This is fiction based on Zelda: The Ocarina of Time called "Even Veins". Presented here is the first part of the first chapter. I am not sure how long it will last, but I am certain that it will get finished. Eventually. (Also posted in blog)
The rain, upon his smoked bamboo umbrella, reminds only of regret. For ten life-long years, though much had come and left Aokan, he has watched, with a pale heart, over the bridge in hollow mist. Fog drapes his mask and flows through the floorboards, but his eyes are as trees fighting a storm. Speared, stoic, and torn. Rivers wallow down the empty roads and the town returns to the shades of dirt and dust. But between the rooftops, the ashen sky, and stale stone skin and bones, he stands with resolve, with the scars of evergreen. He is the dreamer of the sun beneath the clouds. He is the warrior in winter wishing for spring.
So as if a warm bed of grass, the man strapped in light leather armor, in the color of charcoaled leaves, descends. He lets go of the earth. The umbrella so firmly held flutters beyond the ledge like clovers. The sun sets into the oceanside, with him. Daggers of rain cut across boots lined in metal, belts clasped, gauntlets tightened, and leather sown over war. His eyes close to feel; like a wish hanging the cover of night, each muscle, each bone, each brooding thought, plunge into the path. The wood panels rattle and the air shivers, heeding to the weight. But no one is around, as often is, to know his comfort of rest.
A form-fitting massage patters his body and streams of water spread upon his face. A smile appears, selfless and sound, but the mask only reveals his eyes. To the bridge, curving like a rainbow, the man seemed a demon of nature whose spirit of such quiet ferocity threatened more than the wrath of the storm. Ever since the village became a city, the brdige has known only strain, the footsteps of man. It is afraid to speak in creaks and bends for fear of breaking his peace. The bridge remains vibrantly still.
Like first love. Never had the bridge felt comfort from a man. Between the raindrops, they listen. The railing. The double railing. The trickling beneath their toes. The aroma of water petals tumbling down their skin. The silence speaks through them like browns glazed bittersweet. A blend so lush and succulent that water runs into the canal. Together, they remember the days of green, of roots and berries and dew. They hear an orchestra of ivy and grass, insects and birds, and verdant pleasantries. A melody of home takes them through arpeggios and triplets, sun and moon phrases, earth chords, allegretto, and a minuet of stars. But suddenly he forgets. A false note. The rain crashes back to the ground.
Pain sears the scar through his chest. The nightmares of the time a darkened sword went through his heart writhe. He tries to reach his legs but his right knee thuds. His left hand clenches his heart as blood seethes through his teeth, drenches his mask, and rushes down his jaw. He breathes in papercuts. The bridge throbs beneath the demon that cannot hear nor see and its body shatters, further deceived. His right arm, stretched, grated, and veined, strikes through the bridge like a switchblade. As the splinters suspend, his eyes awaken. Aware of his fault. His boots grip and, by will alone, he musters toward a nearby wall.
There, he stands, keeping his right hand locked on the wall. The blurs align. His breath loosens. But the cut on his fist still stings. As his eyes stare at the hole in the bridge, the mist settles. Blood and water drip from his hands, staining the rusted dirt. The smoked bamboo umbrella waits at his feet, unfurled in the mud. Trying to grasp the melody, his mind wavers and fades as if waking from a dream. From the corner of his left eye, a passerby crosses, so he raises the umbrella to his waist.
But he stops. His palm slides across the grooves and onto the handle. Mud slides off as he holds the umbrella in strokes against the rain. He walks away, the bridge behind him, but the rain pours onto his face, his shoulders, and his back. The umbrella sways uncomfortably at his side, but his hands are firm and red.
He has forgotten Hyrule for far too long.
Log in to comment