Through A Glass, Darkly; A Legend of Zelda Fan Fiction

Rating: PG-13/T, will increase to R/M in later chapters.

Warnings: This story contains (or will contain) coarse language, violence and gore, sexuality, and other adult themes. Reader discretion is advised.

Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own Nintendo’s Legend of Zelda franchise, its premise or any of its characters. No money is being made from these writings. No copyright infringement is intended.

Fandoms: Will draw primarily from Ocarina of Time and Twilight Princess.

Author’s Note: Just a little bit of housekeeping here. Firstly, this story is what you might call an ‘original concept,’ or a continuation of the cyclical Zelda timeline – but don’t worry, it will be very much a Zelda story, and it will respect canon. Secondly, this won’t be a pairing-driven story. Different pairings may crop up as the story progresses, but they will be playing second fiddle to the rest of the story, and will not drive the plot. Thirdly, the events recounted in Tim Cook’s brilliant article “‘More a Medicine than a Beverage’: ‘Demon Rum’ and the Canadian Trench Soldier of the First World War (Canadian Military History 9, 1; 2000) have inspired many details included in the first four chapters of this story. Finally, I am actively seeking feedback and concrit for this story, so feel free to drop me a line or leave a review!

Acknowledgements: Thank you to Miss Leanne for beta-ing chapters two and onward. Thanks also to Ryan, Ben, and Clara for reading my preliminary drafts.

Extended Summary:

A dark power will rise. A princess will uncover a wisdom forgotten. A soldier will discover the courage within. A land will remember its past. And a legend will be reborn.

Drenched in the blood of mechanized warfare, the modern nation-state of Hyrule once again cries for its Hero. But in a time where the true meaning of ‘hero’ has been forgotten, who will heed the call? In a land where science and machines have replaced spells and potions, who will awaken the magic that lurks within? And when the past is finally unearthed, what dark secrets will shatter the Hylian conceptions of good and evil, of right and wrong, of superior and inferior, of truth and lie?

A dystopic continuation of the ZELDA timeline. Will eventually be designed to merge with canon; serious in style and content. Some content is mature/disturbing in nature; reader discretion is advised.

PROLOGUE: Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!

“…All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, out-stripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time…”
-- From Wilfred Owen’s “Dulce et Decorum Est.”

Link hated the trenches. He hated the way the mud seeped in through the cracks in his boots like sticky, squelching blood. At least blood was warm – the mud was always so cold. Cold. That was the dominant sensation in the trenches, except for the sickening heat of seeping wounds. The air was cold, the mud was cold, the puddle of water he stood in was cold. Even the gun he had to fire was bloody fucking cold. So cold. Link hated the cold.

He hated this goddamn war.

They didn’t tell him about the cold. Or the blood. He had expected blood, but not like this. He had never seen so much blood. He had never seen so much death… Terrible images of exploding shells and bodies danced on the backs of his tightly-clenched eyelids. He wanted to sleep, and sleep, and sleep, and never wake up. He wanted to dream – dream of the smell of hay, of warm sunshine and of stolen moments of quiet solitude. But the nightmares never stopped. And the sound of distant fire never ceased.

Where was the glory, the camaraderie, the victory, that Hyrule had promised its soldiers? Link remembered the first time he had heard of the war…

The hay was ready for harvesting. It was early September and though a boiling sun beat down on his bare, muscular back, Link could feel the faint nip of Autumn’s cool embrace persisting in the air. He sighed and wiped his sweaty blond hair out of his face with the back of his hand. He had been in the field since dawn, and he was tired, thirsty and hungry. It was early in the afternoon, but Link hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. It was time for a break. He finished gathering the sheave of hay he had been working on before putting his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistling to catch the attention of his friends.

Fado and Ilia, who were some distance away from him in the field, both turned. Fado grinned. “Hungry, Link? We can always tell the time of day by your stomach.” Fado raised his voice and hollered to the other scattered field-hands. “S’lunch-time!”

Link chuckled, and leaned on his scythe, waiting for Fado and Ilia to walk over. He glanced over to the west edge of the field where his horse, Epona, was and whistled again. This time it was more melodic, changing tones and forming a short song. Epona turned, ears perked, and trotted over to her master. She was a good horse and never strayed far when Link was working in the fields. Link greeted her with an affectionate scratch behind the ears.

“Let’s go down to the spring,” Ilia suggested as she came up beside Link, “We’ve got a half-hour or so, and the water will feel nice against this heat. And besides, Epona needs a good washing.”

Link blushed a bit. “I suppose she does.” Ilia was protective of horses by nature, especially Epona. Link had purchased the horse from a man in the neighbouring village and Ilia had taken a liking to the gentle mare from the moment she had laid eyes on her.

Ilia had been right. The cool water of the spring felt marvellous. Link sat on the edge, his sore and blistered feet soaking in the water while he ate a simple lunch of bread, butter and cold tea. Fado was stretched out beside him, absently chewing a blade of grass. Ilia was washing Epona and singing softly to herself. Watching her caused a peculiar sensation to stir in Link’s stomach. She was petite, but sturdily built from years working in the fields, and her hair reminded him of the earthy golden colour of hay.

The afternoon was deceptively perfect…

It was the wild beating of hooves that pulled them from their lazy summer reverie. Link stood up and looked towards the nearby road.

“It sounds like something’s up,” Link remarked as he walked towards the road.

To his surprise, the cacophony was coming from a fast-approaching, regally decorated horse and rider. It was a messenger of the Royal Court. Link’s curiosity had been ignited, and when the messenger tore past him and continued on toward the village, his immediate instinct was to head there himself… Behind him, Ilia and Fado were chatting excitedly – Royal messengers rarely came to backwater peasant towns like Ordon, and when they did, the news they brought was usually sufficiently important to warrant forgetting about a day’s labour in the fields.

“Let’s go,” Link urged, “I have a feeling this is something big…” Little more had to be said. Link helped Ilia up onto Epona and the three hastily headed back to the village.

By the time they arrived, a grand commotion had already been stirred up amongst the villagers and the bells of the town’s temple were being used to summon people to the small town square. A crowd had gathered and in its middle, on the platform normally used for festivals, was the messenger along with Ordon’s mayor. After several long minutes, the messenger raised his hand. The bells ceased, and crowd quieted.

“Brothers, sisters!” the messenger declared boldly, “I come to you in Hyrule’s time of greatest need. Our noble kingdom is under attack! Three sunsets ago, strange armies began landing and assembling on the shores of the Vast Ocean. This is an unfamiliar foe, unknown to Hyrule before now. Nevertheless, their intent is clear! Our King, our land, our women and children are at risk! Thus, the King requests the aid of his beloved peoples’ and urges all able-bodied men aged eighteen to forty-five years to enlist for service in the Royal Hyrulean Army.”

The crowd stood stunned momentarily, bated, before its anxious questions burst forth in a frenzy of talking and shouting.

“Who is it that’s invadin’? An’ how can they be unknown to our kingdom?”

“Surely they are no match for the great armies and advanced technologies of Hyrule!”

“Silence!” cried the messenger “The foreign armies appear to be arriving from some un-charted portion of the Vast Ocean. They appear to possess advanced military technologies much like that of Hyrule, and they have already made it clear that they are hostile. Several sea-side villages have already been raided. However, with the support of its strong, valiant young men, Hyrule remains confident that it will be able to send these armies cowering back to wherever they came from in a matter of weeks! That is why I urge you, on behalf of your most noble King, to enlist. Your freedom and safety depends on it! Sign up will take place here, today, and will be administered by your mayor. Long live the King!”

“Long live the King!” the crowd shouted back with patriotic fervour. With that, the messenger stepped off the platform and mounted his horse to move on to the next village. Excitement buzzed in the air, and a line of young men was quickly forming alongside the platform. Ordon’s best were rushing to enlist.

Link stood there calmly amidst the chaos. “We have to, Fado,” he whispered quietly, “It’s the right thing.”

“I know. And it’ll be a good ol’ adventure too, eh kid.” Fado ruffled the younger man’s hair and grinned.

Ilia looked as if she might faint. The colour had drained from her face and her green eyes were wide. She gave Link a pleading stare, silently begging him to be rational. He caught the stare, and briefly took her hand in his own and giving it a comforting squeeze. “Don’t worry, Ilia. We’ll be back before you know it,” he said, smiling gently.

“Yeah, Ilia, an’ we’ll bring yah back lotsa souvenirs from the capital. And I’ll keep Link away from the ladies,” Fado joked. Ilia still looked uneasy but she said nothing more.

And it was all too easy. A short wait in the line and suddenly, Link and Fado were there. Link looked at the long piece of parchment in front of him. He recognised most of the names signed on it – friends, farmhands, fathers…soldiers. He took a deep breath. The back of his left hand tingled as he picked up the pen to sign his name.

Fado signed up right after he did. They were given dates to report to the capital and then ushered off the platform. Link was oddly exhilarated and frightened all at the same time. He was going to war.

Link was pulled from his memories by the screech of cylinders. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Where was his gas mask? He couldn’t find it. I’m going to die. I’m to going die. Beside him Fado was scrambling for his own mask with fumbling fingers. Link was shaking. Where is it? Where is it? Where the HELL is it? The terror was gripping him now, and his heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest. Oh goddesses, please. And then he found it. Within seconds it was on, and relief was washing over him in waves, numbing his previous fear. He wasn’t a coward, not at all. But this war was not one of courage or bravery or will…

He leaned back against the sandbag fortifications with a thud. He wanted a cigarette. A haze of glimmering purple-black gas was billowing up into the sky from some distance down the trenches. The cylinders had missed their section of the trench. The air was quiet and still for a moment. And then moments stretched into hours. Perhaps it would be almost silent tonight. Perhaps he could sleep.

Eventually, Link and the other men took off their masks. Word had finally come from further down the trench: there had only been two casualties from the gas assault several hours earlier and luckily neither was from their section of the trench. Link was grateful. Just watching a man die from the poison gas was gut-wrenching. If breathed in, the gas would eat away a man’s flesh and muscle from the inside out, until he was nothing more than pile of bones. It was like the dark magic from faery tales of old. Only it was real…

Beside him, Fado was fumbling in his pocket, looking for something. Eventually he produced a half-full flask of cheap gin and a crumpled package of cigarettes. Link fidgeted with anticipation. Fado lit his cigarette first and then handed Link one, lighting it too.

“What’s the occasion, Fado?” Link mumbled, the cigarette hanging carelessly from the side of his mouth.

“Being alive for another night.” Fado smiled wryly. “It’s our turn on the front lines tomorrow, kid. D’you forget? I’d say this being our last chance to ever smoke a cig and drink the rest-a this wat’ry piss is occasion enough.”

“You’re talking like we’re definitely going to die. And no, I didn’t forget.” Link took a long drag and blew the smoke up towards the stars. Fado just smirked, saying nothing. Link wished he could be as warm as the flickering embers at the tip of his smoke.

They sat there in silence for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. Around them, the other men talked quietly and a few of the lucky ones had been able to fall asleep. Finally, Fado took large swig out of the flask and then handed it rather unceremoniously to Link.

“Not in the mood for chinking glasses, eh Fado?” Link cocked a wry half-grin and then drank deeply from the flask. The liquid tore through him and for a brief moment he was warm, and the cold and damp were naught but vague sensations.

“You’re just full of it tonight, eh kiddo.”

“I’m not the one smuggling in gin.”

“Hah! You sure ain’t complainin’ though, kid.”

Link huffed slightly before cracking a grin. “No. No, I’m not.” He’d gladly take the punishment for being caught with the smuggled liquor. The small army rations of rum never did seem to be enough to cut through the cold, constant fear. And the dread of leaving the reserve trench for the frontline one was already lumping painfully in his throat. Fado took another shot of the gin and then let Link finish off the rest.

“Thanks,” Link whispered in quiet gratitude. Fado had always looked out for him, and even here – here, in this hell – he made feeble attempts to sooth away the horror of the trenches for the younger boy. Though they both shared it, the smuggled gin was always more for Link than for himself. For the nightmares. It cut the edge off.

Link flicked the butt of his smoke into the muddy snow, crushing it with the heel of his boot, and then pulled his thin blankets around him. He was wet and cold, but the gin had helped to steel him against the frigid March air. His eyelids drooped, and after a time, Mercy blessed him with the rare gift of sleep.

But she did not stop the dreams…