke can feel her energy even from where he sits.
Kazuma vaults back when bones rattle and creak, and the Stalnox stands at its towering height again. The monster snaps off a piece of its rib cage with a crack so loud, Ryunosuke has to wince, and casually tosses it in its hand, bone clattering against bone. Stasis is still buffering; Ryunosuke nocks an arrow. The string continues to catch the tip of his nose, but the arrow still hits its wide target—like shooting into the ocean: hard to miss. Kazuma continues his assault, cracking phalanges and metatarsals until they shatter under his blade.
Ryunosuke readies the Slate when he hears the sifting of dirt and the jostle of bones and the way the wind grows impossibly still as life is breathed into the lifeless. Vanilla rears back when skeletal forces climb out from the ground below her feet.
Squat and hunched over, the first thought that comes to Ryunosuke’s mind: Bokoblin skeletons. Ryunosuke seizes the Stalnox after pulling his horse away from the emerging monsters, but Kazuma wastes no time culling the bony zombies. It’s easy enough: one swipe of the illuminated sword and their delicate bones collapse like a house of playing cards, splaying out against torn grass.
Ryunosuke releases another arrow into the Stalnox’s eye. There’s only time for a single arrow to pierce it before Stasis breaks, but it seems to be enough—the giant’s eye pops out of its bony socket, bouncing against earth. Kazuma follows Ryunosuke’s call to follow it, and pierces the eyeball as the Stalnox crashes back down, crumbling into black dust and smoke.
The Bokoblin bones continue to rattle, no matter how fragile and scattered they’ve been. One by one, they reform themselves—some running around like headless Cuccos with their own quite literal headless bodies. One swipes at Justice, who kicks with his back hooves directly into the skull, and the thing evaporates into dust. Just like that, and Kazuma is cleaving skeleton skulls into nothing.
There’s sizzling from far away—whizzing noises, followed by a series of loud pop, pops into the air. The scarlet sky is smeared in a grim rainbow of smoky colors: green from the southwest—the two garrisons surrounding the Exchange; yellow from the west—the unprotected clergypersons at the Sage Temple, Ryunosuke figures; deep red bleeding through thick smokestacks of gray at the capital; fluorescent pink staining the airway above Mabe Village, bypassing the red signal entirely—a dire warning of devastation.
Kazuma mounts his horse and they move west. Once the forest parts itself to the thoroughfare of the wide open Romani Plains and Mabe Prairie, Ryunosuke watches as a blindingly blue beam cuts the sky like a starry bridge above—Jigoku and Vah Rudania, finally, judging by the direction.
Ryunosuke’s receiver crackles as Jigoku speaks: “Prince Naruhodo. Come in, Prince Naruhodo!”
He presses the mouse close to his face. “Yes! Hello!”
“I’ve made it,” Jigoku says, before the sound peals in a discordant, staticky screech that makes Ryunosuke recoil. “—many monsters—hard t—had to wait—”
“You’re, you’re breaking up!” Ryunosuke yells into the doll, hoping the voice will carry through it. “I can’t understand—” The line cuts into stark silence.
He pulls the mouse’s ears again after waiting for any follow-up from Jigoku. “Champion Wilson?!” No response, yet again. Worry grows sour in his gut. A single blue beam across the sky.
“Susato!” Kazuma yells into his cat doll. “Are you alright—what’s happening?!”
“We’re, we’re okay!” Susato replies. Flustered. Shaken. “Iris, Father, Grandma, and I are all hiding in Champion Sholmes’s lab…but we think we’ve found a path to escape.” Ryunosuke can hear the way Susato sucks in a shaky breath even across the receiver. Kazuma grips the doll tighter. “Oh, it’s just horrible… I, I don’t know what’s happening outside. The monsters poured in so suddenly after everything was under control and now everyone is trying to evacuate—”
“We’re coming as quick as we can,” Kazuma grits out through clenched teeth. “Head to Kakariko once you get out!”
“There’s monsters all across Hyrule Field—be careful!” Ryunosuke yells across the way.
“W-We have the Guardians from the lab to protect us!” Iris. Her voice is so tinny, it’s fit to break. A loud sniff, then. “E-Eggy can scout for us, too!”
The thought of Iris trapped in that monster-infested den, crying and terrified, makes Ryunosuke’s heart clench—suffocating in his chest. He wants to respond—wants to reassure her that everything will be fine, that they’ll get there soon and it’ll all be over quickly. Make promises he can’t keep. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth.
“Stay safe,” Kazuma murmurs, instead. It’ll have to be enough.
Ryunosuke watches as smoke flows steadily out from Mabe Village ahead. Flames raze the grass—have already eaten away the once lush ranch lands entirely. He can’t even see standing buildings anymore, just an inferno of smoke and fire spiraling skyward. Red beams shoot out from the blaze indiscriminately, explosions following. The char in the air smells rancid.
The sound of rapid movement rasps against stone and dirt beyond the smog, and it’s but a second before a Guardian skitters out of the ashen clouds in front of them, forcing them to halt their horses. But it’s wrong, so very wrong—machinery glinting with a bilious, magenta hue. Movements jerky, erratic—writhing, almost as if fighting itself.
Ryunosuke freezes, dread a stone of ice in his belly. “N-No… It can’t be—” The words scraped raw, strangled.
Malfunctioning, just like in Sholmes’s lab.
A red laser spreads towards him, a discordant beeping accompanying it—one he’s become all too accustomed to over the time spent researching the machines. But the pitch is warbled, grating—some horrid crescendo in his ears. And time slows to nothing.
It takes Kazuma lurching off his horse, glowing blade brilliant enough in the darkness to make Ryunosuke wince from her luster, that his brain clicks back into place. Ryunosuke pulls the reins hard and veers his horse hard to the left, back towards open fields. A shrill beep rings, then a blinding laser cuts just past him. The heat sears him as it passes. The smell of singed hair hits his nose—whether it’s his own or Vanilla’s, he’s not sure.
It’s an evanescent thought, drowned out by the way his heart thuds like war drums in his chest as he navigates away. He abandons his horse in the refuge of the field; the horses will find their way—safer to wait for Kazuma and him to return to them than take them any closer to battle.
By the time he circles back in a run and yanks the Sheikah Slate off his hip, Kazuma’s narrowly dodging another locked-on shot of a laser. Using the opening the Guardian itself has created, he slices through an exposed leg—blade like a hot knife through butter. The machine tilts off-kilter, before attempting to skitter back. Ryunosuke presses Stasis before it can escape, catching it in golden chains. Kazuma’s able to get another leg cleaved off within that time. Showers of sparks cascade down from the stumps of its limbs.
It’s the biggest advantage they have after all this time researching the Guardians: knowledge. And that’s exactly why Ryunosuke flicks through the menus of the Slate. After all, he has the firsthand wisdom of what will reset a malfunctioning Guardian faster and safer than attempting to destroy it completely—
A rock skids underfoot and his hand slips with it. There’s not even time to register what he’s done when a daruma-shaped robot spills out of the Slate and scurries across the grass with a dogged determination, chittering about as he extends his arm aloft, electrifying the blade.
The thing’s fast, much more agile on uneven ground than Ryunosuke ever anticipated; he catches up to the malicious Guardian trying to scuttle away in a flash, weaving through metallic legs with ease. And when Darumy slides under the Guardian, he jams his electric blade in its underside—right at the belly’s vulnerable spot.
The Guardian stutters and stalls, head spinning wildly. The robot tips and falls on its exposed side. The magenta and black coloring in its veins retreats, expelling itself in popping wisps—mist into the air. The light coursing through it darkens completely as it goes silent.
Darumy swivels himself around—first looking at Kazuma mid-flick of his sword, then to Ryunosuke, almost expectantly. Ryunosuke holds up a shaky thumbs up. The top of Darumy’s casing bobs up and down as he lets out an excited jingle. Then, he lifts his sword up to the air yet again and begins to scamper towards the flaming wreckage—
And Kazuma picks the small Guardian up despite his protests. It’s the right thing to do, of course—Ryunosuke registers this immediately as the smolder in the air begins to sting his eyes and catch deeper in his throat. A single Guardian they’re equipped to handle, especially all three of them working in tandem, but if there’s more behind that smoky pall and pyre of destruction…?
Ryunosuke approaches the defunct Guardian, nudges it with his shoe. It’ll take some time, but it will revive itself, clean and flowing orange and blue once again. Missing legs, perhaps, but they’ll take any help they can get.
They can’t linger here for long, he knows this. Mabe Village called for reinforcements early. Unlike Castle Town, they’d be quick to recognize that trying to fight back would be futile with their limited resources. They focused on evacuation, he tells himself; they got everyone out. Repeats it like a benediction in his mind. It’s rubble and soot, it’s rubble and soot. Nothing more left over.
His eyes wander to the large columns cradling the castle like viper’s fangs around a throat. They glow with the same magenta hue as the malfunctioning Guardian.
Kazuma and him recoil low to the ground, arms thrown over the back of their heads like a shield, when a Guardian’s laser detonates something nearby. Debris showers over them. Darumy clatters to the ground, dazed.
Another boom, not directed towards them. Then, another, another. A cacophony of laser fire—bright, blue light zooming across a gray shroud. Mouth agape, Ryunosuke watches when clear air slices through the smog: a singular orange-colored Guardian climbing on wreckage and firing shots as a magenta Guardian approaches from the west, then another from the north, then another, another. Surrounding it as it tries to carve light through its assailants. Far more than the amount of Guardians ever supplied to Mabe Village. Burning with that same ruddy magenta.
They weren’t under any illusion that they’d uncovered all the Guardians—no, every week there’d be reports of one or two popping up at some other excavation site across Hyrule. And they’d amassed a formidable army by now, but it was scarce compared to the images depicted in the texts within the Kakariko Library—of a metal militia the size of Hyrule Field itself. As much as they continued to search, that repository of Guardians evaded them. But if Calamity Stronghart was able to locate them first—
The orange-lit Guardian fights valiantly. But it’s a single automaton versus five others. Red lasers carve into its metal casing, leading to endless explosions of electricity and smoke.
Kazuma hoists Darumy up under his arm, grips Ryunosuke’s hand and yanks him into a run. As they speed back to their horses, Ryunosuke can’t help but stare as sparks fly behind them.
Ryunosuke was right after all: the Guardians are the key to turning the tide of the battle. He just never could predict it would be a question of who would be the one wielding them.
A barrage of smoke signals boom in succession from Hyrule Castle. Pink, pink—the world’s smothered in pink.
Notes:
Thank you for reading <3
Chapter 23: Enormities: Part 2
Notes:
Warnings - click to view
- Now that we're getting knee-deep into the Calamity, the warning tags are going to be more relevant—please be aware going forward about the depictions of violence/death/light gore (will be describing injuries, but not in excessive detail), angst, etc
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There’s disorderly lines of people rushing out of Castle Town when they approach—chaotic, frenzied. People holding little more than a single chest of possessions, or just their crying children in their arms, or completely empty handed, their singed clothes on their backs the only thing left to their names. A great deal of them still in their nightclothes—pulled out of their houses during the dead of night.
Knights line the perimeter, guiding the evacuees in an almost futile attempt to steer the panicked crowd into something resembling an orderly flow across Mabe Prairie towards Kakariko Village. Perhaps if they hug the northern plain and go straight across the grassland, they’ll be spared of seeing the devastation of Mabe Village and avoid the malfunctioning Guardians that stalk there, or maybe they’ve already sent out troops to clear the area. Either way, the sheen of the knights’ armor shines orange and red, reflecting the fire that blankets both the sky and the town behind them.
Guardians shuffle alongside the knights—orange and blue. Farther off, towards one of the southeast entrances, he watches flashes of laser fire. Magenta machinery crumples and falls under two Guardians and a group of knights.
“Prince Runo! Champion Kazzy!” a shrill voice yells amongst the clamor: Iris bounding towards them. Her normally pristine pink curls stream behind her like freed ribbons, messy and in disarray; she wears a nightgown caked with mud at the hem, a coat secured over it. She carries a box packed to the brim in her arms. Eggy leaps from her side, scrambles so fast toward the surging Darumy that they almost collide head on, chittering out boops and beeps a mile a minute.
Susato follows close behind her with a chest of her own, wearing something lighter than her usual daytime clothes, yet not quite resembling nightwear—an outfit caught in a holding pattern, it seems, both ready to rest or flee at whatever signal were to be given outside. Was this what the evening was like here? Trapped in an anxious suspense as a calamity swirled above, just knowing at any point the situation could turn dire?
Susato’s father trails behind them, balancing both a wooden chest under his arm and Elder Impa on his back. A knight trying to maintain the line falls into a dejected slump as they exit the flow.
Ryunosuke barely makes it off his horse when Iris slams into him after setting down her box, clutching his jacket as though to tether him there—to have physical proof he truly exists in front of her. Her pink cheeks are stained with tear trails, eyes reddened. He crouches down and she flings her arms around his neck; he pulls her into a tight embrace, letting her blubber out wordless babble into his shoulder.
Words of relief spill out of them all once they reconvene, along with prayers of their continued fortunateness ahead implied behind their tongues. Information spread: of monsters and hostile Guardians ahead, how Kakariko will be salvation. Though, with the amount of silver hair within the group, this is something already well known. Kazuma and Ryunosuke urge them to take their horses—fatigued after all the travel, perhaps, but if they manage their pace efficiently, their steeds will no doubt aid their journey. Mikotoba begins stowing their belongings at once.
Elder Impa shuffles towards Ryunosuke, face grown stern, grim. Her hair a messy waterfall over her back instead of the neatly tied loops she’s prided herself over, always sure to have everything around her precise and orderly. He realizes with a dull pang in his chest that for as long as he’s known her—as close as she’s always been to him—he’s never seen her frazzled like this. And it splinters him further to look down at her, backlit by red and distant flame, and recognize the fragility there he’s never once imagined could come from someone he’s only ever seen as a perpetual pillar of strength.
She takes his hand between both her own, weathered and shaky. “Tell me, child,” she implores, voice hoarse, “were you able to hear her up on that mountain?”
And she knows immediately what the answer is, for she squeezes his hand. Perhaps it was his hesitance, or maybe the way his mouth grew taut, his muscles stiffening completely involuntarily, that gave him away. She of all people would be able to see through him easiest at this point—she was there from the very beginning, after all, accompanying him through every failure and disappointment for those early years, and a lot more thereafter.
“It is not your fault.” Elder Impa’s voice is thin. This is reminiscent, too—in that sickening, foul nostalgia. It never gets any easier, no matter how many times it’s repeated. “You have always given all of yourself up to the goddess… We all have. This is her will, I suppose. For us to make do without her.”
He nods slowly. No, it never gets easier. She pats his hand one final time before releasing her grip. He swipes across his eyes with his sleeve.
“And you all were trapped?” Kazuma urges, eyes intense.
“Yes,” Susato replies, voice still shaky. She tries to hold it—tries to keep her face as steady as her stiff posture—but it’s plain to see how her lip quivers, how her eyes shine against lantern light. Iris nods vigorously, as well. “It was just after the massive earthquakes—when those columns sprouted out from the ground… All of a sudden, there were malfunctioning Guardians everywhere and we—” She wrings her hands together. “They wouldn’t let us leave.”
Iris’s voice is small when she says, “We stopped some with the electric swords and Eggy. But, Octy got destroyed fighting them off… She, she sacrificed herself so we could get away.” Her voice wavers then, fit to break. Tears in her eyes again. “H-How did this happen to the Guardians? We studied them for so long and…” She sucks in a breath. “W-Was it wrong to do that? Did I make it all worse?” It’s a dam breaking against the strain. She wails then, fists scraping at her eyes as tears stream down the length of her face.
Susato quickly pulls her into a hug. “Oh, Iris, please don’t blame yourself.”
Something tugs deep within Ryunosuke—that same guilt, searing hot. He won’t deny the same question has crossed his mind, too, after seeing the destruction wrought to Mabe Village. This was the way he thought they could get an advantage, following the same playbook of the ancients. It was the way he could contribute, even when he felt useless to the cause. It was meant to be foolproof, an answer they could count on.
Did he unintentionally champion the very machines that will bring upon their undoing?
Yells ring from the evacuation lines. Celebratory—whoops and hollers and claps on shoulders. The group of knights that were fighting the magenta Guardian return with their own orange Guardian in tow. The other Guardians around the flood of people swivel their heads around, constantly on watch.
And when Ryunosuke’s eyes focus back down to the two prototypical Guardians with their musical headpieces and their electric swords they probably aren’t programmed with enough responsibility to be wielding, yet they continue to with the utmost loyalty to protect—to protect, above all else—the answer crystallizes in his mind.
Ryunosuke grits his teeth, allows himself to truly feel that rage for the first time. “No, none of this is your fault, Iris. That thing is the one that turned them against us; no one could’ve anticipated something like this happening, especially not you…” He has to force himself to breathe. “…But you said it yourself, didn’t you? That Octy allowed you all to escape—that all your research into the Guardians was exactly the thing that saved you. Saved us all, even—I mean, Darumy helped us get here quicker, too, and look at all the Guardians helping the knights get people out safely. If it wasn’t for all your efforts, we’d be much more unprepared for something like this, wouldn’t we?”
She looks up at him in awe, wide, sparkling eyes like their own mini moons. Her mouth quivers before she manages out a “Y-You, you think so?” He nods, gives her a smile. She glances to Susato, who does much the same. Then, bunching the fabric of her nightgown into her small fists, she sniffs with force, face ground into determination. “Then, I’ll do all I can to help! Even if…” Her voice trails as she turns to look northwest, up to the sky. “…H-Have you heard from Hurley…?”
Ryunosuke’s eyes lift. One single beam across the sky. On a clear night, Vah Medoh could be seen even from Hyrule Field; now, it’s yet another black speck mixed within the shroud of the reddened sky and magenta wisps.
“No,” he finally says, trying to draw his tone as flat and controlled as possible, though the anxiety threatens to spike it entirely, “I haven’t, but it’s a long fly from Lanayru to Hebra, after all.” A small laugh spills out, as he runs his hand through the back of his hair. “And when have you ever known Champion Sholmes to not announce his every move? If something happened to him, I’ve no doubt we’d be hearing an earful about it already… We simply must give him some more time until he reaches Vah Medoh.”
Iris nods at this, a doleful look still upon her face—but not one skeptical.
Time. Something they needed more of to figure out all the little pieces required for victory. Something they don’t have much of left anymore. His hand slides down from the base of his neck, and he stares at the back of it—covered with his arm guard, but stripped bare of any sacred power. And he swears, when he focuses hard enough, he can hear the keen rhythm of a clock ticking in the distance, incessant.
“—I’m well aware of how capable you are, no matter how much you try to downplay it, Royal Advisor Susato.” Kazuma’s words filter in. “And I’m not foolish enough to attempt to convince you to do otherwise when you maintain holding others above yourself as a point of pride, but there comes a moment when you must take care of yourself, as well.” And he pauses, then grips the hand wrapped around his arm tighter. “All that’s to say: promise me you’ll stay safe.”
Susato’s looking up at him with a gnarled expression, self-restraint of someone twice her age pushed up to the very brink. Even so, her eyes shine as she presses a clenched fist to her chest. “That’s quite the scathing indictment, but one awfully unfair, isn’t it? Considering your position…” She chances a look back towards the castle. “While we’re all fleeing, you and Prince Ryunosuke are heading straight into the jaws of the beast, after all…”
Kazuma shakes his head. “Karuma compels her wielder to slice evil in two. She will guide us both, no doubt.”
Susato's mouth opens at this, before shutting it between tight-pressed lips—hesitant, as if weighing the cost of the words. Her fist clenches tighter. “...Then promise me your own safety in return. For all your courage and conviction, that does not make you immortal.”
Kazuma throws his head back and laughs. “Yes, those are words well to be remembered… You have my word: I’ll do everything in my power to avoid taking unnecessary risks.”
There’s a pause then, stilted. Susato’s returning smile is a brittle thing, threatening to break alongside the tears welling up in her eyes. She shifts forward a minuscule amount—that characteristic restraint again, bringing her to a halt.
Whatever tension there is, Kazuma breaks it when he places a comforting hand on Susato’s shoulder with a nod. “Be careful.” His smile has grown rueful, eyes softening. Susato dabs at her eyes with her sleeve when his hand slides off.
“Everything’s ready!” Mikotoba calls out from the horses. And the goodbyes begin once more—too many for one night’s worth: another hug from Iris, a kiss and a pat on the hand from Elder Impa.
Ryunosuke approaches Susato. “…I regret that I couldn’t have helped you more, Prince Ryunosuke,” she says in a strained voice.
Ryunosuke merely shakes his head. “N-No, if anything I should be the one apologizing for not helping you enough. You’ve done more than I could ever ask for. We’re all indebted to you, truly…” How could he ever begin to quantify it all? It’d take until the sun rises again—if it ever will. “After all, you’re the best Royal Advisor in the world, Lady Susato—thank you.”
As much as she tries to hide it, it’s plain to see the way a wave of emotion wracks through her body. She folds into a tight bow. “Thank you. May we see each other again soon.”
He agrees and with that, he sees the ending moments of whatever conversation Mikotoba was having with Kazuma before Mikotoba gets up on Justice. Elder Impa is already firmly seated in front of him, taking Kazuma’s hand one final time. Darumy and Eggy cross swords, before Eggy is scooped up into Iris’s arms. Susato joins Iris on Vanilla. Dust and grass are kicked up and then they’re but a blur in the smoky distance.
Kazuma’s hand is warm and weighty against his shoulder. “Ready, partner?”
The slap Ryunosuke gives himself against his cheeks echoes across the field. “Yes!” And for the briefest of moments, it doesn’t feel like something he has to convince himself to be true.
When they attempt to cross the threshold of the main gate, they’re intercepted by a group of knights arriving in from the west—fifteen to twenty or so if Ryunosuke has to guess, though he struggles to accurately count. People move about like rushing rapids, oscillating so much against haze and heat, it’s hard to make out what’s real and what’s mirage.
What he is sure of is that the group’s leader is a rugged Hylian man, in more ways than one: hulking in stature and no-nonsense in personality, as sharp as the exposed hatchet on his hip. When he says his troop will be escorting them to the Royal Guards at the castle, it’s clear it’s a directive rather than a suggestion. Barry Caidin, he introduces himself staidly as they forge through the crowd—governor of the Castle Town Prison, now leader of this mishmash assemblage of knights he’d found along the way after being assigned to recover people left stranded in the capital.
His garb makes it clear he’s no regular Field Knight Commander: little plate mail at all, just a chest piece that has barely any wear against its shiny surface and no helmet with the customary red plumage. It makes Ryunosuke do a double take towards the rest of the knights accompanying them, only to see a mix of different attires: some Patrol Knights; some Field Knights; a field medic, bright red Triforce insignia emblazoned on their armband; two Sheikah in their traditional armor, no doubt reinforcements sent from Kakariko Village. Desperation calls for it.
The first thing that hits Ryunosuke once they pass through the gate is the smell: a deeply bitter, acrid stench sticking to his nose with a vengeance. That unmistakable smell of burnt hair. Of fat. As much as Hyrule Field began to burn, it was open fields and open air—enough area to try to dissipate with the wind—but trapped between buildings and half-destroyed structures, the stench is concentrated. He chokes against the smog clogging his lungs.
They hang an immediate left, hugging the side of the buildings. “Central’s a death wish—ye’d be a pure dafty going anywhere near unless you’re a specialist,” Caidin explains over the sound of crumbling rock.
The Guardians had swarmed from the north and congregated in the Central Square, reducing the once thriving market area into little more than a Guardian stomping ground atop the wreckage. The specialist knights were brought in to cull the area with the electric swords Iris and Sholmes provided them—specialists: for monsters of flesh and blood and sometimes stone, not automatons. The sharpest minds and quickest bodies, sent out to try to do the unthinkable as the town burned around them.
It’s made apparent that there’s no room for argument when Caidin outlines their plan so authoritatively as they walk: they’d have to resort to stealth to get closer to the epicenter of it all, sticking to alleyways and ducking under coverings to avoid Guardian detection. A gamble, surely, to stay in a confined space if a Guardian were to spot them, but the concealment would be the quickest and safest way to travel. Ryunosuke would stay behind Caidin, Kazuma would be to his exposed side, the rest a single-file line behind him. Darumy skitters next to them.
At Ryunosuke’s back: a Hylian Patrol Knight who couldn’t be much older than him, blonde hair poking out from under his helmet and a reddish patched-up scarf flung over his shoulders. It’s obvious that he’s no stranger to long nights such as these by the way his almost sparkling blue eyes are obscured by heavily drooping eyelids, dark circles under them even more of a testament. He nervously chews on the strap of his helmet while he fiddles with the bow in his hands. Ryunosuke can’t suppress the thought of worry that the knight might keel over from exhaustion at any moment; Kazuma jabs him in the side with his elbow.
“Incoming!” a yell comes from the ramparts. The word hasn’t even been finished when timber splinters and tile tumbles from above and a mechanical hull crests the roof. The magenta Guardian’s red tracking laser traces the ground before locking on a small cluster of knights across the walkway from them, cascading beeps ramping up in velocity.
“Gads, watch it!” Caidin yells out as laser fire narrowly misses the group opposite of them. Cobblestone flies. Kazuma presses Ryunosuke into the wall to shield him as the others duck.
Arrows whizz from the parapets, striking the Guardian’s eye. The thing collapses, skidding across roofing tile and smashing against stone hard enough, electricity circuits off it. Without a word, Kazuma leaps and jabs Karuma into the exposed under-area. It crackles as magenta and black wisps dissipate into the air.
The victory is short-lived—another Guardian replaces it, shooting a beam at the archers in the ramparts and attempting to melt stone under the heat. Yells from their group to move forward into the alleyway. Ryunosuke scoops up a too-eager-to-prove-himself Darumy and runs; the last thing he sees is a Rito gliding off one of the roofs and launching a bomb arrow.
They wind through the narrow passageways of western Castle Town as explosions and commotion rattle their ears. Darumy scouts ahead to alert them of clear paths. The closer they get north, the thicker the smoke gets, the worse the smell gets. Fire has already claimed some of the smaller, single story homes—just rubble and ashen foundation left.
“Governor, I must know…” Ryunosuke says as they approach the West Castle Town square area. An appraisal shop was there once, the bakery that sold those little sweet breads shaped like rupees and tossed in sugar right beside it. A tavern fights for its survival—not helped by the alcohol inside, surely. Homes upon homes within close proximity in flames, barely hanging onto structure. “…What amount of casualties are we looking at here?”
“I dinnae ken,” Caidin says, tight tenor enduring. “Not sure a’body would ken—other than it being mighty devastating… Central’s hit hard.”
The tightening feeling in Ryunosuke’s chest worsens. “…Please, can you tell me what you know happened?”
Caidin sighs, brandishing a foldable comb out of his pocket and swiping the loosened strands fallen over his forehead back. “The demon surrounded and blocked off the main part of the castle in the eve.”
Ryunosuke feels his heart leap in his chest. The Sanctum. Trapped within. Was Father—
“The monsters were no problem from Hyrule Field, so knights focused on gettin’ everyone oot o’ the castle into Castle Town and holding the line. It was’nae ‘til that red moon and them pillars wi’ the Guardians turned up and everything went to right shite…” They cross another street with Darumy’s guidance, ducking into yet another smoky alleyway. “After hours o’ worrying, most civilians were puggled—probably went right to sleep when given the clear…” Ryunosuke watches his head dip as they walk. “I dinnae ken how many even kennt what was going on ‘til those things were atop them.”
A shiver runs down Ryunosuke. “Horrible…” The muttered words scrape him hollow.
“You said the knights tried to secure Castle Town—were those the king’s directives?” Kazuma asks.
Caidin rolls a hand in the air dismissively. “I could’nae tell ya. Orders came from the top o’ the knights and we all followed the command. Whether it was from the king himself, I’ve no the first idea.”
Kazuma draws his brows together at this. “Um, is there something wrong, Kazuma?” Ryunosuke probes.
“Just, doesn’t it strike you at all odd that Calamity Stronghart appeared at the castle, yet no attempts were made to begin an evacuation of the town?” Kazuma responds. “Making a stand against the enemy is one thing, but telling the public to stay put so close to it? Why wouldn’t they begin efforts to get people out of the area?”
The roofs shake above them. Caidin holds up a hand and they all come to an abrupt stop. Metal scraping against tile. Ryunosuke tenses as dark shadows inch closer from above, blotting out the ruddy moonlight for an instant as three, four Guardians pass overhead. Magenta light pulses from along their undersides, suffusing across the exposed point on their bellies. They’re safe below them—there’s no reason to fear being spotted, as the Guardians have no sensors to see directly under them—but they all release a collective breath only after the Guardians have traveled far enough away that their skittering is drowned out by the neighboring sounds of collapsing wood and stone, and Caidin lowers his arm.
They carry on forward.
“Listen, laddie,” Caidin says, then, “I’m the governor o’ the prison. Just like nobody comes in there tellin’ me what to do, if the Castle Town knights start issuing commands in their town, I do what they tell me. I did’nae ask any more questions. All I did was carry oot my duty when called to do so. Besides, the fields were filled wi’ monsters at that point—I’d imagine they thought it’d be best for everyone to stay put.”
“And the king—” The words rasp out of Ryunosuke’s throat raw, barely able to escape. “Do you…?”
Caidin stops. When he turns around, his expression is benignant, pitying in a particularly sensitive way that Ryunosuke didn’t really expect him to be capable of behind the severe disposition and all the battle-earned scars. “…Nothing good ever comes from engagin’ in idle speculation, Your Highness. It’ll just make ya go mad.”
The tightness in Ryunosuke’s chest continues to constrict. He ducks his head down, swipes his thumb over his arm guard—over and over. Kazuma’s hand squeezes his shoulder. Something to anchor him.
“Help!” A woman’s voice calling out, jagged like broken glass. A man’s follows. Another voice, another—down the street they’re coming up upon. Darumy chirps ahead.
Laser fire in the distance. Too quick between shots to be from a single Guardian.
“Ya heard ‘em! Let’s go!” Caidin yells back to the group, yanking the hatchet out from his holster and surging into a run.
Ryunosuke can barely see whoever’s calling out from the shelter they’re tucked underneath—some sort of large merchant’s stall flipped over them. Bright beams scar the land and rend the sky as three Guardians clash in front of them: one orange and the two others magenta. The ally Guardian is lopsided, two legs on its right side now sparking stumps of exposed circuitry; there’s a still-smoking hole drilled straight through its hull. It fires another blast, but the magenta Guardian is still too mobile; it dodges out of the way quickly. The remaining turned Guardian isn’t too far off from its brethren: a couple legs seared off, scar apparent across its shell, but still able to move with ease.
Ryunosuke activates Stasis right as the injured robot’s red seeker lands on the orange Guardian. Kazuma sprints forward, slicing a leg clean off in a smooth swipe. Half of the group follows, striking the other legs with weapons that chip and notch grooves into the casing—too durable against ordinary blades to be dismembered that easily. Darumy runs along the limbs, trying to get a clean look at its body to zap it with his sword.
Ryunosuke follows the rest towards those in need of aid. Six—eight—eleven people all huddled together under this overturned stall. The sulfur in the air is ever present, but the smell of iron is thick here, concentrated. Some of the knights lift the stall up with little difficulty, to gasps of thanks and relieved prayers.
And it’s at this that Ryunosuke freezes—trapped in some liminal space, stretched thin from both sides. What even is his role in a situation like this? Does he try to help those fighting while waiting for Stasis to replenish? Pull out a bow and—no, his aim is still too poor to hit such a small, moving target. He’d endanger those fighting below, anyway. Does he try to assist those fleeing—those hurt? Sure, he knows the basics of applying ointment and wrapping a bandage, but it’s a far cry from actual medical aid.
He settles on something surely much less useful than what calls for in this situation: guiding the scared civilians to fill the adjacent alleyway, away from the laser fire. His eyes flit back and forth every second: down to the Slate, watching the timer slowly tick down; up to the fight, where he catches the tail end of the magenta Guardian they’re targeting spinning its body like a deranged top, sending Darumy flying into a pile of soot and the other knights staggering back in defense, before it shoots a beam that they scramble to evade; to the left, where he sees bloodied townspeople unsteadily climbing to their feet and stumbling away.
The full-legged magenta Guardian fires a laser faster than the orange Guardian is able to; the explosion makes the orange Guardian jerk, laser cutting across the side of the building and up into the air as it slams onto its side. The man with the scarf looses an arrow into the other magenta Guardian’s eye and it stutters. Kazuma cuts off another leg. Caidin and the other knights finally dismember one of its two remaining legs. It collapses to the ground in a storm of dirt and dust. He sees Karuma glow as she’s lifted into the air to stab the eye.
The medic rips gauze and cloth with teeth, coiling the white bandages around a man’s arm—dripping with blood. He shrieks with the pressure. A woman hobbles past Ryunosuke with her arm wrapped around one of the Sheikah’s shoulders. Her foot is disconfigured, twisted in a way that makes his stomach lurch.
Alive, though. He tries to make himself believe that it’s still a blessing.
The enemy Guardian leaps onto a higher portion of the roof, running from the red laser trained on it. Ryunosuke presses Stasis as the sound of off-kilter, swelling laser grows from the orange Guardian—askew, but not inoperable. It’s enough: the beam tears through the now still-bodied Guardian’s eye. The robot skids down blue tiles, sparking and sizzling, until it plummets to the ground. Lifeless.
There’s cheers from the townspeople behind. Clapping and hollering and crying. More appreciations of gratitude.
One woman shuffles forward, despite the concern of one of the others. She places a shaky hand on the ally Guardian. The thing beeps out something resembling a recognition, but the tone is all wrong—damaged, warbled. She runs her palm slowly against its dirtied steel.
“I, I don’t know if you can understand me…” she says, but her voice is brittle, fit to break. “Maybe I’m crazy to be talking to a machine, but…” A sniffle. “If it wasn’t for you pulling me out of that rubble back there, I—” Her mouth hangs open as she sucks in a trembling breath, lips quivering. The pitch is high, strangled: “If you hadn’t gathered all of us, protected all of us until help came—we wouldn’t have—” A cry escapes her. She lets her forehead rest on its hull. The Guardian beeps back with its discordant sound. “Thank you. Thank you…”
She’s pulled away by one of the other civilians as the Guardian flashes bright blue lights. A response, or a goodbye, or both. The machine will stay here, too damaged to move, and fight for as long as its immobile body will allow. And like too many other things this night, it will fall for a final time. However, it did what it was programmed to do—what it needed to do, deep in its circuitry: guard those who needed its help the most. And Ryunosuke doesn’t know if these Guardians have such distinctive personalities as the prototypes do, but he hopes it knows—hopes it can feel somehow that it did something monumental.
Caidin orders the medic and four more of their group to splinter off and guide the refugees to safety out of town. The remaining group presses on northward, slowly dwindling as they find more people in need of help and have to leave to escort them back through perilous streets. They fight Guardians along the way and destroy them; very few have openings to allow Darumy to get close enough to be reset instead.
Ryunosuke learns their names and who they are—little snapshots of personality behind the makeshift masks of cloth they have to tie around their faces as they progress. The Sheikah’s name is Shina. As guessed before, she came from Kakariko Village as one of many of the reinforcements dispatched, but she lived in Castle Town for ten years while studying at Hyrule University. When she heard they were sending help, she was one of the first to volunteer. Her second home, she says.
The man with the scarf is Roly. Newly married, he sought out becoming a Patrol Knight for the stable wage it provided, despite how difficult the training was. His wife’s favorite flower is a rose, so it’s his as well. When he speaks of her, his eyes seem to twinkle even more.
The two Hylian Field Knights are twins: Dawn and Vesper. They worked their way through the Academy together, always side by side. Growing up, they used to rhyme the end of each other's sentences, solely to mess with people.
Caidin keeps things brief, as expected. Married with two kids. Worked at the Castle Town Prison for more than ten years now. Has a surprising hobby of baking—especially handcuff-shaped cookies, despite how morbid it feels to Ryunosuke.
Ryunosuke and Kazuma need no real introduction to this group it seems, but they give it anyway—offering a shred of normalcy. Ryunosuke swears he sees Caidin do a double-take at Karuma after Kazuma introduces himself, expression twisting in some way.
They’re getting closer to Central Square, Ryunosuke is sure of it, despite how hard the chaos and destruction makes it to gauge their location. Guardians swarm the area, bustling around the streets much like how people once would.
A tracking laser locks onto their entourage and two Guardians rush from both sides. The group gets to work, practiced now but never complacent. Just as before, Ryunosuke aids with Stasis as much as he can, but the wait between activations stretches for agonizing moments and—
“Help!”
“Please help!”
It’s barely loud enough to register, but when the high pitch gives way to fits of coughs, it’s unmistakable who the voices belong to. Children.
Ryunosuke takes another look at the combat. The team is handling it as well as they could hope—even without his support. He turns heel, scans the surrounding area.
“Help’s here! Where are you?!” he yells over the crack of smoldering flame.
The voices that echo back lead him to a collapsed house: stone a felled heap and wood at its back aflame. He tests the rubble at its base, but it doesn’t budge. He scrambles up where the rock sits loose and it takes only a few moments to send stone sliding until he can see those hiding below: a small group of crying children tucked into a fortunate space of safety under all the destruction. A sturdy, wooden beam remains from the house’s structure to shield them. There’s still time to rescue them, but it’s dwindling rapidly—Ryunosuke can feel the heat of encroaching flame.
A child scrambles up the side. Hands meet smaller hands, then arms, until he can lift them enough to clear the opening. Another escapes, then another. Ryunosuke’s eyes never stop moving. They’re lucky; the Guardians are too preoccupied with the fight to notice them. He still tells them to huddle in the alleyway, to keep as quiet as possible—though, their terrified sniffles make it hard.
It’s only after the last child’s been pulled out that he realizes that they weren’t climbing the rubble pile to reach him at all. No, he notices at the very bottom of the area—
“Is that—Gina?!”
Slumped against the wall, weight settled on one leg, the green of her hat coated with soot. She blinks up at him, as if in a daze.
He can’t reach her here, even when he extends his arm out as much as possible; she’ll have to meet him halfway. “H-Here,” Ryunosuke breathes out, “give me your hand and I’ll pull you out!”
Gina doesn’t move. “Nah,” she says, clipped. “Not a chance in ‘ell. ‘Sides, my ankle’s busted.” She lifts her leg. “Can’t be climbin’ about with this… Just give it up.”
“Huh—what?!” Ryunosuke almost slips, himself. “What do you mean no?! There isn’t much time before the fire—”
“I said I don’t want no help, dontcha get it?” Frustration carves her face. “I don’t need you lookin’ down on me like some sort o’ charity case an’ I’m not scared of no fire one bit—”
A charred piece of wood splinters and falls behind her. Gina lets out a yelp and flinches away. She looks like she’s shaking.
“Gina, please.” Ryunosuke feels himself slump against the opening of the rubble. His stomach churns. “I don’t know why—frankly, it’s not any of my concern—but now is not the time to argue over this. Trust me or not, let’s just get you out of here first and then—”
“And then wot?!” Gina snaps. “Why? Wot’s the point, eh? Don’t waste yer la-di-da breath pretendin’ like this ain’t exactly wot ya want to ‘appen!”
“What? What are you talking about?”
Gina bites her lip, jaw quivering. She refuses to hold his gaze. “Don’t forget it was me back then… I’m the ‘ole reason why we’re in this mess, ain’t that right? I lied like ‘ell, actin’ like that dickory McGilded ‘ad really did somefin…”
The breath catches in Ryunosuke’s throat.
It repeats in his mind, incessantly: It wasn’t your fault. We were both tricked. It was McGilded, it was McGilded, it was McGilded—
“If I—” Her voice warbles. “If I didn’t ‘elp ‘im then you wouldn’t’ve grabbed it and—See! Go on, admit it! You know damn well I’m gettin’ right what I deserve now!” She hugs her arms around herself. “So, go and forget all about me! Just… Just ‘elp the brats, awright?”
Wood crackles closer. Ryunosuke feels the heat grow. This game is a dangerous one; he’s done playing it. “And who’s going to help them once you’ve resigned yourself to a death here?”
Gina’s head lifts to attention, wide eyes meeting Ryunosuke’s. “W-Wot—”
“Those kids? How about Iris? What are they going to do with the person they rely on—their friend—gone? How would they feel to know that it was your choice to leave them all alone?”
Gina grits her teeth. “S-Shut up! That’s not—”
“Isn’t it, Gina?!” Ryunosuke’s chest heaves. “All that happened with McGilded—I forgive you. And, and I don’t care if you don’t trust me or you don’t want anything to do with me from the guilt, but them? They need you!” He can see it clearly: the faces of fear on those already-struggling children, Iris’s eyes filled with tears. “And no matter the tough face you put on, I know you care about them more than anything else. So, answer me now: will you save yourself for their sake?”
Gina sucks in a sharp breath before ducking her head. Even in the shadows, Ryunosuke can see the way her lip quivers, clear as day. The fire climbs behind her, engulfing another fallen pillar. “Wot… Wot am I s’posed to say to that, eh?” But, when her face lifts, her eyes are a maelstrom: of fear, of apprehension, of a newfound resolve. She winces when she shifts, pulling herself up onto the elevated part of the wall even while her other leg hangs limp. “Get me outta ‘ere, will ya?!”
Ryunosuke breathes a sigh of relief. He clasps her hand and she’s pulled to safety.
It’s just the five of them and Darumy left when the air gets even tougher to breathe and the landscape is little more than a wall of churning flame. Even after only a few hours of siege, it’s already near-unrecognizable as Central Square in front of them except for the stone fountain that somehow still stands in its center, albeit partially chipped and bird fixtures broken off—a razed, open space of mostly-flattened structures blazing with fire. Some brick chimneys remain in the flaming wreckage.
But the smoking dredges of the most populous daily center of town life aren’t the only things that persist here: black and magenta tar pools on the ground, oozes across the remnants of still-standing buildings, monolith formations jutting out of them. The look of it is reminiscent of some kind of sick mimicry of a graveyard—debased tombstones erected in mockery as the town burns around it. Magenta Guardians stalk the burial grounds.
Breathlessly, they duck under one of the few remaining areas of cover. Even though the roof collapsed in, it leans just securely enough against another broken building to properly hide them from Guardian view. Was it a residence here? A business? Not like it matters anymore. It’s gone—all of it. All of Central Square: a pile of ash and who knows how many burnt bodies. Just like that. Nothing more. The group has to choke back a collective sob. Hands pressed to mouths—to silence any sound that could alert the horde of malicious Guardians, to suppress the stench that clings like viscous blood even through fabric.
Darumy ventures forward once the immediate nearby sounds of metal claws against stone trail off into the distance. He chirps, distressed, and scurries back to cover. Ryunosuke watches as a spotlight of red slowly sweeps across the street from above.
“Gads! What in Hylia’s name is that?!” Caidin hollers, sweat beading on his forehead. “You did’nae say anything about them being able to fly!”
All Ryunosuke can do is gape. “I didn’t—we, we didn’t know…”
So there were other types, after all. It’s almost identical in construction as the ones that stalk around, but flipped upside down and without legs, suspended in the air by spinning propellers. Its spotlight searches, searches, unceasing.
Caidin orders Roly to ready an arrow. When the Guardian sweeps back in front of them again, Ryunosuke activates Stasis. An arrow sinks into its eye, then a kunai follows after from Shina.
Taking out their propellers first to allow for Kazuma and Caidin to strike seems like a viable plan, but without knowing its attack patterns, it’s risky—immobile, there’s no guarantee the thing won’t begin shooting lasers indiscriminately. If it becomes locked onto their location without them being able to move elsewhere in time, it’s a situation that Ryunosuke can see becoming dire quickly. Better to hit it hard and fast at its weak point, instead.
It sputters when the golden chains break, sparking against cracked glass. It lurches back, out of range of their shelter. Another arrow plucked from the quiver. Roly will have to lean out to aim, but with the flying Guardian stunned as it short-circuits out, it’ll be a quick shot. He pulls back on the string and—
Ryunosuke only sees the pointer light on the man’s arm when it’s already too late. A second of flickering red, then it’s a blinding light coursing through the air, far faster than any arrow.
Ryunosuke feels the heat of the explosion—of something else hot and sticky splatter across his body. A scream rips out as Roly falls in front of him. His thoughts churn: Where? Where is it? There’s no Guardians walking nearby— Hands yank him backwards, drag him across stone. A red headband in his periphery. Head spinning. Others are yelling, he thinks, but it’s drowned out by the dreadful wails of Roly while he writhes on the ground. He’s clutching at his arm. At a spot too high, too transparent. The chest plating’s visible there, his shoulder slopes just so—and where’s the rest? His bow’s nowhere to be seen.
The air smells keenly of burnt flesh and iron and Ryunosuke has to fight himself to not retch, especially when the delirium makes it all worse. Shina’s there, trying to hold Roly down as she rummages through her pack. One moment, he pulls his right arm down to smack the ground and just for that moment, Ryunosuke sees it: the stump of his left arm. There’s not even blood spilling out of it anymore—stains only on his scarf and armor—just seared skin and melted cloth, cauterized at the base.
“Fuck, fuck!” Shina hisses when she comes up empty. “Do I really not have any more elixirs?!”
Ryunosuke can only tear his gaze away from Roly when she yells out to him in desperation, her own eyes wide and terrified. He fumbles the Slate, scraping his finger against the screen. Where? Where?!
He finds an elixir, taps on it. An experimental concoction of Sholmes’s forms in his hand, salmon pink and bubbly and corked in a winged bottle—explained as some sort of potion with healing properties mixed with a depressant. The bottle almost slips out of his fingers when he passes it to Shina. They both have to fight Roly to force the elixir past his lips. Darumy props his head up and steady.
“We need another distance weapon!” Kazuma yells ahead, as he and Caidin huddle at the entrance of their shelter. “It’s sitting on top of the column!” He’s holding Roly’s bow.
“I, I have to go,” Shina says before he has time to comprehend it, shaking her head as if to clear it. “Watch him, please.” A pause. “—Your Highness.” And she quickly runs to help the other two.
Ryunosuke gapes, eyes darting: Roly grimacing and fidgeting on the ground, but no longer screaming; Kazuma nocking an arrow; Caidin saying something to Shina, urgency clear on his face; the Slate—
Yes, it’s there, in the Slate! He materializes the small vial of healing water, only about half full now, and dampens a cloth with some of it. A whimper peals out of Roly, curling into himself, when Ryunosuke presses it to his wound. His teeth grind against the leather strap of his helmet; he’ll bite right through it at this rate. But, a moment passes, and Roly begins to relax ever so slightly, tension in his muscles slackening. Roly’s eyes flutter closed.
“…Roly?” Ryunosuke asks. Darumy beeps in alarm. Didn’t he once hear somewhere that you shouldn’t let someone heavily injured fall asleep? “H-Hey, Roly!” He lightly slaps at his cheek until Roly stirs again, groaning.
Keep him talking. Ryunosuke’s eyes flit about in a panic. He says the first thing that comes to his racing mind: “Wh-Where did you get that scarf from? Do, do you knit?”
“M-My wife made it, sah,” Roly slurs out. His head lolls over.
Ryunosuke sighs out in relief. “O-Oh, yes… What’s her name?”
His eyelids are heavy, but he’s still conscious—still alive, undeniably. “Patricia, sah.”
“You said you were newly married—for how long?”
The words are still slow, smushed together: “Today—or yesterday, I guess—was our first anniversary… It was supposed to be my first night off since becoming a knight. We were going to go out for dinner…” A sob escapes him, shuttering against the force of it. “Why’d this happen? Why?!”
Ryunosuke swallows down an acrid lump in his throat. He’s a Patrol Knight—never meant to see combat more than stopping two drunkards fighting in a tavern or apprehending a thief on the streets. Nothing like this. Never anything like this. None of them should have. How much more will it take?
There’s discordant chatter from the others—a slurry of words he can’t parse over the frenetic drum roll of his heart. They destroyed the Guardian that shot Roly, he thinks they say; it was some new type of immobile, turret Guardian. Repetitious apologies and curses, regrets outpouring.
Ryunosuke can’t stop from staring at the back of his left hand. Barren, as silent as the Square. It blurs out of focus. How much more sacrifice?
Shina lifts Roly in a fireman’s carry out of the corner of his vision. She moves to leave with him, to get him out of the town as soon as possible to see a medic. The elixirs will help dull the pain, but they won’t last forever.
“No, go with them, Governor,” Kazuma says, then, and it’s only at this do the words come in clear and Ryunosuke finally lifts his gaze, hand limply left suspended in the air. “You’ve done more than enough for us to get this far. We’ll take it from here. Just focus on protecting your team.”
“…Aye,” Caidin relents. “The Royal Guard’s inside the castle. Best of luck to ya, laddies. May Goddess Hylia have mercy on us all.” He bows his head before leaving with the other two.
Mercy…? Is this mercy? His eyes drop down to that goddess-forsaken hand again, devoid of anything resembling grace. If only, if only—
It’s not divinity, but some small measure of beneficence comes from a source wholly mortal: Kazuma’s ever-strong hands cradling his weary one.
“I, I don’t know if I can—” It spills out, a thread unspooling. He chokes back a sob.
“I know,” Kazuma says quietly. A crack there—just as unsure as Ryunosuke is. “But we have to try.”
A strained noise of agreement from Ryunosuke, barely scraping out of his throat. He looks up, past the blackened corpses that litter the ruined streets under Guardian prowl, past the walls of flame climbing ever larger, past the churning demon-smoke unceasingly spiraling the castle’s spires.
A single, solitary beam from the northeast cuts through the fiery night sky.
Notes:
aughh that scene where Ryunosuke and Kazuma meet up with rest of the group as they're evacuating is one of those scenes that came to me early, especially the interaction between Kazuma and Susato. I love how Ace Attorney depicts more non-traditional families (in this case, them being adopted siblings and their age gap, plus Kazuma's previous circumstances coloring this) and I'm endlessly fascinated with their care and respect for one another, but there's always that distance that won't get breached (I imagine it happens a bit more post-canon, but it feels so realistic how they are now)... Then to compare it to a relationship like Ryunosuke and Iris where they're openly affectionate with each other just ohhh...
anti-botw rant incoming:
I hate the ending of the Calamity storyline. In my opinion, it does such a (I'd go as far as to say insulting, even!) disservice to Zelda, especially with how her relationship to the Guardians is depicted.We spend the whole story (and are conditioned to already, if you've played the previous games) sympathizing with and rooting for Zelda. She's not selfish—she actually sacrifices herself over and over since she was a child praying at the springs until she passes out—and is sincerely wanting to unlock her powers to help everyone, but despite her best efforts, still can't.
But the Guardians provide an opportunity! Not only are they in line with her true interests (she's an engineer, a researcher!), but they allow her more importantly to contribute when she so desperately wants to. Her father berates her for her interest in the weapons that proved to have worked historically, says that she's treating it all as a game, repeats harsh criticisms of townsfolk and by extension calls her a failure. He tells her it's a mistake to care about the Guardians and bans her from it entirely.
When the Calamity awakens, all the Guardians get corrupted and turn on them. So, not only does Zelda's involvement with the Guardians "distract" her from the "real" solution of her sealing powers, but it actually makes the whole situation worse since the Guardians were in close quarters with people. Implicitly, the narrative is proving Zelda's abusive dad right! He was right that it was a mistake for her to ever try this! This desperate, teenage girl who sacrificed herself not only doomed them all by not having her powers, but her attempts to help were a deadly mistake!
(This is ignoring my whole other rant about how the priestess role is inherently a feminine role in the story and how Zelda trying to break out of the narrow, rigid box she's put into to try to be her true self is punished by the narrative and then ultimately, unlocking her power (aka being forced back into that box) for a reason that has nothing really to do with her efforts before this point is celebrated is so insulting and gross from a gender perspective
and now for my essay about how the Zelda team wrote botw as a story about how traditional gender roles hurt people yet conclude with saying it's better for society if you do follow them anyway... Link is also very much a part of this!So, to try to remedy the parts of this story I find frustrating, I wanted to make a few changes. While still retaining the tragedy of the corrupted Guardians:
- I wanted Ryunosuke (the Zelda in this case) to have a personal relationship with the "development" of the Guardians. I wanted him to be the catalyst who drove the advancements in the knowledge of the machines, hence him finding the prototypes which allowed for Sholmes and Iris to more thoroughly understand how they worked. His active contributions jump-started them figuring out how to use the Guardians.
- There was a way to "reset" some Guardians that were corrupted. Because of Ryunosuke's help, Sholmes and Iris could become quicker knowledge experts. This also just gives some more agency for them to defend themselves, rather than just being helpless once a Guardian turns. It gives them a strategic advantage they wouldn't have had if they didn't study the Guardians.
- Not all the Guardians get turned and the ones that were excavated continue to help and protect people. While the good guys couldn't uncover all the Guardians in time, the ones they did provided positive contributions. This makes it feel like more of a tragedy when they're outnumbered rather than a narrative saying you-were-stupid-to-even-attempt-this and making Ryunosuke's efforts feel meaningless and derisive.
There's more changes that I can't discuss yet for future chapters, but I really wanted to thread the needle of having the Guardians be a tragedy situation while still showing that it was right for them to have pursued them. Iris and Ryunosuke especially struggle with this this chapter. Hopefully it works! Thank you as always for reading!!
Chapter 24: Enormities: Part 3
Notes:
Warnings - click to view
- Depictions of violence and death
- Brief descriptions of vomiting
- Suicide mention
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Something’s wrong,” Ryunosuke mutters, head leaning back against stone walling. It’s unexpectedly warm—heat from the fires in the area clinging to the porous rock and chasing away the cool surface it normally provides. His chest heaves, lungs burning as they both catch their breaths from running away from yet another cluster of turret Guardians. Even Darumy seems tired somehow.
“Such a gross understatement isn’t helping things, partner,” Kazuma volleys back, not missing a beat even through the heavy pants. He pulls the portcullis closed with a grunt, shuttering them inside the fortified space. Sweat and grime drips off his chin as he yanks the makeshift bandana down to his neck. The tips of his tunic are soot-stained and tattered; he’s had to clear out Guardians on their way across the moat’s bridge and up the ramp.
“Wha—no—” Ryunosuke shakes his head and groans. He points up, out of the small window arches carved into the First Gatehouse’s tower. “Champion Wilson should’ve long been to Vah Ruta by now, even if he was delayed.” His mouth grows dry; it scratches as he swallows down ash-saturated air. He holds up his mouse communicator. “And he hasn’t answered a single time… Kazuma, I—I can’t help but fear the worst…”
Ryunosuke watches as Kazuma’s eyes trace the sky and the realization sets in: the surprise, then the despair, then the rage. Kazuma falls to a sit, then slams a fist down onto the ground with a “Fuck! He was sick, too!” Fingers bunched into his hair, pulling at his bangs as he curls his knees up to his chest. “Why did we ever—?!”
“He insisted that his illness wasn’t severe enough to impede him…” Ryunosuke murmurs. Fingers threading together in his lap.
“And we never should’ve believed him!” Kazuma’s hands swing back down, palms up, in incredulity. His headband’s drenched across his forehead, unruly strands of hair stuck against slick skin and cloth. “We all could see just how unwell he was!”
And it’s the truth, but— “…There’s little we can do about that now, isn’t there?” Ryunosuke echoes Kazuma’s own words from before, and Kazuma sighs, gritting his teeth.
Ryunosuke scoots over, runs his hand along Kazuma’s arched back. Taut ropes, the both of them—fit to snap in two. Feeling Kazuma’s heat under his palm is the only thing that keeps Ryunosuke from spiraling completely. “We, we haven’t yet reached the Sanctum… There’s still time, isn’t there?” Ryunosuke asks.
The only answer from Kazuma is another weary sigh and the press of his cheek into the groove of Ryunosuke’s shoulder. Wind whistles down the enclosed halls.
It’s eerie, seeing one of the gatehouses as empty as this—a ghost town left abandoned after receiving the order to evacuate the castle residents, Ryunosuke figures. Besides, there’d be very little use for protection against outside foes when they were appearing from inside, after all. Or if the threat of Guardian-laser chased them off, instead. A card game is left abandoned: spilled cups and half-eaten plates of fruits and nuts next to scattered playing cards. Some poor soul left without their boots.
Better found vacant than the alternative.
Ryunosuke pulls at the ear of the mouse doll. “Champion Sholmes, are you there? Can you provide an update?” He holds his breath.
It’s only a few moments later when the receiver crackles with life: “Ah, perfect timing, Your Highness! I have just arrived at Vah Medoh! I offer my sincere apologies for the delay in communication; it turns out, flight is much more of a complicated ordeal when a violent storm is doing all it can to ground you!” Sholmes rattles out a bright laugh.
And it’s the first time Ryunosuke’s ever been so happy to hear Sholmes’s rambling monologues and his stupid, annoying laugh. He could cry. He nearly does.
“Tell me, what has happened during my flight?”
Ryunosuke swallows thickly. Hurried: “There were more Guardians. Far more than we’d already uncovered—stored in these giant columns somewhere underground surrounding the castle. Calamity Stronghart took control of them all. Castle Town’s being decimated.”
“What?!” The change in Sholmes’s demeanor is as sharp as any blade. He can hear the tornado-strong winds in the background over the speaker.
“Iris made it out safely,” Kazuma says before Sholmes can despair. “We saw her off along with Royal Advisor Susato, Professor Mikotoba, and Elder Impa. They’re heading to Kakariko Village.”
Relief from Sholmes, perfectly audible despite the distance. “Mikotoba… They’re in good hands, then. That man’s a trustworthy sort.”
They quickly catch up, relay the details of the situation.
“Huh,” Sholmes says then, pensive. “Well, that’s quite curious…” He doesn’t elaborate further.
A beat, until Ryunosuke asks, “What is?”
There’s silence for a drawn-out moment on the other line. “I’ll make my way to the control room, now, my dear fellows! One beam of light is coming your way shortly. I wish you both the best of luck!” And the connection shuts off.
Ryunosuke and Kazuma share a confused look, but they both feel it: that relief, as soothing as fresh spring water. Sholmes is alive, at his Divine Beast. Help is incoming.
Ryunosuke stares at the mouse, now trembling slightly in his hand, before he can gain the courage to contact the last person he still desperately needs to hear from.
Kazuma’s hand lifts to cradle the back of his own, imbuing him with additional strength. “Call her,” he urges. His breath is ever warm on Ryunosuke’s neck.
With a final inhale, Ryunosuke tugs its ears. Static fills in the empty air after a few moments. Finally, the crackle of life: “Hello, little mouse.”
“Ursavra,” Ryunosuke breathes out. He feels his whole body shudder with the release of it. “Are you okay? Where are you now?”
Ursavra laughs out something sparky. “I believe that’s my line, isn’t it? I take your message to be confirmation enough that you are at least not harmed… I’ve just regrouped at Kara Kara Bazaar. I’ll be heading towards Vah Naboris shortly.”
“I’m glad,” Ryunosuke says, and he hopes his voice doesn’t sound as shaky over the line as it comes out. “Champion Jigoku’s laser is active. Champion Sholmes has just reached Vah Medoh minutes ago… Champion Wilson has been radio silent since we separated. I don’t know if it’s possible, but if there’s any way you can signal Zora’s Domain for help—” The words catch in his throat. “I, I worry for him.”
Ursavra makes a sound of acknowledgment. “I’ll see what I can do. Now, I must get going. Stay safe, little mouse.”
“Y-Yes. You too, Ursavra.” Click. Ryunosuke releases another shuddering exhale after, muttering out thanks and a flood of slick-spilling words of gratitude.
Kazuma shifts on his shoulder, lifting a waterskin up to Ryunosuke’s face. “Take it,” he says with a swish of the wrist, water sloshing loudly inside the container. “We’re close to the Sanctum now… I don’t know if we’ll get another chance to rest.”
Ryunosuke takes it reluctantly at first, but the second the water passes his lips, he finds it becomes difficult to stop drinking. He finds relief in the persistent, deep scratch in the back of his throat and he has to make the strenuous effort to pry the waterskin from his mouth, to allow Kazuma to have enough as well. He didn’t drink from it first, despite being the one who’s had to put his body on the line.
They exchange items: the waterskin for a chunk of dried beef. The seasonings are heavy, the smell of rocks salts and savory sauce marinades strong in the air just from the act of passing the meat. Ryunosuke’s stomach has churned all night—the thought of food never crossing his mind through it all once—but the water acted like the opening of a floodgate of sorts, stripping bare the exigencies of basic physiological needs left ignored: his stomach rumbles as the flavor hits his tongue. He scarfs it down quickly and watches Kazuma do the same, gulping the remaining water behind it. The both of them: depleted and exhausted, yet they have to push past their limits; somehow, inconceivably, this is merely the beginning of their fight.
The short rest will have to be enough. They descend the steps to the Guards’ Chamber, stripped of all weapons and shields except for those used for training. Storage crates have their tops pried off, tossed aside in a haphazard heap in the corner. Much like the Gatehouse above, signs of interrupted activity linger here like ghosts: a book thrown here, food spilled there. It’s a far cry from the usual orderliness the Guard maintains, the pristine navy and gold pendants bearing the royal coat of arms hanging from the rafters a representation of that high-held esteem.
Kazuma moves fast, winding them down the stairs from the wooden mezzanine and across the archery training area, confident in stride; he’s well-acquainted with this section of the castle and it shows. A small fire still smolders within the fire pit after being unsuccessfully doused—the chamber holds a chill, especially from the draft of the hidden passageways that wind far below the castle. Ryunosuke eyes the hallway as they pass: the false wall peeled back, the metal grate in the floor lifted open. How many people had to flee this way? Did they have time to uncover the other entrance in the Observation Room too?
The deeper into the castle they go, the heavier the magenta motes fluttering in the air get, the more abundant the pools of blackened sludge that coat the floor and stretch across walls become. More and more spires protrude from these tar mires—like jagged teeth, consuming the castle from within. Ryunosuke has to hold Darumy at times, when the hallway is too heavily coated and only wide enough for human feet to cross.
The air grows fetid with the smell of decay as they progress deeper. Two creatures are waiting for them at the top of the staircase: things that resemble Lizalfos, but are enveloped in the tar, oozing out that stuff in a sticky trail behind them, clinging to the steps and making an audible snap when the viscous connections break. Glowing red eyes stare down at them until they both cock their heads in unison, the movements jerky—like a second hand on a clock clicking to the next interval. Karuma vibrates in Kazuma’s hand, utterly resplendent.
With Ryunosuke’s Stasis and Darumy’s electric sword to help, Kazuma makes quick work of the monsters. Karuma seems to glide through the muck like a hot knife through butter, devoid of any resistance that would normally come from cutting through steel and muscle. Ryunosuke’s not even sure if those creatures were made of flesh at all; they burst into dark mist, dissipating like rancid steam without any trace of a carcass left over.
They climb and climb. Guardians outside, magenta-infested monsters inside. Royal Guards somewhere in the distance—they can hear the muffled sounds of shouts between laser fire. Burnt corpses of Royal Guardspeople scarred beyond recognition left on the ground, navy and ruby and gold now blackened. More pools of black and magenta soil the once-fortified walls of the castle. Damaged now—spectacularly exposed. Ryunosuke swears he can see the ichor move within itself, pulsating like blood rushing through veins.
He hangs a left, instinctually. He’s walked this path a hundred times over. At the outdoor staircase he’s always cursed at for having to climb after a long day when all he wanted was to collapse into his bed, a turret Guardian sits at the middle landing, as if marooned. It doesn’t see them until it’s too late. Without legs, its only real advantage is the threat of pressure from an untouchable distance; remove that, and it’s little more than a sitting duck. Just a tap of Stasis and Kazuma can easily stab it through its vulnerable eye. It erupts into magenta smoke and screws and a sense of guilt that burns so hot in the back of Ryunosuke’s throat, he almost mistakes it for rage. Darumy protests—he wanted to reset the Guardian himself—but after hours of sifting through the destruction, the both of them just want to cull the area, cut the disease out like a tumor.
The passageway is blocked off, tar and rubble felled where one of the guards may have once stood during the daytime. From this angle, he can barely see enough of the other walkway above the courtyard to tell it’s been collapsed in. They’ll have to turn around.
Something sinks itself into Ryunosuke so suddenly, it’s like a knife collapsing his lung. He stares at the outside of his chambers, at his study. The structure is there—the outside seemingly intact, except for a chunk bit out of the ceiling—but what of inside? Smoke billows out from the roof. It’s things, he tries to tell himself, items that can be replaced, but dread scoops an empty void out of him at the thought—the violation of it all, the idea that one second everything could be normal and at the very next, it’s all up in flames.
His whole life, walking these halls. The memories held in this wing, so much more significant than anything he ever experienced in the so-called hallowed halls of the Sanctum. Hyrule Castle itself never felt like home—not truly, as long as the cold cage of duty held him here more like a prison than any refuge—but it was a constant sense of familiarity all the same. In spite of it all, he’d carved something resembling comfort for himself on this western wing, far from all the politics within its center.
Memories of being lifted by a pair of strong arms, voice sing-song as constellations were identified. Small hands pointing there, there, there. The Wind Fish to the south, the Minish Cap northeast. A shroud of stars, so soothing that his large eyes grew ever more fuzzy and the next thing he knew, he was under soft blankets piled high, his red Daruma doll placed snugly on the pillow beside him. A soft lullaby filling the bedroom. He only saw her smile before he drifted off to sleep.
Of a wrinkled hand loosely wrapped around his own, walking beside him across the ramparts as sweet-spring blossoms blew around them. Laughter spilling as they both recited words in haste, syllables slippery and twisted on their tongues. Giddiness there, despite the way his eyes were red-ringed after a meeting with the king—another lecture of If you would just try to apply yourself at the springs, you’ll honor your mother’s legacy much better than spilling tears over her. Elder Impa had urged the king that they were late for their next lesson, but she lingered here above the West Courtyard as if they had all the time in the world. Brilliant light will chase away any darkness, my child, she said. And the way she tipped back her head with a peaceful smile, he couldn’t help but believe her.
Of research sessions in his study that stretched hours longer than he’d realized, waking bleary-eyed to the smell of fresh green tea sat next to a sugar bowl and a blanket laid over his shoulders. A small, handmade cake sitting next to it, fluffy and moist—Susato and him always shared their affinity for sweets, after all. He’d have to thank her again. For this, for that, for everything—always. There’s never enough words to describe the enormity of his gratitude.
Of the minutiae of daily life shared in comfortable normalcy, Kazuma by his side at every hour. Thighs pressed together in front of the fireplace, his settled chair next to his, his ever-dependable warmth curled up beside him in bed. It felt so natural, the way Kazuma’s possessions mixed with Ryunosuke’s own, as if it was the only thing he had ever known. The ease of sharing clothes and books and writing utensils—no longer mine and exceedingly ours, no distinction needed. It’s Kazuma’s room just as much as it’s his own—does he feel the same, unspeakable despair, too?
And what of his aquarium? The sea anemones and the Pertinacious Prawns from the Faron Sea? Have they been spared? Should he try to find an opening somehow to save them? And what about the wisteria tree in the Gardens? Goddess, he hopes if anything survives there, it’s that.
It’s at this—at this—that whatever thread barely holding him together snaps. A hand pressed over his mouth as tears drip down his cheeks, weight precariously held up by stone railing. It’s a selfish thing, he scolds himself, to grieve over a place, over things and nostalgia for the past when so many have perished, but it’s another piece of kindling thrown into a raging funeral pyre. He grieves and he grieves.
Kazuma’s hand on his waist, the other cradling his palm. Ryunosuke surges into him, reckless and uncoordinated, and buries his sobbing face into his shoulder. He hates it as well, taking this much from Kazuma, especially when he feels him tremble against him, feels the way his own breath shudders. He knows his fear, unspoken as it may be. Kazuma always said how much of an open book Ryunosuke is, but he has his own tells, too.
Ryunosuke allows himself to be selfish. For a few seconds, for a minute. They’re both silent—maybe they both need it. With tear-muddled vision, he peers over Kazuma’s shoulder: that specter of smoke in the form of a demented unicorn, still arcing around the spire amongst a roiling sky. How do you possibly fight something that has no physical form?
The people of history did it once before. Bright light flickers from high in the western sky and the steaming beast lets out a deep roar that shakes the ground beneath them. Two lasers trained on it; one more incoming soon.
“I’m, I’m sorry,” Ryunosuke gasps out, sniveling. Kazuma’s wide eyes fall from Calamity Stronghart back down to Ryunosuke. Ryunosuke draws himself back, though Kazuma’s grasp lingers across his forearms, resting there under them. “I shouldn’t delay us any longer. We, we must keep going.”
Warm hands up to cradle his face, thumbs swiping at his cheeks. So delicate is Kazuma’s hold of him, like he’s afraid Ryunosuke will break right in two in front of him.
“…Look at me?” Kazuma asks, then, voice low and halting. Ryunosuke does—of course, he does: weariness carves into Kazuma face, fractures that confident speech of his. “…Our battle’s barely begun. Hold your head up, partner.” A beat, then: “I need you to.”
Ryunosuke nods against his hold.
Two lasers. One more shortly. If Sholmes’s estimation holds true, the fight will be more difficult—but not impossible. Realizable, in their favor, even. They just have to get there and face what’s to come.
They find another route towards the Sanctum, away from the numerous caved-in pathways and stalking Guardians. They try to hurry past the bodies they find strewn about against charred ground; if it’s nothing but a blur in their periphery, it’s easier to disassociate the horror of its reality.
“Hold!” they hear booming from above once they pass the twin defensive towers abutting the center walkway. “His Royal Highness Prince Ryunosuke and the Champion of Hyrule Kazuma have arrived!” It’s a decisive voice, loud and clearly enunciated—someone who must have been a herald at some point, Ryunosuke figures. A Hylian woman, wearing the customary Royal Guard’s beret on her head, steps out from behind the merlon and bows.
There’s shuffling against stone, and Ryunosuke watches as arrowheads withdraw from their slits in the parapets. A chorus of exhalations and murmurs follow—relief, at the suggestion of an end to the suffering with their arrival. Ryunosuke only hopes they can deliver. One of them blows a signaling clarion.
“The path is clear,” the woman says. “There are no Guardians past this point. We’ve made sure of it.”
Ryunosuke notices how her face tightens when she looks at Darumy. “Oh,” he says quickly, “he’s safe, trust me.” It’s not as though he can blame her for the suspicion at all, after everything. For how doggedly they’ve been protecting this area, any Guardian presence must raise anxiety.
She bows again. “Of course. May the Goddess Hylia’s light shine upon you, Your Highness.”
With a sinking feeling in his stomach and a nod, they leave down the winding path. Sure enough, the area is quiet—so still, it’s almost stifling. A twisted calmness, air electric like right before a tempest surges.
“S-Something isn’t right,” Ryunosuke mutters, eyes darting about. No, not when the beast still swirls above and the blackened magenta saturates the ground—yet, there are no signs of any Guardians having been here at all. Not a single broken machine or scorched earth. The royal pendants still fly, unmarred. Were the knights really able to cease the Guardians’ assault up to this point?
“Agreed,” Kazuma says with knitted brows and his hand wrapped tightly around Karuma’s hilt. “Keep your wits about you.”
Ryunosuke has to scrunch his nose as they walk the length of the main path; the sludge grows more ubiquitous, permeating the area with its fetid stench. The air feels stagnant. While the walkway stays silent, he hears commotion up ahead.
Something moves in his periphery once they reach the stone columns that run adjacent to the path. Ryunosuke presses a hand to his mouth, stifles the fearful yelp that rips itself out of his throat. Slithering around the ichor that covers one of the bird statues: a black void of an eyeball, with a jaundiced iris and a flaming-red pupil slitting the center. And it’s not just the one, he realizes: a cluster of smaller eyes all slide open amongst the tar.
“Bow,” Kazuma says, making a grabbing motion with his hand. But by the time Ryunosuke is able to navigate the Slate to the weapons, Darumy’s charging laser speeds up and he fires a bright beam straight through the eyeball. It explodes with an ear-ringing pop before its expelled droplets evaporate into dark mist, the rest of the sludge following close behind.
“Do, do you think that was Calamity Stronghart watching?” Ryunosuke asks after giving an encouraging pat to the top of Darumy’s head. His eyes lift to the monster above. The way it continues to circle with little aim other than to periodically open its massive maw and roar, he almost wants to describe it as being mindless. But if the thing is shrewd enough to be doing reconnaissance, then…
“Hard to tell,” Kazuma says, securing the bow and quiver to his belts. “Whether it’s connected to it or another monster on its own, nothing good can come from a scout.”
Ryunosuke agrees, and when they push forward past the other mires, he can’t help the distinct feeling of being watched.
There’s a large group of Royal Guardspeople gathered atop the raised plinth outside the Sanctum’s entrance when they arrive. “Attention!” one of the knights yells as they drop to their knee. “We are in the presence of His Royal Highness and the Champion!”
It’s a ripple of genuflections: the Royal Guard part like the layers of the Earth being peeled back, until all that remains is the rancid core in front of them. Viscous streams of the magenta ichor cover the façades and seep down from the rooftops of the giant castle spire, blocking any and all entryways. They can’t see in; whoever—or whatever—that’s trapped inside can’t see out, either.
A shroud of vague familiarity drapes over the group—faces he remembers passing by around the castle. So many names he doesn’t know, either, he realizes. He’ll have to rectify this, once this is all over, especially since the reconstruction efforts will undoubtedly bring them all to work closely with one another.
It’s a relief to see familiar faces around him, but he continues to search, combing through the crowd for certain individuals. He’s surveyed them all, only to come up short. His father’s retinue: absent.
“Ah, you’ve arrived, Your Highness,” comes from the person standing at the front of the crowd—an older man with ginger hair that frames his face. He wears the navy cape tabard and cap of the Royal Guard, but his physical stature betrays someone who has long since delighted in the pleasure of retirement from active duty; his half-completed uniform is stretched and ill-fitting, incongruent with everyday wear. Ryunosuke can recognize this man, too—it’s hard not to, for the bushy mustache and muttonchops are instantly striking—but his name escapes him. He’s worked closely with his father, he knows this for certain.
He must read Ryunosuke’s confused face because he says, “My name is Pop Windibank, Your Highness. At your service.” He dips his head again. “I would say it’s a pleasure, but…” Windibank looks back at the Sanctum for a moment, before yanking a handkerchief from his pocket and fiercely dabbing at his forehead. By the way the cloth is stained through already, Ryunosuke can’t imagine it’s doing much to soak up the sweat at this point.
That’s right: Pop Windibank, the Lord High Treasurer. Ryunosuke sees his normal court robes peeking out from under the uniform instead of the usual ruby shirt. He leans on a long bow as if using a cane for support, and Ryunosuke remembers a story passed around about how in his youth, Windibank made a name for himself when he single-handedly struck down a flock of wily Keese that descended on one of the garrisons—a single arrow through each frantically flying eye, earning him the moniker “One Arrow Windibank”. With how long it’s been, Ryunosuke wonders if those skills still hold.
Windibank frowns, shifting uncomfortably. “Y-Yes, while I’m not getting any younger, I assure you I can still shoot with the best of them. These skills aren’t easily forgotten—they don’t call me ‘Pop’ for nothing!” He shifts his spectacles.
“Lord Windibank,” Ryunosuke says, staring at the thick sludge that blocks the entrance to the Throne Room. Something calls out to him from beyond, voiceless yet magnetic all the same: to come closer, closer. He has to tear his eyes away from it—any further, and he fears he’ll be sucked into its gravitational pull utterly. With desperation: “Please tell me. My father—is he in there?”
The way Windibank shrinks into himself, averting his gaze as he swipes that rag across his forehead once more, is enough of an answer in itself to make Ryunosuke’s stomach knot. “…I am quite afraid so, Your Highness,” he says, voice taut. His chest heaves, body quivering, as he squeezes his eyes shut. Clasped hands up to his chest, he shakes them with a fervency. “It’s all my fault, too! I lost track of time; our meeting ran long and delayed His Majesty’s supper. He insisted on personally fetching files from within the Sanctum…”
With a particularly surprising deftness, Windibank pulls out an arrow from his quiver then tosses the bow that was leaning against his leg into his hands in one fluid motion. He holds it aloft, wood and arrowhead facing his own body. Ryunosuke flinches back. Frantic, Windibank says, “If anything were to happen to His Majesty due to my incompetence, I’ll waste no time turning the bow on myself!”
Ryunosuke feels his heart pound in his ears. His eyes dart between Windibank’s morbid show and Kazuma, who looks near ready to pounce and catch his hand were he to fire. “L-Lord Windibank!” Ryunosuke sputters. “That, that’s beyond unnecessary! There’s been far too many casualties tonight as it is!”
“Indeed…” Windibank sighs out, relaxing his draw and lowering the bow completely.
Ryunosuke feels himself slump over in a relief that doesn’t feel all that stress-alleviating. He looks back towards the Sanctum. That compulsion, so strong. “His retinue is inside there, as well?” he asks, but his attention is divided, pulled at the seams.
Windibank hums a confirmation, albeit still dejected. “That’s correct… The one relief that I can offer is they’re there to protect him. Him, and all the others that were unfortunate enough to have been in the Sanctum and were taken hostage…”
That point is almost too much to wrap his head around: the others that might be trapped inside, just as taken by surprise—the workers, the nobles, the guards. People who’ve passed him in the halls for years. Who knows how many more could still be inside? Calamity Stronghart smothered the Sanctum immediately, most likely crystallized it with the dark ichor shortly after, as if preserving its quarry in amber. Nowhere to run, just like those in Castle Town who woke up besieged by flame and lasers—the realization already much too late.
But, they’re in there. Calling for him—he feels it. If only he can just reach out and—
There’s a pair of hands pulling his arm back when he jolts awake, as if startled out from a deep dream. Kazuma and Windibank linger with their holds until Windibank flinches back. Kazuma’s looking at him with that same expression of incensed concern he always does whenever Ryunosuke displays a particular lack of judgement. Ryunosuke’s head throbs; pressure pushes at his temple, wanting to crack open.
“A-Apologies, Your Highness,” Windibank says, reaching for his handkerchief again. “However, it would be in your best interests to not touch the malice. It’s highly caustic. A young man had some fall on him earlier and well…” He worries his lip, swiping the handkerchief across his glistening forehead, down his reddened cheeks. “…Suffice to say, the lad will be living a much different life now.”
Ryunosuke shivers at the thought, down to his very bones. “Sorry, you called it malice?” The stuff bubbles and ripples, slick like an oil spill. He can’t deny that it’s a fitting name; it both looks and smells malicious, sure enough. “Do you know what it is?”
Windibank shakes his head. “All we know is it spewed out from Calamity Stronghart—plenty of the knights can attest to that. We took to calling it malice due to its corrosive nature, as if it’s the physical manifestation of the beast’s wrath. Other than it being dangerous, we don’t know much beyond that.”
It came directly from Calamity Stronghart… Ryunosuke thinks of the monsters sculpted with malice—how Karuma sliced through them with incredible ease. He turns to Kazuma, urging, “Use Karuma to try to cut through the wall!”
Kazuma recoils, gaping at Ryunosuke like he’s gone even more mad. “Wh-What are you—” But the resolute look on Ryunosuke’s face makes any objection die on his tongue. He lifts Karuma: imbued with holy light. She buzzes in his grasp. He can hear a low humming from deep within her blade—quiet, but still frantic in tempo. He meets Ryunosuke’s gaze and nods.
Kazuma’s tentative when he positions the blade tip up to the malice. At a mere touch, the malice begins to roil and steam, screeching out at a shrill frequency. He applies more pressure, and the blade slips through the mire like it’s water. He pulls down—a slim incision pierced fully through.
The group waits, watches with baited breath. The cut holds for a moment, then a moment more. Slowly, then, threads of malice begin to grow within the open space, suturing itself up, until the slit closes itself once more.
“Do, do you suppose we can continue to cut through it somehow?” Ryunosuke asks.
Kazuma makes a noncommittal noise. “I don’t know. Perhaps Karuma can cut through it enough before it can mend itself—it took some time to regenerate, so it’s clearly susceptible.”
Ryunosuke nods. “It’d be worth it to at least try. Even if we can only get a look inside, we’d get a better idea of what the situation is.”
Kazuma says, “Agreed. Stay behind me.” The way his tense expression carves into his face betrays the unspoken words: In case there’s something waiting for them. In case there’s something else waiting that he shouldn’t see.
With a tentative nod, Ryunosuke does, and Kazuma lifts his head high, raising his voice when he says, “We’ll need everyone to be ready once there’s an opening. It may take several attempts to let someone go in, but we must be prepared for anything beyond this wall.”
Ryunosuke can hear Windibank swallow. He takes his bow into his hands, then faces the group of Royal Guards. “You heard the Champion! Take defensive position!”
Worried chatter breaks out amongst the knights, but they still fan out, weapons raised and ready. Ryunosuke draws in a shaky breath. Dread sits like lead in his stomach. He swears he hears a clock ticking inside.
Their surroundings grow darker—a shadowed pall draped over the castle. Ryunosuke’s eyes lift instantly and sitting there, bridging across a churning red sky, is a single white beam from the west.
“Wh-What—” The word rips out of Ryunosuke’s throat. “Champion Jigoku’s laser, it’s, it’s—”
Kazuma curses loud enough that the sound echoes off the walls; there’s sounds of confusion from the knights around them. Sholmes’s estimations from two evenings before ring in Ryunosuke’s thoughts: one missing laser may still be enough to suppress Calamity Stronghart, but two begs an infinitely more troubling question. And if three are missing—
Three missing. Where is Ursavra?
“Kazuma, I, I don’t think—”
With a yell, Kazuma thrusts Karuma into the wall of malice. Then, another. Long strokes carving through boiling sludge, again and again and again. An ear-piercing treble off the malice, giving way defenselessly to the Blade of Evil’s Bane.
Ryunosuke reaches for the mouse communicator with shaky hands. Words spilling out rapidly: “Champion Jigoku, are you there?! What happened?! Champion Jigoku!”
The response is nothing. Just silence and static and—
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The Slate rings on Ryunosuke’s hip. Red flashes from its screen: a distress signal from Vah Medoh. It repeats and it repeats and—
Distraught and confused commotion erupts from the Royal Guard. Kazuma’s still cleaving through malice, growing desperation and anger in every motion. There’s enough of an opening for Ryunosuke to see into the elevated parts of the Throne Room: the giant bird statue with its massive wings held aloft, the king’s empty throne and his own seat knocked over by its plinth.
There’s a tug from the doll. Sholmes wastes no time on extraneous preamble when the static clears, voice as dire and panicked as Ryunosuke’s ever heard him speak: “It seems as though we’ve been led straight into an ambush.” The signal clicks off before he gets the chance to respond.
Mind spinning, Ryunosuke can’t even begin to feel the full depth of that declaration because a portion of the malice wall sloughs off and noxious fumes flood out of the Throne Room, like an infected cyst rupturing. Decaying, rancid. Concentrated, it penetrates through his makeshift bandana and he has to clasp a hand over his mouth to try not to vomit. By the sounds behind him, some of the Royal Guard weren’t as successful.
“St—Stay vigilant, everyone!” Windibank yells, despite the way his voice careens. He holds his bow with shaky hands.
Kazuma continues to carve off more malice, seemingly immune from the stench as whatever force driving him overpowers all else. It plops to the ground in steaming globs.
And then he stops.
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Darumy chitters, scampering behind Ryunosuke. His claws grip at the leg of his pants, metal shaking against metal. An icy chill seems to sweep out of the castle. With the taste of iron on his tongue, Ryunosuke peers over Kazuma’s shoulder.
Blood stains the ornate flooring. Roiling masses lay atop the deep crimson—decomposing sinew and melting bone protruding out of a smother of malice. Vaguely human. Vaguely resembling something once living at all.
At the center of it all: a broken heap on the ground. Peculiarly free from malice, a jagged gash of a wound rends the deformed corpse. A ringed hand limp against the tile, a golden crown laid askew.
Ryunosuke feels himself scream, but nothing comes out. The constriction of his throat kills whatever sound that attempts to escape. The King of Hyrule—his father—is dead. All of them trapped within this room—they’re all dead.
Shrieks and cries peal out from behind him. They feel distant, drowned out. Some run, weapons clanging against stone. Others order their fellow knights to stay. Most are silent, frozen in place, just like Ryunosuke is.
Ryunosuke nearly misses the pulsing column of malice looming over the body through all the chaos. He notices too late that it’s taken to the shape of a Hylian—but only just so. The thing writhes, pushing and pressing against its form, as if trying to escape the humanoid suit it wears. Each movement is sharp and abrupt. Unnatural. One interval to the next.
It resembles an older boy—late teens, most likely. Hair pulled back into a half-up, half-down ponytail. A svelte, athletic body. A sword held in its hand, cross guard made of two wing-like structures that resemble the bird statue sitting above. The face squashes and stretches. Unstable.
Is that Calamity Stronghart? This boy? Legends speculated that it was once a man, long ago. Before it was corrupted by a lust for power, unrecognizably warped by maliciousness until it resembled nothing mortal at all. Ryunosuke can’t help but feel something’s off with the deduction.
It jerks its head to a lift. Two glowing red eyes blazing within the undulating malice stare back at them. It cocks its head, position changing like a second hand ticks over.
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“H-Hold your f-fire!” Windibank ekes out. “S-Stay ready!”
Karuma gleams even brighter. Ryunosuke can see Kazuma’s arm shake with the force of it. He tenses in front of him, digging in his heels.
The wall of malice begins to slowly stitch itself back together, from the top first. The form inside the Throne Room distorts—physique bulking, growing taller, wider. The hair morphs into a spiked crest at the back, blunt bangs framing its monstrous face. It holds a blade that lengthens—long and thin and slightly curved.
The clouds churn, darkening the sky further. The dark-smoked unicorn above roars something bone-liquifying; Ryunosuke feels his knees almost buckle under him. Low rumbles of thunder shake the scarlet firmament, growing louder and more frequent. The cold, large drops that land on Ryunosuke’s forehead barely register when he feels like he can barely breathe.
The sick simulacrum of Kazuma squares its shoulders towards the shrinking exit. Its form strains against itself. A thunderclap peals in the distance.
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Malice spews out from the figure. Kazuma braces Karuma out in front of him, the divine blade slicing through the ichor and providing a shield as the shining blade repels its wrath. Heat ripples off the surging malice, as blistering as standing within a raging kiln. Ryunosuke clings to the back of Kazuma’s tunic, but they’re both shoved back with the force of it, sliding against the stone.
It’s instant: one moment, Windibank was standing to their side and the next, he’s gone completely. Screams from Royal Guardspeople get cut off abruptly around them, leaving only a tiny fraction remaining when the malice wall sutures itself shut and ceases the onslaught.
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To the left, to the right: utterly covered in steaming, seething malice. Only a conoidal area behind Kazuma remains untouched—a small island of sanctuary between ruin and death. The only things left to identify where soldiers stood before are some longer polearms that remain visible sticking out from the muck, quickly descending as wood and iron get eaten away.
Ryunosuke watches as the malice to their side begins to sink. “K-Kazuma,” he forces out, white-knuckling the fabric of Kazuma’s tunic.
Windibank was there—he was just right there. How could this have happened?!
“Karuma?! Wh-What—” Kazuma’s voice: stripped raw. Shoulders trembling.
Ryunosuke’s blood runs cold at the sound. He sees the blade: marred with sickly black, steel corroded and edges chipped. He’s never seen Kazuma this fearful.
The sides of the walkway begin to collapse; rocks tumble off the bridge, plunging into the moat below. Darumy beeps, rapid. “K-Kazuma!” He yanks Kazuma’s arm, but Kazuma doesn’t move—doesn’t even seem to register it at all, just gaping at the blighted blade. The stone below them buckles. He yells, “We have to go, now!”
That snaps Kazuma out of his reverie. With wide eyes, he looks as the structure grows thinner, then spins around, grabs Ryunosuke’s wrist with his free hand, and runs.
The stone gives way like a tsunami crashing behind them. Unstable ground crumples underfoot as they sprint. One second they’re watching the remaining Royal Guard running ahead of them and then, the world turns upside down as they fall.
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Everything spins when Ryunosuke cracks open his eyes. They’ve landed on caved-in rock, narrowly missing the depths of the freezing water surrounding the castle. Ringing in his ears and the taste of blood in his mouth. The rain hurts as it falls.
He pushes himself up to sit, though his ribs cry out with the movement. From what he can see: ripped clothing, skin torn and red and stinging underneath, but nothing severe. He’s fine; he’ll have to be, but—
He searches for Kazuma, but thick dust not yet settled from the collapse shrouds the space. He hacks out a cough. He feels a tug within him—not far away. Crawling around on his hands and knees and, oh, he winces as he puts pressure on his ankle. He’s fine, he tells himself, he’ll push through it, because Kazuma—
Rubble shifts and falls over. Black crested hair jolts forward as Kazuma curls into himself on the ground. Karuma’s left abandoned a foot away, a dimmed light. Ryunosuke’s hands find their way to Kazuma, urging him to say he’s okay, for him to get up, through all the pained groans. There’s a gash on his waist—tunic split open—but from what Ryunosuke can tell, it doesn’t look deep.
Kazuma coughs out an “I’m alright,” waving a hand in dismissal. Similar abrasions are scattered under his ripped clothing, raw and angry, and Ryunosuke offers to drag out a healing elixir from the Sheikah Slate, but Kazuma refuses. His touch lingers even after he helps Kazuma sit up, afraid to let go.
A warble of a beep reverberates against the warped sounds of rain pattering around them—a syncopated lament under a pile of rubble and ruin. And for what has to be the thousandth time this night, Ryunosuke’s heart sinks. He scrambles over, desperately pawing at broken stone and scree, and scraping away dirt from scratched metal. Darumy’s exposed below: a dent in his head casing; one of his small limbs sliced off at the wrist, exposed wires sparking; a large crack on its back.
But still operational. Still intact. Still functioning enough to give off a discordant chime when his sapphire eye registers Ryunosuke’s teary-eyed face, no matter how broken the sound. Ryunosuke scoops the small Guardian into his arms, presses his cheek against the cool metal. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he murmurs into his hull.
Darumy’s fixable; Iris can work miracles with a wrench and a tenacity that only a nine-year-old genius can contain. Looks are only surface deep.
Besides, Darumy’s spunk still burns just as bright as it would if he was wearing a polished, new coat. The stubborn thing has the audacity to protest when Ryunosuke gets out the Slate, despite the condition he’s in—still furiously beeps at him even as he gets stored safely inside of it. But even as Ryunosuke wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand, he doesn’t regret it. There’ve been enough unnecessary casualties tonight. No more.
There’s a pull from the mouse doll. The way his stomach sinks like a body weighed down to drown already feels enough of a confirmation of his fears for who’s behind the line. Ursavra’s labored voice fights against the static: “—hart’s sent an ambush—’s fast—be able to manage agai—”
His hand tremors. He almost drops the doll. “Ur-Ursavra?!” he yells, but there’s no response other than the screams of exertion and battle and, he hopes—prays—victory. The line cuts out.
The chill that cuts through his body sharper than any knife makes him feel faint. He feels Kazuma take ahold of his hand, but his fingertips are foreign—buzzing, frozen stiff. Maybe Kazuma says something to him, or maybe he doesn’t—he can’t hear it over the way his ears ring.
They’re being attacked within the Divine Beasts. No one else can access the interior unless the pilots manually provide entry. A trap to the castle, a trap to weapons that were their clear path to success—ones they relied on utterly. And they all can fight, surely—being skilled in combat was one of the requirements of becoming a Champion—so maybe they can rally—maybe they can—
There’s bile on the ground and a burning sensation down his throat and Kazuma’s grip on his arm and another hand stroking his back in a way much too aggressive to be soothing, but it’s a comfort still, somehow. He pieces together the patchwork of words escaping through barred teeth that he can comprehend: can’t wait, vulnerable, have to move. Kazuma’s yanking him to his feet. Something explodes above; the earth shakes.
Ryunosuke slaps his cheeks. Kazuma’s right. They can’t stay here. They can’t remain at the castle anymore, not without the Divine Beasts. Not without the sealing powers—certainly, not without both. And Karuma—no, they have to retreat now, because the only other option is to—
His eyes land on a dead member of the Royal Guard laying across the way, the ground under their head a mess of red.
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They run. Scrambling over exposed sediment and goddess knows what else mingled within. Castle Town nothing more than a raging inferno in front of them, barely deterred by the falling rain—Guardians snaking through the flame and trampling over a graveyard left abandoned by the deity the living had once pledged their fealty to.
Somehow, the eastern hidden passageway’s entrance is only mostly collapsed in—a close fit, but they can just barely squeeze through the tightly-packed rubble if they try hard enough. It’s a gamble, this path: avoid the Guardian-infested wasteland above to escape, yet risk a blocked off exit at the end. But, Castle Town is a razed conflagration, with nothing to offer as salvation or protection. Better a small chance than one forgone.
Ryunosuke only dares to take a final look back right before he descends into the tunneled darkness. Calamity Stronghart blazes above, unfettered and all-powerful, as it ascends the Sanctum’s lofty spire once more—a blackened watchtower of malice and ruin.
Castle Town decimated. Hyrule Castle usurped. The capital, the bastion of enterprise and social convergence, the place Ryunosuke grew up in and called home—all gone in a single night.
Ryunosuke ducks into the tunnel. The clock tower chimes. Time’s up.
Notes:
never forget the hidden SOS signals in botw's Divine Beast themes :')
Chapter 25: Despair
Chapter Text
It’s a wonder how much the body can be pushed when faced with the threat of extermination.
Once they emerge from the tunnels, it becomes a free-for-all, using every last ounce of energy left within themselves to flee. Kazuma had the astute foresight to take the fork to the east instead of following the main route full south—surfacing onto the Romani Plains out of the exposed belly of the toppled watchtower, rather than be led directly into the Sacred Grounds where Ryunosuke can see, even from the distance, the flaring lights of Guardians roaming rampant.
The rest of Hyrule Field is barely the better alternative. More dispersed, Guardians stalk the area relentlessly, glutton-driven—executing enough destruction already, but not fully satisfied until every last quarry is eliminated. Adrenaline fuels them as they run; Ryunosuke continues to buy time with the Slate and Kazuma prunes away Guardians with a marred sword. Burning lungs and limbs become mere background noise, ever-present and almost trivial. They’ll have to be—the only other option isn’t an option at all.
It seems it only took the few hours they were gone for the Castle Town Knights to be set back on their heels. The town entrances are cleared of the guards once defending them—voluntarily or not, Ryunosuke hasn’t the clue. Tattered banners fly by their last threads, eaten away by flame. Guardians prowl freely where defensive platoons stood before. Thinned crowds leaving the town have become a mere trickle of people rather than the flood it was earlier. Ryunosuke wonders if Caidin and his team got out, or if they’re still attempting to salvage a graveyard.
At some point, the red moon was chased away by the emergence of dawn, yet darkness still holds reign—the remaining pall of rain-laden cloud cover darkens the surroundings enough for close visibility and little else. Ryunosuke can’t help but continue to glance up, if only to keep the twist deep in his stomach at bay. Even under ambush, Ursavra exhibits her skill: two western lasers now arc across the sky—whether they’re to become beacons of hope or fleeting monuments of the fallen is yet to be seen. Silence remains from the mouse doll; the thing doesn’t even make a connection anymore. Only the two-toned signals grating from the Slate give any indication from those trapped inside the Divine Beasts:
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(“They’re, they’re fighting alone out there—We have to help them!” Ryunosuke had cried out in the tunnels when the hairline cracks in his composure could no longer hold.
Kazuma wouldn’t turn around, focused solely on navigating through the damp caves with a speed Ryunosuke struggled to keep up with. “We’re too far away. It’s impossible for us to get there in time to—”
Two raged-fueled pushes of his feet off sodden rock to surge forward. It wasn’t good enough—it couldn’t be good enough. Ryunosuke grabbed Kazuma’s arm. “There must be something we can do, then! We can’t just run away and leave them there to die—”
“There’s nothing we can do for them!” Kazuma yelled as he spun to face him. And the air caught in Ryunosuke’s throat because the always-sure Kazuma he knew—the man that spoke of his future as something he could mold to fit what he wished it to be—wore the most hopeless expression he’d ever seen him have. His headband lay limply over his shoulder.
A sound must’ve pealed out of Ryunosuke, strangled; Kazuma flinched back like he’d been struck. “…They’re capable fighters,” Kazuma had whispered, then, clutching Ryunosuke’s shoulders. “We have to get back to Kakariko Village first. Maybe they can send someone out that can make it there faster.” He shook his head. His voice faltered when he said, “I don’t know... But we have to keep going. We’re even more useless to them if we’re both dead.”
He was right. Of course he was. But, it didn’t make it hurt any less—didn’t make the dread impaling him cease or stop the guilt from spilling out like blood at his feet.)
So they run, mud-stained and drenched under pounding rain. To the east first, until they’re intercepted by a small group with panicked eyes and defeated body language.
“Orsedd Bridge’s been destroyed by the Guardians. I saw it collapse when I was coming back from the castle,” one of them says. A civilian who’d gone back to help those less mobile, all so they could be loaded on a cart on the opposite bank. “Boneyard Bridge was burned down earlier behind some soldiers retreating to Akkala Citadel.” A means to keep the majority of the Guardians contained within Central Hyrule.
They follow the group south, along the bank and through the dense forest. The Hylia River grows violent, thrashing water careening down its path. It’s an unwise decision, he knows, but Ryunosuke can’t keep his eyes from wandering back towards the west. Mabe Village is but a smudge on the map—the farmhouses and silos that once pierced the horizon now just nothing. Empty field, as if that’s how it always was.
Guardians prowl the outskirts, pushing territory bit by bit. Their group passes remnants of those unlucky who fell along the way, unrecognizable charred bodies their own grave markers spread out across the fields. They have to convince themselves it’s singed bark or an odd-shaped rock just to get by. They snake through tree cover, crouch low in the slick grass to avoid detection. Best to avoid than expend extra energy or draw unnecessary risk by fighting. One Guardian gets too close: a few trees away.
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That droning sound follows them like a dirge played by a funeral procession. Terror in the eyes of the others—deep, doomed, gaping faces flinching towards Ryunosuke.
In all the time spent worrying of this day—of the reliability of his powers, of how he could contribute if they stayed dormant, of the danger of Kazuma facing the Calamity—he never accounted for this possibility: kneeling in the mud with ordinary, everyday people who never should be this close to danger, holding their breaths as the very weapons meant to protect them hunt them down instead. The Calamity was to be contained by Divine Beasts and a divine blade (and, permitting, divine magic), and the townspeople’s worries were meant to be limited to how long the fight at the castle would take. Never a worry about if they’d survive being spotted in the woods like prey animals. Never staring face-to-face with the Prince of Hyrule as they both feared for their lives, pleading with him to not let them die like this.
He tries to explain that the Guardians don’t hear sound, that their sensors are for detecting motion and scanning for visual targets, but it falls on deaf ears of their own. People can’t ignore survival instincts drilled into them from millennia that easily, after all.
He couldn’t find any way on the Slate itself to silence the sound earlier—still can’t. He has to wrap a piece of cloth over the part where the noise emits instead. It still rings when all else is quiet, muffled under fabric. The Guardian passes.
By the time they approach Rebonae Bridge, the rains have grown torrential. The rushing river has risen with an alarming speed. Water floods over the banks, rids the ground of earth and mud. A tree sitting precariously at the edge gets stripped of its foundation and comes crashing down right as they pass. In an instant, the massive thing is swept away by the rapids as if it was nothing more than a twig.
Winds whip them, lashes cutting deep as the chill against water-drenched skin and soaked fabric freezes deep inside their bones. Fire and ice; exertion and gelidity. Neither helps temper the other.
The tree line thins where it reaches the edge of the pathway. Dangerous here, with little cover. One of the travelers sticks a head out of the brush, sweeps the area, then sprints forward.
“N-No… The bridge is, is—” The trembling voice ahead can barely be heard over the water. “Shit, it’s gone, all of it!” He falls to his knees.
“What?! You can’t be fucking serious!” yells another, darting out after him.
Kazuma’s hand shoots out. “Wait, stop!” But it’s too late. Another follows after them then another, until it’s only the two of them left concealed. Ryunosuke and Kazuma share a look—of concern, of capitulation—before they, too, join them.
If any part of the bridge still exists, it’s drowned under water. The crag that once loomed over the river below now sits flush; water spills onto the plains. There isn’t even the possibility of crossing—even a Zora would struggle to not get swept up along the current. Water crashes violently against the jagged rocks lining the bank, spraying them as they stare as their best chance at escape slips through their fingers.
“Go south,” Kazuma says quickly, before the despair sinks too far into the others that it becomes irremediable. “Go through Dueling Peaks, then up to Kakariko from there. Fort Hateno is well-equipped for handling an attack with its geography. If something happens, Hateno Village will be secure.”
“What’s the point, huh?” A weak whisper from the one on the ground. Frail, tone oscillating like the churning waters. An acerbic laugh cuts out from his hunched form, head hanging low to the ground. Another spills out, then another, another. Manic: “We’re just sittin’ ducks either way! Those fuckin’ machines’ll tear right through us, no matter if we run! They’re gone, all of them—my wife, my son, right in front of—fuck!” He slams a fist down against the mud, and that’s enough for the wall of composure to break down completely. He chokes out sobs: “How are we gonna be any different?! What’s the point going on if there’s nothin’ left?!”
Ryunosuke sucks in a breath. It stings, raw against his lungs. One of the others kneels down besides the man and places a hand on his back as the cries wrack through his body. The sound is like a bullhorn.
Ryunosuke’s thumb slides over his arm guard. “…That is the point, isn’t it? To keep going on?” he says, softly—cautiously, though it flows out of him unbidden. Faces turn towards him, wide-eyed. “It’s, it’s scarce consolation, coming from a prince who failed to protect you all with his powers, I know… But, isn’t the best way to honor their legacies to continue to fight—to continue to live?” He thinks of those who’ve fallen, and who’ve sacrificed everything of themselves. The knights and Royal Guard. The Champions—whatever their status may be. Windibank. His father. How could he give up after their losses?
The words flow out like molten gold, lightness filling his chest and propelling him forward. “No matter how dire it seems, I truly believe that this isn’t a lost cause. It won’t cease your pain—little else will, but time—but there are those out there who are fighting, even still!” He thinks of Sholmes, of Ursavra. Of the countless others engaging in battle now. Of Roly, wherever he is. “Champion Kazuma and I will continue to fight”—Kazuma nods—“in any way we can. I believe you all hold strength in so many different ways, and that’s exactly why you—all of you—can help us in this battle! Whether it’s in Kakariko Village or Fort Hateno… You must reject despair and survive! To keep fighting! We need you!” He whispers, the words thick in his throat, “We can’t let their deaths mean nothing by giving in.”
The man’s head lifts slowly. His face is slick with tears and rain, eyes red-ringed. He gapes up at Ryunosuke. “I…”
“Help!” Two screams cut through the tension. Through the thicket, two people run towards them, a crying baby slung across the woman’s chest. Following them: a Guardian hot on their heels. Trees level in its wake. As they approach, another nearby Guardian swivels its body; its targeting laser tracks the family, begins its scramble forward.
The successive beeps on the Guardian that was first following them quicken. “Get down!” Kazuma yells towards them as the intervals between elapse to nothing. They drop into the sodden ground, and the laser careens over them, sending a spray of mud and rock flying into the air.
“Go, run!” Kazuma screams at their group. And at once, he lunges forward, Karuma drawn. Ryunosuke’s there not far behind, Slate at the ready. He activates Stasis on the incoming Guardian and freezes its advancement.
To his surprise, Ryunosuke watches as some of the civilians rush beside them. They grab at the arms of the two fallen and usher them behind cover. Gives them a moment to catch their breaths before they all flee. Another lifts the grieving man up to safety.
One of their group lingers, fearful eyes locked on Ryunosuke. “But, Your Highness, what will you…?” she asks, voice thin.
He merely shakes his head. “Don’t worry about us; we’ll be following behind you after this! Keep hidden and get to Dueling Peaks!”
They disperse. Kazuma’s managed to slice one of the legs off already. They’re lucky—on closer inspection, this Guardian’s been in a fight already. Its casing is chipped, a long sword gash ripped down the side of its hull. A crack makes the hypnotic bullseye pattern of its eye ripple like disrupted, churning waves. The robot retreated at the resistance, Ryunosuke hopes. It rings hollow.
Stasis keeps the second Guardian at bay. Kazuma leaps, avoiding swinging metal claws, and dodges right when the sound of laser fire reaches its frenetic crescendo. Ryunosuke fumbles out the bow and some arrows. He looses one. It clinks off the side of its head.
The Guardian shoots another laser and it just misses Kazuma. He tumbles to the muddy ground, then pushes off with a lumbering strength. Another swipe of the sword—but Karuma catches against the metal. The blade still slices through, but it meets with a resistance not previously felt before. Like dragging a plough through rocky soil.
Stasis hasn’t replenished. Rain-blind and shivering, Ryunosuke aims another arrow. It’s off-target, hanging wide, but the robot moves to back away from Kazuma, its head spinning to re-engage its tracking laser. The arrow strikes true as it moves: sparks erupting from the pierced sapphire eye. It lurches back before collapsing, magenta wisps dissipating in the wind and color draining from its wire veins.
Kazuma turns towards him, expression brightened with pleasant surprise. “Nice shot, partner!” he preens. His face is flushed and damp.
The moment is brief. Machinery whirs as the second Guardian springs forward. Its laser shoots towards them both in a straight line; they jump away from its heat. Mud smears against Ryunosuke’s face as he tumbles to the ground. His back screams with the impact, a rippling shock down his spine.
Kazuma vaults forward, but the motion is labored—less explosive at the jump. Karuma severs off a leg with great effort; by the time Kazuma cuts through the metal, the Guardian’s laser has already reached a fever pitch. The beam barely misses as he rolls over his shoulder and slides back.
Golden chains lock the Guardian in place—Ryunosuke activating Stasis from the ground. Karuma is heaved through another leg.
This continues: Kazuma dodging, Karuma slicing, Ryunosuke freezing it. Once Kazuma is able to stab the robot in its eye, he stumbles back when he jumps off its hull. Feet wheeling backwards. He stabs Karuma into the ground to gain balance. Chest heaving. Gasping in lungfuls of air.
“…You should rest,” Ryunosuke says as he approaches. His hands ghost against Kazuma’s shoulders.
Kazuma shakes his head. “No, I’m fine.”
Ryunosuke can't suppress a scoff. “You look like you’re about to keel over, Kazuma!”
Something of a smirk tugs at Kazuma’s lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “If you’re tired and want a break, you should just say so.” A poor attempt at humor and he knows it, because his face grows stern once more and he then says, “…Not here. It’s too exposed.” His head inclines south. “The grove.”
It’s mid-morning when they rest within one of the groves northeast of the Bottomless Swamp. Backs to a stone structure and under the overhang of thick trees, they’re sheltered from the rain and away from detection. It’s almost peaceful, in a twisted way; they haven’t heard a Guardian nearby in quite some time.
“…Is she okay?” Ryunosuke asks as Kazuma wipes Karuma in his lap with a cloth. The steel has degraded even further than before. Under the rust and the chips taken out of the blade, she still glows softly. Flickering, feeble.
Kazuma hasn’t looked up since he started tending to her, the hollows of his face a dark chasm. Ryunosuke can see his mouth twist into an even tighter frown. “She’s hurting. I can hear her. It’s a pained sound, quite unlike anything I’ve heard her sing before.” His grip tightens around the hilt. “Like a mosquito buzzing in my ear.”
Ryunosuke’s eyes drop to the grassy ground. He watches as the raindrops pool off the wild blades, how they get absorbed by the dirt below. Something strikes him. He outstretches his hands towards Kazuma, palms up. “…May I?”
Kazuma lifts his face, then. Exhaustion has molded his countenance: dark bags under drooping eyes, the sag of fatigued skin. Something crosses his face for a split second—a microexpression that’s gone all too quickly. He places Karuma in Ryunosuke’s hands, careful to slip the duller side of the blade against his palms.
It’s heavy. Ryunosuke has only held the sword a sparse few times, yet he feels the heft to it—so much more than he’s felt before. His fingers wrap around the metal and where he should feel the blade cutting into flesh, he only feels heat. A soothing warmth, flowing deep inside him.
He’s transported somewhere, a far distant memory. Of endless blue skies and clouds below. Of wind rushing through hair as you plummet, but with no fear—never with fear. Downy feathers under palms.
“How did you do that?” Kazuma asks, urgency mixed with awe.
Ryunosuke’s eyes blink open; he hadn’t even realized they had closed, lulled so deeply into the vision. He follows Kazuma’s gaze, looks down at the sword. “D-Do what?”
Kazuma’s fingers draw across the blade gently, right where Ryunosuke’s hand once rested. “The damage here—it’s been mended a bit.”
Ryunosuke examines the damage that still mires the sword. Looks the same to me…, he thinks, trying to trace the patterns.
“No, look here, see?” Kazuma forcibly yanks Karuma out of Ryunosuke’s hands, spinning her around as if the issue was merely that of perception angle, of how the light hits the steel. Kazuma scoffs then, after Ryunosuke’s expression twists in uncertainty. “She’s been healed right there—believe me.”
No matter how much Ryunosuke looks, it still seems no different. “I believe you. You know Karuma the best, of course.” He shakes his head, continuing, “But, I just can’t see what’s changed, I’m sorry. Are you sure that I even did anything, though? Karuma’s tied to your energy somewhat, isn’t she? Maybe she just needed you to rest for her to start healing, too?”
Kazuma sighs, sheathing Karuma. “Maybe, but don’t you think it’s a bit too much of a coincidence that she started getting repaired right when you took ahold of her? Did you hear her?”
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A gust sweeps through the trees and Ryunosuke shivers, rubbing his hands across his arms. Even if a fire wouldn’t be placing a target right where they were hiding, the winds would render it useless. “Not exactly—more like felt, in a way.” Fingers running through the back of his wet hair. “Sensations came about me. I’m not sure what they’re from or what it all meant, really.”
A wail cuts through the grove, echoing against bark and stone. The sound is close by. The cries cascade, one after another, growing ever breathless and more pained.
Kazuma and Ryunosuke share a wordless nod before they leave their shelter to approach the scene. Two women huddled under tree cover: one with knees drawn to her chest, crying, and the other crouched down beside her, hand soothing her back.
“Are you both alright?” Kazuma asks.
The one doing the comforting lifts her head and her already-doe-like eyes grow wider. Her brown hair is tied back in a plait bursting at its seams. “Are, are you the prince?! The Champion?!” she babbles quickly, words spilling over each other. She bows her head at once. Before they can answer: “Please, we’ve been fleeing from those metallic beasts!” In a smooth movement, she’s already on her feet, advancing towards them. “My friend here is so scared and won’t move, but she adores the Royal Family so! This must be a blessing, seeing you here of all places… I know I’m of no status to request such a thing, but please, won’t you speak to her, Your Royal Highness?”
“Of, of course,” Ryunosuke says as his eyes dart about. The woman, yellow hair falling over her shoulders, continues to cry as he approaches. If she noticed their presence and the conversation before, she doesn’t show it—wrapped too tightly in her fear and despair. “H-Hello…? Are you okay?”
She draws her head up, eyes shining a vivid green. “You… You’re the prince? Is it really you?” Words remarkably clear, controlled. Something inside Ryunosuke tenses. She ducks her head again.
“Yes, it is,” Ryunosuke says. “Your friend, she said you were in need of help? Is there anything that I can do?” He extends a hand. “Do you need help getting up?”
“Help?” the blonde woman asks. She lifts her head again. Her face is dry—neither tears nor rain blemishes it.
“Yes, he’d like to help,” the brown haired woman echoes behind them, almost songlike. She grabs Kazuma’s arm, leaning forward. He scowls.
Ryunosuke sucks in a breath. “Kazuma, I don’t—” He pulls back his hand and—
The blonde woman snatches his forearm, dragging him towards her. Fingers like claws press into his arm.
“Ryunosuke!” Kazuma yells. He surges forward, but he’s held back as the brunette woman’s grip tightens.
“Just like you helped your kingdom to die?” the blonde woman says. “Sent all these weapons to kill us all after you couldn’t do the one thing you were born to? If Hylia refuses to help her own, how could you ever help us?!”
Ryunosuke’s blood runs cold as the woman’s face is smothered behind smoke and is replaced with porcelain, the upside down eye staring back at him like a death rune. He can’t draw in a breath.
The Yiga pulls him forward and brandishes a sickle. “Your massacre of your people proves your depravity! Lord Stronghart will cleanse this world of your corruption and bring deliverance!”
Ryunosuke tugs his arm, tries to dig his nails into the gloved hand that holds him—anything to flee. But, it’s futile, like a mouse trying to escape a hawk’s talons. The Yiga is something he didn’t even register as a threat under the eye of Guardian surveillance; perhaps, with monsters at bay with the retreat of the red moon, humans hiding in the shadows would be the best to strike during the day. He watches as the blade lifts to the sound of his racing heart.
When their arm surges down, he squeezes his eyes shut. The Yiga is right, after all: he can’t keep trying to run away from the fact he contributed to all this death and destruction, even unintentionally. Even with the hopes he could help.
If the stories about reincarnation are true, then maybe another—one more skilled, more disciplined, more worthy than he ever was—can take his place. The land will have to withstand years of strife until the next is grown, but maybe they’ll be a prodigy, who can assist Kazuma even as a child. Make it quick, he prays.
There’s a flurry of wind and next thing he knows, he’s been shoved to the ground. The last thing he heard: metal scraping against metal. Something’s being yelled in a language he doesn’t know. Disoriented, he makes out a Yiga a few paces away, gripping at an arm soaked in deep red, right before they disappear in a flash of smoke and fluttering paper seals. A glove, stuffed to the seams, sits on the ground.
“Your friend was lucky,” Kazuma growls, and Ryunosuke head swivels to see him pinning the Yiga up against a tree, arm pressed to their neck. “You make the choice now to see if you’ll follow them!”
“It won’t absolve you of all you’ve wrought! Kill me if you want—I’ll just become one of the many whose blood was spilled at the hands of Hylia’s spawn this past day!” the Yiga screams back, though their limbs shake.
“Shut up!” Kazuma yells. He puts more pressure against the Yiga’s neck. “Your group has no right to talk about bloodshed!”
The Yiga gasps for air, hands gripping at Kazuma’s arm. “I don’t expect…Hylia’s lapdog…to understand…”
“Then explain,” Ryunosuke says, rising to his feet. The words are shaky at first, but soon grow steady—forceful, when he continues, “You blame me and the goddess for not protecting the kingdom, yet the reason for the attack was all due to Calamity Stronghart! The Guardians, the Divine Beasts—all of it was a response to the threat your idol created!” He flings out an accusatory finger point.
Kazuma lessens the force he imparts to the Yiga, but still keeps them contained. The Yiga wheezes, gulping down breaths for a moment, before panting out a “You wouldn’t’ve needed them if you’d faced Lord Stronghart by yourself… You endangered everyone else because of your failure! It’s what Hylia does—what she’s always done—always allowing this lawlessness to fester instead of taking responsibility, then blaming others! Lord Stronghart will see to it that you all will face justice and this land will be finally cleansed!”
Kazuma bites out a dry laugh. “And you say the goddess blames others! The Calamity will kill us all if it’s given free rein!”
“And so be it! We must usher in a total reset after everything Hylia’s done!”
“You… You wish for the deaths of everyone?!” The words scrape out of Ryunosuke’s throat, breathless.
“It’s the only way! Without your resistance, Lord Stronghart would’ve brought deliverance to us all without pain!” the Yiga spits. They pause for a moment, tilting their white mask upwards. “And look at that… It seems one of those Champions you cruelly sent to their death has finally fallen.”
“Wh—” Something inside Ryunosuke drops—that dread an icy, spiked stone, gashing down his insides. A single beam of light behind those canopies. He didn’t even realize that the Slate became a singular repetition:
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The Yiga kicks both their feet into Kazuma’s chest.
“Guh—!”
“K-Kazuma!” Ryunosuke yells as the Yiga disappears in smoke, reappearing a few feet away.
Hunched over, hand gripping at their throat. “Only ‘til we’re purified of this plague can we return to a land of true law and order!” They reach back, pull something out of a pouch. “My partner will go alert the others. But, soon, all of them will know exactly where you are.” They lift the object into the air: a flare.
They pull the trigger. “For Lord Strong—”
Kazuma’s fist strikes the Yiga’s masked face. They go flying, skipping against the mud like a pebble across a lake. The flare lurches north, a low, smoking arc against dreary skies.
Quivering where he stands, Ryunosuke stares dumbly as Kazuma shakes out his hand—teeth bared, chest heaving. Kazuma’s saying something to him; he can’t suss it out. Next thing he knows, Kazuma’s grabbing his wrist and pulling him into a run.
That’s right: they can’t stay here, can they? Forget the unconscious Yiga—who knows how many are on their way to replace them now? Automatons and monsters make sense: hosts that can be melded to the will of those who imbue life into them. But humans? How could anyone see the mass suffering happening around them and celebrate it? Justify it? Personally usher it on?
And for what purpose? Vague accusations of impropriety and injustice? To punish them for not handing over the lives of thousands without a fight, all in exchange for dubious claims of providing some peaceful death? Does that Yiga know? Does the other one who ran away? Do any of them know what they’re actually fighting for, or are they all just following marching orders and propaganda?
It’s illogical. Unconscionable.
They race through the woods, mud and pulled grass flinging up from their boots. Rain beating down, neverending. It’s only when there’s a clearing that Ryunosuke can confirm it with certainty: the single laser in the sky. Northwest. That can only mean—
“Ursavra!” Ryunosuke gasps out. “N-No… This can’t—!”
Kazuma only tightens his grip and pushes pace. Ryunosuke’s chest burns so violently, the oxygen that enters into his lungs extinguishes in an instant. He feels the pressure through his arm guard, the way his feet stamp the ground, the dizzying buzz of his head.
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But this is incriminating evidence, isn’t it? Ryunosuke recognized it as such just moments before, after all. For all the outlandish and dubious claims the Yiga made, it wasn’t fully devoid of the truth. Because if it was all truly fake, then Ursavra wouldn’t be—
He sees Wilson holding a trident, too stubborn to back down, too pertinacious to abandon his dedication to his people. Jigoku just as steadfast, gavel in hand, fighting for justice. Sholmes, craftiness within his very being, always one step ahead. He fights still. He needs to—Iris can’t be left without her father, after all.
He sees Ursavra with her sparky grin and always warm eyes, an arm draped around his shoulders as she passes him a Gerudo delicacy of layered pastry topped with honey and shaved Palm Fruit—her unending kindness to him after another failed pilgrimage, as strong as her blade. And she tells him it’ll come in time. That it’s not him, that despite all the claims otherwise, his mother struggled to control her powers for a time, too. He’ll show them all how wrong they were, even if it takes him longer. It’s not your fault, it’s not your—
Ryunosuke’s knees buckle under him, boots sliding against the mire. Rain-slick, his wrist slips out of Kazuma’s grasp with ease. He slams into the cold, soaked mud, collapsed on his hands and knees. Head hanging low. He can’t find the strength to lift it. Doesn’t dare to try. How could he ever show his face like this, when—when—
“How…” A strained noise, ripped out of him. “How did it come to this…?”
“Ryunosuke…” He hears the soft patter of Kazuma’s boots approaching closer, the shuffle of fabric and metal as he kneels down in front of him.
“Everyone in the kingdom… My father… The Champions…” Each word like sandpaper against his throat. “If I—None of this would’ve happened—None of them would be—” Dead. Near dead. Fighting a losing battle without any sort of lifeline. He struggles to fit his mouth around the enormity of the words.
Hot tears slip down his cheeks. Sobs wrench out, each heave a strain out of his chest. He balls his hands, feels the fistfuls of mud squelch between his fingers and set under his nails. “If I just was able to properly activate these cursed powers, then there would’ve been no need for the Guardians, or the Divine Beasts, even!”
“Ryunosuke—”
“Calamity Stronghart would’ve never been able to continue its assault. We were face to face with it at the castle, and I—This is all my fault!”
“Ryunosuke, stop this! You don’t know any of that to be true!” Kazuma’s words, severe and frustrated, should be a wound enough to break his racing thoughts, but they spiral—spiral like a trashing whirlpool threatening to pull everything into its orbit. They clink off harmlessly, swept away with the rapids. “There’s no point in relitigating this again; you did everything you possibly could have!”
But was that enough? Does that matter, if the end result doesn’t justify it?
Ryunosuke thinks of prayer, of freezing water. Nails digging into skin with shaky hands clasped. Bowed heads to deaf and mute statues. Of standing in even colder halls, with words whispered too viciously to not be meant to be heard, of failures and cursing them all to their demise.
He thinks of the robots—small enough to sit on his desk, big enough to fill a lab—whirring to life and providing them an opportunity forward. Guardians following their programming and protecting those allies around them in battle. He thinks of Iris, tears welled up in her eyes, falsely blaming herself for their turning.
But this was different, wasn’t it? A means to an end, all because he couldn’t contribute—couldn’t do the very thing he was born to do, that they all needed him to do. Iris helped those Guardians protect the town, but him? What did he really do?
“I could’ve stopped all this…” Ryunosuke murmurs to the ground. He lifts his face, then, and sees Kazuma’s tense expression, soaked bangs and limp headband sticking against skin. It hurts. His countenance breaks, feels his face twist with the pain until he can’t hold it in anymore: “Why do I deserve to keep running?! The Yiga was right: I am just a failure, aren’t I?!”
“Yes, you are!” Kazuma’s hands extend like a whip and grab Ryunosuke’s shoulders, shaking him to sense; Ryunosuke gasps, flung into the present. “You are a failure! Exactly like how I’m a failure, like how we all failed to stop the Calamity last night!” His eyes are crazed, alight. “And so you’ve failed—what of it? The past is in the past; you can’t do anything to change it now. But, we still have a chance going forward to fix it! If you truly believe that you hold blame for what happened, then you owe it to not only those who’ve lost their lives, but those still living to continue to fight and make it right this time! Isn’t that what you just said before?!”
Kazuma grits his teeth as his fingers press deeper into Ryunosuke’s shoulders. “You want some sort of punishment?! Then I’ll gladly dole it out to you later, but not here and certainly not by the hands of those maniacal fucks or their possessed machines! I won’t allow it!”
Ryunosuke blinks blankly, mouth hanging agape. Any words he has left stick to the back of his throat.
“We’ll get to Kakariko and we’ll regroup, just like you told the others before,” Kazuma says. “If you think I’ll ever stop believing in your ability to force a turnabout, you’re sorely mistaken.” Ryunosuke sucks in a shaky breath, scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands until he sees starbursts behind his eyelids. “Now, get up; we don’t have much time.”
Kazuma pulls Ryunosuke to his feet. Ryunosuke numbly stares at Kazuma’s shoulder—the slice cut of his tunic, all the way down to skin, red and angry. Right below: the tattered, blue fabric that each of the Champions wear, linking them all together under Ryunosuke’s signature color, tied loosely around his arm and threatening to slip off. “…I’m just so sick of it all,” Ryunosuke mumbles. The words like bile.
“I know,” Kazuma replies softly. “So am I.”
And in a breath, Kazuma surges forward, engulfing Ryunosuke in his arms. His burning warmth, a welcomed shock against cold, damp clothes; his smell, a comfort. Ryunosuke nestles his face into the nook of his neck, winds his arms around his back. Feels the way the fabric is ruined there—feels even deeper the way Kazuma winces to the touch.
He flinches his hands away. Even here, he can’t help but ruin things. “S-Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
But Kazuma ignores it. “Never stop believing in yourself,” Kazuma murmurs into Ryunosuke’s wet hair. “I certainly won’t, partner. I’ll always be here to protect you.”
Ryunosuke has to fight back the way he feels himself unspooling again. “Thank you, Kazuma…”
Branches break in the distance and they pull apart. Ryunosuke slaps his cheeks so hard, clarity rushes over the remaining numbness of his senses. Kazuma’s hand finds his own and they run south: to Horwell Bridge, to Dueling Peaks. To salvation—if only the glimmer of it.
Notes:
ohhh botw memory 16......
I found it so interesting what the route botw Zelda and Link took during this time, since they fully make it to the castle then have to double-back towards Dueling Peaks, so these past chapters are my au re-imagining of what that kind of situation may have looked like :^) It's a rough one for Ryunosuke and Kazuma
Thanks for reading!
Chapter 26: Resolve
Notes:
❝ I have never hurt so badly
Writhing, laughing, laughing, laughing
Dying, dying, dying, laughing
Louder, louder, louder, louder
All imploded in my mind
I'm hiding all inside
I wonder who's losing out?
Who's losing?Crowded enough, no light above
How could I not tear you apart?
Crowded enough, no light above
How could you not tear me apart?What did we miss on the way down?
I felt it through the walls, I finally made it out
What did we miss? Unleashed like that
I heard it through the walls, was like a last fade-outWait, whisper, answers,
There's no one out there ❞
Chapter Text
If fleeing the desolate fields of southern Central Hyrule was the unnerving quiet before the storm, Fort Hateno is the epicenter of the thunderclap above churning waters. Even across the expanse of the Ash Swamp, the sound of combat rips over tall grass and marsh, loud enough that they might as well be directly on the ramparts themselves rather than coming off the tail end planks of the Big Twin Bridge.
Metal scraping against metal from where they came from—knights trying to pick off Guardians squeezing within the narrow space between the twin rock formations. Yells from the east. Mechanical whirring as metal squelches and scurries across mud. A mix of cannon fire ripping through earth and steel, and laser explosions against stone, rapid like successive fireworks. Deafening, somehow growing louder.
The wind whips Ryunosuke as the wagon Kazuma and he sit in the back of races across the swampland. They had crossed paths with the wagon carrying merchants, travelers, and soldiers retreating from the felled southern garrisons at the sandbar jutting between the Squabble River.
(Out of the dust came surging a heavenly chariot of wood and iron and floral-patterned canvas covering, pulled by two of the biggest horses Ryunosuke had even seen. Helming the vehicle: a big-boned woman with deft hands on the reins and thick curls spilling out of her head covering. She hadn’t even so much as slowed down when they called out to her. Kazuma had to link hands with Ryunosuke and jump onto the rear end gate as it passed by, flinging Ryunosuke into the bed like a sack of flour before clambering over, himself.
Guardians were hot on both their heels, like sharks smelling the Triforce in their blood within the water. Ahead, past the choke point of where the Dueling Peaks thinned the Squabble River, Ryunosuke could see more Guardians filling the plains.
“All the Guardians up ahead—Your, your horses, they’ll get spooked!” Ryunosuke yelled over the explosion as the rider veered sharply to the side, skillfully missing the blast from a laser.
She’d only howled out a laugh like a Wasteland Coyote before saying, “Maybe them purebreds from Castle Town! These gals are born and bred Tabantha mares—would take a lot more than that to scare ‘em!” With an incline of her head: “Sweetiecakes here fought off a Wolfos once by herself, dontcha know!”)
She was right: faced with Guardians and explosives, the two horses haven’t batted an eye as they barrel directly into a war zone. It’s near unbelievable to Ryunosuke how they push on almost indifferently, weaving around automatons like they’re nothing more than trees on the path, kicking up mud in their wake. A nearby laser explodes and rocks the wagon. They persist, unfazed.
One of the knights blows into a horn and the deep sound carries effortlessly across marshland. An alert to Fort Hateno far ahead: more survivors incoming, prepare to open your gate. Other wagons nearby and scattered people fleeing across the swamp flank them, chancing the swarm of Guardians up ahead as they do.
They’re close. All that’s left to cross in between the two natural bottlenecks at Dueling Peaks and the fort guarded by knights: this no man’s land.
“Incoming—two o’clock!” Kazuma yells, gripping the wooden frame of the back of the wagon.
Ryunosuke leans forward—sways as the wagon lurches—and fixes the Slate on the Guardian whose red tracking laser has locked onto their vehicle. When the golden chains freeze it in place, he switches position with the archer knight. Silver-polished armor creaking as she pulls back the bowstring, she lets the crackling bomb arrow fly. It sinks into the Guardian’s eye, then detonates. The mechanical whines that peal out of it dissipate in the wind as they careen past.
The knight ducks back into the cover. The forehead-piece of the helmet she wears shadows her eyes when she dips her head low, fishing another bomb arrow out of her bag. She lifts it up. “Last one.”
Kazuma shakes his head. “Keep it in case of an emergency.”
“Yes, Champion,” she replies. Dutiful, through and through.
It’s a risk, but Ryunosuke peers out close to the opening of the canvas cover. The encroaching dusk sets a creeping pall over the area—not as if it was any brighter during the daytime under constant rain and cloudcover. The rain still pours down even now; the Guardians that scurry across the wetlands are slick with it.
Night, soon. And with it, the danger of that red moon emerging once more—Calamity Stronghart at its most powerful. They’re so close to safety behind the fort’s defense.
They crest the small hill and the wagon bucks, jolting over rock and a hole ripped out of the earth. Shrieks echoing through the wagon: the horses, the passengers. Ryunosuke’s surveying the area under the protection of an enclosed space, and in the next second, his mind is a spinning blur as he skids across sooty mud.
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The white in his vision clears just enough to see the wagon speeding away without him. The archer knight extends her hand, pointing vigorously at him and shouting something, but they don’t slow. It was just as Kazuma commanded and the driver agreed with when they boarded, after all: no matter what happens, the best chance to get through Blatchery Plain is to ride as fast as possible, never stopping for anything.
He feels the tether in his heart linger, close, and his eyes grow wide. Kazuma’s nearby, not still on the wagon. Rain pelts him in angry, large drops. He slips on the muck as he pushes himself up, searching, searching—
Kazuma’s sprawled on the ground, unmoving. Only his parted lips visible on his face, drenched hair and mud clinging across the rest. Ryunosuke’s breath dies in his throat.
He rushes to his side, shaky hands on his shoulder, his back. “K-Kazuma…?”
Kazuma stirs, groaning out, but it’s not long before Ryunosuke hears metal scuttling across marsh. Red spotlights on Kazuma’s chest. Slow beeping.
Panic seizes him. He shakes Kazuma’s shoulders. “Kazuma, get up! The Guardian—!”
The beeps grow faster. Kazuma shifts, but barely so—dazed still, a hand up to his head in pain. He looks up to the looming robot and a strained gasp tears out of his lips.
Ryunosuke’s hands fly to the Slate. Golden chains seize the Guardian; the red light evaporates. Then, Ryunosuke’s pulling Kazuma away to a boulder jutting out of the hillside—it won’t act as shelter for long, but it’ll block the sightline of the Guardian just for a bit longer. Time. He just needs a little more time.
A chorus of screams blare from across the battlefield. Ryunosuke shudders when they’re cut abruptly short.
“I-I’m fine,” Kazuma manages out as he lifts himself to a sit, and it’s unconvincing on its own, but then he lets out a cough that rattles against his ribcage and it’s undeniable.
“N-No, you can’t possibly—” Ryunosuke stutters out.
A horn sounds from the west. A warning. A cry for help.
Kazuma grits his teeth, draws a sharp, deep breath through bared fangs. Ryunosuke isn’t even able to get out another protest before Kazuma rises to his feet with a labored effort, unsheathes Karuma, and dashes out from the side of the rock.
The Guardian falls to its side when its legs give way to divinity-forged steel. Damaged still, something within Karuma rekindles like fresh wood thrown into a campfire and the blade glows, ethereal under the layers of rust and grime. Like sunlight spilling directly through the window blinds. Kazuma’s hand finds purchase on the exposed part of the Guardian’s hull and he clambers up. Red light scrambles frantically over the man charging it. The sword pierces the eye.
Kazuma slips down the robot and slides behind their rocky cover. He sucks in large gulps of air as he scans the plain. A pack of Guardians approaches. Ryunosuke feels himself freeze as two race past their hiding spot and prowl down the slope.
Kazuma grips the shining sword. In a moment, something shifts in his expression, features freezing into stone. Utterly unreadable—a blank slate of cold, empty detachment. It’s at this—this, not the way Kazuma’s limbs shake, not the way the cuts and scrapes and blood accumulate, as bad as they all are—that truly fills Ryunosuke with an unspeakable dread. Goosebumps stipple his flesh.
When was the last time it was just the two of them together that he wore this mask, where he was no longer a living human and just an unfeeling tool? Long ago, back when they were still cloaked in misunderstanding, him mistaking trained aloofness for superiority and concentration for scorn. Why is he wearing it now?
“Get to the fort. If you hug the cliffs, you’ll be less vulnerable—stick to the remaining tree line.” The answer comes quick, impersonal. That of the Hylian Champion, not Kazuma Asogi.
“Wh-What?!” Ryunosuke stammers. “And, and leave you here alone?! It would be a death wish even if you were at full strength, but right now, you—”
Kazuma lifts Karuma. “Caught a fortuitous second wind. Karuma’s surging with energy right now and I feel it, too.”
Ryunosuke scoffs, incredulous. The blade is radiant, yes, but the mars that cover the majority of the steel is anything but reassuring. “You’re mad! It looks like a stiff wind can break Karuma in two, and you not far behind her!”
And Kazuma has the gall to laugh through that stone mask, though the sound feels wrenched out of him more than anything. “The soldiers at the fort will be overrun if I don’t slow the Guardians. With this energy, I can destroy enough to give them a chance, but you need to run far away from here. My attack will provide a distraction.”
“Why?” The question is scraped out of him. Why are you asking me to leave you? Why is this the only way? Why is it always you that has to carry the burden? Why?
Kazuma’s expression twists—the crease of his brow, the pinch of his lips. Pain there, rending. He always could read Ryunosuke’s thoughts with ease. His voice is scratchy, worn: “If Fort Hateno falls, so does the rest of eastern Hyrule. Under no circumstances can I let that happen.”
Three consecutive explosions rattle the ground from Fort Hateno. Yells and screams follow them.
It clicks in Ryunosuke’s brain like a key forced into a lock, groaning against the mechanisms. Even he knows Fort Hateno is a retired stronghold—more travelers’ checkpoint now than defensive fortress like Akkala Citadel. Knights would travel to work the shifts manning the fort; there was no living quarters or garrison stationed at it. Whoever is guarding it now must be some makeshift militia—nearby knights, farmers, whoever else can take up arms. Their effort to hold the fort is commendable, a true triumph of community spirit, but as more and more Guardians pour in from decimated Central Hyrule, it only becomes more apparent how precarious their situation is.
Unsustainable unless a miracle happens. They both know it.
Kazuma squares his shoulders, draws himself tall despite the way Ryunosuke can hear him suck in a pained breath. Ryunosuke has seen the particular fire that rages in his eyes before, stone mask or not: that keen obstinance that runs deeper than mere knightly disposition. When Kazuma sets his mind on something, little can be done to deter him. He’ll sacrifice everything.
Kazuma surges forward. Chapped lips meeting chapped lips, a desperate pressure to match the fleeting moment it lasts. Then, he turns away, looking over the field ahead. His red headband is tattered and weighed down, but it’s still just as striking hanging over his back as it is fluttering in the wind. It’s barely above a whisper when he speaks, a mere breeze crackling with electricity before a storm: “…I never imagined to feel as much joy as I did while I was around you, especially not within such a short period. I want you to be assured that that was never in question. I only regret that there wasn’t more time…”
Ryunosuke’s throat feels dry, raw. “K-Kazuma, what are you…?”
It flows through him like air; he doesn’t react. “Please, I ask you to do this one thing: promise me that once this is over, you’ll find out the truth of what happened to my father, Genshin Asogi. I fully believe you, of all people, can do it.” The words stutter against his throat, a shiver wracking through his body. “…I’m sorry, Father, I wasn’t able to bring you the justice you deserve.”
“Kazuma! Listen to me!”
Kazuma’s grip on Karuma’s hilt tightens. “Go, now! Run!” he yells and surges forward.
“Hold it!” Ryunosuke’s scream is like a bullhorn. He snatches Kazuma’s arm with a strength that even surprises him, anchors him there. “I refuse!”
Surprised and wholly frustrated: “Ryunosuke—”
Ryunosuke’s jaw is set; he feels his resolve blaze behind a furrowed brow and an unwavering frown. The pounding rain feels like nothing against his skin. “I’m not going to just run away and hide while you risk your life for our people!”
Kazuma stares at him with irritated incredulity. He doesn’t voice it, but the unspoken question echoes the same thoughts that inflame Ryunosuke’s self-doubt: You’ve no powers, no skill with a weapon. What can you possibly do in the middle of a warzone?
He holds the Sheikah Slate between steady hands. It’s this. It’s always been this, from the first moments his palms skimmed over slate and felt the potential energy thrumming there when so many disregarded it. Maybe he can’t run a sword through enemies like Kazuma can, but he can still fight—contribute, in any way possible. No lack of physical ability can ever erase that. Kazuma’s fight to save the people of Hyrule is the same as his own; he’ll support him until he draws his last breath. How could he ever forgive himself if he cowered away as ordinary citizens rose to be a deciding factor in a battle they never were meant to be thrust into?
“You said it yourself: I need to make it right going forward,” Ryunosuke says. “And this is that very moment.” He shakes his head. “I’m done with running away! I will stop at nothing to protect the people of Hyrule; I’m fighting alongside you to the very last!”
Kazuma opens his mouth, then quickly closes it. Fear flares in his eyes. “No, you’re out of your mind!” he says, at last. “If you’d like to help, then help at the fort, not here! Please, you can’t stay here; it's far too dangerous to be—”
Evidence piling up of his acceptance towards his demise. Cornered, a confession on his tongue. Did he truly think Ryunosuke would ever accept it?
“Without me here, you would’ve been killed from that Guardian’s laser!” Ryunosuke yells back. He draws in a heaving breath. “…I’m not going anywhere. Please, allow me to help you with this. You don’t always have to do things alone.”
And maybe Kazuma did anticipate that Ryunosuke would raise an objection. After all, they know each other best, as the moon knows the stars.
Maybe Kazuma did, because some sort of defeated expression overcomes his frustration—dejected, yet not entirely surprised. The protest withers away quickly, a flame snuffed, and he says, “If that’s what you wish, so be it… Just promise me to be safe.” He turns away again, and Ryunosuke swears he sees his headband lift with the wind. Imbued with some newfound confidence: “I trust you to watch my back, partner!” And he sprints out from their cover.
Despite it all, Kazuma never fails to surprise him. Whatever second wind that lifts him to heights towering above normal exhaustion makes him move as nimbly as a new soldier, fully refreshed. The blade still meets resistance when it slashes through steel, but he gets a leg off, dodges a laser, gets a second in the same continuation of a wide arc. Their timing syncs: if Kazuma can disarm enough of the Guardian on his own, it will lose its balance, then Ryunosuke can freeze it in place and allow Kazuma access to its eye.
By the time Kazuma’s sliding off its hull and the Guardian is sparking, attention has been drawn by the nearby Guardians, quickly filing in from the west. Lasers soar through the air like flaming spears. Kazuma dodges; Ryunosuke presses himself to the rock. They’ve lost ground with this many flooding in, surely—the choke point at Dueling Peaks must have been overrun. Ryunosuke shakes his head. It matters little at this point, not when he’s already pledged himself to this battle.
Two Guardians approach Kazuma: one from the north and one from the west. Ryunosuke’s eyes dart between them. The cooldown between Stasis charge necessitates resourcefulness: to pick the right target, to land the correct timing. The leftward one sets its sighting laser first. Ryunosuke readies the Slate.
“Hold it!” Kazuma yells. He rapidly points at a spot to his left, directly across from the felled Guardian—finger rhythmic like a metronome. He avoids the lasers that follow, ducking behind the defunct Guardian immediately after the beam fires.
Sweat slicks Ryunosuke’s palms as much as the rain does. He waits, holds his breath for the exact moment. Kazuma’s baiting them, he can see that—but why? Whatever reason there is, his confusion doesn’t cloud his concentration; his trust in Kazuma’s decisions is iron-wrought. Once the Guardian crawls to the spot, he snaps the robot in place.
Legs are sawed off, jeweled eyes are gouged. Kazuma stumbles sometimes when he lands, but his feet are featherlight—like he’s been blessed. He guides with a finger point: here, there. Ryunosuke tries his hand at the bow between Stasis. He gets lucky, once or twice, and spears a Guardian’s eye or the juncture between plates of metal. But every arrow helps in its small way; an off-target strike of flint acts as a distraction, spinning a head towards him for enough time for Kazuma to topple it.
It takes Ryunosuke a bit to notice, but the revelation hits with a dizzying strength. Wedged between the downward slope of the hill and the short circuiting carcasses underneath, Kazuma’s guiding them into place, fitting them together the way a child would stack blocks to build a fortress. Another method to force a bottleneck, slowing the Guardians' barrage so only one can proceed at a time. A wall to block flanking attacks, and a barrier to catch his breath in between.
A particular sort of triumph fills Ryunosuke, thrumming under his skin like buzzing bees in a honey-saturated hive. He can’t help it—not now—the way his heart soars at the display of inventiveness under pressure. Always clever, Kazuma’s been. His pride and joy.
It’s something intoxicating, something that can push him towards foolishness. Something that makes him believe there’s a chance at victory yet still.
It’s a short, fleeting thing. A flurry of horns screech from the west, further away than before—surviving knights who fled deeper into the mountains after being overrun, perhaps. Drums and pots being struck from the east—anything brought from nearby villages that can make sound. From his vantage point, Ryunosuke watches as a sea of magenta-tinted automatons race through Ash Swamp. Fires raze the grass, barely affected by the rainfall. Lightning flashes in the distance.
“Kazuma—there, there’s too many coming!” Ryunosuke croaks out, syllables scraping against a throat gone raw from overuse.
Kazuma yanks Karuma out of a sparking eye and slides down the side of its toppled hull. His reply is simply a mess of curses. He favors his left leg when he reaches the ground.
A Guardian attempts to scramble over the pile, but fails to find purchase, slipping against the rain-coated metal. Another scurries into Kazuma’s trap. Kazuma directs it to its spot, baits it there. His chest heaves, sucking in air. Ryunosuke freezes it. Two slashes of his sword, and the Guardian bobbles, unsteady.
The red sight tracks the grass, before coming to rest on Kazuma’s chest. He’s done this a hundred times, knows the pattern the best out of anyone: once the intervals between the beeping shortens until it’s nothing more than a frenetic, droning tone, you dodge.
So he does. The laser peals out. Kazuma’s right knee gives out from under him.
The scream makes Ryunosuke’s blood freeze. Kazuma’s body slams into the earth with enough force, it sends him rolling across mud and burnt grass. “Kazuma!” Ryunosuke screeches, though he can barely hear it over the way his heart thunders in his ears. A headwind brings the smell of burnt flesh and terror.
He’s moving before he can even register it happening. His feet slide under him, skidding down the hill. No, his thoughts scream out. No, no, no!
The Guardian already has another laser on Kazuma’s sprawled body. Ryunosuke’s eyes flick to the Slate—no Stasis available. His mind goes blank, blurry thoughts ricocheting against its chamber walls. He pries a rock from the damp dirt below with both hands—a heft to it that makes him grunt out and sends his back sparking—and he flings it at the robot’s hull. The tracking laser flickers off Kazuma. Its head spins. A target laid on his face.
Death had never a friend. Barely an acquaintance. Something he’d leave the door unlocked for, sometimes invite in, even. He’d let it flitter about, move as it pleased, unfettered, spontaneous. Its lantern would clink as it went, spilling milky light against the walls, but it would bear no shadow. After another failure at a spring, he’d even set the table, place a cup of tea in front of it, flirt with the idea of it becoming a companion when all else he could provide were disappointments. No, death was never a friend, but it wasn’t a stranger, either.
Despite the reputation, death was never cold to him. He’d faced coldness everywhere else: the icy holy waters, the gossipmongers, his father. At times—in his teenage years, especially—it brought a blazing warmth. (A harsh light cutting through fog, blinding.) Inviting, even. (A man with a dagger and a steady hand, a woman with poison slipped into a drink.) There were times where he’d be tempted to reach out, to try to seize that bright heat. (He couldn’t see its face, but it’d cock its head as if to goad: Is this truly all you will accomplish in this life?) His burnt hand would snatch back away each time.
That’s what death was: a specter, a lurker. Something to be considered, but too far away to touch. Nebulous, not tangible.
No longer now.
The seeking laser feels burning on his forehead, as if he’s stepped into the center of a funeral pyre. Each beep of its charge a tick on the clock, counting down the remaining moments until he’ll be engulfed in that flaming death shroud. He feels every ounce of the terror it brings deep in his bones.
And at once, all sensations slam into him with all the clarity in the world, like he’s encountering every sense under a magnifier. The wind against his damp skin. The smoke that clogs his nose. Time seems to crawl, every action around him a sedate movement he can trace with his eyes—is this how Kazuma felt, when he explained how time would slow sometimes while in battle? He hears something squelch in the mud beside him, but he doesn’t dare look away from the Guardian.
▄ ▄ ▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄ ▄ ▄
Each toll of the Guardian’s cascading beeping is like another stab wound, driving deeper and deeper. He knows its pattern—has seen the way to counter it numerous times by Kazuma—but the window to evade its attack is short and his legs feel like jelly and does he truly believe he’s athletic enough to move out of the way in time?
He is no Kazuma, just like he is no Hylia. He can never be a replacement.
The Guardian’s death trill drops a sudden octave. Its eye goes a blinding white. It’s here and now: just make the jump away. He hears the clink of a lantern not too far away.
Something whizzes through the air and lodges into the sapphire jewel. The Guardian convulses and sparks, its legs folding under itself. Magenta smoke wisps out of it as it falls, defunct.
He knows that wrapped hilt. Gaping and trembling, he turns to look off to his side. Kazuma’s down on one knee. His hand stays extended out. It shakes before falling heavily to his side.
Kazuma’s a husk suspended by an overly taut thread. Glazed over eyes. Burnt flesh under a tunic that flakes away with the breeze. Blood trailing from his mouth—teeth underneath stained a thick red. His body shudders with each heaving breath.
Ryunosuke tastes iron on his tongue as if the blood is his own. “K-Kazuma!” he yells when Kazuma folds over himself again, stumbling over to catch him by the arms. Kazuma’s both freezing and burning to the touch. Ryunosuke can’t stop shaking. His eyes flit about, trying to assess how bad it is, how he can possibly help. It’s futile; he’s no doctor and he possesses no healing powers. All he can do is exist around someone whose existence is barely hanging on. “Please…”
“Karuma…” Kazuma chokes out. “Retrieve her…please…” Each breath rattles out like he’s choking on air.
Ryunosuke’s eyes dart from the sword—now grown dull, just as lacking in luster as any other dirtied blade—back to Kazuma’s bloodied face. Of course he will, of course, but— The words are a frenzy: “You can’t truly be thinking of fighting still?! You’re in no condition to be—” Kazuma hacks out a sickening cough; Ryunosuke shudders, sucks in a breath. “You’ve done enough already, please!”
When they both pledged their resolve to fight, it came with the possibility of a pathway to victory, no matter how improbable it was. No such path exists anymore—shuttered off entirely, with nothing more to gain by staying except staring down the sight of a laser. Ursavra’s words ring in his head like thunder: Su’vona suru vashiru. You’re helpful to no one in battle if you’re dead.
If Kazuma hears his pleas, he doesn’t react. With a groan that makes Ryunosuke’s heart crumble, he pushes off his knee and stumbles upright. And the realization sets in, something that Ryunosuke has tried so hard to suppress in these ephemeral moments, but can no longer deny. Kazuma can barely move—how will Ryunosuke ever be able to carry him across a Guardian-infested battlefield and make it out alive?
That stone-faced expression makes it all too clear that Kazuma has already realized this. Dead weight.
“We’ll, we’ll retreat back to Fort Hateno,” Ryunosuke babbles, as if the action will be as easy as speaking the words. He feels water roll down his cheeks, far too warm to be from the freezing rain. “I’ll use the Slate to help the fighters at the wall and you can get treated by the medics and then we can help them from there and—”
It’s too late. Metallic claws scrape against other metal and another Guardian has replaced the position of the Guardian they just dispatched.
It’s immediate, how Kazuma staggers forward to put himself between the Guardian and Ryunosuke. He reaches behind him, slips the Hylian Shield off his back and onto his trembling arm, a thing he always wore but always refused to use. He’d explained it before: the best way to defend is to go on the offensive—strike hard and strike fast.
The red light centers on a red headband.
“What—What are you doing?!” Ryunosuke sputters out. His heart feels like it’s about to leap out of his chest. “You’ve never been able to get the timing right before!” He remembers the numerous practice shields splintered, the pitiable look on Kazuma’s face when he’d come back coated in Sholmes’s slime concoction.
Some quick exhale of breath escapes Kazuma. Ryunosuke must be struggling to keep a grip on reality, because he swears it almost resembles a laugh. “…How sad. It seems you don’t have faith in me.”
“No! Of course that’s not what I mean!” He could list all the ways he trusted Kazuma more than even himself; it would span a novel’s worth. The Guardian’s trill grows faster. He can only watch how the Guardian hangs over Kazuma’s shoulder like a mechanical moon. “It’s too dangerous! Please, we can still r—”
White light skitters across the field, a blinding javelin across stormy skies. Kazuma draws the shield to his shoulder and swings.
Ryunosuke feels the heat. He feels the rupture, the shrapnel slicing across his cheeks. He feels the way Kazuma’s body gets pushed back into his own, and he barely can keep them both upright. He feels it all.
Especially the despair as he watches the beam go careening into the air, soaring just left of the Guardian. A split second too late.
The Guardian already has its next laser painting a bullseye on Kazuma’s forehead. Kazuma stands there, defiant until the very last, despite the way his legs shake violently under him and the way the blood pools at his feet. No sword, no shield. Just him and that infernal duty that’s weighed him down since the very moment those three golden triangles were branded on the back of his hand and told him there would be no other conclusion than this. Ryunosuke had been naïve to once think Kazuma had the power to wholly mold his fate as he saw fit—after all, chains made of clay are still chains.
Kazuma’s words are nothing more than air: “Remember this: courage wanes and fades, but wisdom is everlasting.”
Ryunosuke grips Kazuma’s arm. He wills himself to pull, though his hands tingle and prick with pain. He can’t give up on him like this—no, not here, not now, no matter how much Kazuma tries to fight it. For all the concessions he’s given in this lifetime, he refuses for this to be one of them. For him to be one of them. His whole life, Ryunosuke has been beholden to what others expected of him; it’s time for him to decide what he wants for himself.
The cadence of the charge reaches a feverish crescendo.
“No!” Ryunosuke shouts as he surges forward, shoving Kazuma behind him. He flings his left hand out, pointer finger a guiding lance, and it all comes blazing out at once, rending the night sky in searing, blinding, golden light.
Fury and grief rip out of his chest as he yells into the air. He feels every ounce of it: the agony, the rage, the innumerable amount of pain and suffering. Towards the Guardian, towards the approaching mechanical army behind it, towards the spectral unicorn of malice and devastation hours away that still swirls over a mass graveyard—a ray of rippling light from his fingertip that scorches all in its path. The earth quakes under him. The world is bathed in violent gold.
And in a moment, it blinks out of existence.
Blatchery Plain falls silent, still as a tomb. The rain stops. A smooth wind tumbles across the moor, the gentle rustle of grass the only sound besides the ringing in Ryunosuke’s ears and the frenetic drumbeat of his heart.
The Guardian writhes and drones out a whirring noise, head spinning and sputtering. Magenta light fades out as the dark miasma is exorcised from its body. It crashes to the ground. Another follows, and another, and another—one by one, the Guardians collapse. A cascade of crashing metal.
Far in the distance, a golden diamond encases Hyrule Castle, the Sanctum preserved in amber. Calamity Stronghart thrashes against its glowing walls, trapped within.
Ryunosuke slowly lowers his trembling hand. He catches the vestiges of the Triforce on its back, fading into his arm guard.
“Was…was that…the power?” Ryunosuke murmurs. He feels it within him—feels the way the golden ichor flows through his blood, so, so right. He feels light, glowing.
Cheers erupt back towards Fort Hateno. He finally did it—they finally did it. Ryunosuke can rush Kazuma to the fort and he can be tended to by the medics and they can figure a path forward, now that he finally has the necessary magic in his veins.
Relief and euphoria spills out of him like an overflowing cup, the warm waves lapping at his feet. He turns with a wide smile, saying, “Kazuma, did you see—”
▄ ▄ ▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄ ▄ ▄
Ryunosuke’s heart drops. It’s a pain worse than anything he’s ever experienced—his heart shot through a cannon, shattering his rib cage into nothing more than shards and dust. Because Kazuma’s collapsed on the ground now. Unmoving. Ryunosuke can’t tell if he’s breathing. He didn’t even hear him fall—when did he fall?
Breaths come fast, but they exit as quickly as they enter and it leaves his mind reeling. “K-Kazuma?!” It scrapes out of his throat raw, burning. He scrambles to him.
Ryunosuke’s knees hit the mud hard. Hands hovering over Kazuma’s body—where? What to do? “No, no, no!” He rolls Kazuma on his back, tries to lift up his upper body. Kazuma’s limp in his arms; he doesn’t stir—doesn’t react at all. He sets his head on his lap.
Kazuma looked up at him with that particular softness to his expression again, like Ryunosuke hung the very stars in the sky. What a privilege it was to have him—him, the Kazuma Asogi, someone so accomplished and grander than life itself, it often seemed—like this, head resting on his lap and his hair curled around his fingers. Peaceful, under their wisteria tree.
It had been after a particularly tense meeting: a noble of somewhere or another demanded to see the prince directly, to force him to explain exactly which steps he was taking to combat the Calamity. The man had become hostile—he had business ventures that couldn’t possibly be interrupted, didn’t he know? It only took a glare and a flash of Karuma’s steel for the man to blanch and take his exit.
Ryunosuke had thanked him again profusely afterwards, but Kazuma had merely laughed. The man had deserved it, he had said. “I told you I would protect you, didn’t I?” Kazuma lifted the hand Ryunosuke had resting on Kazuma’s chest and pressed his palm to his lips.
Ryunosuke had flushed a striking red. Kazuma laughed again, that boisterous laugh that felt like the clouds parting to the Sun above. So full of life—the sound spilled with it.
The silence tears at him. Pallid skin, blue lips.
Rei’s advice comes to him: fingers to the major artery in the neck to check for a pulse. But it makes no difference if he presses his fingers to Kazuma’s neck or if he presses his ear to Kazuma’s chest: his own traitor heart pounds too fiercely that he can’t tell if any trace of a heartbeat he can detect is real or merely a mirage—some sick merging of his own with Kazuma’s. And he can’t bear the risk of false hope.
“Please, no—Kazuma—” It’s a warble of a sound ripped out of him. When he pulls his hand back, it’s slick with blood. He doesn’t know where from—the gash on Kazuma’s head? The one on his shoulder? The weeping wound from the Guardian’s laser fire on his torso? Or maybe the cut on his leg?
He reaches for the Slate, stains the surface crimson as he swipes through the menus. The remaining healing water is low within the vial. He tries to be frugal, but he spills more than he means to as his hands tremor: forehead, shoulder, leg. He pours the remainder on his torso.
Nothing’s changed—Kazuma’s as motionless as before. His skin just as ice cold. What did he think would happen? That the small amount of the liquid would be enough to revive him? His breathing hitches yet again, gets caught in his throat like something that will need to be cut out. The vial drops uselessly to the ground.
Tears fall and fall, each sob a burning pain wrenched out of him. “Help! Help!” he screams til his throat grows raw and his voice cracks to dust. His hands on Kazuma’s frozen face: pushing back the hair from his forehead, down his cheek, dragged across his chapped lips. Back down to his chest—anything, as if his touch could somehow breathe life back into him.
It doesn’t work—none of it works. A wail bursts from the very depths of him, and he buries his face into Kazuma’s chest.
Kazuma’s heartbeat had fluttered in his ear. A calming sound: pleasant, reliable in its steady rhythm. The poets have said a person’s soul is laid bare by the song their heart sings. The truth of Kazuma is this: strong, spirited, good.
It had rushed faster when Ryunosuke stirred to look up at him, cheek pressed against the warmth of Kazuma’s skin. “Good morning,” Kazuma had said, low and still husky with morning-scratch. His eyes shone honey-gold against the soft taper light, lazy smile dripping with a sweetness to match. His hand traced idle patterns across Ryunosuke’s lower back.
He loved him.
Ryunosuke had wriggled up to the pillow and Kazuma shifted to fill the space—tied together, never allowing for a single inch of distance between them. A warm tangle of bare limbs and affection, impossible to discern where one ended and the other began.
Kazuma’s breath on his skin was like hearth-heat in winter. He smelled of cassis and lavender and home.
He loved him, he loved him.
“Happy birthday, partner,” Kazuma had murmured after, followed by a kiss so saccharine not even a slice of Fruitcake could ever compare.
It was too early to be awake—they’d have to make it to the Lanayru Promenade by dawn—but if this was the way he’d be woken up, Ryunosuke could see no reason to ever stay asleep.
He loved him, he loved him, he loved him.
“…Master…”
There’s a rushing noise, like wind tumbling through chimes. It flows through him. His whole body shakes as another sob rips from his chest.
“Let’s get beef hotpot tonight, after this,” Kazuma had said.
“We’ll visit Hateno Village,” he had said.
“I’ll protect you,” he had said.
And he did—he did. Was it worth it?
Ryunosuke wishes he could have protected him first.
“…Honorable Ryunosuke.”
Ryunosuke’s head shoots up. He blinks away the fierce tears that cloud his vision, scrubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand until he sees stars. That chime again—synthetic, mechanical almost.
Karuma, still lodged into the Guardian, flashes a pale blue with each sound.
“Karuma…?” Ryunosuke mumbles. His mind’s a mess—it must be, because he swears he can hear words emanating from out of the sword.
“You are confused.” The tone is cold, sterile, yet it echoes like music. He’s never heard anything like it before. “It is quite logical that you would display a significant degree of uncertainty. However, there is not much time to discuss. My projections predict that presenting the information outright will have the highest success rate: Master Kazuma is still alive.”
Ryunosuke’s breath dies in his throat. “Wh-What?” Wide-eyed, his gaze flicks from the talking sword to Kazuma’s motionless body. He can scarcely believe it, with the way his body lies as still and cold as a corpse. He doesn’t see his chest rise and fall with breath. Could he truly…?
He quickly presses his ear to the center of Kazuma’s sternum and squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to silence his thoughts, the erratic patter of his own heart. Really tries to focus on that stalwart rhythm he’s grown to memorize—Kazuma’s truth, clear as crystal.
Pounding in his ears, more defeating than any Guardian laser before it: thump, thump. A heartbeat—weak, but still there. A flicker of life not yet extinguished.
Maybe he had been able to protect him—would still be able to protect him—after all. If he can just act quick enough.
“My analysis indicates that if Master receives intensive medical attention within the next ten minutes, his chance of survival will be 70%.”
Ryunosuke’s mind races, trying to lay all the pieces out to find their connections. If he carries Kazuma to Fort Hateno, he’d make it there in time, but would it be enough? It’s a makeshift army of nearby villagers helming the fort—would any of them know healing magic? Would there be any Zoras even living around this area? He imagines that critical care must require more than mere Hylian bandages and salves.
▄ ▄ ▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄ ▄ ▄
His eyes land on the Slate and the empty vial beside it. And, finally, the picture starts to take form in front of him, vivid and sanguine.
A damp cave carved into a soaring mountainside. Cypress and mint-mist on the wind. Susato kneeling next to a pod, transcribing the words resurrection. The curl in his gut imagining what necessitated such a medical device.
He doesn’t have to imagine any longer.
The Sheikah Slate is open to the inventory page. The cobalt blue ocarina sits in the digital storage boxes. The Kakariko Village Elder’s words ring in his mind: “Should anything befall you, play this instrument, and one of our soldiers will find you.”
His hands move faster than they’ve ever done before. The ocarina is made out of polished rock, but it feels like it weighs nothing in his palm. He doesn’t know how it works or if the sound will carry, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll do anything because it’s Kazuma, Kazuma—
Ryunosuke brings the ocarina to his lips and empties his lungs.
The sound whistles out like a prayer. There. It’s done now, out and off into the wind. He hopes there wasn’t a melody he was supposed to play instead.
He draws a hand down the side of Kazuma’s face once more, thumbs away the tears that fell from his own eyes. “Please, just hold on for a bit longer, partner.” A beat, then he leans over and kisses him; he tastes the blood.
He lays Kazuma flat on the ground. He removes Kazuma’s sword belt and snaps it around his own. Karuma’s gone quiet and dim, but it feels almost a comfort to know she’s watching over him. Even still—despite that when Ryunosuke yanks her out of the Guardian’s eye, she’s the worst she’s ever looked, blackened and flaking, with massive chunks eaten out of her steel. “…Thank you,” he can only murmur to her. It will have to be enough to contain the entirety of his gratitude.
He slips Karuma into her sheath. The weight feels strange on his hip. He feels the wind stir behind him and—
“Your Highness!” a voice calls out. Two blurs of navy, surging forward. They skid to a halt in front of him, genuflecting. “Your Highness, are you alright? We heard your call.” It must’ve been barely past a minute since he played the ocarina.
Ryunosuke’s words are definitive: “Forget me—take Kazuma to the cave at the top of the Great Plateau and activate the Shrine of Resurrection. If you don’t get him there immediately, we’ll lose him forever. Is that clear?” The two Sheikah nod quickly. “So make haste and go! His life is now in your hands!”
Kazuma is lifted up. His red headband slips, hanging loosely across his face. The Sheikah work quick and careful; he’s secured onto one of the Sheikah’s back with haste. It’s but a few seconds before they’re off again, rushing him towards the hope of a second chance. The headband flutters off, caught in the air, before it lands softly at Ryunosuke’s feet.
The cloth is cool when Ryunosuke delicately lifts the fabric. With reverence, he clasps it in his palm. He presses it to his forehead, closes his eyes. “Kazuma, you’ve never once gone down before without a fight. Please…” Imbues the words with all he can. He squeezes Karuma’s hilt.
Kazuma wore the headband as a reminder. Ryunosuke will hold onto it as a promise. Their own red thread, always connected.
Behind him, he hears the fierce beating of wings coming closer. When he opens his eyes and whirls around, he sees him: the blond feathers, the zany goggles on his face.
“Ch-Champion Sholmes?!” Ryunosuke yells out as Sholmes makes his descent. He could hug the Rito right then and there, if he was just a bit more out of his mind. “Y-You’re okay?! But the Slate, it—”
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“Curses!” Sholmes snatches the Slate from Ryunosuke and frantically taps at its screen. “I thought I told the blasted thing to silence itself on Medoh!”
Sholmes is a mess—muddied, tousled feathers singed at the ends. Dried blood is smeared across his clothing.
“…Calamity Stronghart ambushed you and the rest of the Champions at the Divine Beasts,” Ryunosuke says. He has to repeat it, if only to make it concrete reality.
“Indeed,” Sholmes says quickly. He presses the quieted Slate into Ryunosuke’s chest, then lifts a wingtip up to his forehead. “It knew about the Rito’s poor night vision and tried to take advantage. Unfortunately for it, it didn’t expect one with advanced technology goggles!”
Sholmes’s eyes scan the field, before trailing down Ryunosuke. “So, tell me now, we haven’t a moment to lose: that was your power just moments ago? From the skies, I saw the massive explosion, then the cage locked around the beast at the castle.”
Ryunosuke nods. “Yes, the powers appeared just in time to end the rampage of the Guardians here.”
“And your austere partner?” He motions with his wing. “You’re here wearing his sword, holding his bright headband, yet he’s nowhere to be seen. What has come of him?” There’s a tightness to Sholmes’s voice.
Ryunosuke swallows. “...Kazuma has fallen, but hasn’t succumbed to his injuries quite yet. Two Sheikah soldiers took him towards the Shrine of Resurrection shortly before you arrived.”
“Then, I must follow them,” Sholmes says.
“Champion Sholmes—” Ryunosuke sputters out as he readies his wings to lift off. He steadies his face as much as possible. “…Save him. Please.”
Sholmes nods. “I’ll do all that I possibly can, Your Highness.” Wind tornadoes upwards, and he sets off in flight.
Ryunosuke takes a deep breath and he watches Sholmes fly off. In the distance, like a blinding star in the night sky, Calamity Stronghart slams against the bright amber walls encasing the Sanctum. The thing turns its one-horned head directly towards Ryunosuke, and he feels its hatred and malice branding a target on his forehead. It sees him.
He sees it too, down completely to its rotten core. If it’s justice it wants, then it’s justice that it will get.
“Wait for me, partner.” With Kazuma’s soul hanging heavy on his hip, Ryunosuke heads to Kakariko Village.
Chapter 27: Lamentations
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
How did this all happen? How? How
Why couldn’t I have activated my powers earlier? If I had, then none of this would have
They’re dead. They’re all dead. Everyone says it isn’t my fault, but I can’t just
Kazuma is
Lady Susato is worried. She said I should do this
I’ve been trying to write, but
What do I do?
Ryunosuke’s Journal
After countless attempts to write, I’m forcing myself to get something down. Lady Susato has urged me to put my thoughts to paper, if only to release them from my mind. Yet, it is so difficult. My brain has been a tangled web, and I struggle to make any sense of the jumble of thoughts, much less make it understandable through written words.
It’s been a little more than a week since that horrific attack. Castle Town is decimated. My father is dead, along with however many others—numbers I fear we’ll never truly know. Too many.
It appears as though Calamity Stronghart has been contained within the shield of light around the Sanctum (did I truly do that? I can scarcely believe it…) for now, but, how long will it last? No one knows. If I look towards it, it meets my gaze and I feel a burning hatred coming from it. The feeling is mutual. I hope it burns.
Communications with the other towns have been difficult and scarce. I know I shouldn’t jump to conclusions without definitive evidence, but I just can’t shake the feeling that Urs—— all of the other Champions besides Champion Sholmes are dead, too. Left alone to rot in their Divine Beasts, all alone. After I told them to pilot them.
And Kazuma Kazuma
I felt his tether to me this whole time. Weak, but I felt it.
Champion Sholmes had left to go check up on his treatment in the Shrine of Resurrection. And I felt such an excruciating emptiness all of a sudden. It nearly knocked me off my feet.
A cave-in, Champion Sholmes said when he returned. A total collapse of the Shrine. No way he could’ve survived, he said.
Kazuma was dying, then he was saved just in time, then he was getting better, now he’s————
He’s dead. Kazuma’s dead. He’s dead and I
Why am I the one alive? Why am I alive and not him, when all I’ve ever done was fail and flit through life without purpose? He shone like the Sun and was exceptional and had dreams, real dreams! and now he’s dead and will never be able to accomplish them and yet I’m still here and he’s not and I
Chapter 28: Burdens
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
It’s odd—the feeling of returning to this journal after so long. I’ve been afraid of it, I think. So many memories from before live within these pages. It’s almost as if I don’t touch it again, they can crystallize here, preserved perfectly in the past. If I simply remove the last entry, then maybe I can even pretend it all ended differently.
Yet, here I am. Finally. Would Kazuma be proud of me for facing my fears? Or would he be as I can envision him so clearly right now: with that madenning grin of his he had whenever he knew he was right, teasing me for being afraid of dragging pen across paper?
…No matter. I won’t be looking back to those older entries, at any rate. So, here I am. I suppose it’ll be easiest to begin with the facts.
Central Hyrule is in ruin. Kazuma is Too many are dead. Calamity Stronghart is revived, watching over us all like a raging storm cloud in the distance.
Three months later, and it doesn’t feel any easier.
It will, eventually, Lady Susato says; time works like a salve, healing slowly but reliably, even if there are setbacks along the way. I’m lucky to have her assistance through all this, but too often she acts as though she’s not also affected, as though she only exists to console and soothe others around her, never attending to herself. I can see through it—the way her voice wavers ever so slightly whenever Kazuma is mentioned, the glassiness in her eyes when a new scouting report comes in about Castle Town, the sunken look to her face day in and out, the muffled sobs that filter through the thin walls at night. She’s grieving as much as I am. As much as we all are.
Perhaps this is how she deals with grief, kneeled down at others’ feet in amenability. Elder Impa would scold me for judging, but it fills me with a certain sadness. If this is what truly brings her peace, however, then I’m thankful for it. I can only try my best to help lighten the load. It’s much easier to lift the weight between two people, after all.
Kakariko Village has been beyond accommodating during this time, and for that, I’m grateful. Bustling streets, even more cramped lodgings—the village bursts at its seams. Makeshift tents spill out into the surrounding areas, all the way to Telta Lake.
An entire floor within the Village Elder’s pagoda was offered to me, but of course I couldn’t accept such lavishness; too many people have been displaced to even think of being that selfish. The village’s council urged and urged, insisting that the Prince of Hyrule—the only remaining member left of the Royal Family (Goddess, imagine that…)—should be comfortable, that I should take as much space as I wanted, but it took a fight until they actually listened to the very thing that I wanted: a small corner, enough to fit Lady Susato, her father, Elder Impa, Champion Sholmes, Iris, and myself in. That’s all.
I shouldn’t have said it (though, I swear I didn’t actually say it!), but I think they only gave in once I said that there is no remaining member of the Royal Family because it no longer exists. The council blanched immediately, and at that point, there was truly no turning back. I told them of my disinterest in ruling and to address me just by my name, with no title. I could tell how scandalized the elders were at this, though they didn’t press further. So, it’s done now. The Royal Family of Hyrule is no more, buried under the same rubble as the castle itself.
Goddess, what have I done? Was this the right thing to do? Oh Kazuma, how I wish you were here to help guide me. You always knew exactly what to say.
No matter how much I insist on my interest in being perceived as a normal person, I don’t know if those in the Kakariko council will ever accept the idea—not fully, at least. They asked who would be the leader now for all the kingdom, if not me. The answer seemed so obvious.
For a full month, I was indisposed. With grief, with a penetrating fatigue that ran so deep, I couldn’t even leave the bed. The world didn’t wait for me to tell them what to do. Leaders stepped up, all around in my absence (no, that isn’t quite right—it had nothing to do with me, did it? They would have done the same no matter): principled knights, community leaders, the very council itself. People who intimately knew the plight of those around them and knew what to do next. That’s what those who are suffering truly need in this time: real leadership to guide them, not a figurehead with no experience.
Perhaps it’s idealistic to think it’s that simple, but it’s a start. After all, residents of Central Hyrule are the ones seeking refuge in long-standing communities—who are we to come in and usurp rule from governments already established? Besides, hasn’t Hyrule always been a patchwork of local governments at its core?
Nonetheless, this is just one of many changes that will take time to adjust to. Securing housing for everyone is top of mind. There’s an empty tied island in Lake Akkala that a construction company is looking to build upon, but this will be a years-long endeavor and the travel there will be challenging.
Nearby, Hateno Village has already started construction efforts. What Kazuma said before was true: they’re quite the insulated community, and opposition has already popped up against a rise in immigration. Despite this, the village recognized the unprecedented situation and held a vote to proceed with accommodating new residents.
The Hateno mayor offered me a small, previously abandoned home in the outskirts of the village that will need major renovation before anyone can occupy it. He wouldn’t accept no for an answer—in all their eyes, I was the one who saved their village and this was the least they could do to repay me.
…This was days ago, but writing it now, I feel the same stabbing pain as when he said it. I told him it wasn’t just me, that if it wasn’t for Kazuma, none of this would’ve happened. His name sparked recognition in him, I could tell. But did anyone else know? “The Miracle at Fort Hateno,” I’ve heard it now called, but what of the effort that came before it? It was him—it was all him, with his courage to take a stand before the fort. To not run away when faced with the near impossible, all to protect the vulnerable.
I refuse to let his sacrifice be erased, swept under some fortuitous awakening of my powers. I won’t let him be forgotten. No, never.
The Hateno mayor wanted us to come visit the village, with offers of a big celebration. I had to turn him down. I just couldn’t do it. It was Kazuma’s hometown… We were supposed to visit it together. He was going to show me where his father’s dojo once stood and we were going to try the pizza with the famous fresh cheese and we were going to
I can’t bear to be there without him.
Champion Sholmes was offered the last thing by the mayor: an old research laboratory in the hills, overlooking the Necluda Sea. He said it was used for agricultural research a long time ago, but hasn’t been touched since. I suppose I’ll have to face the village at some point, but I simply don’t have it in me right now to try.
I’m sorry, Kazuma. I’m sure it’s a lovely place, but
Forgive me, won’t you?
I hope you will. I know how you struggled to face the place for so long. I wouldn’t dare assume to feel the same way you did, but I think I understand a little more now. Even if it’s for other reasons.
Reports from other parts of Hyrule come in waves—a flood of news between droughts of nothing. It was just as I feared, after all: Ursavra and Champion Wilson are dead. The doors to the Divine Beasts were sealed shut. They were locked in there, alone. For how long? Were they holding on for hope of help, only for no one t The rescue crews had to force their way in through the reinforced windows, only to find a corpse and a wretched monster waiting for them. Stalking, waiting to ambush. Is this how they felt, in their last moments? The creatures were both similar to how Champion Sholmes described the one he slew: horrific mixtures of Sheikah construction and pulsing malice, disconfigured and rabid with fury. And I was the one to send them to The rescue crews barely made it out themselves. It didn’t sound like they could retrieve the bodies, not with the risk. The monsters seem confined to the Beasts, but they’re being monitored for any suspicious activity.
I struggle to even believe it. Ursavra, dead. I can’t cease the last moments we had together from repeating in my head: not a goodbye, but a see you later. It wasn’t true. I’ll never see her again. I should’ve said goodbye then, I should’ve, I should’ve—I should’ve visited her more often, made more excuses to detour to Gerudo Town. I should’ve asked her to teach me how to use a scimitar—she would’ve gotten a kick out of that, especially watching me struggle. I should’ve gone with her to that bar she always frequented, to the markets, to the dance performances.
No, more than that—I should’ve never asked her to become the Champion at all.
But, if not her, then who? I don’t know. I can’t possibly entertain the thought of condemning someone else to their demise.
It’s little compensation, but at least half of the Champions were spared the grim fate of their counterparts. Champion Sholmes regaled us with the tale of his fight with the monster—a Blight, he’s taken to calling it now—and how it controlled the elements: hurricane-level wind gusts that would buffet even the strongest of fliers, and tornadoes whipped up in an instant. His antics continue to get under my skin sometimes, but how it feels when his cavalier attitude cracks and he shows his sober self underneath is far worse. He said, with all the solemnity of a speech at a funeral, if it wasn’t for the night vision programmed into his goggles, he wouldn’t have made it. I believe him.
Likewise, Champion Jigoku made it out of the Divine Beast safely. He was lucky: he said he got to the controls of Vah Rudania before even coming into contact with the monster. Vah Rudania’s Blight must’ve turned off the laser and locked entry after Champion Jigoku had gone to assist the others in Death Mountain. I can’t help but find it odd how the other Blights lied in wait to attack, yet this one was late to appear. For all its power, perhaps Calamity Stronghart isn’t as infallible as I had once thought… Small blessings, in some ways.
But, its ruthlessness can’t be minimized. I should’ve been tipped off by the length of time it took for a response of any sort from Akkala Citadel. My uncle had devised a very sophisticated messaging system there; communications ran to and from the citadel with little friction. It shouldn’t have been as much of a surprise as it was to finally hear that it had been utterly besieged by Guardians. My uncle and his family: dead in the attack. The vast majority of knights, as well. The citadel is in ruins, much like the castle.
I can’t help but wonder if it knew—that the soldiers were primarily retreating there from Central Hyrule, that it was a stronghold filled with cannons and a steady supply of manpower and weaponry. Did Calamity Stronghart realize it would be a strategic advantage to target it?
The fortress once thought to be impenetrable. The last stand of the Knights of Hyrule. Akkala Citadel was created to be as much of an offensive stronghold as it was defensive—the cliffs surrounding it allowed the soldiers to manage any incoming attacks from monsters or people, no matter the direction. But this? Guardians have no flesh to pierce with arrows; they have no fatigue to succumb to. They don’t need to pause to reload arrows, or have to retreat out of fear from their brethren falling in front of them. It’s nothing like what the citadel was ever prepared for. The amount of devastation that must’ve happened upon that hill… It’s unthinkable.
Even with Calamity Stronghart behind the light cage, it still holds some possession of the Guardians. They prowl around Central Hyrule mostly. Every now and again, there are sightings of turned Guardians wandering outside of the area, but they’re described as seeming lost, aimless. Easier to dispatch. Perhaps it’s the result of its influence waning the further away they go. We can only hope it’s the case.
(Ever since I trapped it, I’ve felt its enmity towards me like a searing spotlight, following me wherever I go. Champion Sholmes and Iris devised this small badge, shaped almost like a moon with a great star behind it, that I’m to wear at all times to hide my presence. Considering how often I tend to lose small things like this, Iris took extra care in securing it. It seems to have done the trick, but I still worry that it somehow still watches me, flying as high as it does…)
The nearby allied Guardians have stayed reliably loyal through it all. Unsurprisingly, many people have become fearful and wary of them, and have vehemently objected to their proximity. Iris and Champion Sholmes have temporarily depleted their energy stores and shut them down in the meantime, out of an abundance of caution to assuage fears. I feel torn inside when I look at them. I’ve come to the conclusion that we needed their help, but I saw firsthand the utter destruction they wrought when under the Calamity’s influence… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to erase those images etched into my memory.
Of seeing the blasts rip through him. Staring down that red laser as it threatened to steal him away from me forever—not like it mattered much, because the threat was fully realized
The questions echo in my mind, over and over again. Was it wrong for me to use them? Did I unknowingly help the Calamity? Did it make any difference? Would Calamity Stronghart not just excavate them from their underground pillars anyway, no matter what we did or didn’t do? How many more people would’ve died if they hadn’t been activated—if we didn’t know of their weaknesses beforehand?
…You told me I was right to work with the Sheikah technology—believed in me since the very beginning. Do you still think that after everything that happened to you, Kazuma?
I still struggle with it, with no satisfying conclusion. In the end, despite all of it, I still can’t help but feel some enduring fondness whenever I look at the Guardians. In the most difficult of moments, I think of the Guardian in Castle Town that protected that group of civilians until its last moments. That had to count for something, didn’t it?
Darumy and Eggy still stay active. Iris was able to repair Darumy pretty well, despite being away from her lab. She keeps a close watch on them, to ensure there isn’t any odd behavior. However, I get the feeling that they’re going stir-crazy, in a way. One taste of the wild, and they began to start feeling suffocated stuck inside.
I get it, I do. There’s some sort of pull that great wild has on you, isn’t there? My fingers itch for it. I’ve spent so much time trapped in so many different ways, that I can’t fight—don’t want to fight it, even—the urge to explore this world and take in everything and everyone in it. Its magnetism draws me in with an indomitable force.
That sort of ties into why I finally was able to sit down to write this journal entry, I suppose.
You see, the Goddess Hylia must have some sick, deranged sense of humor. Because this morning, for the briefest of moments, I swear I felt him. Kazuma—felt that same pull towards him I’ve felt many times before, coming from somewhere far in the distance. As if ghosts could still act as though they move and breathe as the living. And then, as if it never happened: the absence again shortly after.
It’s a cruel joke, whatever it was. Haven’t I suffered enough to watch him slowly die in front of me—to then be given false hope of his potential resuscitation, only to have it all ripped away in an instant?
I mulled over whether or not to tell Lady Susato, but I found I just couldn’t. She’s endured enough already. False hope is one thing, but to bring up something so fleeting—so unsubstantiated other than a mere momentary feeling? I’d be just as cruel as the goddess.
Perhaps I felt his soul finally crossing over to the realm of spirits. If I’m to be charitable, maybe it was a gift to know he’s made it—he’ll be alright now in the afterlife. It’s just… Charity feels difficult to afford in a land of utter desolation.
What a burden it is to hope.
Kazuma, I wish that you did truly pass over from this world. It would make what I’m writing less embarrassing, knowing you’re not stuck reading it all over my shoulder. And I wouldn’t want you to be trapped here! You were always larger than life—still are, even in death. It doesn’t suit you being chained to one place. I’m sure wherever you are now, you’re as brilliant as you were while on this plane.
…Talk of spirits always makes me think of the Temple of Time. Do you remember when we visited? You said that ghosts were merely things written in stories. I know now for that to not be true, for you’ve haunted me every day.
My hand hits only empty air when I reach out in bed, my papers remain untidied on the desk, my plate holds only my own serving of chicken. I see the ties of your red headband fluttering in the corner of my vision and, without fail, I forget. I forget, and I turn to greet you and it’s not you—you’re not there at all. Only silent Karuma, tattered headband wrapped around her sheath and catching a limp breeze. It never flies quite so high as it did when you wore it.
It was Lady Susato’s idea to wrap it around Karuma, you know? She’s always been discerning like that. It was also her wish to give Karuma to me. She said you would have wanted me to have her.
I’ve gladly taken charge of her, but I know full well that Karuma doesn’t want me to have her. She doesn’t talk, doesn’t sing. Whatever my relationship to the Goddess Hylia is, it doesn’t erase the fact that you were her master, not me.
Every night, I try to use what little control over these new powers I have to draw the light magic into her. I’m not sure if she’s receptive. You said you could see her being repaired; I see nothing but blackened ends and brittle steel. Each night, I’ll still try.
I never quite realized how many of your other possessions I still held within the Slate. Your calligraphy set, your books, your clothes. Lady Susato defends your magical pouch, but I snuck claim of that awful clay figure of you I made for your birthday… It doesn’t look any better now, but I hope you enjoyed it—if not only for the humor of it. I even wear the bandana you once wore on your arm—the strip of navy blue that designated you a part of the Champions. It’s too big on me and often slips down, but I can’t find it in me to adjust it; I don’t want to erase something more of you, after all. They all hold your scent. It comforts me, sometimes, to pull one of your old shirts out and just breathe in the hints of lavender—like the lingering smell of you instills in me a courage I can’t seem to find by myself.
If you were here, you’d call me a sap, or maybe (and, honestly, this seems the most likely) you’d chew me out for being a hypocrite for all the times I told you I thought it was weird when something like this happened in those romance books you were always fond of. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I’ll admit it: I get why it would help now.
(I still have that Luminous Stone held in its dragon-etched box you gave me for my birthday, back when we were barely at the nascence of friendship. You were always making sacrifices for me, even then, weren’t you?)
All of this to say, I hold you with me wherever I go. I carry your soul and your family’s legacy in the weight on my hip. I draw your courage when faced with uncertainty. I bear your dream like a guiding light.
Your dream… You had such passion to bring about change in Hyrule—to make sure justice is served fairly. It always seemed just like you, having such a driven and righteous goal like that.
It’s funny, though. You always had a plan; you were always direct. But, I find that I still don’t know what exactly you wished to accomplish. You wanted to change the system for good, of course, but what did that mean? I don’t know, but I suppose I wonder if your intentions laid elsewhere sometimes… I saw the way your eyes would darken in those moments whenever you spoke of it—how hesitation would find you when you’d never let it show itself around you before. It worried me, seeing how you were troubled by something, but never knowing what.
Were you not telling me something? Was it something I did? Something I didn’t do enough of? Did you not trust me to let me know?
Sorry. Goddess, sorry, ignore that. I didn't mean it, really. How could I ever, for a second, doubt your trust in me like that? I know you trusted me, the same as how I trusted you. Unequivocally. Even if you weren’t comfortable talking about something, I’d trust you to tell me when you were ready. I would wait, as long as it took.
And that’s the thing: I would wait. We only truly knew each other for what? A year and a half at most? Only that long, and still, I felt like you were the person who understood me most of all—like we’d been together since birth, and I knew everything about you and you, everything about me.
That wasn’t true, though, was it? There were so many things I didn’t know about you. So many things I’ll never know. I wish we had more time.
I can only take the things I do know and use them to guide me forward. You shaped me in ways nothing else has ever done before; I can only repay that by carrying your dream in the best way I can. You were passionate about it. I can’t just let that passion all come to nothing.
So, I’ve found my resolve: I’ll travel this kingdom and try to help out as many people as I can, Lady Susato and Karuma steadfast by my side. It will be a long road, but I’ll practice every day to gain control of these powers I have and use them for as much good as I possibly can.
Then, once I’ve mastered my powers, I will face Calamity Stronghart. And finally put an end to all of this.
For you. For everyone.
Wherever you are, I hope you’re watching over me, partner.
Notes:
Some discussion about Chap 26 and final botw criticisms... :) Along with the Guardians, I don't care for how Zelda's powers awakening was handled. Even now, the explanations range from either being just factually untrue (ex. Zelda learning to be unselfish, when she's canonically shown to be the exact opposite) or not earned in the narrative (ex. Power of LoveTM, though I love zelink! Skyward Sword zelink might've gotten away with something like this, but botw's base story leaves much to be desired lol). While not the most creative story, I still think her powers should've materialized based on her following her sense of self rather than duty, and only after stopping trying to reject her true self, could she use her powers.
In canon, Ryunosuke's development revolves around his growing self-confidence and realizing his resolve, which is the relentless pursuit of truth which will then bring about justice.
In this au, this translates to his resolve to help people—as decided by him. He always wanted to help and protect others, but growing up it was largely externally driven: he feels himself a replacement of Hylia, he's been pressured and told the fate of the world rests on him unlocking his powers. It's not as though he didn't want to help before, but it was all framed in this extrinsically motivated way—something he had to do because everyone else had these pressures and expectations of him to do it, rather than something that originated intrinsically.
So, this lack of self-confidence and overwhelming external pressure blocks him from ever activating his power (see Chap 10, when Kazuma asks about his resolve). When he does finally access his powers (Chap 11, 26), the catalyst is him believing in himself and making that definitive resolve that he, himself, wants to protect others (aannnddd a little bit of Power of LoveTM in there as well, as a treat :) I think there's enough work put in to build it up for this to be earned haha!)
Thank you again for the support. See you all for one last chapter next week!
Chapter 29: Forward
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Open your eyes…
You wake to a pounding head and a body that feels foreign.
The world is a muddled, empty void at your feet in one second. In the next, your senses are flooding the vacuum left by the emptiness, fighting for attention all at once. The stinging crispness of sterile mint assaults your nose. The sounds of sluicing water and birdsong in the distance hum deep within your ears. You feel the remains of a damp, sticky residue left across your skin. In your chest, your heart hammers violently against your ribcage, fit to break through—as if it’s been given another chance to beat, and it refuses to squander a single second of it.
And maybe that isn’t too far from the truth. Because when you attempt to pry open your eyes, skin clings to skin—sealed shut like you had already once committed yourself to eternal sleep. It takes a great effort to curl your fingers; even greater still to will your limbs to listen when you command them, to test the fatigue and stiffness in muscles left disused. Perhaps that’s exactly what you are: a corpse, reanimated and reborn.
It doesn’t come as much of a surprise, then, when the blurred film over your vision finally dissipates and your eyes begin to adjust and you see the flickering of firelights above. Hundreds of synapses in your brain firing—celebratory explosions of nascence.
No, that’s not quite it, is it? The shimmering lights linger too long. You wrack your cobwebbed brain, trying to find anything left salvageable there to bind connections between. The pickings are slim, but a scene flashes in your mind, some knowledge so instinctually primative, even the first creatures who ever walked this planet would understand: the night sky, blanketed by glowing stars.
It’s a conclusion you’re almost satisfied with, but something still nags at you—the scene not quite right—and you find that you’re not too pleased with the notion of settling. No, not when there’s evidence to the contrary still laid out in front of you. It can’t be a sky, because the contraption suspended from the ceiling is anything but a tree or the shining moon above. It doesn’t seem natural at all. You examine the contours of porous slate, blooming out like petals, and trace the pathways of luminous blue.
And something primal flares within you, so close you fear you may be burned by it if you linger much longer. Feelings of surprise, of exhilaration, of a sticky-sweet pride that makes your heart feel both full and warm all at once, all twisting and transfiguring into bone-chilling fear, into anger so explosive you can feel it splinter you right in two, into the need to protect, protect at all costs, because whatever you may sacrifice will never be worse than what else stands to be lost.
And yet, despite it all—or perhaps, exactly because of it all—you still pull that flaming thread, following it deeper and deeper until it’s nothing more than cinders at the edge. And you’re left marooned, no better off than where you started.
And where was that exactly?
Your joints creak and crack when you shift your weight onto your forearm and force yourself up to a sit. A groan escapes your lips with the motion, and the deep, scratchy sound echoes.
Not an open sky at all. The rock walls are both unpolished and not—etched with the same markings as the mechanism that hangs above your head. A cave of some sort, you deduce.
The basin that holds you like a womb feels almost just as alive as you are—the blue pathways shift and flow with glowing light, like blood flowing through arteries. Dampness clings to the bottom of its surface, pools there in the corners, and it glistens whenever you move your head. When you touch the liquid, some of it clings to your fingers, viscous. Whatever it is, it feels cool—soothing against your skin.
A vessel once filled with an odd sort of liquid, hidden deep within a cave. It solves the most pressing issue of where it is you are, but it fails to answer the ever-needling question as ignorable as a hammer to the head: just who are you?
You wrack your mind, searching for something—anything—that could possibly illuminate a lead. If not a name, then maybe another instinctive feeling to chase down.
Try as you might, nothing sparks recognition. It’s just empty hallway after empty hallway—not a single memory to latch onto.
So, you make do with what you have; in the absence of memory, physical evidence becomes key. With the absence of clothes besides your undershorts, you must examine closer for a hint of your past life. A chilled wind tumbles into the room, pricking your skin with goosebumps. Underneath, you trace the lines of raised scars across your arms, your legs, your torso. Corded muscle carves a striking physique. Athletic—or, at least physically active.
Your hands are calloused and strong, and when you flex them, you can just feel the adroitness hidden within—each movement controlled and smooth, despite the lethargy that plagues you. You were a fighter, perhaps, or a laborer involved in risky work.
Your forehead feels particularly exposed.
With the evidence in mind, you make the attempt once again—stubborn, you think. You feel you were someone who wouldn’t be denied quite that easily without putting up a fight first. You search for your name, and it’s static buzzing against your skin. You feel it there, so close that it’s on the tip of your tongue, yet you can’t seem to wrap it around the correct sounds. Dexterous, sturdy, dogged. A name, a name—
It’s no use; nothing surfaces. You’re just simply you.
But, you don’t come up entirely empty-handed. No, there’s something else you uncover with a vague clarity: you feel you were a complicated, conflicted person—a mottled mess of contradictions. The specifics continue to escape you, yet you know in the same way that you know to breathe that you were once someone with an ironclad sense of self—something that you wore as armor to protect the other side of you that was anything but unassailable.
It’s made obvious when your feet hit the freezing stone floor and a voice peals within your ears, so enthralling that you feel yourself torn between following it like a child to a piper or recoiling away from it entirely:
“You must hurry. You have something you have to do. Something no one else can know about. Go to Hyrule Castle. What you seek awaits you there.”
When you stand, your body lurches to the right—unbalanced, your stance compensating for something you haven’t a clue what it could be. Either way, your legs shake beneath you. You can’t discern if it’s due to the weakness in your muscles or in your conviction.
Three minutes you’ve been alive again, and you’re already questioning if this is truly the person you’d wish to be. How fulfilling of a life must you have led before this if, in the absence of all other memories, your first cogent thoughts revolve around secrecy? How bad was it that those secrets extend to yourself—left as much in the dark as whoever else you were hiding this information from?
You shake your head to clear the jumble of thoughts, but all it does is make you more dizzy. You sway like a drunken sailor towards the exit of the room, and even this surprises you with the knowledge that follows: after getting your sea legs, each step becomes disciplined, silent with precision. You creep to the archway and it’s instinctual how you duck your body behind it, exposing your face just enough to sweep the room. Your right hand twitches, grasping empty air in front of your left hip.
The pressure doesn’t leave even when you’ve established that you are the only breathing body left in this cavern. And, for a worrying moment, you think that maybe whatever necessitated all this—all this secrecy, all this vigilance—is a blessing in disguise. After all, if all you have to survive are your wiles and your intuition, you’d rather have a self familiar with those tactics than one left naïve and vulnerable.
A shimmering pool bisects the room. Empty, but not uninhabited, for the only other thing here is something completely incongruous with the rest of it: a small table set in the corner. A lit candle sits still burning next to a pile of scattered papers. An ink pen lies abandoned on its side, out of its well. Crumpled papers litter the ground at the table’s feet.
Deserted and in disarray. And in a moment of weakness, you almost empathize with the sorry sight—are you not both in a similar situation?
You stamp out that line of thinking immediately. You may not know much of yourself, but you know that you do have standards. The only person who would make such an uninspired joke like that is—
The name is nothing but a pulsing drone behind your eyes. You can hear it, ringing in your ears like a crystal bell: that laugh—the one that wheezes at the end, much too pleased to remember to breathe—and it aches in your chest. On your right hand, something itches, scratching deep under the skin. It aches, it aches.
No matter.
Whoever that was here before hasn’t been gone for too long. Either they were scatterbrained enough to leave without extinguishing the candle, or they’re set to return. Panic spikes in you—you must hurry.
You search the desk further, yet all you see are papers filled with Cucco-scratch. Impossible to decipher. That is, until you come across a small trunk in the corner with a porcelain, white mask sitting atop it. Plastered against its wooden outside: a note with the only legible writing in this entire area, though it’s only just so.
Don this mask and the accompanying clothes within this chest before you depart. What awaits you outside is dangerous, and those nefarious sorts who seek you undisguised will prove to be most unkind.
You scoff at the message. So, whoever it is thinks of you as a gullible fool, then. Even an amnesiac like yourself can identify a trap when you see it.
Instead, you follow the path of the sparkling water until you see sunlight bleeding through a passageway ahead and above. Brisk wind flows through the cavern, and you wish you had the protection of clothing. It’s not enough to make you turn back and risk the trunk.
It’s just this wall of slate that stands between you and freedom. You make the attempt to scale it: too high to jump at rest, too slippery to get any sort of foothold with a running start. It’s only after you’ve exhausted all your options—leveraging yourself off the side of the cave on one foot and pushing yourself up the wall with the other, or stacking the table and the trunk into a precarious ladder—and you're left catching your breath, splayed out on the floor, that you notice the small indentation in the wall.
Your fingers press against the smooth slate and, with a click, a section flips out from the façade: a small, wooden chest with a thick note stuck to its outside. This, too, you can just make out:
Stubborn as always. I expected this. Yes, the professor—and something catches in your throat, so bitter you almost choke on it—had warned me of such much prior to our formal introduction. At the very least, it will serve you well to have that sort of vigilance, my dear fellow! Take this as you passing that very important test of skepticism.
Now that we’ve gotten all that out of the way, I must insist that you proceed to drop that wall of unhealthy paranoia you’ve built up and heed my words, for we don’t have much time.
As I’ve stated before, there are those who wish to deal you great harm. This place grants you some protection, but the moment you step out past this cave’s threshold, you will become a target.
That is, without my help.
That is exactly why it’s imperative that you wear the enclosed mask at all times. You must become a shadow, disguised from the world all without speaking a single word to anyone, until the time comes and we can meet once more.
(P.S. Though I’ve no doubt you’ve attempted it, no, the wall cannot be scaled unless you wear the clothing within this trunk. You can make the choice whether to trust me, or live out the rest of your days in a wet cave like a Hot-Footed Frog!)
And it’s ridiculous. Whoever wrote this—expects you to listen to them, despite sounding like they’ve got a screw or two loose—sounds ridiculous. Trust them? They couldn’t even be bothered to sign their name at the end.
But what’s the most ridiculous of all is that you believe them when they say that you’ll be forced to take whatever clothing is inside that trunk before you’re able to leave, as odd as the notion seems. So, begrudgingly, you flip the table to use as a makeshift shield, you steel yourself as you huddle off to the side, and you flip open the top only to be met with—
Exactly what was promised: a sheer-looking shirt, dark pants, white scarf, leather boots, a dark cloak. And sitting nestled atop them all, as ivory as bone: a half-faced mask, sharp at the nose tip. Three stacked circles mark a third eye at the brow.
The clothes fit perfectly. Almost too perfectly, in fact, as they hug your figure—and yet, you find you almost prefer the fit. Tight, but not restrictive; secure, but not encumbering. The cloak will provide ample coverage, especially when compensating for the thin shirt.
Yet your mind stays fixated on that mask. The disguise, the deceit, the evasion. What have you done to require this level of protection? What exactly lies out there, waiting for you?
For all this warning, you wish that the mystery letter-writer at least left you a weapon to defend yourself with.
It’s a wish too late. You raise the mask to your face and—
“…a… Is, is that really you?” A voice in your head. Frail, tinny. Fit to break. Recognition ignites in your chest, yet it’s a smoky thing—still agonizingly obfuscated. “Goddess,” is muttered out with a shaky, incredulous laugh, “I must seem like such a fool to think I’m somehow actually speaking to him right now… I guess it doesn’t really matter, though, does it?” Louder, then, clearer: “I-If you’re really there, I’m—I’m in Hateno Village for now. I don’t know where you are or how you could even—” The voice falters. “I just—If it’s really you, find me. Please.”
Something stabs you, right in the heart. So deep, you can feel each throb as it carves deeper and deeper. It echoes, it echoes.
The first voice felt close—close enough, you felt it settle within your bones, so wholly you even when you knew next to nothing about who that you was. You’ll need to listen to it. You’ll have to—it rages like a wildfire inside your being, unable to be ignored.
But this voice? It sits beside you. It lingers there, forever at your side, near enough you feel like you can touch it. And you get the sense that you have, before. That you’ve been given the honor to reach out and feel that gentle pressure wrapped around your fingers—that you’ve let it guide you exactly to where you needed to go many times before. Always bright, but never blinding. A light steering you in your persistent darkness, even when that umbra threatened to swallow you whole—especially when.
Oh, it aches and aches and aches.
That’s all that’s needed to settle it: to Hyrule Castle you’ll go. But what’s a more worthwhile detour than seeking out the one who can help guide you there?
You fix the mask onto your face. There’s only silence in your mind, though your thoughts race and rumble against their confines.
The wall blocking your path falls away, piece by piece, until only a dirt ramp leads you towards birdsong and dazzling sunlight. Branches crack underfoot; the wild spans out before you, endless and full of possibility. You hope it isn’t wasted on you.
And you move forward.
Notes:
After over 200k words, we’ve finally reached the end!
As expected, writing a multi-chap story is sooo difficult. The last time I tried to do something like this was around 15 years ago and I never was able to finish, so this feels like a huge accomplishment for me haha! Truly, those fic writers that do this multiple times are built different—huge props to them 😭
I want to thank to everyone who gave this fusion au a chance, especially those of you who generously took the time to comment! Huge shout out and the biggest of thank yous to those of you who were following along and commenting weekly—this fic was going to be posted either way, but seeing the interest and reading your reactions and predictions made it so much more worthwhile than it would’ve been just sending it out into the void. I appreciate every one <3
There was a lot of interest in some plot points like the Professor case and Ryunosuke and co actually defeating Stronghart and, unfortunately, this just never was the scope of this particular project. In an ideal world where I had all the time/energy/inspiration, I would actually make this a three part series, with some of the general outline below:
- This fic, which covers pre-Calamity botw, pre-canon into some of tgaa1, and focuses primarily on asoryuu
- An alternating-pov fic between Ryunosuke and Kazuma, covering playable botw and the remainder of tgaa1 with the entirety of tgaa2. Ryunosuke (alongside Susato, Sholmes, and Iris) travels around helping people affected by the Calamity and learns to control his powers. Kazuma slowly regains his memories and begins working alongside Van Zieks. They all learn the truth about the Professor. Then Ryunosuke and Kazuma (alongside the others) defeat Stronghart
- totk/post-canon tgaa, which would be a massive rewrite of the mess that totk was lmao. Kazuma-pov heavy I would think? RYUnosuke definitely turns into a dragon
When it comes to the Professor, it really isn’t much different than canon (granted, altered to fit the story). I have some very nebulous ideas for some of these, but I fully welcome comments if there’s certain plot points that didn’t fully get resolved (ha) that you’re interested in! Better yet, if you have any thoughts about what you’d think would happen past this point and would like to share in the comments, I’d be thrilled to hear!
As for the future, I’ve been kicking around the idea of a possible fic that’s a collection of random vignettes of later scenes. No promises and this won't be anytime in the near future, but if I get the itch, I’d like to do something like this! I really love this au and world, so I’d love to continue it in some way
especially since I still keep thinking about it. As a reminder, I do have some art posted on my art tumblr. I have a couple extra sketches and would like to make more to eventually post a collectionagain don’t expect this anytime super soon, if that's something you’d be interested in.Again, I deeply appreciate your support and comments, and welcome any future comments! If there’s anything you're interested in discussing regarding this au, feel free to leave a comment (or even send me a message on tumblr)—I’d be happy to talk! :')
Thank you for letting me be part of your week for these past couple of months! asoryuu forever <3 ⚔️
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Last Edited Sat 19 Apr 2025 12:11PM UTC
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