by Kurai Hitokiri

Disclaimer: I do not own Zelda, Nintendo, or any of these characters

A/N: Whilst managing my Devianart, I came across some amazing Dark Link pics and the wheels in my head began turning. I fell asleep, and well, this was the result of a very crazy dream/partial inspiration by some of you AMAZING Zelda artists out there. I hope you read and review… enjoy it!

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It's cold here.

Here, in this surreal prison of mist and water. This house of cruel mirrors that casts your hated image back upon you. A constant reminder of the caged beast that you've become.

The pale, alabaster skin of your rugged face, the bleeding crimson of your eyes. The silk black of your tunic, right down to the gleaming, cheap silver of the sword strapped to the lean muscle of your build. The blackened, crescent shaped mark on the back of your hand that itches and burns when you are summoned.

It's a reflection that you've come to loathe, because it is not your face that you look at. It is not your strength that graces each lean muscle (muscles which you do not possess) of this shadowy canister that your Master has consigned you to.

His reflection.

The reflection of the Hero of Time.

Your brothers before you had fallen, slain by his wretched sword. Their grotesque carcasses were dragged to the feet of the King of Evil in a horrid array of dismembered limbs and shattered bone, the putrid perfume of decay hanging in droves about their maggot ridden cadavers.

The King of Evil had smiled, threw his head back in fits of maniacal laughter as he examined each violent cut made to every part of his depraved creations. He deemed them useless and spat on their corpses, grinning in carnal delight at the destruction wrought by the Hero of Time.

And he imagined, with sick joviality, the carnage that you (not yet born) would wreak upon the Hylians. He pondered the disgusting irony that would come as the people of Hyrule died in a cacophony of blood-curling screams under the reflection of their Hero.

He took, from the dungeon, a multitude of all ages, throwing them into the acidic blood of your previous incarnations.

They wailed in agony as slaughter ensued. Man, woman, and child died, devoured by the hungry remains of your brethren. The crippled that attempted to crawl forth from the ravenous sludge were beheaded, inch by sweet inch of the blade slowly sinking into their necks as the insatiable bloodlust of your Master's monsters stood enchanted by this seething pot of sin.

And from this sludge, you crawled, a bubbling mask of shifting flesh, grasping helplessly at the feet of your Master.

Murderous hands lovingly seized your featureless face, pausing in brief admiration before they sunk in, sending you shrieking as he cracked bone.

Bit by bit he forged every flaw of your face. Ripped holes for eyes, ran a dagger across your chin to cleave a gash for the start of a mouth.

He showed no mercy, paid no attention to your pained cries of anguish. A hand thrust its way into your chest, a pulsing, glowing golden light hidden within the mass of flesh.

Images flashed across your mind. Of a green forest filled with glowing sprites. Of wide-eyed children clad in green. Of rolling green planes, of marble towers, of haloed mountains. Of faces of people smiling at you.

…Of violet eyes and a childish smile, glowing blonde hair and the soft-scent of flowers that waft delicately through some unknown breeze and to your crude features.

You feel warmth because of those eyes… you feel wanted. Loved. As though you had never been loved before the moment those wise violets were revealed to your sinful eyes.

And then the iron-smelling scent of blood drowned out the fragile odor of flora in your nostrils. The light left your eyes and those violet orbs fade to cold stone.

Warmth faded into cold that left you trembling and numb.

And since, you have never felt that warmth again.

But still, those eyes haunt you in your sleep.

That smile makes you cringe in want.

They follow you as you sit imprisoned beneath the ice in this limbo that your Master has consigned you to. To wait for the moment when He comes through the door so that you can end his existence.

Because that is the purpose of your presence in this world.

'But,' you pause to think one day as you stare up at your reflection, 'if he dies, then what is my purpose?'

Will your Master let you go? Will be free of this prison? Free to be your own man rather than a cheap copy of this man that has cursed you with sunny, tortured thoughts of some unknown pair of eyes?

…Will you find this woman (it must be a woman, to appear so often, with such great detail in your Original's mind) who haunts you so… who means more than anythingin the world to this man you loathe?

Will you cease to exist?

Seconds turn to minutes. Minutes to hours. Hours to days.

You spend your time under the ice, trembling, tortured by the possibility of disappearing.

You want to end this man. Perhaps then the cold will fade. The memories will cease. Because then, there are no memories to draw upon. If he ceases to exist, with him, his memories will halt their assault upon your mind.

And you will be your own person.

You will feel warmth. You find happiness.

You will find her.

The sound of leather splashing 'gainst water wake you from your dreams of freedom one day.

The mystical ice imprisoning you beneath the surface thaws, allowing you to burst forth and stand upon its surface for the first time. A hand goes to the icy silver hilt of your blade as you watch the bright green of his tunic cut through the thick clouds of mist.

Fierce blues light the fog. Shining, shaggy gold locks topped by the most emerald green fabric in existence (at least, in your small world) fall around rough features. Tanned flesh proves the antithesis to your own pale skin.

For a moment, you stare each other down, studying every bit of each other with rapt fascination. He seemed stunned by the precision to which your Master has gone to replicate him. Every lock, every bit of fabric is a mirror of what he is. And every wretched memory that he possess, you hold in aching shards within your tortured mind.

But he holds answers. He knows those violet eyes. He's living.

And you're just a wisp of darkness.

Anger and sorrow fuels every sword strike. Desperation clouds every hazy corner of your mind as he parries each swing, throws weapons at you, dancing against each attack with practiced ease.

'I must exist. I must LIVE.'

Strike. Parry.

'I must find her.'

Dodge. Stumble.

'I cannot be a shadow.'


'I cannot be…'

A final stab.


Darkness pours forth from the wound in steady streams, painting the water black. The agonized souls that stitch flesh together exit your wretched body in a crescendo of thanks.

Above you, the Hero of Time stands, hand on the hilt of his blade as he stares down upon you, something akin to pity lighting his eyes.

He draws the Master Sword from your body, sheathing it in one single swoop as he crouches beside you looking at you silently. Not speaking. Not judging.

Just watching.

Your eyes close as memories flash through your mind in horrid waves of remembrance. A pained gasp exits your lips before you open ruby eyes, soft baritone filling the air.

"…Hero?" it leaves your mouth in a faint gasp of air, barely loud enough to be heard above the steady drip of water from the ceiling.

And he leans forward despite this, placing a pointed ear near your mouth, paying rapt attention.

"…I… feel… cold…" a cough.

Callused fingers find your own, a dull golden glow making your eyes ache as the Hero grasps your hand.

Beautiful, waist length, golden curls fill every corner of your mind.

A young girl stands before you in white fabrics, features appearing as though chiseled by the hands of the Goddesses.

She stares at you with a familiar smile on her lips, holding a hand out towards you, violets shining with mirth.

You reach out, alarmed to find your hand a shade of tan… the Hero's hand. A small, boyish hand… but it's yours and his hand that grasps the little girl's hand in your own.

She pulls you forward, into that dazzling light, ever grinning.

"Come on! Everyone's waiting for you!"

And just as you are about you leave, you turn back and see the Hero, battered and worn, standing with that same stoic expression on his face.

And now…. Now you understand.

You are his darkness. His darkest desires. His hopes, dreams, and greedy ambitions.

But you are a piece of him. A piece essential to his existence. A piece without which he cannot be.

You nod your head to him, closing now blue eyes before turning on your heel and running that girl towards some unknown location.


A deep rich timbre echoes into every corner of your childish being. It names your companion ahead of you. It sends warmth spiraling into every corner of your being.

And all you can think… the last coherent words that play in your mind before you lose yourself in this new world:

"I feel… warm."

Note: Don't forget to read and review more of Kurai Hitokiri's excellent writing and artwork over at Fanfiction.Net.

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