The giant mass of bones makes a gesture toward the long dim hall with its skeletal finger. He then swings it sideways and points it to the wanderer, whom it is addressing. “The Living...walk this way...”
The torches’ light make the strands of silver hair gleam for a moment as the wanderer nods. He then follows the bony guard through the torch-walled hall, treading silently behind its steps.
They make a strange pair of figures, as their trailing shadows dance with the dim flames on their sides. One is a giant of being, covered in an impressive armor, if a bit rusty, and an equally impressive halberd. Its heavy boots thread surely and distinctively, filling the high-reaching walls of the hall with their hollow thud. And under that old style helmet that sits proudly on its top comes a grim visage of chalk-white face, stripped from all features except its bones, with two deep immeasurable holes as its eyes, glowing faint red.
Behind it walks the wanderer, with no sound heralding his steps at all. He stands barely half the height of the escort in front of him, and with shoulders no wider than its head. Compared with the highly decorated armor of the giant his is simple and plain, its dreary color in complete contrast with his gleaming silver hair. On top of his head a helmet sits as if it was a crown, and beneath it, a pair of dark blue eyes.
Strangely enough, if one were to look at those eyes, one could easily agree on one thing. Somehow they seem even more dead than the obvious dead eyes in front of him.
But they scarcely can be called dead, for those eyes are shifting left and right, scanning the entire main hall of Castle Hyrule.
It is the same hall that has welcomed many happy visitors during its time; the same hall which floor has been stepped on by countless princes and paupers. The torches still hold their light now as they did to busy emissaries before, scuffling through their papers, and the sculpted pillars that interspersed the walls still command wonder and awe as was felt by every child who was lucky enough to be brought there. There was the path that a hero once took to meet his princess; there was the path that a villain once took to slew a hero. There, high above the isolated islands of torches’ light, colorful frescoes and stained glasses make their apparition, their dim colors can find a light no more.
How fast some things can change, and how remarkable the things that still stay the same inside them, for those who know. They are still there, but hidden, like how layers of mattress fail to conceal the bulge of a pea.
And Castle Hyrule might still be there, but hidden. Overlying it are the thick mist of darkness and the damp air of death.
This bleak thought fills the wanderer’s mind as his and his escort’s journey comes to an end. In front of them now stands a large wooden gate, painted and ornamented as beautiful as a cover for a book of fairy tale. On each side of the entwined sculpture of ivy that covers the slit of the door a metal knocker is placed, carefully shaped like a gawking Loftwing’s head.
The door to the Throne Room.
“The Living...wait here...”
The wanderer nods. As he looks up he catches something on a fresco high to the left.
A picture of an eye, crying. Below it a single tear heavily hangs, blood red in color.
The giant knocks the door three times and opens it slightly, only enough for his bowing head and shoulders to show to whoever is inside. From his place the wanderer can only see the tremendous back of its armor and helmet, all bowing in a posture of utmost fear and respect.
But the sound coming from it is as hollow as always.
“The Living...came....The Living...wanted to meet...Her Majesty....The Living...is strong....Should the living...be allowed...to...inside...?”
It was all for the sake of drawing light into the otherwise dark and dreary room. A large gash was made upon the ceiling which trailed from its center to the far back of the throne room just beyond her throne. It was wide and ragged enough to embrace the sky like an open maw and drew in the moon's light as if by vacuum. This light that washed in like a great deluge exposed every truth and secret. It revealed the elder nature of the building's architecture. It showcased the history of Hyrule...both past and present.
Bathing this light would be the abandoned bodies of various poor creatures whom could not even be converted into the lesser of her kind...and as a result they were kept in memory in the form of decoration. The claw marks upon the marble floors and pillars left behind by their desperation accented them. The blood that trickled, poured, dried, and flaked would be the paint that would highlight, draw the eye to these macabre shapes pinned, hung, and violently stretched, spread out about the castle walls like trophies and valuable paintings. Their beautiful reds, blacks, blues, purples, and whites would be in plenty for any whom dared to view...and she'd only smile most pleased at notice of her boredom work.
Yet...at the moment art and memorial were not entirely what had her attention and amused smile perked; growing...
"A request for audience? From one whom breaths?", she questioned---curiosity most obviously piqued.
To say that such an event was rare was an understatement. For one she was certain that she'd commanded for all mortals to be slayed on sight with extreme prejudice. Yet even her most loyal of knights found one worthy of exception to her command. This did not mean she was angry, however...Oh no! She was just the opposite! She knew her knights well and trusted them; she had the pleasure of lying with each and every one of them under fathoms of soil just beyond that of six in depth. Therefore she could only be intrigued. She could only find herself amused that such a creature would exist...that her knights would dare to place it before her alive and still very much able to move on its own.
"...So be it, then.", she replied with her amusement showing in her most lifeless eyes. The Pale Queen of Hyrule's lips parted gently to reveal an amiable smile...
"Let us see what manner of entertainment this mortal shall share with us~."
As she spoke the large skeletal knight stepped aside. Her dull gaze fell upon this child form and a slight predatory sneer came from the depths of her throat," What is this...? A child? No...A Kokiri---though there is little difference. An eternal child has bested my knights, then?" Her amusement grew, but her tone became almost vindictive. She knew not what to think of this creature of 'eternal life' stood. At the very least, however...she found them beautiful and that at the very least gave her cause to listen to whatever word or request that may be uttered.
"How pretty~," she murmured," So then, Kokiri~. To whom do I have the pleasure for this payment of respect? What brings you to my gallery of death?"
The wanderer has prepared himself for this. He has seen what desolation the re-dead army could do, and how swiftly they did, all in the sake of the one reigning inside this throne. He has searched through many sources and read many browned pages to get a glimpse of who or what this enigmatic figure was, understanding her reason and how she expected her subjects to behave. Despite all this he is still somewhat surprised when the redead guard actually steps aside and beckons him to enter.
Time, it seems, left not a thing unscathed.
The redead guard stops him for a moment and slowly puts one of his arm to the front, the other still holding the halberd. “Weapons...do not go...inside....” reverberates the guard’s hollow voice, its left arm turned upward in an asking postion.
Obediently, the wanderer hands a scabbard he has been holding in his right arm all this time. The sword is still sheathed inside, with a hilt and scabbard colored so much like his own armor, plain but mysterious. As he puts the sword to the waiting hand he notices a small ruby ring worn on the middle finger of the bony hand, glinting shyly under the pale moonlight.
He makes a mental note to ask about it later, and turns around to face the Dead Queen of Hyrule herself.
For all the guards placed around the castle The Queen seems to be alone in her macabre throne room, with no other guards in sight save the one that escorted the wanderer here. It can be attributed to either pure ignorance or utter confidence, although in the case of The Queen the latter one is strongly suspected.
But then, both are equally dangerous.
The wanderer walks gracefully to the center of the room, his chin steady, his gliding steps proper and firm. Faced with such an abominable sight in front of him not even a glint shows in his deep blue eyes, already the color of a dead calm sea. With a single, imperceptible glance he scans the entire room and is surprised by none, except one whom his sight rests for a bit. At the farthest corner mangled remains of a family are seated in a dinner position, their torn baby served in plates in front of them. A dreadful mockery of what supposed to be a fine family time.
A mockery of life, created by the dead.
And the one who apparently enjoys this sort of mockery is seated calmly on her high throne, majestic and dreadful like a full moon shining above a graveyard. Her dead eyes shine red like polished ruby, cold and impartial, but at the moment they betray a deep feeling of curiosity. And the voice coming from his lips is that of a predator interested in its prey.
But the prey skilfully ignores the attention.
“My own will brought me here, Your Majesty,” the wanderer bows deeply, her long hair fell around her like a silver waterfall, “And my feet taking steps as its extension. Both are humbled by your presence.” It is a perfect bow, bearing no respect nor fear but purely conducted as a necessary formality. A bow that sees one as in a currently higher status than the one who bows, but no more than that.
The stories said that in life The Queen prefers short, to-the-point attitude. But she never did eschew formalities, for she found them amusing, if served in little enough proportion.
And the wanderer certainly serves no more. Still bowing, he continues in his own hollow tone, devoid of wavering or uncertainties.
“To your inquiries, Your Majesty, I am called Swift, though the name is but a shadow of a past long gone. It is my humble wish to offer my services to the Crown, and to put this form in serving its forces...”
The wanderer pauses for a split second, enjoying the effect it would create,
“...to the best of what it is able to.”
Tact. In those subservient words she put many things hidden. A slight praise, a subtle mockery, an ambiguous hint that the all-powerful forces might still not be enough, and a faint suggestion that he may hold a hint to past mysteries, all in a manner of full respect.
Now Swift waits, his gaze on the blood-streaked floor, wanting to know if the Queen is really as perceptive as the stories said she was.
"The 'crown', '", she echoed,"Isn't the tongue a convenient muscle?...You are indeed an interesting creature, aren't you?"
A blink of the eye removed her presence from where it was. Even if one did not blink she was gone. Faded like a true apparition, yet still very present. Her words echoed across the bloody walls. Her elegant, noble vocals spoke with no body to represent them...and yet suddenly her presence was so close. Her shadow would come upon his figure. Its appearance was gentle and akin to a passing breeze to numb skin...There was no hostility. There never was. Which may have been one of many reasons this little creature spoke with such courageous air---why it seemed it could look into her eye without hesitation.
Or perhaps this one viewed things as she did presently...
"Do you know that not even the Hylian ousted from this castle know the truth of my existence? The rebellious army that seeks to overtake this castle...the ones I've watched so impatiently...They do not know the truth of which they are facing, My dear.", her vocals echoed and bounced about the gored throne room.
Eventually the sound became focused and to a specific point. Clarity was only temporarily lost in the materialization...but her reappearance suggested she had always been where she had stood. There...looking quite settled into the position, she sat casually on one of the dining chairs brought into the room. One of these which were specifically meant for the family that was 'escorted' into her lovely throne room for an eternal afternoon of tea and socialization.
Her eye left Swift.
Instead they found interest in a corpse that could only be identified as the deceased mother of the group of people present in this truly 'nuclear' family. Well observed in manner, dignified but only for the sake of appearance, she sat---and the Queen carefully, observantly drank in every intricacy of her appearance. Her unlit stare placed attention to the arm frozen in eternal action---the mother whom had already so graciously tasted the meal prepared for her and her family and would appear to be forever in the middle of tasting whatever remained on the rim of her spoon.
...It was unfortunate that the skull was not compliant while still in the head in death. Even to the queen the action appeared forced, though at least gently so.
Across from this wonderful woman, however...was something that provided the faintest of smiles to her lips. The children across from this motherly doll. A daughter more specifically--to which she could relate, and a son, which also was not beyond her comprehension. In almost a daydreaming state she looked over the two while speaking still...
"Or at least this was what I originally assumed~. Many have stolen their ways into my home, but not a single soul has left to my knowledge...They all came in search of something of which had little to do with me and then either become nourishment to my kingdom or a 'slave' to my cause."
Her eyes returned to the image of Swift.
"Do you mean to tell me that you wish to be these things...or is this the request of the body and soul? Either way...I fail to see what interest one whom breaths has in a kingdom such as mine. Certainly we are a most inviting land...but our manner of recruitment for knight-ship is quite particular.", an oddly playful smile crosses her features--yet the reasons behind why are yet to be known.
"Kokiri, Swift...What do you hope to accomplish? What crown do you wish to serve and further...how do you wish to serve it? Answer wisely, Child. Your skin may require it."
As the dead queen’s hollow voice echoes throughout the bloody room, the wanderer named Swift hides a smile behind his icy eyes.
A Ruler, worthy of servitude.
His eyes are still glued to the floor, where an unsaid permission prevented them from moving. The old Queen was said to be very peculiar about etiquette, though she did eschew most of the unneeded court formalities. But it is still a widely accepted manner to not raise one’s head in the presence of the Monarch until one is permitted to do so, and Swift would not want to be led into a trap.
Although in some sense he is already in one. For the same etiquette stated that the longer a monarch holds the suppliant’s head, the less their differences become. Such a fair rule placed by the wise monarchs of Hyrule. Suddenly, the presence changes.
The voice has never left, never changed at all. From the beginning it is as if the queen speaks from everywhere yet not from anywhere, and so is she still now. Without losing even a slightest beat the sentences continue unobstructed. But to the bowing wanderer it is clear that the presence of the queen itself has already moved. It is queer, as if the queen’s image is only a reflection from a mirror, and by simply changing the mirror’s angle the reflection shifts, while the one being reflected does not even move. It would not be surprising if the whole soul and substance of this throne room now belongs completely to the queen.
Swift holds his posture as the ethereal figure passes near him. He feels the air around his skin changes, a cold phantom drizzle, and the blood streaked floor he has been watching now sparkles as if being given a source of light. There is no sound, not even a stirring of wind, and the night has completely frozen. It has been so ever since he entered this room. There is only the moving presence, now speeding back to the table on the far side of the room, a faint whisper of memories long gone. The Stalfos blocking the entrance is decidedly uneasy, Swift feels, and he knows its body is unable to move.
And so is Swift, with his back still bending and his eyes not missing a blink. But different from the Satlfos, there is not a slightest hint of fear or hesitation in him. Then again, there is no feeling of defiance or superiority either. To the dead queen he would seem like an image only, with his silver hair flowing down in a curtain and the black of his armor reflecting the moonlight. A dim glowing child who is bowing on the red-colored floor, calm and impartial like the ancient moon shining above, as subservient as it is free.
There is only so much horror that this world can offer, one more than the other.
At the thought of this Swift’s blue eyes darkens. But he quickly clears away his thoughts and focuses on the presence of the queen.
It seems now that the Queen has settled in a place, with only her hollow voice bouncing still. She had shown in great eloquence about the state of many things, and Swift was not surprised to hear about the fate of others who have entered, dubious though the claim was. Then there was thinly veiled threats and obvious mockery, all to be taken seriously. It seems that the Queen is really as perceptive as the stories said she was.
Swift’s lips tighten a little. Although eloquence is best countered with eloquence, no one has ever showed his eloquence to Queen Aoife and left unscathed.
Besides, Swift could not do it.
“I will serve only your Crown, Your Majesty,” he says, a clear tune of mystery and innocence,”as long as the darknessfavors you. For it is the darkness only that I seek more, to relieve this eternal curse of mine.”
He pauses, holding his bait for the second time. Etiquette, and also experience, again dictates to never answer more than what is being asked when facing a monarch. Still bowing, he rummages through a leather sack hanging on his side, making rustling sounds, and then pulls out a few parchments. He lays them on the bloody floor, where his gaze has not left for all these times. The parchments shown there are in various conditions. Some are pristine and clean, another is torn and wet, yet another seems empty. In some papers there can be seen a crude layout of some places, and a pamphlet about Faron Woods is placed nearest to him.
“Forgive me for willing to say what your wisdom already knew, Your Majesty, such is my shortcomings.” He blinks, secretly wanting to test her perception again. “The forces are many, weak and leaderless. But the one in Faron Woods is not so, Your Majesty. They have chosen an ideal place, with strong woods and materials to further their ends, and their center protected by a dense forest. Your Majesty has known, but I be forgiven, such is the density of the trees that a vulture cannot flap his wings there.”
“But a canary can,” he adds, “unless he can no longer sing.”
Three answers. One sentence. Swift waits in perfect stillness, his gaze tracking the blood streaks on the floor. Another story needs to be proved now: that in her long reign the Queen respected talents, no matter where it came from.
Woodfall Rises is an au legend of Zelda RP
the current skin was made by Rozie. with the exception of the miniprofile which was
created by RITZ! Codes seen and used were taken from resource sites such as slightly insane, ProBoards
support, and Socal. all images are either from Zerochan or made by original owners.
