Mortis
Disclaimer: Not mine.....and they won't be any time soon, so this will carry on for all the following chapters.
Takes place in the Water Temple. Just because Dark Link is a favourite subject of us authors, so I decided to follow the trend..... Just a muse's idea that I decided to carry on with, wondering what would have happened if Link *couldn't* defeat his other self. (Oh yes, and notice how it graduates from past to present tense – it's deliberate damnit!)
~/*\~/*\~/*\~ Setting the scene ~/*\~/*\~/*\~
A smoky mist was over the whole room, shifting and billowing in a wind that could not have been there; yet, this wind also whistled through the branches of the one, lone tree at the centre of the room, standing perched on a tiny isle of grey mud. The room that was paradoxically, not a room at all, but revealed itself to be a great lake of water, fathomless and stretching farther than the eye could pierce the mist in every direction (consequently, this wasn't all that far, so the place could have been quite small in retrospect.....)
Deep in the waters of this great lake could be seen creatures, swimming back and forth on their daily routes, unaware of the way each and every one of them was a misshapen copy of its forefathers, and quite terrifying for any land dwelling creature to behold. (Well.....almost every land dweller. The one who lived in this mist filled world above the water, had become so accustomed to the creatures that they even took to eating them at times.....not out of need mind; more as a habit that had been acquired through boredom.)
Back to that tree that was spoken of then. It was the only thing that could be seen as a symbol of life above the water (present land dweller that we mentioned excepted). Even though it was twisted and blackened by lack of nutrients, and the boughs obviously had not seen neither buds, leaves, or fruit for many years, it was still a symbol of life surviving anywhere. (Or, to put it another way, it showed that living things are always stupid enough to set down where they can't survive very long.)
The room was, as per usual, filled only with the sounds of the wind whistling through those long un-laden branches, causing them to shiver slightly, the only movement above the water. When the wind had ceased to blow, all was silent, and all above was still. Down below, the fish and the crustaceans and the monsters carried about their business of swimming, eating one another, and, one supposes, more swimming.
Finally, something else other than the wind and the tree decided to move. It came across the great lake, on top of, rather than through, the water, stirring the mist that clung to the liquid surface. It was a patch of darkness, accentuated heavily with tiny thuds which echoed ten-fold in the silence, so that it sounded like an army was approaching.
Outline still blurred, the thing can now be seen to be walking on the water; as if this isn't strange enough in itself, as it comes closer, one can see that it is indeed.....merely a patch of darkness.
All about it is black, and contrasts heavily with the white of the mist, the grey of the water, and only the tree shares its woeful colouring. Both things living – both things also dying, having had no newness to them for a long time.
To keep saying 'it' is to deny this creature a name, but something spun of darkness is not easy to name. Yes, for sure, it looks to be in the shape of a man, young and strong, wearing a comfortable tunic and wielding a sword. But, something purely of the darkness – something that takes the light away from all around it without deigning to return something back – cannot be deemed a man. Can it?
For the sake of the argument, 'it' can be called a 'he'. For that makes things so much simpler, and perhaps will make it easier to see that he is indeed something living. Something can survive in this place, that shows no way of sustaining, shows no way of comfort.
What could darkness possibly want with comfort, when darkness is it's own blanket? Who knows.....
He now makes his way to stand before the tree, and is leaning against it, edges blurred again with the black on black. By moving around, it is easy to see his profile – a pointed nose and thin, proud face, mouth set in a merry smile. The sword is held at a jaunty angle, and the ears, unseen before, are perked, as though waiting for another sound. Though, that doesn't seem likely.
Suddenly, he moves, lunging towards an unseen enemy. Whilst still suspended in the air, he turns himself over gracefully, so that he lands once more facing the tree. Sword now up, a shield is shed from his back, and it is put onto the right arm. Still against an unseen force, he begins to fight in a fury, lunging and sidestepping and back flipping after each lunge as though they were being returned with just as much vigour as he gave them.
This did not carry on long – he seemed to tire from his game, and let out a sigh – the first sound he had made. Soft and tired sounding. He moved back to the tree, and once again merged with it, sliding down the trunk and dropping the dark sword to the ground, where it lay, sparkling, though how darkness can sparkle remains a mystery.
Black hair is pushed from the black face, and a black shadow is finally moved – at last, some other colour than all these strange tones of the same. Fiery red, like as to hot coals in a fire, and completely out of place here; soon obscured again as that black hair falls back into place. He tips his head forward, sighs once more, and seems to disappear.
Again, the room is the epitome of silence. A wind whistles through, and the branches whisper like people who have forgotten how to speak. It ripples through the shadowy hair of the young man of silhouette-like looks, and he adds another soft sigh to the sounds of the room. It is more alive now than it has appeared in weeks, and he knows that yet another would-be hero will arrive soon. And, in knowing that, he knew that yet another battle would be waged here, and the creatures far below would be fed again.
He crawls forwards on hands and knees, managing to look as graceful as any creature can in such a position, and laid himself flat down upon the cold, hard, grey earth. With those dancing coal-bright eyes, he studies the creatures, for lack of anything better to do. Far below, battle rages as the water dwellers fight for territory, fight for food, fight for a mate, and fight to keep their own lives.
Life.....this was no life. This was nothing.
Disclaimer: Not mine.....and they won't be any time soon, so this will carry on for all the following chapters.
Takes place in the Water Temple. Just because Dark Link is a favourite subject of us authors, so I decided to follow the trend..... Just a muse's idea that I decided to carry on with, wondering what would have happened if Link *couldn't* defeat his other self. (Oh yes, and notice how it graduates from past to present tense – it's deliberate damnit!)
~/*\~/*\~/*\~ Setting the scene ~/*\~/*\~/*\~
A smoky mist was over the whole room, shifting and billowing in a wind that could not have been there; yet, this wind also whistled through the branches of the one, lone tree at the centre of the room, standing perched on a tiny isle of grey mud. The room that was paradoxically, not a room at all, but revealed itself to be a great lake of water, fathomless and stretching farther than the eye could pierce the mist in every direction (consequently, this wasn't all that far, so the place could have been quite small in retrospect.....)
Deep in the waters of this great lake could be seen creatures, swimming back and forth on their daily routes, unaware of the way each and every one of them was a misshapen copy of its forefathers, and quite terrifying for any land dwelling creature to behold. (Well.....almost every land dweller. The one who lived in this mist filled world above the water, had become so accustomed to the creatures that they even took to eating them at times.....not out of need mind; more as a habit that had been acquired through boredom.)
Back to that tree that was spoken of then. It was the only thing that could be seen as a symbol of life above the water (present land dweller that we mentioned excepted). Even though it was twisted and blackened by lack of nutrients, and the boughs obviously had not seen neither buds, leaves, or fruit for many years, it was still a symbol of life surviving anywhere. (Or, to put it another way, it showed that living things are always stupid enough to set down where they can't survive very long.)
The room was, as per usual, filled only with the sounds of the wind whistling through those long un-laden branches, causing them to shiver slightly, the only movement above the water. When the wind had ceased to blow, all was silent, and all above was still. Down below, the fish and the crustaceans and the monsters carried about their business of swimming, eating one another, and, one supposes, more swimming.
Finally, something else other than the wind and the tree decided to move. It came across the great lake, on top of, rather than through, the water, stirring the mist that clung to the liquid surface. It was a patch of darkness, accentuated heavily with tiny thuds which echoed ten-fold in the silence, so that it sounded like an army was approaching.
Outline still blurred, the thing can now be seen to be walking on the water; as if this isn't strange enough in itself, as it comes closer, one can see that it is indeed.....merely a patch of darkness.
All about it is black, and contrasts heavily with the white of the mist, the grey of the water, and only the tree shares its woeful colouring. Both things living – both things also dying, having had no newness to them for a long time.
To keep saying 'it' is to deny this creature a name, but something spun of darkness is not easy to name. Yes, for sure, it looks to be in the shape of a man, young and strong, wearing a comfortable tunic and wielding a sword. But, something purely of the darkness – something that takes the light away from all around it without deigning to return something back – cannot be deemed a man. Can it?
For the sake of the argument, 'it' can be called a 'he'. For that makes things so much simpler, and perhaps will make it easier to see that he is indeed something living. Something can survive in this place, that shows no way of sustaining, shows no way of comfort.
What could darkness possibly want with comfort, when darkness is it's own blanket? Who knows.....
He now makes his way to stand before the tree, and is leaning against it, edges blurred again with the black on black. By moving around, it is easy to see his profile – a pointed nose and thin, proud face, mouth set in a merry smile. The sword is held at a jaunty angle, and the ears, unseen before, are perked, as though waiting for another sound. Though, that doesn't seem likely.
Suddenly, he moves, lunging towards an unseen enemy. Whilst still suspended in the air, he turns himself over gracefully, so that he lands once more facing the tree. Sword now up, a shield is shed from his back, and it is put onto the right arm. Still against an unseen force, he begins to fight in a fury, lunging and sidestepping and back flipping after each lunge as though they were being returned with just as much vigour as he gave them.
This did not carry on long – he seemed to tire from his game, and let out a sigh – the first sound he had made. Soft and tired sounding. He moved back to the tree, and once again merged with it, sliding down the trunk and dropping the dark sword to the ground, where it lay, sparkling, though how darkness can sparkle remains a mystery.
Black hair is pushed from the black face, and a black shadow is finally moved – at last, some other colour than all these strange tones of the same. Fiery red, like as to hot coals in a fire, and completely out of place here; soon obscured again as that black hair falls back into place. He tips his head forward, sighs once more, and seems to disappear.
Again, the room is the epitome of silence. A wind whistles through, and the branches whisper like people who have forgotten how to speak. It ripples through the shadowy hair of the young man of silhouette-like looks, and he adds another soft sigh to the sounds of the room. It is more alive now than it has appeared in weeks, and he knows that yet another would-be hero will arrive soon. And, in knowing that, he knew that yet another battle would be waged here, and the creatures far below would be fed again.
He crawls forwards on hands and knees, managing to look as graceful as any creature can in such a position, and laid himself flat down upon the cold, hard, grey earth. With those dancing coal-bright eyes, he studies the creatures, for lack of anything better to do. Far below, battle rages as the water dwellers fight for territory, fight for food, fight for a mate, and fight to keep their own lives.
Life.....this was no life. This was nothing.