LoZ Fanfic- The Brush and The Sword
I was in a massive Zelda mood suddenly, so here's a fun and funky crossover that I think could work well! The Legend of Zelda franchise and its characters are property of Nintendo, the writing is mine (please don't use my work without my permission- thanks!)
Find chapter 2 here.
All he knew was chaos as the world shifted beneath him, cleaved from the edges of his conscience. He remembered some things- old things. Lava enveloping him in a warmth unlike any other when he was forged, the sensation of being wielded on the battlefield, his edges scattering souls to the wind. Pain ebbed through his mind as he tried to recall the recent events that landed him here. Ah, that’s right. His master had suffered a crushing defeat at the hands of that legendary nuisance in green. The weapon surmised that when cornered and fatally wounded, his master made the snap decision to spirit him off to a different dimension entirely, away from the immediate threat. Bitterness soured the length of his blade.
Now abandoned in an unfamiliar place, the demon was trapped within his dormant form until someone worthy came along and wielded his might once more. The thought was maddening. No one in the universe was as worthy to brandish him in war as his old master. The sword lay in a shallow, murky puddle; he could feel it by the muck lapping at the flat of his blade. For the most part, he was alone. He could sense errant passerby approach between indeterminate stretches of time, but none remained for long. Perhaps he radiated a dark aura that discouraged the whelps from even attempting to inspect him. Otherwise, only the close rustling of grass swaying in the breeze kept him company.
When another pair of boots crunched across the grass to stand in front him, he expected the same result as those who came before. Whoever it was would quickly come to the conclusion that the weapon discarded on the ground wasn't worth taking. This person would ultimately rescue him from his boredom, however. Bending over the sword, an irritatingly familiar face reflected on its surface; curious and innocent, like that loathsome hero. Raven hair framed this face however, and it boasted emerald irises which roved over every notch in the ornate weapon for minutes on end. The demon found the action mildly flattering.
“Who would've left you in a swamp?” Muttered the youthful stranger to himself. If only weapons could talk. The stranger hummed idly and set to work, but to the demon’s dismay, never dared touch the sword with ungloved hands. Its glassy metal surged with energy as a cry for the odd human to make the physical connection but it was instead wrapped carefully in a coarse cloth. The human hoisted the dense object onto his back, his shoulders bearing the brunt of the added weight. At least the demon wasn’t stationary anymore.
The demon blade bounced against the human’s spine for the entirety of the trek from the swamp to a grassland. The repeated abuse surely developed a bruise as purple as the carrier’s robe underneath, so he sighed the moment he was able to set down his burden. A crude sign above the door to the cottage he’d entered read “Ravio’s.” Simple shelves lined the walls of the interior, displaying various knick-knacks of questionable value and origin. Ravio shuffled to a display hook on a wall where he mounted his newest prize by the hilt with a satisfied smile. This human wasn’t a mere journeyman… he was a peddler! He was going to sell the sword to the first cad to offer the most rupees! The blade seethed on its modest perch.
Ravio went to greet a bizarre companion and thank it for watching his wares while he was gone; a white bird he addressed affectionately with a scratch under the chin. Sheerow chirped and fluttered his wings in return. While the shopkeeper cooed at his little pet, someone knocked at the door. The sound had Ravio leaping and pulling an eccentric purple rabbit hood over his head to mask his features before tentatively trotting across the room to welcome the potential customer. The figure that darkened the doorstep caused Ravio to shrink slightly. Sheerow flew into a corner to hide his face in his feathers.
“Welcome,” Ravio stuttered and stumbled to the side meekly as the newcomer strode in. “Is… is there anything I can interest you in today? Looking for something specific?”
“Certainly,” answered a smooth yet shrewd voice. “I’ll be taking that fine sword there, thank you.”
Any skepticism the demon felt washed away when he noticed an interesting energy emanating from the customer- a rush of malevolence rolled off him like an incoming fog. The demon’s heart sang, begging for the figure to take him.
“Oh, well that- that one’s not ready for sale yet,” Ravio stammered weakly after the imposing man. “It’s not polished, and I haven’t gotten to set its price…”
“That won’t be necessary. The princess herself has sent me to fetch it,” the man replied, his tone laced with a tinge of annoyance. “You wouldn’t let a petty thing like price keep this from her, would you?”
Ravio gulped and fiddled with the end of his scarf. If it was an order from Hilda, he couldn’t refuse. He just couldn’t stand the man Hilda chose to retrieve it. Something about the man’s triumphant grin made his stomach churn. Ravio wordlessly went and relinquished the desired item from its display, presenting it to the princess’s confidant. At last, the demon could spy his claimant. Ravio regarded a thin man cloaked in indigo, fiery orange ringlets flowing down his back. A gold circlet graced his head, a red gemstone glaring from its center. He had an air of regality about him that suited the sword just wonderfully.
“Yuga, I’m not really sure-”
“Your cooperation will be remembered,” Yuga interjected, his painted lips pressed into a smile. He took his leave. The warmth of his palm pressed deep into the hilt of the sword, revitalizing a latent power.
Yuga stole away across the countryside toward a dreary castle with his new possession, crossing a stone bridge over a bottomless moat in the process. Ruddy clouds draped the darkening twilight sky, night shrouding the landscape behind the man as he slipped inside. The air within the stony halls nipped at his fingers like a greeting as he strode to his chambers. A subtle heat quietly warmed his palms at every point his skin maintained contact with the sword. Yuga shut himself in a medium sized room that smelled of musty carpeting and half-dried acrylics. An old canopy bed sat against the wall shrouded in satin curtains, accompanied by a carved wooden wardrobe and a work desk.
The moment Yuga stepped a few paces into his bedroom, the metal in his grip flashed a scorching heat that seared his skin. He yelped as the weapon clattered to the floor at his feet. A metallic chime and laughter rang out behind him and he spun on his heels, still cradling his stinging hands with a reproachful look.
“All in good fun, I assure you,” chuckled a figure who hadn’t been there by the door seconds ago. “I’m simply excited to have a new master, Yuga.”
Yuga glanced between the sword and the figure standing feet away, a new expression dawning on his features. Just like the blade, the self-proclaimed servant sported diamonds all along his garb. An azure crystal dangled from his visible ear identical to the earrings Yuga wore. He dipped into a bow, a smooth curtain of white hair shadowing half his face.
“Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Lord Ghirahim, the original blade of Demise. And who might my current master be?”
“I am the sorcerer Yuga, right hand of the princess of Lorule and seeker of perfection,” answered Yuga with a growing smirk. “And it appears I’ve found it.”
