The legend of zelda forg.., p.1
The Legend of Zelda: Forgotten Goddess, page 1
The following is a work of fan-fiction. Though it goes without saying, “The Legend of Zelda” video game franchise as well as its characters are owned by Nintendo. This work is not for sale. The author reserves all applicable rights and will not stand for any attempts at monetary gain via this work. The following would not be possible without the creativity and vision of the well-known individuals responsible for the source material. Please continue to support the official releases this work merely attempts to pay homage to. Thank you, and enjoy.
This story follows the “child timeline” of the games. It is not meant to be canon content.
I say again. It is NOT meant to be canon content.
Still, without an intimate knowledge of Ocarina of Time, Majora’s Mask, and Twilight Princess in particular, some parts of the plot may not make sense. Obviously you should expect spoilers if you’ve yet to play these games.
The Legend of Zelda:
Forgotten Goddess
By: N Felts
Copyright N Felts 2012
Published at Smashwords
Prologue
The lingering sun of late afternoon cooks the flatstone walkways of Hyrule Castle Town. A visible wave of heat waves lazily, streaming up and out of the worn grooves of a thousand horse drawn carriages. The town itself seems critically ill. Symptoms of a deteriorating civilization are everywhere. Overgrown grass hangs over alleyways. Fallen leaves crowd the south side of every building, the consistent breeze from Lake Hylia to the south ending here after its long journey across Hyrule Field. The lively music and bustling crowds are a distant memory. Now the shop keepers rest lazily in their stalls, praying tomorrow brings more sales. Brings any sales at all. The days of townspeople fighting over the latest trend, the rupees flowing like Zora's River, are long gone. Children used to fill their pockets with sweets from spare change accidentally dropped into pots or thrown into the fountain at the heart of the market, but now they scamper through alleyways, stealing when they've grown hungry enough. The town has known neither order nor wealth for many months. The only remaining haven of prosperity is the church on the east side of town. Stained glass shimmering above the massive, wooden double doors depicts mighty Hylia with her Goddess sword in hand. Inside the pews are rarely empty. Even at this odd hour, several of the townspeople remain seated, their hands clasped in hope of their savior delivering them from this depression. There is no dark force to be slain this time around. No reemergence of evil to be suppressed. A blade, no matter how divine, cannot pull crops from their parched seeds, nor rain from the cloudless sky. The people give offering, and they pray, but for months their prayers have gone unanswered.
Resting in a dark corner behind the organ, a young boy named Rift spins a small, wooden box between his thumb and index finger. Watching the shanty piece of craftsmanship slowly turn in his grasp, his mind remains blank, simply waiting for yet another day to pass. His emotionless face is shrouded beneath an old, damaged cowl. Hanging from his shoulders is a black cloak donning the royal crest on both the front and back in faded gold stitching. Resting lightly on his chest and back, it ends in a short, triangular point in his lap. Given to him by the priest, the cloak primarily conceals the gaping holes in his cheap outfit of faded cotton. Taken in as a toddler, Rift remembers little of his parents. The priest has told the story several times, casualties of the plague of darkness brought about by the dark lord Ganondorf years ago. Now his time is spent waiting. Not waiting for anything in particular, just endlessly waiting for the night to fall, and the dawn to break. A general uneasiness sounds from the pews as a group of children enter the building.
“Rift, you in here?” The leader of the gang calls out, glancing around the massive room. Making no effort to conceal or reveal him, the tired old priest simply stares at the troublemakers dumbly. The boy’s words echo in the profoundly silent room, disturbing the peaceful ambiance.
“Don’t cause trouble,” a gruff voice sounds from beside the doors. One of the few town guards has been posted at the church to keep the peace. Scowling lazily from beneath his traditional helm, he briefly stamps his spear on the wooden floor before cocking his head toward the door. “Go on,” he commands, not particularly eager to incite a confrontation.
“We’re gonna find you!” A young girl in the group calls as they collectively march out of the structure with an air of superiority. Hobbling over to Rift’s hiding place, the priest simply isn’t spirited enough to protect the boy any longer. Years of fear and hiding have made the church a target of vandalism, the children practically running the town with no one especially willing to discipline them.
“Rift,” the old man sighs, palming the dusty organ for balance. “You know you’re like a son to me, but this can’t go on any longer. I won’t always be here to protect you. Please,” he continues, coughing briefly. “You’ve got to stand up for yourself. Pray to Hylia, and she will protect you.” Watching the old man with sad eyes, Rift climbs to his feet and pockets his treasured box. The wooden boards beneath the decorative rug creak with every step as he slowly exits the church. Peeking through the single opened door, a rapid series of anxious breaths are halted when the sentry breaks the silence.
“They headed north toward the castle,” the guard points out, caring little for the boy’s fate, but offering the information all the same.
“Thanks,” Rift smirks, aiming to sound genuine, but coming off as abrasively sarcastic. Without another word he quickly trots through the lifeless, stone streets toward the massive drawbridge at the gate. He will spend the brief portion of the day that remains outside the confines of town. In the distance, the gang of children passes from alley to alley near the twisting path leading up to the castle. Once a symbol of hope and unity, its many spires seem to hang their heads in shame at the current state of the kingdom.
Pacing near the balcony of his room, King Harkinian has never looked less healthy. A thick, white beard hangs down from his wrinkled face. Once the visage of a hardened warrior, time has done what it does to men of any status. The darkest of days has come and gone. The king of thieves had stolen his very throne, but just as the prophecy foretold, the hero of time struck him down. He had seen the tinge of deceit in the Gerudo’s eyes so long ago, but never expected such an uprising in his own kingdom. Between the civil war and Ganondorf's treachery, Hyrule has enjoyed very little peace during his time on the throne. Now, the distant land of Arcadia would dare move to threaten Gamelon, assuming Hyrule in a state of weakness. Duke Onkled received the might of Hyrule's army immediately, but the cost has proven far greater than assumed. The time of darkness has passed, but the drought continues. The able bodied men march to war, and now the kingdom is trapped in a veil of decay. The people of Castle Town remain disparaged, and the further one travels from the castle gate, the more uneasy the inhabitants of the kingdom become. A period of prosperity is long overdue to them, but with the hand the King’s been dealt, it's simply not in the cards. His lovely Princess has shied away from a life of politics, and he has never needed her beauty and natural charm more than now. The people need a symbol of hope now more than ever, and his tired old face is far from reassuring these days. The light continues to fade, the beams piercing through the tall windows lining the hallways growing longer by the minute. Another thick bead of sweat crawls from beneath his crown as his perpetual angst refuses to relent.
A raven soars past the balcony, continuing over the church’s steeple, and into the open air of Hyrule Field. No matter how unproductive and desolate it becomes, the landscape remains a gargantuan display of beauty. Gradual hills stretch out as far as the eye can see as the setting sun dances on the golden grass. Resting listlessly in the only place he can feel at ease, Rift watches the rolling puffs of dust twinkle in the last of the days light. Resting against a particular rock face near the river pouring down from Zora's Domain to the north, he listens to the subtle music, only discernible when the wind is just right. The reeds on the small plateau overhead seem to hum a blissful melody while the cattails beside the bridge knock on the dry wood rhythmically. Reaching into his pocket, he produces the wooden box. A metallic protrusion on the side is twisted, the soft clang of thin metal sounding between turns. Finally letting his palm rest on the dry grass next to his thigh, the box plays his favorite song, and memories of his mother invade his thoughts. The only thing he can remember clearly is darkness. A blanket of shadow enveloping everything around him. However, the feeling of a profound warmth against his cheek kept the fear at bay. The sensation of impossible comfort only offered by a mother’s embrace. The feeling he lost so very long ago. The current times promote selfishness and survival of the fittest. Lacking these traits is certain to lead him to an early grave.
“Found him!” A girl yells from above. Shaken from his trance, Rift scrambles to his feet to find familiar faces arriving from multiple directions. Failing to hang on to his spikey black hair, his hood collapses onto his back. The leader arrives after the rest of the group has congregated on the ledge, parting them to look down upon his prey. An athletic boy named Rho, always carrying the wooden sword his father gave him before leaving to join the defense of Gamelon. An aggressive child destined to rise to power, however small the extent of his reign may be. The other children obey him without question, knowing his potential violence is much more than a mere threat.
“I told you not to hide from us,” Rho shrugs, his stoic face especially intimidating in the fading light. The only child wi
“We're not in,” the girl on his right starts, clamping her hands over her mouth as Rho shifts his glance to her. A bit of a know-it-all for Rho’s taste, Ona has a difficult time keeping her mouth shut. A year or two younger than Rift, she can be even more aggressive than Rho at times, knowing her fearless leader will back up any threat she can conjure. Waiting hopelessly, Rift grips his music box tightly behind his back, afraid sliding it back into his pocket would be noticed.
“I don't want to see your face around here anymore,” Rho continues, hopping off the small plateau and forcibly prodding Rift in the chest with his sword. Remaining silent, Rift grimaces painfully, but continues to carefully conceal his treasure. Stumbling away, he is denied a chance to run as the rest of the group quickly encircles him. Looking back to Rho, he sees the jig is up. “What's that?” He demands, prodding Rift with the sword once again. Oblivious to his approach, Rift is taken by surprise when one of the boys sneaks up behind him and snatches the music box away. Dahn, a human from Ordon Village, is the original member of Rho’s posse. Always eager to pick a fight, he couldn’t have been happier to help Rho take over.
“Got it!” He shouts excitedly, turning it over in his hands. “It's some kind of box. Looks stupid.”
“Give it here,” Rho commands, prompting the boy to toss it over Rift's head. Gripped with panic, Rift watches in horror as his only possession of value is idly inspected by his worst enemy. A much stronger breeze pushes through the field as the sun has nearly set. Unable to find the courage to speak, Rift utters a weak whine, grabbing Rho's attention.
“Oh, does the baby want his toy back?” Rho teases, tossing it to another kid.
“Over here!” Another calls as they continue to toss the box to each other, just out of his reach. Straining to catch a wayward throw, Rift fails over and over again as the children continue to taunt and tease him. Stumbling after a missed catch that just grazes his fingertips, he is on his back looking up before the sting of pain is registered. A heavy swing landed on the bridge of his nose as Rho nearly managed to knock him out with his trusty sword. Tears of pain welling up in his eyes, Rift weakly grabs at his face while Rho dangles his music box over him.
“Awwww, is the baby gonna cry now?” He continues to taunt.
“Rho,” Ona calls, afraid to interrupt, but clearly wanting to point something out.
“Shut up,” he absently responds, poking Rift mercilessly as he is denied the chance to get back to his feet.
“But, the sun,” Ona pleads. Pointing at the sparse light, dipping into the desert beyond the canyon to the west.
“I said shut up!” He demands, enjoying the power too much to be distracted. Without another word, she flees back toward the bridge, still down for the time being. The pain and humiliation is too much for Rift to handle, curling into a fetal position and waiting for the children to lose interest. As the yellow glow of the sun fades into the dim, blue glow of the moon, a Wolfos howls somewhere in the distance. It is only now that Rho realizes the danger he is in. A rumble of earth to the group's left is all it takes to incite a panic. The remaining children begin to run for the bridge, only to be cut off by a bony hand springing from the earth. They’ve strayed from the safety of the castle walls, and now the Stalchildren are upon them. Scrambling to his feet, Rift finds Rho gripping his sword tensely, unsure if he should fight or run. Making a move to take back his music box ends in disaster as Rho’s quick reflexes allow him to dodge Rift’s advance and trip him back to the ground effortlessly. “Pssh! Take it,” Rho shrugs, tossing the box toward the small bridge leading to Kakariko Village. Thoughtlessly chasing after his most prized possession, Rift is unaware of Rho’s plot to save his gang at Rift’s expense. Charging toward the multiple tiny skeletons, clumsily marching after the kids with glowing orange eyes, Rho beats them down with a rapid succession of strikes. Beckoning the group to join him he continues to knock the weak apparitions aside as they close the distance to the bridge. The endless parade of fleshless anatomy continues to emerge, their jawless mouths seeming to grin at the easy prey.
Finally locating his box, Rift turns back toward Castle Town to find the bridge is already beginning its ascent, the chains connected to the old wood loudly cranking while the children’s hearts collectively sink. The dry grass crunches beneath his sandals as Rift sprints toward the group of hoodlums, desperate for some level of security. Enemy or not, he needs Rho’s protection if he intends to survive the night. Rho cracks yet another Stalchild’s head open, the collection of bones collapsing like a house of cards and slowly seeping back into the ground like quicksand. The persistent demons seem to be defeated for the moment, the endless spawning of fresh enemies pausing for a time. Seconds from reaching the group, Rift is thrown off his feet when yet another deformed, skeletal head blasts upward from the earth. This Stalchild is twice the size of his predecessors, and proportionally aggressive. Slowly crawling away on his back, Rift can’t help but utter a squeak of fear, unintentionally grabbing the ghoul’s attention. Its large, soulless eyes lock on the helpless boy as it gracelessly turns to claim his life. Scrambling to his feet once again, Rift breaks into a sprint in no particular direction. Glancing over his shoulder, he is relieved to find the skeleton is much slower than him, his sights already turned back to the group of screaming kids. Rho attacks courageously, but his wooden blade snaps in half against the monster’s forearm. A wave of defeat washes over the group, cowering above the rushing torrent of water beneath the raised bridge. Turning away and squeezing his eyes shut, Rift does his best to block out the screams of terror as the merciless monster bears down on them. Peeking into the dim night, he realizes his troubles are far from over as yet another Stalchild has surfaced, swinging a bony hand at him. Tripping to the side, he narrowly dodges the attack as more of the undead continue to climb into the haunting blue of the moon.
His eyes darting about in search of some kind of safety, he only finds the dark entrance of the Faron province, a dusty trail leading through an opening in the trees. The bouncing orange eyes seem to close in from all directions, and he is left with no alternative. Pulling his hood back onto his head, he flees into the dark forest, a place the Stalchildren will not venture. A plethora of insects spiral about the lush green landscape, and the chirping of life cascades over him like a coming storm. Unsure what he should do, Rift moves forward slowly, utilizing his dark clothing to fade into the shadows. The eerie glow of the moon pierces through the canopy in sporadic beams, the countless tales he’s heard of the woodland creatures doing nothing to stifle his fear. Without warning, a seemingly harmless plant snaps to life, aggressively latching onto his arm with its hungry mouth. A shriek of pain echoes through the trees as the plant whips him back and forth through the air before launching him into a nearby tree trunk. Writhing in pain, he grabs at his arm, dripping with the nectar salivating from the plant’s carnivorous mouth. The plant itself angrily snaps its toothless, blue jaws, straining to finish off its prey like a dog on a chain. Its long, flexible stem becomes a collar of sorts, Rift’s leg just out of reach as the boy painfully climbs back to his feet. The hostile foliage seems to dare him to come closer as it returns to its passive stance, waiting for its next victim.
Another howl cuts through the night, and Rift begins to wonder if he’d be better off facing the Stalchildren. Being thrown through the air robbed him of his bearings, the already difficult to follow path nowhere to be seen. A mammoth, hollow tree trunk serves as a hallway of sorts, its moss covered bark glistening in the moonlight. Proceeding through as carefully as he’s able, Rift holds his throbbing arm, failing to fight the tears of pain away. Somewhere in the distance, past the aggressive plant life and over the buzzing insects, he’d swear he hears music. Another massive tree trunk leads him left, and the song increases in volume. Some sort of flute generating an upbeat melody, a song of dance and celebration. A song of innocence. Yet another hollow passageway of wood and moss, and Rift’s focus returns to reveal he is hopelessly lost. Even if he could summon the courage to return to Hyrule Field in the dark, he couldn’t find his way if he tried. The forest itself seems to spin around him, the chipper music starting to fade as he decides to go right at a small clearing with multiple exits. Suddenly, a large object strikes him, bouncing off his shoulder blade like a wayward fastball. Wincing in pain, he turns to find a deku shrub waddling toward him angrily. Generally known for their passive nature, the tiny, armless creatures shrouded in leaves have grown increasingly hostile as the drought begins to threaten the forest. Its large spout of a mouth retracts, and before Rift can react, another deku nut blasts at him as if fired from a cannon. Striking him in the stomach, the force knocks him off his feet for a moment. Searching for a way out, he feels a rush of air whip past his head and realizes he is being fired upon from multiple directions. The shrubs prove every bit as relentless as the Stalchildren, emerging from every direction. Shielding his face, Rift sprints deeper into the forest, stumbling when yet another nut collides with the back of his knee.
