(Act/Fan) Death's Companion [T]

This idea has always been in my mind for the past couple of months but I've never had time to do much. I know I have a parody that I must keep to, so this story will receive updates much less and even less often than that of my parody. This story does take place in Hyrule, however it does not revolve much around Zelda-ish characters and places or things so I didn't classify this story as a ZGen title. I don't want to rush anything, just let the ideas come as they have. Without further ado,


Death's Companion
By: Hërŏ


Prologue

Past, Present and Eternity


"The ground trembled uncontrollably before the power of the Triforce. Standing high above the world, gathered by the most evil of souls. The one known as Ganondorf, dressed in his satanic regalia, harnessed the power of the goddesses as the energy burst all around him. It took no more than a newborn to observe his intentions were the darkest and most dreadful of all.

It had felt as if mere moments went by while the clock hand raced its dozen. Bright lights shot up and illuminated the night sky, visible to the entire world. These bright lights shot up fierce spark and spread to every inch of land possessed by the living. Many looked up but were not sure what they were seeing in the midst of all the light.

Almost suddenly, the darkest of all colors, even darker than pitch black itself spread from within Ganondorf. The earth broke up in many pieces, almost disassembling itself as every piece of structured stone erupted with volcanic might. The tragedy itself occurred over a single night, it was very unfortunate there was no power to stop Ganondorf."

Zell looked up at the moon, "I'm sick of hearing that story." Areglus looked up with Zell, pacing to cautiously place his hand on Zell's shoulder. Zell paid no attention to the fractured hand placing pressure on his armor-covered sholder. "It's just our history, my son," Areglus whispered. Millions of thoughts raced through Zell's head, battling each other to decide which would be spoken. "I wonder what the day time would look like," Zell spurted out, almost embarrassed by his choice of words.

Areglus let his hand loose, indicating the end of their conversation. "There is only night, you should be grateful." Zell focused his eyes immediately as if to concentrate on something in the sky, and almost immediately closed them to center his thoughts. Young adult, powerful with the blood of a powerful family, yet not satisfactory. Areglus saw the pressure of Zell's thoughts affecting his stance, "the heroes of good will make a final stand, I want you to lead us against them. Afterwards, the planet is ours for the ruling."

Zell nodded his head, "and what of the demon?" Areglus almost instantly chuckled, flexing the long-dead facial muscles. He opened the door which screeched louder than a cave full of bats, "don't be ridiculous."


End.


This is just the opening, I don't want to give anything away but just let me know if this idea is good and how I can improve it (I know my writing isn't the best, pointers would be great).


INFORMATION:

B.C. = Before the Chaotic invasion.
A.C. = After the Chaotic invasion.

Hyrule Before the invasion.
Hyrule after the invasion.

Here's the next chapter for those interested:

Chapter 1

The King Has Fallen


The year was 2 A.C., the king settled comfortably into his masterfully crafted throne chair; illuminating on the chair itself, the blood of fallen heroes and warriors. The very wood stained to the center, a dark stained red impossible to clean. Sitting cross-legged, the king took in the room around him. Directly behind him a massive forty meter high mural of himself, painted forcefully by a local painter more than a year ago. The ceiling itself was wide open to the light-less sky, covered by darkness and clouds lining straight down for a good hundred meters before a grand sized gold painted door on the north wall. To the sides, piles of rubble and scrape marks, most probably from swords where once hylian paintings existed.

The king, almost peacefully basking in his horrendous glory was not alone. Within moments, the grand door opened revealing his visitor. Within the dark it is almost never possible to see anyone. Luckily, the infinite glistening eruptions of Mount Terror always gave sight within the castle. A blood-soaked face emerged from the dark, walking a slow pace towards the king. The ice cold tiles on the floor battered by the heavy boots of the guest. Walking no more than a few paces, the visitor gets down on one knee, raising his head to stare the king directly in the eyes.

“Ganondorf,” the visitor began. The face was all too familiar, but the king was having trouble making out who it was. The visitor’s eyes were blue, pure and of a heroic allegiance. His body showing signs of aching as he could barely stay balanced on one knee. “I’m glad to see you here,” the visitor uttered as small amount of blood gushed out of his mouth along with the words. After observation, it seems he just managed to win the hardest fight of his life.

The king didn’t move, nor show any emotion at all; his facial expression remaining completely dead. Suddenly, the visitor unsheathed his sword from its holster; fresh with blood, yet very sharp and about as long as the visitor’s outstretched arm. The edge of the sword however was not sharp, practically blunt; he lowered it as if to aim at the king’s body. The magma reflecting off of the sword shot vision up into the visitor’s face. It was unmistakably Pekath.

“What are you doing here?” the king asked, already knowing the answer. Pekath had been trying to become the king for a year already, with three failed attempts, always leaving him stronger with more experience than before. The king gripped his chair’s arms ever so lightly, positioning himself to dash out if needed. Pekath, no longer having the strength to hold the sword up, lowered it to the ground, striking a tile in front of him; the steel of the sword scraping the light weight of the carved tile.

Pekath took a set of deep breaths, blood still gushing out of his mouth at a slow rate. “You have no defense,” Pekath stated as he collapsed to the floor faster and harder than a falling meteor. Now visible on his back, several steel-tip arrows stuck through his armor and probably deep in his body. Although seemingly dead, Pekath was still breathing audibly to the king.

A voice was heard from outside; “King Ganondorf!” it yelled. The king, now alert, stood up and took a few steps forward, his cape dragging on the floor. A messenger ran through the doorway, pausing at the sight of Pekath’s body on the ground. The messenger was wearing light colored robes, not clear what the colors themselves were. His face covered by a mask, it was a mask that belonged to the Kiesh clan. The clan was composed of more or less one hundred individuals who work as private right hands to the king.

His facial expression was covered, but his stance showed he was in fear and the king saw it on him in an instant. “Speak, clansman,” the king commanded, preparing for an explanation. The messenger corrected himself and kneeled before the king, it was as useless as yelling at a deaf man because he lacked meaning. He staggered to stand back up and walked over to the king, “My lord, Pekath and his men have raided our garrison,” the messenger swallowed hard, fearing the reaction of the king.

“Pekath’s body here is more useful to me than you are right now,” the king impatiently told the messenger. His eyebrows closing in on his eyes, showing signs of stress and an inner struggle between himself; there was more to the story and he knew it. The messenger took a step back and held out his left hand, as if to prepare to block a blow. Behind him on the floor, Pekath managed to chuckle before choking on his own blood. The messenger began to tremble, he was just a new recruit, very inexperienced. “Well, Pekath killed Fioro!” the messenger blurted out, acting as if it was a mistake he’d live to regret.

The king’s eyes shot open, Fioro was not one who would be so easily defeated. Fioro was the king’s top commander, his most powerful soldier. Thousands of men have stood up to Fioro, yet none have even managed to make him flinch; the intensity of a fight with him itself is enough to get knocked out. The king could see it now only one way, Pekath sneaking up behind Fioro and fighting unfair.

“You swine!” the king groaned, for the least of what he could say. Pekath let loose his grip on the sword and let out an unusual deep breath. The next second he closed his fists and bashed the ground in front of him. The messenger jumped back as a nervous reflex, unprepared to take in what was coming. Pekath had come to his end, hadn’t he?

The land began shaking, entirely out of control as the messenger and king staggered to keep themselves from falling. Earthquakes were common near the mountain, however this was far more intense than an earthquake could ever be. No, this had to be coming from another source not too far away. As if to draw conclusion, the king looked at Pekath and yelled “Fool! What have you done?”

A light then appeared in the distance no higher than forty yards above them; a bright yellow, reminding the king of the once bright sun that used to stay up during the years of the past. The light itself came down about as fast as a horse, striking Pekath directly in the back. The size of the beam was no bigger than a fist but it struck down as if from the ruined heavens themselves.

Pekath’s body became vibrant, too bright to even look at. The king scurried behind his cape, still managing to keep balance from the force of the ground beneath him. A cry of pain emerged from the messenger as if to signal he’d been blinded. The king shifted his body to face the throne, where the messenger was blindly running and colliding with the jagged edges of the walls. “Watch it you fool!” the king cautioned with a loud yell. The king didn’t have much use for a pathetic rookie such as the one presenting himself before his very eyes, but he could use all the help he could get at this point.

If Pekath indeed had learned the art of magic, there was a chance that it would be the king’s demise. The messenger was still heading farther away from the king and collided with a sharp edge that pierced into his forearm, and the instant reflex of falling to the ground, collapsing the tiles beneath. As the messenger fell, the king noticed a mark on his wrist. Perhaps only a handful of men have ever been gifted with such a mark. It was a light skin toned mark, almost like wrinkled skin however forming the image of a child with a sword pierced through its body.

The tiles that collapsed broke through to a room below, the king was not aware such a room existed. The ground had always sounded somewhat hollow but there was never a moment to spare ever since the chaotic invasion of the land. Now too the king could see a light coming from below, as well as continued screams from the messenger beneath. The king looked back to Pekath, trying to fight the strength of the light.

Pekath’s body hovered high into the air, disregarding any law of gravity and then safely landed back on the ground. He was reborn, no marks on his body and not a spot of blood. “How… but that’s impossible!” the king whispered, astonished at the sight of it all. Pekath shook his head back, allowing his long black hair to glide around to the back of his head, and then he took a good long look at the king. “You seem surprised Ganondorf,” Pekath chuckled.

The king just stood there observing Pekath stretching out his muscles like a child waking up in the early morning. There was no morning anymore, the king put an end to it, just like he had to put an end to Pekath. Confidence soon took over the observant and anxious mind of the king as stomped the ground with both feet, yelling as loud as he could. Pekath immediately noticed this and bent down to grab his sword, his posture unbalanced and thrown off by the still trembling ground.

The king raised his hands palm up pointed towards the sky as they began to glow flaming blue. He was a good dash away, and yet Pekath could already feel the heat of the flame. The king’s grin was now replaced with the chaotic smile he had when he collected the Triforce. The flames around his hands grew more and more intense, as he siphoned his power from mental focus.

Wasting no time, Pekath took the sword and stood back up to face the wrath of the king. “Showtime,” they both smirked as they prepared themselves for each other’s attack. Pekath had to be careful not to get hit by the searing hot flame balls the king was conjuring; the king had to be careful not to miss or Pekath would surely have the biggest opportunity to take him down.

The earth calmed as the two forces could only focus on the one thing they both lusted, victory. Victory was a common thing for the king, but victory came rarely yet in great amounts for Pekath. The one obvious difference was the king’s lust of the darkness and Pekath’s susceptibility to the path of the light.

It was not a choice, just a weakness and nothing else because Pekath is an evil person on the inside. In fact, Pekath is so evil that he was cursed with helping the good unless he could fulfill one task: to become king. Pekath had slain his fair share of evil as well as innocent people, many who could not defend themselves. Fioro was a different story, the hardest fight in his life. How did he win? Fioro was overcome with a greater force because his physical endurance and strength was at least double that of Pekath.

The king, known better as his former name ‘Ganondorf’ has always been a king. From the day of his birth as the only male in his entire race, to the point where he took over the world with the help of the Triforce; being a king has always been in his blood. The only problem with being a king was always the lust to become more and more powerful than he already was.

So it came down to these two powers to decide who would be the future king of all the land. Chances were dim for both who had powerful offence forces and weak defence forces. They had to rely on their knowledge of the opponent to devise a plan with enough cunning to work.

The king had seen Pekath in action, he knew nearly everything the man was capable of; Pekath on the other hand had never seen the king in a battle. Pekath in top-shape was about as deadly as an assassin’s knife; you never see the man until his weapon sees your end. The only thing that worried the king was Pekath’s speed; it had greatly increased since last they met.

Pekath was fighting the king for the people of the light, in a hope to redeem them from the dark chaos that the king had wrought. In his mind however, Pekath was not planning on ending the battle on the side of light. As soon as he harnessed the king’s power, he would be free of the curse and free to do as he wanted. Night by night, vivid ideas spun circles in his head of which plan to choose. There had to be a way with no loose ends, a decision that would grant him all the power and no chance to be succeeded.

Life would grab anyone by the end of their time and take them away; Pekath knew this most of all as he’d been close to death half a dozen times. There was a time where he’d feared the end of his days like it were coming tomorrow, but every time he was down and at his so called ‘end’ it made him think. If one man could have so many ends, life knew no limit to him anymore and so there was no way to intellectually overpower him.

It was easy enough to visualize Pekath’s downfall, the king had in fact seen him down a few times. Taking the image he had in his head, the king acted before he would forget what to do. He sent his right hand down as fast as he could, the flame shooting off his hand like a jaguar blasting off, full speed at its prey. Pekath’s facial expression changed from a smile to a worried frown as he dashed off in the opposite direction of the flaming ball heading directly towards him.

The ball left a trail in the air as if pieces of invisible wood were burning in the air, as it sped towards its target. The heat bent the air around, making the king’s target less visible as he tried to dodge it. Pekath jumped full force away from the blast, performing a frontward roll upon impact of the ground, catching his thrown-up sword with his off-hand. The blast hit the ground, demolishing an area four meters in diameter and setting the surrounding area in flames for a few following seconds.

The king cursed his aim as he shot the other one, not at Pekath but directly in front of him, expecting Pekath to run into it. Pekath took another step forward and realized where the next blast was headed. With a rush to turn around, Pekath accidentally dropped his sword and ran off. The blast struck the sword dead in the air, a more powerful explosion than the last, the sword exploding into shards.

Pekath had made it out of the way in time, however several pieces of metal now lay lodged in his feet, not providing much physical pain but reducing his speed a great deal. “Fool, what made you think you could stand up to me?” the king boasted, now more confident that it was the time to deliver the final blow. The king unsheathed his short blade and walked over to Pekath lying on the floor who was now in a rush to stand up.

It was then that the king had noticed something, around his neck were the hands of another man, at least it looked like the hands of a man. In one hand, metal gauntlets holding him back from his target, and in the other a knife that almost flew towards his neck. Time slowed down as the king stood paralyzed watching the knife come ever closer before he closed his eyes. Pekath, lying with his hands covering his face in short-burst fear became curious as to the delay of his demise. He slowly moved his hands and saw what he did not expect…


End.