Well, this is a Zelda fanfic. Wind Waker, to be exact. Wind Waker is my favorite game in the whole world (gotta love the art style,) and I always kind of wondered what happened to Link after he went sailing off into the horizon with Tetra. Forget Phantom Hourglass. Although I haven't played it all the way through, what I've seen tells me that although it's fun (good for long car drives), it's not worthy of the original.
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Part 1: What Big Brother Left
The first beams of moonlight streamed in through the window, giving the once-cheery house a ghostly glow and making all the grime on the old picture frames light up like pixie dust. Housed in the frames were many, many pictographs: Nearly all of them portrayed the same two people. A brother and sister, both blond-haired, both dark-eyed: playing on the beach, posing in front of the house, dozing on the sofa. The girl giggled soundlessly in the pictures while the boy smiled at her; a bold, protective, big-brotherly smile.
Lying on her back on the creaking bunk bed, the same girl in the pictures sorted through old papers and heirlooms. Aryll was not rosy-cheeked and smiling anymore, but there was no mistaking that it was her. She held the heirlooms tightly, as if they were valuable treasures, and so they were.
Memories. Memories of her grandmother and big brother and friends. Outset Island, bathed in a glory of sunlight. An old wreath, or an ancient book that had lain gathering dust beneath the bed for years, seemed to contain all that sunlight and more.
Aryll set down a cracked mixing-bowl on the mattress, a dead look in her eyes. She remembered the day, less than two weeks ago, that her grandmother died. The last moments had been peaceful, perhaps, but still deeply unsettling.
"I'm here, Grandma," Aryll had said, holding her grandmother's hand tightly as she lay on the deathbed.
"Link?"
"It's not Link. It's me . . . Aryll."
Her grandmother didin't seem to hear. She began to whisper in a hoarse voice, her breathing growing fainter and fainter.
"My dear, sweet Link," she said. "Come closer, now, wouldn't you like Grandma to make you some of your favorite soup?"
Aryll smiled. Her big brother had both flattered and embarrassed his grandparent back in those days, making such short work of her soup that the neighbors stared. Then he would ask for seconds and thirds. If only Aryll had asked for the recipe!
She rubbed her eyes; the more she worked, the sleepier she grew. The sky outside had turned a deep, inky black, and the air was cold and still. She had only just managed to persuade the neighbors to let her sleep here alone tonight; they had been sure that sleeping in the desolate little house her dead grandmother and wayward brother had once lived would be too much for her. Aryll knew they were wrong. She was, after all, fifteen, and didn't need someone fussing over her all the time. She was sure Link would agree.
After all, she thought, he made his own way when he was just twelve . . . but then again, he had had help. The King of Red Lions, and Tetra, and the pirates, and the Rito, and of course his friends at home, and his old grandmother, who would send him letters and make him soup whenever he visited home. Sometimes, though, he would stay away for weeks on end, and would surely, Aryll thought, run out of soup . . . did he go hungry then? She had never asked him. There was so much that she had never asked . . .
She could hear the waves lapping gently against the shore. The sound was like a lullaby compelling her to sleep. She sighed and began to clear the heirlooms off the bed, putting them into piles to continue sorting tomorrow. She had just lifted up a stack of books when she saw it, lying bedraggled on the floor, like an old dead bird.
It was a book. A very ordinary, ugly sort of book - crudely bound, tea-colored, and caked with sea salt. However, there was something about it that drew her eyes. She picked it up gently, brushing off the layer of dust that coated it. Her eyes widened as she recognized the familiar handwriting: Link's.
Hands trembling, she began to flip through the book. It was, she realized, a collection of sea charts, the grids jam-packed with diagrams of islands, isles, outposts. There was also a travel log, written in Link's small, zig-zaggy hand. The pages were jam-packed with notes Link had left to himself: How to stew Chu jelly. Dangerous rocks around Dragon Roost Island. Great Fairy on Outset.
It all meant so much. Aryll turned the pages frantically. She felt almost physically close to Link now, as if he were right there beside her, sharing his memories. For a long time she sat there, staring at the pages, just taking it all in.
Parry attack: pivot and slash from behind.Always her brave little warrior . . .
To do list: Make muzzle for the talking boat.And his sense of humor had stayed intact, too. But -- the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end when she saw the following page. It was stained dark red and had clearly been spattered with blood. Irregular, shaky letters read: Fought a moblin today . . . got hit.
"Link . . ." she whispered.
She turned the page quickly, hiding her brother's bloodstains from sight, and continued reading. Tears beaded in her eyes as what she saw next.
Messages.
Messages to her. Loving messages from a brother to his missing little sister.
Missing you Aryll -- so much. Love, Link,it said. The faded paper was wrinkled in places -- from sea spray, or tears? Aryll's heart skipped. Longing to see her brother again engulfed her. She wanted to see the light in his dark eyes, hear his soft voice, smell his rough, wild scent, feel his strong arms around her.
"I miss you too, Link." Brushing at her eyes, she stood up and placed the book high on a shelf, far away from the others, making a mental note to find a better spot for the precious thing tomorrow.
As she trumped back to her bed, Aryll knew, more surely than she had known anything for the seven years since he had gone, that she didn't belong here anymore. There was nothing left for her here, not while her only living relative was still out there, somewhere, roaming the high seas, with his life possibly in danger. As she drifted into restless sleep, she was aware of a swooping feeling in her stomach: the feeling that things were about to change again.
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