The Lonely King

The brilliant sword pierced his enemy with ease. The hero released his grip and for the first time noticed the cramping in his palm and wrist. His leg burned as if complaining for the first time of the injury it had endured long ago. As the anesthetic of adrenaline waned, the hero became lightheaded from the fatigue of battle. Not just this one, but the real battle. The battle he had been fighting for months. Or was it years?

The hero's hand gravitated to his chest to soothe its racing heart, parting his tunic ever so slightly. Glowing light emerged, and the hero looked down at the supernatural markings therein. A distant memory stirred of a time when the luminous markings were new and frightening. Now it was just another feature of his body, like an old birthmark. All his memories seemed distant now. In war, one lives only in the moment. Defeating his foe was just one more. He lifted his eyes and felt the wind blowing his unkempt hair into his face, once managed by the cap he lost long ago. He raised his head skyward as the weary tend to do at the end of a journey. Blood-colored clouds dropped icy rain, washing away years of exhaustion. His foot lazily ground the dirty grit that salted the stone temple roof beneath his worn boots. After a few brief seconds his gaze fell upon the horizon.

The land was vast. He vaguely recalled travelling it, but realized only now how far he'd truly come. He marveled at the desolation, an endless sea of death and destruction. Were this his homeland, he would have been overcome with despair, though his home had seen its share of the war. Hazy memories came into focus as he recalled running through lush forests with his friends chasing fairies or fishing on the calm shores of Lake Hylia. Of course, he knew the reality that awaited him now that his duty here was done. His home, Hyrule, would welcome him with weak arms, battered and broken. No friends would be waiting to greet him. So many things were lost. That's why he had come here.

The hero looked upon his fallen enemy. The villain's breath was shallow and irregular, and he did not seem frightened of the fate that loomed mere minutes away. His expression was the same it had been before loss of blood made it so pale. It was the face of anger and resentment, and the hero wondered if years of hatred made it impossible for him to feel anything else.

The villain spoke through involuntary gasps, "So, the hero has become the thief."

The hero understood the accusation and looked at the villain's exposed hand. In its center upon the backside was a triangle. From it a series of jagged markings snaked up his fingers and forearm resembling bolts of lightning. These inscriptions might have been mistaken for tattoos where it not for the fact that they emitted their own golden light, just like the ones hiding beneath the hero's tunic. The symbols these two men bore were, of course, no mere markings of ink. It was raw, supernatural power, and it was the reason for all the death and destruction the hero had witnessed. Soon, life would leave the villain, and so too would the power swelling in his fists. If he wanted it, the hero could take it for himself.

"You're mistaken," replied the hero. "I never came to steal this power. Your corruption has brought so much evil upon our land and our people I cannot bear the thought of it. I want no more part in this, and will leave it for the gods."

"Ah, so not a thief," sneered the villain, "but a fool. Why give the gods this power when they already have their own? Do you not see the great joke of the universe? They laugh as they watch us tear each other apart. There is no good in it, and that's the truth. Take the power or someone else will."

"I don't believe that. The Triforce is a good gift in the right hands, just as the stories of our ancestors promise."

"Then you really are a fool." The villain groaned in pain, and the arm holding him up gave way so he was lying fully on his side. "How many stories like ours? The hero wins and refuses the power, or worse, brings ruin where they meant to do good. Always the same stories, always the same outcome. We are just one more in an endless cycle of stories."

The hero knelt before the villain and it occurred to him they were no longer enemies. There was no more opposition between them, no more fighting to be done. He began to feel the slightest sense of grief for him now, the kind you might feel for any dying soul. "You forgot the oldest story of all. The story of how the Great Goddesses created our world and how they left us this gift. You forgot the promise that one day a true hero will arise, a champion whose heart is pure, who will use the power of the Triforce for good and bring a peace and prosperity Hyrule has never known."

"I remember that story all too well," wheezed the villain. "Such a man does not, and never will, exist."

The hero's grief turned to pity as he began to understand all the lies this man believed. "There is good to be found in this world, you know. I believe such a hero does exist."

"Go ahead. Leave the Triforce for this hero. Another monster like me will come and collect your scraps, and the cycle will repeat."

"All I can do is tell my story. It will be a warning to those who think the Triforce can be tamed. And if it should fade into legend, I will still be glad of it. It might be a sad story, but it is also a good story, the kind that will inspire the heroes of tomorrow."

"So be it," said the villain through strained coughs. "Just be sure to make my part really scary." The villain smiled. Not a wicked or scheming smile, but one of contentment. The villain's breathing became shallow, and the hero pitied him. What kind of man would desire such a legacy?

No more words passed between them. The hero watched solemnly as his age old adversary drifted into death. Almost instantly thereafter, the triangle on the villain's hand began to glow with increased intensity. The hero stepped back and watched as golden light consumed every inch of the fallen enemy's skin. The glowing silhouette began losing its humanoid shape as the light escaped like gas upward through the openings of the armor until it fell to the floor, empty, with a metallic clink. The hero's stainless sword was visible beneath the chest plate that had once protected a blackened heart. The now suspended golden light took form and solidified until a perfect triangle hovered before the hero. It was as large as he remembered, taller than most people. It seemed both brilliant as gold and prismatic as diamonds. In his reflection, the hero saw just how much toll the war had taken. He felt sad for that reflection and almost reached out to console it, but quickly came to his senses. To touch the triangle was to accept its power, but the hero had decided long before this moment that he was not right for it. The power belonged to someone greater.

Still, it was a marvel to behold. The Triforce of Power, one of the three pieces of the Golden Triforce, no longer constrained by a corrupted heart. He looked at the glow in his own chest wherein the second piece, the Triforce of Courage resided. It was time to give his share of the power back to the goddesses, but he was unsure how to release it, for he had never invited it in in the first place. Was it alive? He had always imagined it was a kind of child living inside of him for protection. Would it know it was now safe to come out again? Perhaps it needed to first see the final piece of the Triforce, the one called Wisdom.

Dread washed over the hero. He had been so consumed with his triumph over the villain he had forgotten all about her. The hero turned slowly hoping by some miracle to see her welcoming him with a warm smile. Instead, there she was, just as she had been when he arrived, laying upon a stone alter weakened by the villain's wicked sorcery. He remembered how she called to him from the altar, how he had raced up the temple steps with all his might. He winced at the vivid image of the villain torturing her in a desperate bid for her piece of the Triforce. He remembered the rage that exploded within him at the sight of it, which he was now certain helped him emerge victorious.

But, if she was dead, wouldn't she have vanished like his enemy? Did a miracle occur after all? He ran to her, heart beating with hope as he leaned over her weakened frame. She turned ever so slowly, revealing fully the triangle on the center of her forehead. It had a golden glow with gleaming lines sprawling to her temples and the bridge of her nose. These lines weren't jagged and random; they were ordered and angled like gems. It was a pleasant design on its own but was made positively radiant by her soft skin and warm eyes. He had looked into these eyes a hundred times, but this time they did not twinkle with life and wisdom. These eyes were tired and weak. She smiled ever so slightly and whispered, "You did it."

"No," said the hero, a lump forming in his throat, "we did it. We're a team, remember? I couldn't have done it without you. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I didn't stop him from taking you."

"Hush," she said softly. "Do not blame yourself. You're here. That's all that matters. You came to save me, and saved my people instead. If my life must be given for them, I give it willingly."

"I don't," said the hero, tears pushing through his eyes. He picked up her gloved hand and held it tightly in his. "I have fought so long and hard, shouldn't I have a say? Happy ever after, right? Like the stories. I can't bear to go on without you. Please don't leave me here alone."

"The people will need you. They will need a leader to help them rebuild their lives. Caring for them is who I am. Care for them, and you will feel me near. You have always been brave, so I know you will lead well. Then, someday, we will be together again in paradise."

The hero wanted to object further, but he knew it was futile. She was charmingly stubborn even at life's ebb. "I love you," he said as a tear fell from his cheek onto her hand.

"I love you too, my hero." She closed her eyes. She had a habit of doing everything with grace, and death was no exception. Life left her with such subtlety and peace that the hero would never have noticed it, except her skin came alight with the Triforce's golden glow. The hero took several weak steps back, fell to his knees, and wept. He wanted to watch her go, but he could not control himself. He wept for love lost, homes destroyed, and friends forgotten. He tried several times to gain composure, but he could not. He had seen too much, carried too much, and lost too much. Could anyone ever understand the burden of a hero?

When he finally opened his eyes, he noticed that his chest was no longer aglow. The villain's armor and his own sword had also vanished. Only the altar remained upon the temple roof with him, absent his love, with the Golden Triforce floating above it. Three perfect triangles forming a larger, towering one. He gazed at its beauty and was relieved to feel no desire for the glory it promised. He stood and observed the land around him. The ominous clouds had dissolved, the rain had fled, the once howling wind had slowed to a refreshing breeze, and the landscape was richly bathed in golden light. The Triforce's magical home was restored.

"Hero," called a voice from behind. He turned to behold three beautiful yet otherworldly women. Immediately, the hero fell prostrate before them.

"Oh, Great Goddesses," he said subserviently.

"Rise," they said, speaking together in one voice, and he obeyed. "You have done well, hero. Your faith in the foretold chosen one will be rewarded in time. For now, we bestow upon you gifts."

Din, with her hair of fire and her cinder skin held out her hands, palms up. "I, the Goddess of Power, bestow unto you a gift to crush your enemies." In her hands materialized a mighty sword. Upon taking it, it shifted its shape from point to hilt until it felt perfectly weighted and balanced.

"I, the Goddess of Courage," spoke Farore, whose olive skin was wrapped in leafy vines and whose hair of grass swayed in the breeze, "bestow unto you a gift to defend your land." She touched her heart with both hands, and when she spread her arms an emerald shield floated airily toward him. He took it, and it too altered its form and facade to suit him.

Nayru gleamed from the tips of her crystalline hair through her diamond laden skin. "And I, the Goddess of Wisdom, bestow upon you a gift to lead your people." She touched her fingertips to her temples until a crown formed above him and gently came to rest upon his head. He could feel it alter its form also.

"Use them well," they said in unison. "When the time is right, these gifts will guide the chosen one here, to the sacred home of the Triforce." The Goddesses then shot into the heavens like colorful bolts of lightning, leaving the hero alone once more.

He was thankful for such wonderful gifts, even if his true desire was to see his home—and his friends—restored. Those he loved were lost forever, but his home could be rebuilt. He was now more encouraged than ever to take on the task. Resolved to that end, he left behind the two things that had for so long dominated his existence: the burden of war and ultimate divine power. With the Goddesses' gifts in hand, he started his journey home.

Not only did the hero rebuild Hyrule, he became its king, ruling for many prosperous years aided by the godly gifts he had won. He never took a wife, for in his heart he was faithfully married to the maiden he failed to save, so he came to be called the lonely king. The name did not bother him, for as long as he cared for his people—just as his one true love had asked him to do—he was never really lonely at all.

As for the Triforce, the lonely king never forgot about it. He wasted no time in sealing the entrance to the Triforce's holy realm, for he had witnessed firsthand its awesome and destructive power. He hid the key to unlocking the realm in the hopes that only the Goddesses would reveal it to their chosen one in their own time.

True to his word, the lonely king told his story—excepting the Triforce—to all who would listen. It was a cautionary tale meant to guide future generations in the way of wisdom. While the story was fresh in their minds, the people flourished.

Every story, however, is a like a sapling fed by the light of whimsy and watered with embellishment, until it grows into something scarcely resembling its beginning. Over time and through many generations, the story grew into song, the song branched into a tall tale, and the tall tale evolved into legend, until at last it fell into the lap of a little girl—a girl whose own story was just beginning. A girl who would behold the goddess's chosen one.

A girl whose story would become the greatest of legends.

The Legend of Zelda.