The Legend of Zelda: Fall of Ikana, p.1
The following is a work of fan-fiction. Though it goes without saying, “The Legend of Zelda” video game franchise as well as its characters are owned by Nintendo. This work is not for sale. The author reserves all applicable rights and will not stand for any attempts at monetary gain via this work. The following would not be possible without the creativity and vision of the well-known individuals responsible for the source material. Please continue to support the official releases this work merely attempts to pay homage to. Thank you, and enjoy.
This story follows the “child timeline” of the games. It is not meant to be canon content.
I say again. It is NOT meant to be canon content.
Still, without an intimate knowledge of Ocarina of Time, Majora’s Mask, and Twilight Princess in particular, some parts of the plot may not make sense. Obviously you should expect spoilers if you’ve yet to play these games.
The Legend of Zelda:
Fall of Ikana
By: N Felts
Copyright N Felts 2015
The Final Days
“But for how much longer?” The woman asks, her dead eyes amplifying the already ample pessimism in her voice.
“I don’t know,” the young man eventually responds, winning the umpteenth battle against his insistent tears. A coincidental hush falls over the room with the statement and the survivors are left in silence for a time. The old boards of the derelict building creak a little louder as the endless winds outside shift direction. This winter has been especially cold, the consistent swirl of dust and snow beyond the dirty windows painting what little of the landscape is even visible a tasteless grey. Two more were lost yesterday. The young man knows he should consider the few of them who remain equal, but losing two reavers will devastate their chances much more harshly. Thirty three remain. He’s tried to stop counting, but every subtraction causes the number to swell in his mind. They must persist. They must survive. They’ve still enough competent reavers to protect them, but for how much longer? He really doesn’t know.
Marta seems disinterested in any further conversation, turning slowly away and willing away the need to shiver. Her unwashed ropes of dirty, blonde hair conceal her hopeless stare as she curls into herself. The prayers ended months ago, but in truth, the hope was gone long before. The young man rises to his feet, pacing listlessly through the disheartened survivors in search of a less despairing visage, however slight the variance. Thoughts of games and parties, of pretty girls and selfish ambition, are now a distant memory behind ration inventory, and patrol sequences. Remembering upon whom he still relies, and whom he has long since buried. The discouraged faces of men and women, timeworn elders and innocent children, all glance at him with timid eyes. They are not without respect for him, they have simply exhausted their capacity to communicate any emotion other than desperation. Suddenly, three knocks sound at the rear door of the disused training barracks, two seconds elapsed between each. Quickly moving across the room, the man lifts the heavy door bar and allows the frigid soul entry.
“His course cannot be altered,” the shivering man breathes after taking a moment to adjust to his significantly warmer environment. The sudden influx of frozen air causes the survivors to curl inward in a dismal show of irritation.
“Cale!” The man harshly interrupts, briefly grabbing the attention of the others. “Not here,” he whispers, leading the way to a small group of men huddled in a corner.
“Did you seriously—” Cale starts, keeping his voice low.
“I know. I’m sorry,” the man apologizes with a forced tone. “It slipped out.”
“Will that excuse work if your name just slips out—“ he continues, aggravated.
“Geist,” a member of the group interrupts. “You must be more careful. If a spy were to hear any of our true names in the field,” he laments, shaking his head. “They’d almost certainly find this place.”
“It won’t happen again,” he assures, sitting down among the other reavers. The last living spies certainly perished long ago, the ruined Ikanian city only inhabited by the survivors present, and those cursed with undeath who pursue them. The pointless, outdated tactics only serve to irritate the young reaver, but still, he must follow his superior’s orders.
“What have you learned?” The leader asks, turning his attention to Cale.
“All of my attempts to distract the demon have failed. If he continues to search at this pace, we will be discovered all too soon,” he reports, staring at the floor with an air of defeat.
“Then it is as we feared,” he nods sadly. “Rest well tonight,” he starts, struggling to climb to his feet. “We’re not long for this place. Two days, maybe three. Then we must move on.” Grahn, successor to Geist’s greatfather as leader of the reaver regiment, is many years his senior, and his age shows more and more with every passing day. With that, the group disbands, each of the men finding their individual cots to make their futile attempts at sleep. The two men who managed to spirit their families to safety join their women and children, while the majority find their lonely beds. Lying on his back thoughtfully, Geist notices Cale has grown uneasy.
“He’s going to find us,” he breathes, glancing at Geist with wild eyes.
“Yeah,” Geist responds, shaking his head dismissively. “But not today.”
“I did everything short of revealing myself. He just kept searching,” Cale continues, his gaze a thousand miles away. “Like some kind of machine. The bats—“ he continues, seeming to grow colder as the memories return.
“That’s enough,” Geist interrupts, glancing at a woman attempting to distract her two children from the horrifying tale. Without too much reservation, they lie down next to her, cuddling for warmth. “You talk too much.”
“You say that like it’s something new,” Cale shrugs.
“No, you hear it like it’s something new,” Geist retorts, his tone revealing his drowsiness.
“You talk to Marta today?” He teases, rolling away from his friend and getting comfortable.
“Goodnight,” Geist half-heartedly fires back, his brain ceasing to create new memories as consciousness quickly leaves him. The dreams are always the same. Always so vivid. He is home again and life is full of opportunities and optimism. Would he meet that girl with the shy smile at the bakery, or should he find Cale by the forest’s edge like he promised? He rounds the corner of the marketplace to find streets teeming with people, conversation and laughter filling the open air until it is ready to burst. As he begins to make his way through the crowd, he still hasn’t decided where to go.
“It’s time,” Cale reports monotonously, kicking Geist’s leg as he suits up. Obligation injects itself into his veins as he joins his comrade in preparation for the day. Weather beaten suits of soft leather are pulled over their forms, concealing their intricate tribal tattoos entirely. After so much time in the field, the tactical outfits are the same colorless hue as the landscape outside. Briefly inspecting each other’s ensembles for any signs of deterioration that could be exploited by the cold, they share a confirming nod before joining the assembly of reavers and soldiers.
“—Rations are not low, but we will need more nonetheless when we relocate,” Grahn continues, eying the two youngest members of the group as they take their place in the semicircle. “Obviously we will need eyes on the demon, but I’m sending out an additional pair to scout for a new location. Volunteers?” The girl with the shy smile, or his promise? The dream still lingers on Geist’s mind. He should probably meet up with Cale, but—
“Juro and I will watch the demon today,” a seasoned man nods, bouncing an u
“Geist and I can scout for the move. You geezers aren’t quick enough on your feet,” he quips, pulling a couple humorless chuckles from his peers and a scowl from the leader.
“So be it,” Grahn concludes, adding, “Romoro and I will keep watch here. The rest of you will search for additional rations.” A collective nod of understanding dismisses the meeting and the teams begin to depart. Only leaving in pairs, they wait several minutes between each departure to avoid arousing suspicion, the always watchful eyes of the enemy assumedly all around them. Soon enough, it is the youngster’s turn.
“Follow me, Geist,” Cale smirks, dashing out the door on a predetermined course. Known for two things above all others, Cale’s mouth is surpassed only by his agility. Struggling to keep pace through the whirling landscape of snow and stone, Geist finally slaps his back against a ruined building of crumbling brick next to his comrade. The morning sun cannot be seen beyond the dense cloud cover, the atmosphere depressingly dim and cold. Carefully spying around the corner, the coast looks clear as