The Crimson Quill

Author’s Notes
The Zelda Series has spawned quite a few games of epic proportions. A Link to the Past, Ocarina of Time, and The Wind Waker are the most notable, though Twilight Princess might just be much more powerful than all of them. Many fans have created glorified versions of the games, mutilated and mauled to suit the tastes of the author. Is that what the Zelda Community wants? The game purists don’t, to be sure. Or are fan fiction that focus on Link’s adventures after Ocarina of Time superior, or, perhaps, the everyday happenings in Hyrule?

Regardless of personal tastes or what kind of fan fiction is truly ‘the best’, the following tale doesn’t try to be something it isn’t, such as one of the more popular Zelda games or something superior to the Zelda games. When we write fan fiction, we shouldn’t be trying to set standards or make an epic story. We should just write. It matters not what the story is about – we’re all fans. We know what Miyamoto has created for us. And we use those creations the way we want to use them. That’s the beauty of independent storytelling – we’re completely free to write what we want, when we want. So why do we try to mimic Zelda perfectly, loyally restoring Link onto the page just as he was in the game, when this is not, in fact, a game, but a book?

Paid authors and game directors don’t have this kind of freedom. Revel in it.

The Crimson Quill
By Anime James

Chapter I: A Streak Across the Sky
Up here, in the sky, freedom reigned supreme.

There were no limits where none could be set. Great fortresses and castles shrunk into children’s dollhouses, trees became tiny pricks of color, and even lakes turned into puddles at the powerful perception of depth. And things that, from the ground, seemed so small, were suddenly so not – clouds stretched of for miles, racing across the sky much faster than any human or Hylian could credit them for, leaving refreshing trails of mist in their wake. And the sun… Nothing was more glorious in the early hours of the morning. Nothing stimulated such tranquility as heat.

For he was the greatest bird to ever roam the vast, endless realm unknown to man – the very race that had had the nerve to christen him ‘The Crimson Streak’.

Rogald cawed sourly, casting a disdainful eye at the endless towns and villages beneath him, swarming with the pestilent, wingless fools. Humans, Hylians, Gorons or Zoras – they were all arrogant baboons to him, the mighty King of the Sky. And he could never, ever forgive them for the ultimate pain they had inflicted… The most unbearable…

Realizing that there were the tiniest of tears running down onto his beak, the magnificent bird blinked his fiery red eyes rapidly, scolding himself for becoming sentimental. But no, he reasoned, only those of the earth wept…he must have flown through a cloud, nothing more.

Spying a tall, bare tree atop a great hill in the distance, completely isolated from the humans on the other side of the range of mountains he was now soaring above, Rogald tilted his wings primly and glided down to the ground, alighting regally on a sturdy branch before folding his wings and surveying the landscape with a sharp eye, looking for signs of movement. While it was true that the great bird was hungry, and in need of rest, he was also slightly paranoid and afraid of all humanoid creatures, ever since they had discovered his nest – and his eggs. For what they did to his family he could never forgive, and they, in turn, could never repent.
There! In a small crevice, a tiny rabbit was nestled, long ears poking up above the rocks encircling it. In a flash of scarlet Rogald had left his perch and was flying quickly, his talons outstretched, ready to kill. The cornered animal came swiftly to attention and wriggled out of the fissure in the ground in time to see a great claw inches from its face – and then, in less than a moment, the poor creature saw nothing at all.

Rogald ruffled his feathers happily and eyed the dead rabbit with satisfaction, its head hanging off grotesquely, one ear severed from its head. There’s no way a human could ever do that to me, is there, my lunch? Rogald asked his prey, eyes lit up with fiery light even more so than usual. No, but old Crimson Streak could do it to them, couldn’t he? Just as I thought, Rogald concluded, shaking the body gently, causing the head to flop up and down. After a moment of silence, the giant bird lowered his head and opened his beak to devour his next meal, when suddenly there was the slightest sound of shifting pebbles somewhere to his right. Rogald turned his head sharply to see another rabbit, this one considerably older than the mangled one in his talons, surveying him from the crevice. Incredibly, it didn’t seem afraid of the mighty predator – in fact, it was just staring at the body of his prey.
Rogald raised a single claw and raked his talons through the air at the rabbit, leaving a message that couldn’t have been clearer: Leave now, or you’re next. But this small, furry creature must have been exceptionally brave for its kind, for it did nothing but continue to stare blankly. An empty stretch of uncomfortable silence ensued, and in time another rabbit poked its head up out of the ground. Mates, Rogald realized suddenly, noting the similarity in species. Then they’re offspring…

The tiny animal in his claw’s head drooped sadly and suddenly fell off onto the ground, staining the stones around him with spatters of blood.

Rogald’s gaze suddenly hardened; without looking away from the mated creatures, he lowered his head and tore rebelliously into their offspring, swallowing great chunks of it whole, body fluids dripping off his beak.

The rabbits simply watched him, chests rising and following rapidly. It was possible they were simply paralyzed with fear at being made desert; they didn’t even acknowledge having a son or daughter. It was just another animal, lost to just another predator. This annoyed Rogald greatly; with a sharp caw he swung his head around and snapped at the pair of them viciously. When he drew his head away, both of them had retreated back into the ground. Gone.
With a regretful look at the carrion in his claws, the great bird threw away his meal and returned to his lonely tree, head hanging dejectedly. The great King of the Sky’s mighty rule, he thought glumly. Well, I don’t have much of an appetite right now, anyway.

With one last look at his prey, Rogald spread his wings – and then, suddenly, there was a manic yell from not far away, followed by the twang of a bowstring. Shrieking loudly, the giant bird rose into the air, a freshly fletched arrow grazing his talons. The sound of a man swearing most vehemently and unprofessionally filled the air; Rogald opened his beak wide and hissed warningly before beating his wings wildly, desperately flying back into the sky. His message was, once again, unmistakable.

Leave, or die.

“Come here, birdie!� giggled the maniac, fitting another arrow to his bow. His hair was long, black, and matted; every aspect of his appearance suggested that this was a man who had been drinking or was down on his luck. Both eyes were sweeping across the landscape with unearthly speed; his grinning, unshaven face seemed to be that of a demon. Rogald’s desperation was quickly turning to panic, given a great leg up by the second arrow that went whistling past his left wingtip. It wasn’t possible, he thought, for a man so stupid, so inferior, to sneak up on him without making a single sound – it was almost as if he had appeared from nowhere – along with his arrows, another of which he fired in the opposite direction.

“Don’t you want to play?� the man screamed, thrusting an arm down his thick, leather shirt. Rogald could feel his panic begin to recede; there was no way an arrow could hit him now; the wind was starting to pick up. It was very light, but at this distance, no arrow would be able to hit its target unless the archer was exceptionally skilled, and this man certainly wasn’t.

Feelings of freedom and relief soared throughout the regal creature’s wings as he soared away from the world of war and suffering beneath him. With the smallest hint of smugness, Rogald turned back to look upon the hunter he had so easily outsmarted. The fool was holding something in his hand, small, long, and bright silver. It looked as if he were going to throw it…there…

And then the dagger was suddenly picking up speed, despite the fact that it should have already begun to fall back down to the earth. Rogald felt as if he had flown into a cloud – a great cold doused his newfound feelings of safety, plunging him back into panic – he turned – but the dagger was fast – no, this was it, he was going to escape!

And then something completely unexpected happened – the deadly knife swerved in midair and shot straight through the magnificent bird’s right wing. Rogald let out a shriek of pain as blood rained down on the earth and distant laughter flew up to his ears; with one last, hopeless flap, the ground suddenly began to grow, coming closer and closer to Rogald’s face. There was one moment in which the great bird could do nothing but watch helplessly.

Then everything, even the sun, went black.

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