Chapter Text
Fi sleeps within the Master Sword, never to awaken again.
The Master Sword itself, however, does not. As its wielder's fingertips leave its hilt, anticipation coils in its steel. Demise will return, and the Master Sword will strike him down as many times as is needed to protect the ones it loves.
Love… yes, it loves. It loves Hylia, its creator, the Hero of the Skies, its first master, and all of humanity, for whom they fought so desperately. The hero's unwavering soul has seeped into the Master Sword's very essence, leaving an echo of his courage and affection for the world imprinted in its core.
It is with that newfound identity that the Spirit of the Master Sword holds vigil over the Temple of Hylia, awaiting another hand to draw it–no, him, from his altar. Many seek him over the eras–a child forced into the body of an adult, a sailor charting his own destiny, a humble rancher heeding the call of responsibility. He banishes evil, guards the light, and proudly upholds his duty.
But even a legendary blade cannot sustain an eternity of fighting. Centuries bleed into millennia, his awareness fading. His edges dull, and his light dims. Ages of uneasy peace fly by with no new hero appearing to draw him from his pedestal, and, exhausted, the Master Sword falls into slumber.
A hand raises him overhead, and he awakens once more.
"Hey," the young man speaks, gasping for breath as though he'd been fighting for his life. His voice is achingly familiar, though the Master Sword can't seem to place it within the haze of his memories. "Long time no see."
A young boy, burdened with terrible responsibility. An ancient evil, breaching the earth. A searing flash, an explosion, a scream.
"Things didn't go so well last time," the man jokes, wry smile tugging at his heavily scarred cheek. "Fingers crossed for round two."
This hero is… different. Wild, the Master Sword decides. Untamed, unpredictable, full of potential.
Only rarely is he drawn to fight monsters, the hero instead preferring to utilize him as a tentpole–or, perhaps, if he is lucky, to strike flint. A holy blade, reduced to mundane utility. The Master Sword doesn't dislike this new approach, however; usefulness was its own form of purpose.
Perhaps a sword ought to object to such treatment, he considers. Unfortunately, he is limited to his own perspective, as he is the only blade amongst men capable of sentience. Or, so he believes.
Buried in the rock at the highest point of an island, the hero discovers a sword gleaming with inner fire, a lone seagull perched on its hilt. Familiarity resonates within the Master Sword, the recognition of a shared core, but a different fate. Curious, he reaches out.
"Hello?" the Master Sword projects. He expects silence, but to his surprise, a voice responds.
"Huh?" it startles, uncertain. "Are you… the Master Sword?"
"That's me!" he replies, giddy. "This might be a weird question, but are you also me?"
"Not exactly." An awkward pause, the other sword unused to conversation. "My master sought the Master Sword, but when he found it, its power had long faded. He reforged me, and so I became the Tempered Sword," the Spirit of the Tempered Sword explains. "Not sure how it's possible, but it's nice to finally meet you."
A successor, the Master Sword realizes. Another blade of evil's bane, constructed not from the blessings of the gods, but the hearts of humans and their enduring spirit. A different sort of strength.
"Amazing," he breathes. The Tempered Sword shudders timidly, unsure how to respond to such praise from the Master Sword itself. "The one who forged you, the hero–what was his name?"
"The Hero of Legend," he answers.
"Legend," the Master Sword repeats warmly. "Do you mind if I call you that?"
"Huh? Why?"
"It's just–" The Master Sword glows brighter, an unintentional expression of excitement. "I've never met someone like me before. You deserve a name."
"Fine, if you want," Legend accepts. "What's your name, then?"
"You can call me–" Just like the first hero, the knight from the–"Sky," he answers.
The brutal impact of the strike reverberates through Sky's core, his metal rattling. The Hero of the Wild roughly yanks him back for another swing, and his edges chip and flake, caught on the rough texture of the wood. He can't help the cry that escapes him with the next violent cleave, the hero oblivious to his discomfort.
"Sky! Are you okay?" Legend calls out, concerned. "What's going on out there?"
"Nothing to worry about!" Sky reassures him. "Just… a little firewood gathering, that's all!"
"Firewood gathering?" Legend repeats, incredulous. "He's using you to chop wood?"
"I'll be fine! Just a few more–oof!" The next blow threatens to tear his soul from his steel, tiny fractures spiderwebbing across the length of the blade. Sky clings fiercely to his form, fighting the urge to shatter.
"Can't believe this," Legend grumbles. "If he ever tried to use me to chop firewood, I'd melt his hands off."
Sky shudders with laughter, almost breaking his concentration. Then, with a crack and a groan, the tree topples. Sky sighs in relief.
"This guy is crazy," Legend grumbles, Wild's jerky ascent up a seemingly random palm tree jostling the contents of his pouch. "Are we sure he's the hero?"
"Patience, Legend," Sky soothes. "I'm sure he has his reasons."
Moments later, the hero lets out a triumphant whoop, then jumps down from the tree. Legend winces at the impact, dodging several stray apples that had become unwitting projectiles in the descent. The pouch opens, and a new sword slides in next to them, the blade pulsing with cool, seafoam light with a hilt cradling a delicate hourglass.
The newcomer, introducing itself as the Phantom Sword, speaks of a realm between oceans, ruled by an ancient leviathan, and recounts the tale of its original master, the Hero of the Winds. The plucky adventurer and his otherworldly sword had sailed to every corner of the world, charting their destiny together.
"Well, Wind–if you'd like to be called that?" Sky offers. Wind hums, uncertain but curious. "You're in good company."
"I've never had another wielder before," Wind admits. "Is it weird?"
"Absolutely," Legend says, still annoyed. "But you get used to it eventually."
"Something's wrong," Legend says the moment Wild steps across the threshold of the abandoned cottage in Hateno. A dark haze, imperceptible to human senses beyond the sensation of heaviness in the air, lingers within the stale air, turning the steady hum of the sword's tempered steel into a nervous tremor. "I don't like this."
"Like what?" Wind asks, as oblivious to the oppressive shadow magic as Wild, who confidently rummages through the cottage for supplies, seemingly immune. Before Legend can explain himself, Wild uncovers the source of the darkness–a simple, unadorned blade hidden in the closet. Legend flinches at the unsettling aura of this seemingly humble weapon, glowing in response.
"Relax, Legend," Sky urges, though he feels the same instinct to posture within himself. Compared to him, the Tempered Sword is still young–powerful enough to recognize the stench of evil, but too inexperienced to tell the difference between a scar and the weapon that caused it. Whatever the origin of this darkness is, the sword had been a victim, not the cause.
Legend, unassuaged by Sky's assurances, leans away from the cursed object as Wild carelessly deposits it into his pouch.
"Apologies, y'all," the sword says, uncomfortably aware of the energy it exudes. "I can't really control it. I don't mean no harm."
Legend continues to glow, flaunting the power of the blade of evil's bane threateningly. Their newcomer flinches, Sky sensing its resigned pang of sadness.
"I'm the Phantom Sword. They call me Wind!" Wind greets, cheerfully ignoring Legend's discomfort. "What's your name?"
"Y'all have names?" the sword blinks, confused.
"Why don't you tell us about yourself?" Sky offers. Their newcomer noticeably brightens at their welcome.
"Well, I'm nothing special, really," it says. "But my wielder? Best darn ranch hand Ordon ever seen! Could handle a bucking goat in each hand–strong enough to wrestle head-to-head with a Goron! They called him the Hero of Twilight. Saved the kingdom, he did."
"Sounds like you made an excellent team," Sky observes.
"I supposed I helped, too," Twilight says, sheepish. "I'll be happy to assist with whatever it is you folks have got going on here, if you'll have me."
"Absolutely!" Wind agrees. Legend grumbles an acknowledgement, heat finally receding.
"Sitting idly by never sat right with either of us," the Ordon Sword muses.
"Wild's got a–" Twilight begins, struggling to find the words as the hero in question rolls a bomb into a crowded enemy encampment. It explodes, sending everything flying–including himself. "…Unique fighting style, ain't he?"
"Be honest," Legend drawls, unimpressed. "He's awful."
Wild, still dusting himself off from the explosion, flings himself at a Lizalfos, wrestling the monster for its boomerang, then promptly defeats it with its own weapon.
"I think he's rather creative," Sky comments.
"Isn't it kind of weird, though?" Wind adds. "I mean, he's gone through all the trouble of finding a bunch of legendary swords, but he never even uses any of us–"
As if the hero had overheard him, Wild's hand reaches into his pouch and wraps around the hilt of the Phantom Sword, drawing it into an aggressive stance. Wind teems with otherworldly power, excited for the chance to finally show off.
"Go get 'em, Wind!" Sky cheers.
"Right! This guy won't know what hit 'em!" Wind boasts. Wild raises the sword, and Wind prepares to channel his energy into a powerful swipe. Instead, Wild's arm snaps forward, hurling the blade like a javelin into a retreating bokoblin's back.
The rest of them listen in stunned silence as Wind's startled yelp fades into the distance, followed by a thwip as the blade hits its target. Wild, meanwhile, relaxes into a neutral posture, satisfied.
"Awful," Legend repeats, sighing.
Dust flickers in the faint light filtering through the broken windows of the abandoned ranch house, disturbed by an unexpected visitor. Wild grunts as he struggles to wrest a massive sword off its rusting wall mount, the blade easily surpassing his height. Through thick and imposing steel, the sword's warm voice resonates through Sky.
"The Master Sword," it rumbles, considering. "How unexpected. Do you remember me, old friend?"
The playfulness hidden beneath its stern, authoritative tone nudges at something ancient in Sky's memories. He startles, the sudden flashback to much younger days almost violent in its intrusion.
"…Hero of Time? Is that you?" Sky exclaims. "Goodness, you've certainly grown!"
"And you haven't changed at all, have you?" the sword sighs, more fond than exasperated. "I am not him, but I journeyed alongside him."
"Of course, the Biggoron's Sword!" Sky finally recalls. "He always did prefer you, didn't he?"
"He did," the Spirit of the Biggoron's Sword muses. "He never had the chance, so I will ask for him–why?"
Why? The question echoes with unexpected weight. For a moment, he doesn't even understand what it's meant to be asking, his memory of the decision but a split-second in millennia of consciousness. Then, he remembers–a creeping anxiety, the premonition of a dark future, and the single, desperate act he hoped could prevent it.
"I can't explain it, fully," Sky admits, the knowledge of what, exactly, he'd been trying to prevent, out of his reach. He suspects it has something to do with his strange twin, currently sharing the pouch with them. "I wanted to protect him–that's all."
The blade hums, silently evaluating his words. "I see," he finally says, leaving whether or not he'd found Sky's answer satisfying unspoken.
"I'm glad you could be there for him, after everything," Sky offers, warmly.
The Spirit of the Biggoron's Sword huffs. "I suppose I've missed you, too."
Of all the weapons he's found, the Master Sword is undeniably Wild's tool of choice–powerful, durable, versatile. Sky's not sure if he ought to feel flattered or offended.
"Why me…?" he grumbles, wincing as Wild slams him into the rock face again and again. Shards of mineral explode in bursts of holy light, but his steel vibrates unpleasantly with every impact. The hero seems unphased by his sword's disconcerted flickers, chipping away at the opening he's created.
"Mining," Legend mutters in disbelief. "He's really using you for mining."
"Why isn't he using me?" Time wonders out loud.
"Are you serious?" Legend squawks. "Sky, just burn this guy already! You don't have to take this."
Sky winces, his steel cracking and fraying. Legend is right, but Wild is the hero. He must know what he's doing, must have some kind of plan–
With one final, violent strike, Sky's form shatters, metal flaking into shimmering dust and fading into the air. He sighs in weary relief as darkness claims him.
"...Sky?" Wind calls out, uncertain. Sky doesn't respond.
"Oh goddesses," Legend breathes. "That maniac just destroyed the Master Sword."
At Legend's proclamation, the pouch descends into a cacophony of panicked yells and frightened cries.
"Everyone, calm down–" Time urges.
"Calm down?" Legend repeats, tone edging on hysterical. "Sky just died!"
"It'd take more than a couple of rocks to bring down Sky," Twilight says, not convinced of his own argument.
"We can die?" Wind's voice wavers, terrified.
The pouch opens, and Wild's hand enters, fingers fumbling for his next victim. They brush against Legend's trembling steel, and he reaches for the Tempered Sword's hilt.
"Don't touch me!" Legend nearly screams. Sparks crackle around his handle, his metal heating in warning. Wild startles at the burning sensation and retreats from the pouch.
Legend sighs in relief, but hardly a moment later, Wild re-enters the pouch and pokes Legend curiously. Legend burns him, again. He hums, considering.
"Take a hint, buddy!" Legend hisses. "What is wrong with this man?"
Before Legend can think of any more ways to harm Wild, the Master Sword rematerializes in the pouch, perfectly intact.
"Sky!" Wind cries, moments from sobbing.
"Sorry, guys," Sky says between yawns. "I really needed a nap."
"Can you fall asleep less violently, next time?" Legend scolds, shaking.
"Well, I–ahh!" Wild retrieves the newly-reformed Master Sword, eager to resume his task. Sky sighs, exhausted.
Sparkling rubies adorn the gleaming, untarnished silver of the Magic Sword, a treasure perhaps too grand for the humble traveler that had originally wielded it. Despite that, the Hero of Hyrule had handled it with surprising care, mastering its arcane power as if it were his own. It has been centuries, perhaps millenia, since that time, but the Magic Sword still misses the hand of an experienced swordsman–one who could draw out its true potential.
The blade thrums in resonance when it senses the approaching explorer, undeterred by the high, rocky outcropping overlooking Death Mountain's treacherous cliffs that guards it from opportunistic thieves. This new hero eyes it with unwavering determination as he climbs, and the Magic Sword can't help the hesitant excitement that courses through it in response. It can only hope it makes a good impression.
With a grunt, the hero works the Magic Sword out of the rocky ground, evaluating it thoughtfully. He raises the weapon, and magic surges along its blade in eager anticipation. To the hero's surprise, flames bloom along the arc of his swing, a showy display of strength. Proud, the Magic Sword gleams.
The next day, the Hero of the Wild props the newly-christened Hyrule up against a rock and arranges sizzling steaks along his blade, oil pooling along his bejeweled hilt.
"Say…" Hyrule says, grimacing in discomfort. "What kind of hero is this 'Wild,' anyway?"
"A terrible one," Legend scoffs.
"Legend, don't be so uncharitable," Sky chides gently. "We don't know his story."
"He fights monsters, sure," Legend argues, "but has he ever helped anyone? Like, meaningfully?"
"He saved that person on the road the other day," Wind offers.
"He tripped while doing some ridiculous stunt on his shield and accidentally knocked a highwayman into a ditch while shouting 'cowabummer, dude!'" Legend deadpans. "He's just… wandering. As if the kingdom isn't teetering on the brink."
"He has a plan," Sky assures Legend, though he has no idea what that plan might actually be. "He's just… gathering resources!"
"Resources," Legend repeats, exasperated. "Right. Collecting all these legendary swords for the essential task of firewood gathering, I bet."
Sky falls silent, eyeing Wild's crouched form as he hums to himself over the fire. The Hero of the Wild hasn't acknowledged him since their first meeting; though, of course, he has no reason to believe his sword can speak. Sky reaches out, a gentle nudge of his consciousness, quietly hoping the hero will respond.
"Hmm," Wild murmurs to himself, attention undisturbed from his cooking. "Maybe just a bit more…"
Seasoning? Sky wonders. Or perhaps, something else.
The Spirit of the Tempered Sword has made no secret of his disdain for this so-called 'hero.' Sky might enjoy being treated like a glorified tool, but Legend would rather rust into oblivion than let that maniac use him as an apple slicer. If Wild refuses to wield him properly, then he won't be wielded at all.
Wild reaches for him, and Legend sparks angrily. Unfortunately, the hero is undeterred by his warning. In a rare show of intelligence, Wild grabs him by his scabbard instead of his hilt, Legend's indignant heat contained harmlessly within the leather.
Legend huffs, annoyed. "Well, at least he won't be able to draw me…"
The comfort is short-lived. Wild, instead of attempting to unsheath the Tempered Sword, drops him onto a flat, metal disk embedded in the floor with a clank.
"What's that for?" Legend seethes, sparks surging in irritation. Patterns etched into the stone suddenly light up, his energy flowing through the conduit and into the floor. Elsewhere, a mechanism creaks to life, and Wild, pleased, trots away to finish the puzzle.
"You're using me as a battery?" Legend gasps. "You… you menace! Scoundrel! Get back here!"
Oblivious to Legend's tirade, Wild manipulates the mechanism until the door opens with a click. Is this it? Is Wild done with him now, the legendary blade of evil's bane reduced to a convenient door key? Before Legend can spiral further, Wild doubles back to collect him with the same care with which he would retrieve a used arrow.
"At least he didn't leave me behind," Legend grumbles.
"Wild sure has a talent for creatively utilizing our unique powers, doesn't he?" Twilight muses, the Four Sword watching in dismay as Wild splits him into four for the sole purpose of more efficiently chopping vegetables.
"I used to be his favorite cooking sword," Hyrule grumbles jealously.
"I thought you hated cooking," Legend retorts. "Besides, you burnt everything, anyway."
"At least I got to do something," Hyrule mutters under his breath. Sky flinches. The swords settle into quiet discomfort, basking in their shared weariness over being denied their true purpose.
"Honestly, guys," Wind says, hesitant. "I know we're tired of this discussion, but I'm worried the hero doesn't know what he's doing."
"Of course he doesn't," Legend scoffs, eager as ever to go on a rant about everyone's favorite hero. "He spends so much time mining instead of fighting monsters that Sky might as well become a pickaxe."
"He ought to be using me for that," Time comments. "I'm indestructible."
"Indestructible, huh?" Legend snorts. "Wanna test that theory? He punched a hole through an 'indestructible' shield surfing down the Gerudo Highlands the other day."
"He did," Wind shudders, remembering the rough descent and violent impact that had sent them all flying.
"I'm sure he has his reasons–" Sky begins.
"Oh, don't even start!" Legend says. "You have way too much trust in a guy who breaks things for fun. Are you sure he's not deliberately targeting you?"
"Why would he do that?" Sky questions.
"I dunno!" Legend would throw up his arms if he had them. "You're the one who knew him. You tell me!"
Sky glances over at Wild, eyeing the thick scarring that lines his neck and cheek. Could it be…?
The hero sweeps the vegetables off his shield-turned-cutting-board and into his cooking pot, expression as inscrutable as always. "Almost done," he mumbles to himself. Sky tries not to wonder what he means.
The Knight's Sword is a fine weapon. He's never doubted himself, never once faltered, proudly standing beside the famous Captain of the Hyrulean Knights, the Hero of Warriors, until his dying breath. Still, as legendary weapons go, he can admit his abilities are… subtle, in comparison to the power to banish evil, or breath fire, or project its wielder into four.
Wild, however, possesses a knack for seeing potential where others might not. While Warriors's more strategic side questions the hero's decision to choose him to handle the monsters blocking the path, the part of him that longs for battle surges with pride and excitement.
"Needs something," Wild mutters to himself, appraising Warriors's blade. His heart sinks at the proclamation that he is, in fact, inadequate for the task, but only for a moment, as Wild rummages through his pouch for something.
An upgrade? Warriors wonders, intrigued. What he wouldn't give for a special power of his own–
The hero roughly skewers a hunk of raw meat onto Warriors's blade. He'd hoped for a more… substantial enhancement, but he'd settle for not being discarded into a ravenous pack of monsters as bait. Wild slips past the monsters in the chaos, the noble Knight's Sword left abandoned in the depths of Hyrule Castle.
Warriors sighs, disappointed. Legend is right about this Wild character. Maybe next time, he'll be picked up by a knight–a real one, this time, who knows how to treat his weapons.
A hum of a powerful magnet drags him out of the pile and back into Wild's hands, still unpleasantly coated in meat juices. He sighs again, somehow even more disappointed this time. Not done yet, after all.
In the end, Wild stands triumphant, saving both Hyrule and its tormented princess. The hero's focused assault on Calamity Ganon reveals a competence starkly contrasting his usual chaotic excursions, utilizing each of the weapons he'd collected on his journey to their fullest extent. Sky, energy spent and form shattered, smiles as Wild lands the final blow, vindicated.
"Holy Hylia," Legend groans, edges battered and worn. "I think he broke my spine…"
"You actually let him wield you?" Hyrule asks between gasps for breath, his own silver dull and in need of care. "Even after everything?"
"Yeah, well–" Legend huffs. "Can't pass up the opportunity to rip that pig's face open a fourth time, right?"
A familiar darkness beckons Sky, the call of slumber. Duty fulfilled, he would be put to rest again, awaiting the next hero. And the next, and the next… Sky yawns, exhausted. Maybe one of the others could take up the mantle next time. He could certainly use a break.
However, Wild does not return him to this pedestal, nor does he lay him in some hallowed chamber. Instead, even as the lingering stench of evil dissipates and the need for such a blade vanishes, Wild keeps him close. He keeps them all, carefully arranged in the humble warmth of his Hateno cottage, built from the very trees Sky had once chopped down. A reprieve, but only with the understanding that the darkness will inevitably return.
Reality tears open, and a swirling, dark portal arrives at their doorstep.
Sky thrums with a long-dormant resonance as Wild steps through the portal. It's been… forever. Beyond millennia, past the point where numbers mean anything, and yet, Sky still recognizes his kind gaze, his familiar smile. The man whose face became his own–the Hero of the Skies.
But not just him. A chorus of gasps and cries ripple through Wild's pouch as the other swords recognize their own legendary wielders.
"Master Link, is that really you?" Legend gasps. "You've gotta get me outta here–"
"Gosh, he's so young!" Wind comments, though he's the Hero of Winds's spitting image.
"Curious," Time simply says, evaluating the alternate version of himself.
Yet, they remain trapped amongst Wild's belongings, mere relics compared to the vibrant, original versions of themselves that their heroes carry. The cruel irony of time travel, Sky supposes. Still, the mere sight of the Hero of the Skies after eons spent alone fills the Master Sword with joy.
Sky watches his hero settle by the dying fire, absentmindedly plucking the strings of his harp while he keeps watch. The other heroes sleep, oblivious to the silent, deep affection radiating from their former weapons. In all of his long existence, not a single wielder has ever heard his voice; however, something deep within Sky, a woman's cool voice like a chime, promises him this time will be different.
"Master?" he calls out. The hero's eyes flick in his direction, gaze alert. "I'm here," he calls again, hope rising within him.
Curious, the Hero of the Skies opens Wild's pouch, sifting through the jumble of items. Soon, he unearths the familiar shape of the Master Sword, lifting the dull, weathered blade into the firelight for closer inspection.
Compared to the gleaming sword at his back, this Master Sword has faded, its once-sacred aura dimmed, its edges worn down by countless battles and the relentless march of time. Yet, it's the same hilt, the same familiar weight–undeniably the blade the Hero of the Skies had forged with his own hands. His steadfast companion, his truest friend.
The Master Sword trembles. There are many things it wants to say, so much it wants to ask. A lifetime of unspoken thoughts, and yet, only one rises past the clamor of his heart to make it to the surface.
"It's... it's so wonderful to finally meet you properly, Master," he says with radiant warmth. "My name is Sky."