#LOZ Fic

[phoenixcatch7]

It's always funny to me when in an lu fic the chain is offered bananas and don't accept them. Like, you're offering these high energy adventures free food?? Fruit they'll have never even heard of before??? A ridiculously expensive imported good at best?? AND it boosts your attack?

Not ONE of these idiots would ever turn down something new and interesting to eat at least once. They'd be all over those bananas and immediately get dubbed yiga and I'm honestly surprised no one has used it in a fic yet 🤭

[daeyumi]

Cycle of the Stars

Prologue I:

Protosphere

***

THUD.

THUD.

A wave of sensation washes over them, vague and fleeting, like light filtering down through deep water.

Colors.

Thoughts.

The impression of someone calling out to them from far away, obscured through the blurry images that whisper across their eyes.

THUD.

Silence. Oppressive and heavy.

It feels familiar somehow, this weight. A long forgotten dream. They feel that they’ve known it before.

They think they feel a sense of self. An identity against the current of infinitum, one blot on a blank sheet of paper. A tangible presence. It dissipates the next moment, rolled away on the tide.

‘Before?’

Not understanding the comparison, they sit alone with the word and it’s implications. More colors spring forth to their eyes, unbidden. A lone figure on a hill, his back to a ruined land. Red and grey and black. The gold-tinted-orange of a dying sun, bleeding out over the empty horizon.

A vast expanse of dying grass, crowned with innumerable gravestones. Grey earth, grey sky, grey stone. An aftermath, a finale. A beginning. A single swatch of green, kneeling before a headstone. Life among death.

A hole in a gnarled tree, leading down, down, into the recesses of the world, swallowing life and soul and self.

A call.

A name.

A word.

Link.

The connection, the void.

Everything and nothing.

The colors swirl before their eyes in an infinite flash of space and time.

THUD.

Memories? Visions? They try to close their eyes against the current of impressions and find them to be already closed.

THUD.

Mind racing, as if fighting through the muddy currents of a storm-bloated river. They can’t understand. Thoughts begin to feel impossible. Even the whirling forms within their mind’s eye start to close in on them, oppressive and threatening. Moving so quickly that the sound deafens their ears, crushing the blunt silence with an overwhelming pressure.

They crack open their eyes and find no relief in the cold darkness that envelops them, somehow moving even faster than the nauseating colors that threatened their closed eyes moments previously.

THUD.

THUD.

Thud.

Thoughts begin to slow, finally finding relief in the void beyond cognition. The intangible shapes and patterns flow languidly now, a comforting caress to replace the constant barrage on the senses. Blue. Like the shallows of a river that stretches to the horizon, through which can be seen the blue sky above, falling off into infinity. Above and below. An all encompassing finality to contain the world. Blue and green and the serenity of the day’s end.

Gradually, they become aware of a clenched fist repeatedly making contact with a thick pane of glass in front of them.

Thud.

A hand. An owner. Belonging. An emptiness to once again overtake the soul, blotting out the essence of the previous inhabitant to make way for new images to stamp their impressions on its walls.

Confinement.

A separation in the everything.

The e v e r y t h i n g

thud.

n e v. e r e n d. i. n g

thud.

thud.

thud

The quieting pulses are forced to one final crescendo as the hand, unbidden, makes a last desparate strike against the unmoving surface, shattering the barrier of the world.

Heavy glass bursts outward from the threshold along with a surge of viscous liquid, pouring out toward the ground; the draining substance revealing a limp, convulsing pile of limbs and torso, frantically coughing up fluids from their burning lungs. The sound of draining pressure coincides with the roaring in their ears and the desperate cacophony of retching and wheezing before falling uncomfortably silent; the only sound the steady ooze of solution falling to the ground far below in steady droplets. Drip. Drip. The solitary rhythm of measured time.

A heartbeat passes and they stir, blue eyes opening slowly as if wading through still water. Weakly, they try to raise their head to the glow of intense light radiating from above; their muscles strain tensely before falling limp again, exhausted.

Trapped.

The walls seem to close in again, threatening their inhabitant once more with darkness and manic imagery that still flashes before them when they close their eyes to blink. Forcing limbs to move, straining for something, anything but the paralyzing numbness that binds them. One motion at a time; but their muscles won’t obey, their mind won’t respond. Pain. Stagnation.

A hand passes through the right side of the eyes’ range of vision. Slender, pale fingers to match the hand from earlier.

Their own hand.

Panic sets in amid a tangle of flailing limbs.

Coughing, gasping for air, the pallid figure claws against the side of the cramped enclosure, hands scrabbling to find purchase on the smooth interior. Shaky fingers finally make contact with the shattered remnants of a glass wall in the side of the tank and grip weakly to the edge of the hole in the room, still dripping a slow current of colorless liquid onto the empty stone floor far below. In between ragged breaths, they start to pull themself desperately toward the edge of the enclosure. Muscles quivering from disuse, chest heaving from exertion. With a final effort, their body clears the opening and slides down to the floor below, landing with a quiet splash that shatters the silence in the cavernous chamber beyond the broken tank.

He lay unmoving for a moment, save for another round of violent coughing.

It takes everything they have to lift their shoulders off the floor, still-bowed head following suit. Hunched over, their weight barely supported by quivering arms. They try to lift their gaze and immediately retch again, a repulsive mix of bile and clear fluid spilling over the exposed skin of their legs and onto the panels of the already wet floor beneath them.

Bony fingers clutch at an emaciated throat.

Can’t—

The room spins and they fall the short distance to the floor.

Unconscious.

Unmoving.

Sodden, pale hair clinging to a thin frame. Skin, and bone, and earth. A birth or a battlefield.

The last gasps of echoing sound die alone in the vast recesses of that empty room, smothered by the endless labyrinth of tubes across the vast ceiling.

***

He woke.

A thick darkness suffuses the room, broken only by the cold blue light flickering through the thick haze that obscures the edges of their vision. The trembling figure pushes himself up on weak arms, bleary eyes surveying the landscape before them. Fallen pillars on the ground, crumbled beyond recognition until they snaked across the cold stone terrain and beyond to the edges of the horizon, starlight glinting off them in irregular patches. Beyond, small shapes protrude from the ground, obscured by fog and distance. Shrines? Homes? Some even show a faint glow of light that cuts through the mist.

Their head spins.

Blue eyes hazily follow the swirling patterns from the base of a row of short pillars up to the top where they meet the sky, seamlessly melding into the azure heavens.

An endless expanse of sky and clouds, above and below. All encompassing. Lightning without rain.

With effort, he directs his gaze to the pinnacle of the sky.

Six identical moons above, surrounded by a myriad of stars, trailing constellations back down towards the earth. Blue. The blue of the night sky, whose weakly blinking stars, too, are never strong enough to illuminate the land below. The blue of the deep ocean, where forgotten kingdoms sleep in disrepair, the same as the dilapidated landscape they see before them. Remnants of a broken empire. An unnatural blue, made worldly only by age and disuse.

Ages of….

A heavy weight overwhelms them, as centuries of water carving deep fissures through mountains; and they collapse to the ground, exhaustion reclaiming its hold on the figure once more. Cold. The void of the cracked tile below shoves daggers into their skin, leeching what little strength they had and reducing them to a crumpled heap on the frigid stone floor; the repetition of choppy, shallow breaths the only sign of life.

Another wasteland, empty as before, piercing white. Scattered glass upon a vast field. The cracks between lead down, down into the black oblivion of eternity, where all things are null, as time itself, as life, as identity, as color; and above, the frozen world. Colorless, unbroken.

Silent.

Melancholy; the soul of the interloper. Convergence. Concurrence.

Passed beyond knowing.

A lone tree in a grassy field.

Faces obscured behind titles and grand deeds.

Stories.

Legends.

“The face in the glass… is that the real you?”

They felt they should know… something. A past, a future. An identity. Surely they’d had one before?

…Before?

It’s empty; like walking a corridor lined with doors made of possibility that turn to dust at the moment of approach. A glass room bounded by mirrors and crystal vases filled with water. Tangible but hollow. Repeating in on itself with every refraction until the thin lines of light and shadow mean nothing to the perception of an observer.

Connections.

Thoughts.

Disorientation as one thought reflects back above the others.

Resonance.

The impression of a name. Link.

They felt sick again, and then they felt nothing.

***

The stars still shine above when they wake, crowned by those too-consistent moons. Not moons and stars, Link realizes as their vision steadily begins to clear. Too perfect to be….

Gingerly, they try to uncurl themself from their position on the floor and find that their body does work, though made none the easier by their atrophied muscles. He stretches out a trembling hand, placing it against the smooth floor and pushing himself upright. The air smells stale and slightly damp as Link looks around, cataloguing the shapes that their eyes hadn’t been able to make out before.

Strange figures in the fog solidify themselves into derelict machinery.

The walls are lined with rounded devices that give way to wide panels above, decorated with carved patterns of lines and circles evoking myriad constellations in a night sky; the points of the stars glowing faintly with ethereal blue light. Most of the light in the room, however, comes from the six identical skylights crowning the apex of the chamber. The “moons” Link had noticed previously. The large round lights form a circular pattern around the top of a singular central pillar in the room. A pillar which was not, in fact, a pillar; but the shaft of the massive incubation tank that, Link realizes with growing horror, they themself had occupied until just recently.

With difficulty, he shifts his position from where he sat on the floor, gradually turning around until he sits fully facing the massive apparatus. It is made of a hard material, more akin to stone than metal, and cool to the touch; an ominous column that bows out as it reaches the floor to make room for the cavernous space inside like a gaping maw. Link shivers as they reach out their hand to place it on the raised pattern of the tank, rough and almost porous in contrast with the sleek underlayer. It reminds him of a stomach, he thinks, or perhaps a tangled mass of intestines, with its maze of uneven lines twisting and curling in on themselves. They feel vaguely sick again but curiosity forces them to keep looking anyway, noting that the center of each circle in the pattern houses a window of varying sizes, some seeming to lead to other tanks, adjacent to the main belly but many times smaller in size. Empty.

Empty, too, is the largest chamber of the incubation tank, looming above their thin frame like a drooling mouth, with shards of shattered glass forming the teeth at the edges of the main window. Link hasn’t the strength to stand and look inside. He doesn’t think he could stomach the sight anyways; flashbacks to the manic fervor of trying to escape already rising to the surface of his memory.

Their eyes drift instead to the base of the structure, where thick tubes as wide as Link’s own torso run out towards the edges of the walls, joining with other machines and even to the wall itself. The tubes glow faintly where patches of the outer material has peeled away to display the translucent membrane beneath. It’s apparent that they would have been used to transport the clear liquid into, or out of, the massive cistern. There’s no current running in either direction, but Link wonders if they house the vile solution even now. They force themself to look away, swallowing hard.

From his vantage point in roughly the center of the stone floor, Link can make out precious little else about the darkened room. More tubes cross the ceiling, traveling again the distance between the walls and the central pillar and meeting it, Link presumes, at the top; though they aren’t going to risk passing out again to crane their head to see. More strange shaped rubble gathered around the corners of the room. Link can’t even begin to guess its source, as none of the constructs nearby seem to be crumbling or missing pieces.

Their wandering gaze solidifies on an incongruous shape sitting amongst the wreckage. Curious, and without any other course of action, they begin to crawl towards it.

The object in question reveals itself to be a small ring about the size of the palm of their hand. It appears to have once been a perfect circle, adorned in symmetry with the same constellation pattern as the walls of the cavernous room; now sharing in its fate. Broken and discarded, dust and other refuse clogging the fine grooves in its surface. A crack runs across the rounded surface, culminating in a sizeable chip missing from one side.

Link picks up the ring with a trembling hand, fumbling it once before gaining a steadier grip. It’s made of a similar material to the tank in the center of the room, but judging by its size must have once been a piece of something larger.

The image sticks in their mind as they continue to scan the room for anomalies among the mess of machines and wires running the perimeter of the vast space. A forgotten tool lying alone in the wreckage of a desolate land, buried with the past.

The parallels to his own situation seem significant somehow.

He finds his fingers curling around the ring instinctively, though his eyes now look past it, focusing on a dark gap in between some of the panels on the wall to his left.

The exit.

Or so he hopes. A brief flash of fear crosses Link’s mind, imagining a passageway closed off with more of the rubble before him. Trapped. Apprehension washes over him, imagining the suffocating embrace of the water inside the tenebrous vessel. Why was he even here? Alone? The rest of the room is empty, the machines deteriorating and, as far as Link can tell, inactive. Is there more to this place? The sheer number of control units along the walls suggest there should have been a sizable number of people to operate the facility. His mind balks at the implications of his solitary confinement to this place. The sole inhabitant of the tank, the sole inhabitant of the room. How long..? Memories of the interior of the tank are replaced by thoughts of a sealed chamber, no doors to be found on the smooth interior; or a narrow exit blocked by collapsed rubble. His breath quickens and new images flash before his mind. Bloody fingernails capping raw fingers, scrabbling at the walls, bruised and bloodied knuckles; and still the harsh, unmoving stone of the enclosure, one person unable to do what only time can accomplish, unable to tear down the boundaries, to free themself. An agonizing death by starvation. He doesn’t want to think about the alternative.

It’s too much.

He tries to fight through the rising alarm, shoving it down to the pit of his stomach along with his nausea. Deep breaths. Clenching his fist further, driving nails and the imprint of a stone circle into the palm of their hand. Forcing themself to lift their gaze once more to their destination.

Link shakes their head to clear it and immediately regrets it, the throbbing in his head only intensifying with the movement. I need to leave this place.

***

The hallways beyond the central tank chamber are more of the same in appearance. The now-familiar constellation pattern decorates the upper part of the walls, while the lower portion is tessellated with the twisting pattern of curved lines in chunky relief, boundaried by a single line of the same raised, rough material running unbroken down the length of the hallway. It is this conformation that Link clings to as they make their way down the dim corridor, leaning their weight on the wall as they half stumble, half pull themselves along the wall with shaky arms; making up the difference for their protesting legs. It’s the fourth hallway like this they’ve encountered, though there had been only one exit from the incubation chamber. The path had split often, at first, and he had needed to retread the same paths multiple times in places as he met with many dead ends in the labyrinthine halls. They had passed other compartments on their quest to find the exit; small rooms bare except for a couple sparse beds with thin shelves jutting from the walls beside them. An impossibly tall chamber with a vaulted roof that seemed meant for storage, but held nothing but dilapidated shelves and crumbled debris. A locked door at the end of an agonizingly long hallway for which Link did not have the key, nor the strength to try to open. They fervently hoped it didn’t lead to the exit. The door had felt cool to the touch, but Link had been forced to abandon it to continue his search down the previous passageways.

This whole place is abandoned.

Though he knew it already to be true; the deafening silence betrayed no signs of life. Link’s own shuffling footsteps, quiet though they are, are the lone sound in the eerie gloom.

He feels more lucid, now, though his head still pounds and his vision still swims even from this slow movement down the corridor. They try to recall anything about themself, but find nothing to betray their past in their memories. Link. He feels that he ought to know something about the owner of that name. About himself. But any attempts to recollect further are met with failure and the feeling of trying to lift water through a sieve. Meaningless, obviously, but they are far too exhausted to feel frustration. And they can feel that their body will need to eat soon, even through the lightheadedness and nausea that still blanket them like thick fog.

A blue aura ahead signals the room at the end of the hallway; too far to make out, but steadily coming into view. Narrow panels hang along the walls, framing the doorway as Link draws near. Smooth and blank, but placed as though a sign to indicate the path. It would have seemed significant if not for the fact that every door prior had also been marked in a similar manner. Link’s fingers catch on the edge of a panel and they stumble, crumpling to the ground as they enter the room at last.

Not the exit.

But this room was different to the others they had encountered previously. Link swallows bile as he raises his head from the floor, dizziness returning in full force while they reposition their legs beneath them and reach for the edge of a low shelf to pull themself to their feet. Rows of glass tanks line the walls at the edges of the room, more uniform by far than the singular pillar shaped tank in the chamber Link had awoken in, with its divots and knobby carvings surrounding uneven windows. These seem almost sterile by comparison, though each window was still rimmed by twisting patterns of stone. They had no apparent function, as they lacked the tubes that had connected the larger tank to the machinery and walls of the huge cavern. There also didn’t seem to be anything inside. It was hard to make out whether the clear liquid contained within differentiated from tank to tank, and even that would have been to difficult to see if some of the tanks had not been cracked and partially drained. A high table spanned the length of most of the chamber, rising up from the ground like a solid plinth.

Having regained his footing, Link starts once more down the rectangular room, supporting his balance on the intermittent tables or walls. They are struck once again by the sheer hollowness of the place; the tables, the shelves, the jars embedded in the walls- even the room itself, he realizes, lacks the network of tubes crossing the ceiling that had so defined other rooms in the labyrinth. It isn’t so much that the room is empty so much as… devoid of habitation? A strange… desolation that they hadn’t registered until now, even despite the layers of dust that coat every surface. He passes a small, round alcove in the side of the wall, housing yet another barren container, this one free standing but otherwise matching the others in the room; the only thing setting it apart being the myriad “arms” that protrude from all sides, each containing a channel that points toward the central chamber.

Trying to combine something? It looks like it was built to fit this space. Or the other way around…. Link shudders again, contemplating the purpose of his presence in this place.

It’s a short enough distance to the other end of the vault, but it takes them several more agonizing minutes to cross the expanse. Step by step, feeling the omniscient gaze of the empty tanks on his back. his legs refuse to increase pace, however; continuing his uneven gait towards the far door, and at last steps into the small antechamber beyond.

Carvings in twisted stone relief completely cover the interior of the round room, only serving to highlight the closed door opposite him. He’s reminded once more of the bowels of a giant beast, the writhing pattern enclosing him, constricted; waiting to be digested. It’s cramped and oppressive compared to the previous rooms, and Link feels the walls start to close in around them. Reliving. Clenching his fist on the circular charm he had picked up from the floor earlier, he focuses on the sole thing keeping him in the room. Fresh air. It creeps in from the edges of the door, fighting a losing battle with the dank, musty scents of the broken down facility. Giving its life to promise freedom to another.

The door doesn’t budge when Link turns the handle so they throw their weight against it clumsily, falling upon the access with a dull thud. They are forced to repeat the action again and again before the door relinquishes its hold and creaks open, heavy stone scraping aside as Link slides to his knees. He is moving forward again almost instantly despite his exhaustion, spurred on by the faint breeze he feels across his skin.

It’s the longest hallway he’s encountered so far. Not even a pinprick of light can be seen ahead; the corners of the wall all converging to a single point in the darkness. The tunnel ascends at a gentle slope that wears on his legs after just a few minutes of walking, though Link already uses the wall to support their weight. they long to sink to the floor and rest, to give in to the deep exhaustion that has plagued them since they awoke. His throbbing head is at odds with the gnawing pangs of his stomach. He feels as though he has been wandering the deserted passages for hours, days. Sense of time degraded and fractured beyond recognition. If he could see what his state of mind looked like, he imagines it would be like the stone lines on the wall. Twisting, sinuous, ever moving forwards but slowly, painfully. Doubling back or circling around before continuing on. None of them connected. Fragmented. His breathing is getting heavy, and they can tell they’re moving slower than before, their movements less coordinated. If he stops walking now, the floor will swallow him whole. Returned to the void.

He walks on.

The dragging of footsteps is joined at last in its lone refrain, accompanied at last by the soft sound of a wayward breeze.

Blue eyes raise once more toward the outlet of the passage, confusion registering with the recognition of an inky chasm past the walls. Startled, their mind summons once more an image of cramped rooms and overbearing machinery waiting beyond, wandering forever; before the solution snaps them back to sentience.

Oh.

It’s nighttime.

Footsteps quicken and they stumble the last few steps toward the exit, relinquishing his grip on the wall as he rushes down the corridor. Frantic. Wind whipping through the tangle of long hair at their back and rushing through their ears, deafening. The slapping of feet on stone is replaced at once with the dry rustling of grass, and he falls to his knees as the world opens up before him at last; vast forest rising up around him as he emerges from the cavernous hole in the ground, long overgrown with flowering vines that herald the changing of an era.

Link feels as though they kneel before the precipice of a dreamscape.

Thick forest, the vast swath of trees forming columns under a vaulted ceiling of branches, starlight pooling off the leaves and filling the cool night air with energy. An infinite expanse of world surrounding. The ethereal made manifest amid the verdant sanctum of possibility.

Freedom.

And survival.

[beemovieerotica]

[solarwreathe]

designing totk ocs for a fic, it's about a gerudo woman and a yiga footsoldier travelling hyrule to learn about the power of friendship and crime. i don't have many plot points mapped out other than they mug penn at some point

i went back and reused this design because i liked it so much

[lily-alphonse]

Sometimes Link dreams of flying.

But he isn't the one flying. His head is resting in crimson feathers and he feels like a child cradled by the wind and sky. He is safe.

Against his chest beats the large heart of his beloved loftwing. Against his back beats the sun.

It's a delightful dream that he rarely has, interspersed with nightmares and blackness.

He barely remembers the dream when he wakes, but the day is always more pleasant after that.

And then one day Revali has him climb on his back for battle, and the feeling of feathers on his skin shocks something warm in him he can't place. He puts his face against him and closes his eyes. He can't focus, getting an ear-full from the arrogant Rito champion.

100 years later he has wisps of the memories in his dreams and nothing else.

Teba has him climb on his back to inspect the divine beast and the feathers on his skin shock something warm in him he can't place. He puts his face against him and closes his eyes.

This time tears slip into Teba's feathers, and he doesn't know why.

[gintrinsic-writing]

A Flicker in a Distant Timeline

CW: references to violence, loss of a limb, blood.

--

Like this, the King of Evil didn’t look like much—sweating through his robes, hair in disarray, panting through pain and exhaustion alike. He was too weakened to transform, and his baser form—his simple Gerudo body, absent of Demise’s visibly corroding influence—lacked the same petrifying, untouchable presence. Link figured he should tell him so. 

“You reek.”

Ganondorf’s glare was half-ruined by the tears rolling down his face; courtesy of some well-aimed dirt, Link thought smugly. “And you,” Ganondorf managed between breaths, “sound like a dying frog.”

Link barely had enough energy to muster up the indignation that deserved, but he managed. “A frog? That’s the worst you could come up with?” He scoffed, ignoring how much it stung to do so. “Were you even trying?”

“Croak, croak, croak,” Ganondorf griped, waving a hand back and forth. The Triforce of Power shimmered like a kaleidoscope against the back of his hand. “Annoying little wheezes.”

“Oh, forgive me. Some asshole punched me in the throat.”

“Only after another asshole pulled my hair!”

“So what?” Link croaked—ah, dammit, Ganondorf was right. What a miserable day.

“So, hair’s off-limits.”

“Off…” Link paused to stare. He blinked several times for good measure. Only a little blood managed to dribble into his eyes. “It was a fight! To the death!”

“Fated by the deities themselves,” Ganondorf agreed darkly. 

“And you think hair is off-limits?”

“Well, yes.” Ganondorf sneered at Link as if the hero was particularly dense. “We’re not animals.”

“You literally are, you dumb pig,” Link groaned. 

Ganondorf made some weird growling sound, then coughed. “Just you wait,” he grumbled. “As soon as I catch my breath, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Link mocked. “You’ll kill me? With what weapon? You couldn’t summon a speck of dust right now.”

Ganondorf curled his lip disdainfully. “As if you’re one to talk. You can’t even get up, can you?”

Link chose that moment to finally admit to himself that he’d been managing his half of the conversation while lying prone on the ground. He was sure the Master Sword was within grasp if he needed it. Probably. “I can move,” he answered loftily, only croaking a little, “whenever I want to.” 

“Sure,” Ganondorf agreed.

“I can.”

“Like I said, sure.”

Link groaned again. Dirt stuck to his lips in a very unheroic way. 

Seconds passed, then Ganondorf heaved another breath. It sounded more significant than the previous ones in some strange and foreboding way. He pushed off his knees with both hands and stood up straight. His spine popped immediately. “Damn the goddesses,” Ganondorf spat, bracing a clawed hand against the small of his back as he resumed his slouch. Link couldn’t help but nod in tired agreement. “And damn Demise!”

That sounded particularly vicious. Link nodded again for solidarity. “Is Demise the reason you’re so fucked up?”

“Yes,” Ganondorf hissed.

“Ah.” What was he supposed to say to that? Something meaningful, probably. “Sucks.”

“Indeed.” 

Something wet fell on Link’s face. Then it happened again. Rain, he thought bitterly. Maybe he’d be lucky enough to drown. “I don’t suppose you’re dying? Spare me the trouble of having to finish this?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Ganondorf grumbled. “You?”

“Also unfortunately no.”

Ganondorf eyed him skeptically. “I thought you’d bleed more when I cut off your hand.”

Ah yeah, that. His right wrist really hurt. “To be honest, me too.” A wave of dizziness washed over Link, which he promptly ignored like he had the last four times. “How did you survive that light magic bomb?”

Ganondorf shook his head. “No fucking idea. Luck, perhaps. I felt my heart stop for a moment.”

“Really? Cool.”

Ganondorf shrugged. 

“So… now what?” Link asked quietly, licking at the raindrops gathering on his upper lip. They tasted like dirt. “You gonna kill me?” Because in all honesty, he couldn’t get up. Trying left his pulse racing and his limbs trembling. He was pretty much useless. 

“I should,” Ganondorf answered just as quietly. 

When nothing else was said, Link grunted. “But…?”

“I’m tired.” Simple, honest, absolute. 

“Yeah,” Link muttered. “Me too.”

With a pained little oof, Ganondorf sat down beside Link, crossing his legs at the ankles and keeping his weight off of his left hip. He fiddled with his many bracelets. Link struggled to read his expression. “Perhaps I’ll feel up to it in a minute,” the King of Evil finally said. 

There was something awkward about that. Something sad. Link decided to do what he did best and make a nuisance of himself. “Did you have to sit so close? I wasn’t lying earlier. You stink. Does deodorant not apply to demon kings?”

“Shut up, worm.” Ganondorf flicked a pebble at him. Somehow, it landed right between Link’s eyes. 

“Ow! Fuck you.”

“In your dreams.”

Link gagged, loudly. The effect was ruined when it started to rain in earnest. Before he could think of the best way to complain, Ganondorf threw out a hand, and tendrils of dark magic formed a barrier above them. 

“Oh,” Link said lamely. “Guess you’re not out of juice after all.”

Ganondorf frowned up at the barrier. “It’ll last a minute if we’re lucky.”

“Then what?”

“Then we’ll get wet. Maybe you’ll be able to walk by then, assuming you don’t bleed out in the meantime.”

A pretty bold assumption, all things considered, but Link wasn’t going to say so. He’d take what he could get. “And then?” he pressed. 

Ganondorf clearly held back the first answer that came to mind. He pursed his lips before saying, “Your choice. I got us this far.”

Link couldn’t help it—he laughed. It sounded pretty terrible. “Yeah,” he wheezed after several seconds. “Yeah, I guess so. Okay.”

Ganondorf shook his head in apparent resignation. The barrier began to flicker. 

[ziskeyt]

Sorry for leaving y'all on a cliffhanger the other week, but I'm here with the resolution!

Reckon the Stars chapter 9 is live here or read from the beginning here.

In this chapter: a statue falls! What could have done this? Is everyone safe? What might be lurking in the sands?

As always, my lovely cover art is a comm from @st-hedge

[crazylittlejester]

this one’s for my HW Zelink shippers. i dont ship em, but this one’s for you guys 🫶✨

whumptober day 23: forced choice

summary: Link knows he doesn't have much time left. He's dying, and there's nothing he can do about it except try his best to end the war so his friends and loved ones don't have to keep suffering after he's gone. Zelda had forbidden him long ago from doing the ONE thing they both knew could end this mess immediately, but when Link finds himself captured by Cia's forces, he's not really given a choice: Marry Cia, or watch everyone he loves die.

[skyward-floored]

Link raises his sword, glaring at Cia.

“There’s nothing you have to say that I want to hear.”

“On the contrary, I think you’ll be quite interested. It has to do with your parentage... your real parentage,” Cia says as she leans on her staff, and Link’s eyes narrow, even as his heart jumps. It’s true he’s interested in where he came from, but learning it from Cia of all people... why would she offer him that? She must have an agenda of some kind.

“...What do you know about my parents?” he asks in a low voice, keeping his sword raised.

Cia laughs.

“A lot of things,” she smiles, so coyly it makes Link’s stomach roll. “In fact... I have it on good authority that the dragon knight Volga is your father, Link.”

Her words are like a slap to the face.

Of all the things he’d expected to come out of the sorceress’s mouth, that had not been it.

Shock roots Link in place, air in his lungs suddenly nonexistent. He can’t catch his breath, Cia’s words ringing through his head no matter how he tries to get them to stop, and Link can’t breathe.

It couldn’t be true. It was completely ridiculous, how could it even be possible?

Volga... my father?

“You’re lying,” he says in a voice not nearly as sharp as he’d like, and Cia laughs again, the sound like the tinkling of bells.

“Oh dearest, I’m not lying. Surely you must have noticed how hard it is for you to get burned? How you get your energy from the heat rather than have it sapped away?” she says mildly. “Your first encounter with your father didn’t even leave you singed.”

“How do you know that,” Link growls, and Cia drew closer to him, making the hairs on his neck rise.

“I’ve been watching you, Link. I saw how good Death Mountain was for you, I’ve never seen you that energetic!” she smiles, and meets his eyes. “You know what I speak of is the truth. You are the dragon knight Volga’s son.”

Link takes a step back, mind still whirling.

It was a trap, it must be a trap, made to disarm him, distract him, take him off guard so... so she...

His stomach lurches and he almost thinks he’s going to be sick, refusing to believe the sorceress’s words but knowing somehow, deep in his heart, that what she spoke of was the truth.

Volga was his father.

[marimbles]

Forgot to post my piece for Residents of the Wild, a zine focused on NPCs from BotW! This is basically my silly version of the sand boots side quest from BotW. (Shoutout to @botwdialogue for documenting all the dialogue for the entire quest—that was such a helpful reference! X)

Word count: 2k

These Boots Are Made for Jogging (in the Sand)

What’s the best way for a strapping single guy to show off his lady-catching sand boots?

Jog around on the sand. Duh.

So that’s what Bozai did, day after day, circling Gerudo Town like a fashionable, sporty hawk. Sure, it was exhausting. And sweet Hylia, it was hot—even when he downed chilly elixirs around the clock. But eventually, it would all be worth it, when he caught the eye of the perfect woman.

… Right?

Bozai slowed to a stop by the southern entrance of the town, where a pair of gorgeous yet imposing Gerudo guards flanked the doorway.

“Hey,” he panted. “Nice day, isn’t it, ladies?”

The guards glared down at him.

“Move along, voe,” one of them said gruffly. “If you loiter, we’ll assume ill intent.”

Bozai laughed. “Hey, I’m not trying to sneak in—I promise! I just want to chat. Care to join me on a jog?”

“We have no interest in chatting,” the other guard said, voice cold. “We must remain at our post. Besides, we would easily outpace you. Your legs are short and stumpy.”

“Come on, ladies, that’s not very—”

But then two sharp spears were pointed right at his chest, so he had no choice but to drop it.

Bozai sighed and jogged away, trying to ignore how sore he was. He had to keep jogging. His dream girl was waiting for him! (Probably.)

He rounded the corner, and someone nearly ran into him. Someone a full head shorter than him, with long, blonde hair and big, blue eyes, and—

“Oh.” Bozai blinked. “It’s just a guy.”

A Hylian guy, with a weirdly pretty face and a slew of weapons strapped to his back. He gazed silently up at Bozai, expressionless.

“Saw me running around, huh?” Bozai shifted his backpack. “See, I heard Gerudo women liked a guy in sand boots …”

(Of course, it was the shoe salesman who told him that, but that guy had a hot wife, so Bozai would have to be an idiot not to take his advice about women.)

The stranger looked down at Bozai’s feet. “Sand boots?”

“Yeah! They let you walk normally on sand,” Bozai said proudly. “What do you think? Jealous, right?”

Blondie’s face stayed blank, like he wasn’t even impressed with Bozai’s amazing, manly, one-of-a-kind sand boots. Did he somehow miss what Bozai said? Or was he just stupid?

“Gimme those boots,” the stranger demanded.

Bozai took a step back. Okay, apparently he impressed this weirdo too much.

“Not cool!” Bozai said. “Look, these are super rare. Mayyybe I’d consider giving them to you if you were a girl, but a guy? NO.”

Blondie did not look at all deterred by Bozai’s devastating rejection. In fact, he looked kind of determined. Or maybe … amused? It was hard to tell, with that weird, stoic face of his. He was starting to creep Bozai out.

Bozai cleared his throat. “I’m busy here. Get lost!”

He pushed past the guy and resumed his jog. Man, why did he have to run into a weirdo like that? Why was it never a cute girl waiting for him around the corner?

Bozai’s eyes locked on the approaching corner of the city wall. Maybe there would be a cute girl waiting for him. What would he say to her? He should plan it out, just in case.

’Sup, girl? Name’s Bozai. But you can just call me Dream Guy. Heh.

At that point, he would run his fingers through his dark, silky locks (which were not that silky, to be honest, since his bangs were perpetually plastered to his forehead).

Ugh. That wouldn’t work. He couldn’t be suave and sexy when he was all sweaty. But where was a guy supposed to take a bath in the middle of the desert?

Bozai turned the corner and stumbled to a stop. A figure stood in his path.

A female figure.

There was no mistaking it this time. She was Hylian, but she wore the delicate silk of the Gerudo, her stomach and shoulders bare. Even with a veil covering her lower face, Bozai could tell she was beautiful.

“Sa-sa-sa … sa’votta!” he stammered. (Was that the right word? Or should it have been sav’saaba?)

The girl did not reply. She just watched him over her veil, her eyes bright and piercing. Bozai’s heart did a strange little flip.

“The name’s Bozai,” he said quickly. “I’m thirty-five, single, and I love jogging. Especially on sand.”

Not the best intro in the world, but not bad either. It was nothing that couldn’t be saved by the power of The Boots. Bozai shuffled his feet for good measure, so the beautiful stranger would be sure to look down at them.

“Nice sand-jogging!” she said.

Gotcha.

“Ah, you noticed these old things?” Bozai attempted to sweep his bangs back in a cool, carefree way, but they just clumped together awkwardly instead. He launched into a description of The Boots before the girl could decide he was lame and walk away.

“So, anyway, if you want to check them out, we could grab a quiet corner and—”

“Gimme those boots,” the girl ordered.

Bozai blinked. He must have had sand in his ears, because for a moment, she sounded almost like that weirdo from before.

The girl stared him down. She even sort of looked like him now, with those intense blue eyes and that golden-blonde hair. But Bozai was surely coming down with some sort of heat sickness—because surely this desert goddess had nothing in common with that sulky creep! (Not to mention, she was a girl.)

Bozai squinted at her against the sunlight.

“Um … well … here’s the thing …” he began.

Wait. This is a golden chance to woo her!

“I mean—sure!” he said hastily. “I’d love to give them to you, you hungry little boot monster!”

It was a cute nickname, right? Maybe that’s what he’d call her when they were married, holding hands while they jogged across all kinds of surfaces—sand, snow, grass, rock. Maybe they’d even jog over water together. Or lava! That would be extra romantic. Someone had to invent lava boots, right?

Focus, Bozai!

He straightened, standing as tall as he could in his sand boots (which, unfortunately, was not very tall. The guards were right about his legs being short and stumpy).

“But first, a favor.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Ever heard of the legend of the eighth heroine?”

Immediately, the girl was captivated.

Gotcha again, Bozai thought.

A few minutes later, he’d handed over his trusty snow boots—which he hated to do, really, but it was all in the name of love. The girl would be back in a few days, anyway, because even in snow boots, the Gerudo Highlands were treacherous. No sane person would actually scale those cliffs and hike through all that snow just to see an old statue no one was sure even existed. Pretty soon, she’d realize that she’d much rather hang out with the handsome guy in the sand boots than freeze to death.

Bozai settled under the shade of the tent at the front of the town to wait.

“See you soon, Goldie,” he whispered to himself, and then he drifted off to sleep, dreaming of blue eyes and lava boots.

Goldie was not back in a few days.

A whole week went by, and there was no sign of her. Bozai fretted and frowned and fussed, and the nerves made him even sweatier than usual. But there was nothing he could do. Had Goldie fallen off a cliff? Or turned into a beautiful, tragic ice sculpture?

Or maybe she’d just taken his boots and run off, laughing at how stupid he was for thinking he ever had a chance with her. (That one made him so depressed that he tried flirting with the guards again, if only to give him a different rejection to brood over for an hour.)

Just when he’d almost lost hope completely, a familiar pair of eyes was blinking up at him.

Bozai gasped. “Oh, thank goodness! You made it back safely!”

He was so relieved that he couldn’t even think about acting cool. Instead, he found himself confessing the lie of the eighth heroine, apologizing, blabbing about his feelings—basically, rambling like an idiot. He was on the verge of getting on his knees and swearing his allegiance as her eternal protector when she held up a hand.

“Found it.”

She was trying to make him feel better. Which was sweet, but Bozai didn’t deserve that. He tried to tell her so, but she shoved a small, rectangular something in his face.

“Look at this!”

Bozai stared. There, on the rectangle, was an impossibly realistic image of what could only be the real eighth heroine.

“That—that’s amazing!” he spluttered. And then he was rambling again, nerding out about archaeology (his secret passion, other than boots). He had almost managed to bring the subject around to the subject of eternal love—in a subtle way, of course—but Goldie had a remarkably one-track mind.

“Sand boots, please!”

Bozai’s heart sank. But he was nothing if not a man of his word, so he dutifully took off the boots and relinquished them into her waiting hands.

“Could you be a lamb and return my snow boots?” he asked. “Otherwise ol’ Bozai’s going to be barefoot!”

She looked equally reluctant to hand them over, but she did, watching wistfully as he slipped them on. Or maybe that sad look was her way of telling him that she didn’t want to say goodbye either. Well, Bozai could take that hint.

“I’m pretty tired from my jogging regimen,” he said casually. “I think I’ll take five under the tent at the front of town. Care to join me?”

She didn’t. Bozai jogged dejectedly back to the shade, feet heavy in the wrong kind of boots.

The rest of the day crawled by. Bozai didn’t feel like jogging anymore. Not when he had to do it in snow boots, which were even clunkier in the sand than regular boots. Instead, he watched for Goldie under his tent. She had to come back, right? They were practically soulmates! (Or sole-mates. Heh.)

But alas, she was nowhere to be seen. The only golden hair he spotted belonged to the blank-faced weirdo—this time, practically shirtless, with a stupid-looking ponytail on top of his head. Bozai scoffed. What kind of outfit was that? Was he trying to invent some kind of Gerudo men’s wear? As if that was gonna get him into town. Idiot.

Blondie jogged toward a stray sand seal. It darted away before he could get close.

He jogged toward another one. He looked strangely light on his feet, like the sand wasn’t slowing him down at all. Almost like …

Bozai’s eyes widened. Blondie was wearing The Boots—the amazing, manly, one-of-a-kind sand boots he had just gifted to his true love.

Bozai jumped to his feet. “Hey! You!”

Blondie froze, panic on his normally stony face. Behind him, another seal dove beneath the sand.

“Those are my boots!” Bozai shouted, trudging clumsily toward him. “Or, I mean, they were! Where did you get them?”

Quickly, Blondie pulled something out of his pocket.

And then he started glowing.

Bozai stopped short, gaping. Blondie was glowing like a blue nightshade at midnight. And soon he was also floating, the toes of his stolen boots dangling above the sand. His body dissolved away in gleaming ribbons of light. And then he was gone.

Bozai stared at the spot where Blondie had disappeared, footprints still fresh in the sand.

“Did you see that too?” he asked a nearby sand seal.

“Arf!” said the seal.

Bozai shook his head. There was only one thing to do when your almost-girlfriend was robbed by a dead-eyed, weapon-loving freak who was apparently some kind of sorcerer.

He marched back to his tent and took a nap.

[mysticchaossoul]

Hey guys! The next chapter of Wild Tears is out if anyone is interested.

Fic Summary:

When the chain goes through a new portal, they didn't know what they were expecting to find. Definitely not their missing brother and his Zelda exploring some kind of tunnel system under Hyrule Castle. So when they go along with the pair, they are only left with more questions. Who was that corpse? Why is it under Hyrule Castle? How did they get up in the sky? What's up with Zelda gaining new powers? Where is Wild? A classic "Wild reunites with the Chain" fic, but with a twist. What if the Chain showed up a few minutes before the opening of totk? And what if Wild was the one sent to the past instead of Zelda?

[writingnocturne]

Here's a little snippet from my WIP for Zelink Week ( @zelinkcommunity)! It will be a 7-chapter fairytale centered around an original version of Zelink! ✨️ I'll be drawing them a LOT once the fic is posted. :)

¨༺ ~ ◈ ° ◈ ~ ༻¨

It was then that something struck Link; it struck him swiftly and painfully, right in his chest. He realized that, at some point in the years he knew Zelda, something had taken root in his heart. And, perhaps at that moment— or perhaps even earlier— it had burst into a storm of blossoms like none other.

𓆩o𓆪 ࿐₊‧⁺˖

[ivecomeforsouls]

Five Years Back Home

This is about what the Heros would do if they were all sent home for five years in the middle of their quest. Wind at the war of ages, Time with kids, and Wild's second adventure. Comment about what you think they should do, please. Cause I don't have ideas for all of them.

The Hero of Legend

The Hero of Hyrule

The Hero of Time

The Hero of the Wild

The Hero of the Sky

The Hero of the Minish

The Hero of Twilight

The Hero of Warriors

The Hero of the Wind

Back on the Trail

Back to Master Post

[beemovieerotica]

so i've already introduced transphobic bisexual ganon in this fic, but since there's time travel involved and they all go back in time to kill baby ganondorf kill the original ganondorf that got locked under hyrule castle until the events of botw, i now have to distinguish the two ganon(dorf)s, and this is how i've chosen to do so:

[only-by-the-stars]

WIP Wednesday!

Have a preview of this Saturday's Song of Champion update:

At the opposite end, another door led into a deteriorating bedchamber. Curtains hung in shreds from a canopied bed, drawers lolled open in chests and wardrobes, and shards of mullioned windows clung desperately to their frames. It looked to have been someone’s guest quarters, and particularly nice ones at that. Despite herself Mipha wandered further in, her gaze flickering between the bed and the wrecked wardrobe and back again. Morning light bathed the ruined furniture in its buttery gleam, and a hint of a breeze caressed her scales. More than that, though, something itched at her mind. Sadness? Familiarity? She couldn’t be sure. Then she froze. For—there—she felt it. Not a chill river’s breeze, but a murmur of warmth, like arms wrapped around her, like a body pressed close for the fragment of a moment. And she heard it too: not the rustle of tattered curtains, but someone’s breath whispering into her ears. Words she could not make out, no matter how she strained to hear them. Then they vanished. “I…” Left shivering in the wake of the mirage—if mirage it indeed had been—Mipha began to cry, her shoulders shaking as the tears broke loose. “No… come back…” What had that been? A half-formed recollection? An illusion? A ghost? Mipha’s chest ached as she continued to cry, nigh uncontrollably, and she struggled to find words, thoughts, to explain the phenomenon to herself somehow. To explain it in a way that would not break her heart. “Say… say something,” she pleaded, throat thick. “Please…” Please. Please. Let me hear your voice, as I heard the others inside their Beasts. Let me know that you are unharmed and merely waiting for me to free you along with Zelda. Please end this uncertainty, I do not know how much more I can bear. Please… Hadn’t she wondered, once, if you could miss someone you barely remembered? Mipha wasn’t sure what answer she’d reached that night, but here and now she knew: she could. She did. She recalled more of Link now than she had when she’d first asked herself that question, of course, though it was still a tiny fraction of how much they’d shared before the fall. Nevertheless, it was more than enough to leave her heart in the grips of a grief beyond words. More than enough to leave her missing him, loving him, with every fiber of her being. More than enough to have her gulping down the last of her sobs as she prayed to Lord Jabu-Jabu and the Goddesses that what she’d just experienced had not been his ghost, but merely the specter of memory. “Give… give him back,” she whispered amidst a few last, hot tears. “Give him back…” No reply came. She hadn’t expected one, of course, but all the same the absence of sound sent a torrent of conflicting emotions storming through her. Was it better not to hear Link? Was his silence born of being alive and trapped? Or was it a result of his soul having departed this world a hundred years ago? Was it better not to hear Zelda, given that all her strength had to be poured into holding back Ganon? She didn’t know.

[minijenn]

NOT ME BACK ON MY BULLSHIT BOUTTA WRITE A TOTK FIC

EXCEPT I AM AHAHAHAHA

Ok lemme reel it back and explain. So in the... eventual future I plan on writing a totk au fic entitled To Lose Oneself. Basic gist of the plot is if Link wasn't saved by Rauru's arm at the start, and instead, his arm is all corrupted or whatever by gloom and it just keeps on gettin worse and worse. Add that onto the rest of the game's already dramatic plot and you get: Ganondorf being a fucking bastard man, Fake Zelda being a creep, the sages being Link's concerned found family, Purah being the tired team mom, and MiniJen writing yet another fic where she slowly but surely corrupts a boy. Ya know, for fun.

Coming to an AO3 near you... sooner or later idk