This is just the prologue to a new story I'm plotting. Keep in mind it's still a rough draft emphasis on rough and I've never written in third person before but let me know what you think.
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War is bloody and disgusting, full of battlefields littered with the dead and those who haven't yet met that mercy. The fallen are nothing but corpses staring blankly at ash-ridden skies and what could have been. Their stories are too easily forgotten, washed over by the joy of victory or the sorrow of defeat.
Victory remembers heroes for the courageous blood flowing through their brave hearts until they too fall into legend.
There are heroes met with impossible odds that gave their lives so others may live. Heroes whose weapons have been lost to time and others that were said to be gifted with magic from the goddess. Ones who braved the twilight shadows or mastered the wind and skies.
But those were just tales the young boy liked to listen to as he followed his father through the training grounds. There was no magic anymore and only the legends claimed it existed once. Now there were weapons made of steel in the hands of knights to protect the kingdom. He himself had a small wooden sword he tried to replicate the powerful attacks with and he often took pot lids from the kitchens to act in place of a shield. One day he'd become a knight and carry real weapons made of metal that demanded respect.
"You have to earn that respect, Link," his father explained with a chuckle when the boy complained of the real knights laughing at his silly attempts. They'd ruffle his hair and keep him away from where he could get hurt. Then there were the ones who mocked his every unbalanced step. He hated it more than his father knew. "Having the strength to carry a sword means nothing if you don't wield it with goodness in your heart."
So he tucked away his father's wisdom though he didn't quite understand it yet and went back to swinging his sword alongside the boys nearly twice his age. Their ridiculing persisted, saying just because his father was considered the best, didn't mean his son would ever reach that level of skill.
The older men were kinder in that they mostly let him be to carry on with his fantasies of becoming one of them. But they talked too and wondered why a boy his age was so small. For a man as tall and strong as his father, he should have grown by now but he was compared to the princess more often than he liked. She was a year younger and several inches taller, something that angered him though he'd never met the little girl he wanted to protect one day.
After weeks of enduring taunts from the boys closer to his dream than he was, he awoke with his father and fumbled with the leather guards over the tunic he had rather than chainmail, refusing any help that would make him feel more incapable than he already was. He set out with the short sword to the training grounds with the plan to switch it for a real one once he got there. Impressing his father with it was one goal while proving to the others he could hold a blade was set above any other.
He mimicked his father's walk: head high, shoulders straight, chest puffed. He ignored the groans of annoyance from the other boys that he was there for another day of training. Small and unbearably determined. If he couldn't grow past their expectations, he'd certainly meet them.
He didn't say a word to them as he walked to the rack of swords. Staying quiet was the one thing he had mastered. His dreams were loud enough for only him to hear and he wouldn't give them up just to be stomped on. They would all see one day.
He abandoned the little wooden sword that was carved to his size and reached for the smallest of the blades looming over him in the rack. The snickers that sounded behind him when he stood on his toes only fed his need to prove himself.
His round face turned red at the effort it took to pull the sword from the rack. It was heavier than he guessed and he nearly tipped over before he found his balance. The taunting didn't matter anymore as he took in the sight of the gleaming blade in his hands. This was what he was going to do. And one day when he became a knight, he'd have a specially made sword to wield with a skill that bested his father's. A small smile found its way through the quiet determination of the boy as his dream came just a bit closer.
One of the boys stepped forward and knocked the tip of his broadsword against the measly blade in his hands and sent him off balance once more. Grinning, he said, "Too heavy for you?"
He didn't reply. He planted his feet and held his sword steady, picturing himself as a son the general would be proud of. Sure his father loved him and would if he became a knight or not but he wanted to carry on their name that meant courage and being a farm boy in Hateno wasn't enough.
"We could spar if you'd like," the older boy said. His tone was edged with mockery, as was his offer. He was thirteen compared to Link's seven and teased him more than any of the others. Even with the obvious disadvantages in front of him, backing down seemed a more cowardly option.
He nodded and adjusted his grip on the sword while the group of boys watching protested. He was surprised by it. All this teasing and mocking but when given the opportunity to push him down in a new way, they backed away in fear of what his father would do if he got hurt.
He didn't tell them getting hurt wasn't something he was afraid of. Pain isn't always bad, his father had explained when he worried why his mother was crying out while they waited downstairs for the baby he hoped was a little brother. Pain can bring life and protect it. Don't be afraid of what makes you stronger. He knew what that meant when he got to go upstairs and see his sister. His parents trusted him to hold the little girl and he promised he wouldn't be afraid to get hurt for her as he stroked the soft hair on her head.
He reminded himself of that as he readied the heavy sword clutched in his hands. Failure was scarier than any scrape he could get from a sparring match.
The boy in front of him grinned as he twirled his sword around his wrist. He only needed to use one hand while Link needed two to grip the handle. "Why don't you take the first swing," he offered. "Show us all the skills you've inherited from your father."
Another taunt he was too familiar with. The offer was a trick, he knew, but this was the first chance he'd ever had to do more than play pretend with a wooden sword.
He swung.
All it took was a backwards hop to dodge the attempt. Link furrowed his brows at the snicker he'd heard too many times and swung again. Miss. Over and over he swung and missed, growing angrier at the ease of his opponent's dodges. If he could just swing faster. If he could swing harder. If he was just a little taller, a little stronger.
Tears pricked at his eyes. Swing and fail. One after the other. He knew how sloppy he looked, chasing the boy around in a circle with swings that left him stumbling. He knew this sloppiness was what his father winced at when he trained new soldiers.
His thin arms already aching under the weight of his sword, he urged one more swing from them fueled by the frustration of the tears threatening to drip down his cheeks. Knights don't cry, he scolded himself, his chest heaving.
It was more powerful than the others and to everyone's surprise including his own, he forced his opponent to block. Their blades met with the satisfying clang of metal and a small sliver of pride nestled its way between him and the fear of failing.
The boy's lip curled in a sneer and he shoved his weapon forward. Link felt the coolness of it bite into his cheek just before he fell onto the hard ground, losing the sword he thought would make him the knight he wanted to be.
He smeared the blood away with the back of his hand and went to reach for the sword once more when the boy in front of him paled and Link was blocked by a tall shadow. "You think it's funny to ridicule those less skilled than you?" his father asked with a lethal calm Link was glad had never been directed at him. But he hated it all the same. He didn't want to watch his father use that tone to protect him. He'd wanted to protect himself, prove that he could do it.
"No sir," the boy said with a shaky voice. "I was trying to help him."
"Were you?" He nodded hastily. "Then show me what right you think you have to help with humiliation rather than guidance." His father unsheathed the decorated sword at his hip. The blade was freshly polished and reflected more sunlight than the tarnished broadsword held by the boy cowering in front of it.
"Wha—what do you mean?"
"I'm giving you the chance to prove yourself since you believe standing on those under you is glory." He tapped his sword against the boy's blade in the same taunting manner he had done to Link before challenging him. "Lift your sword, boy."
"I can't—"
"You won't," his father corrected, "because you know you'll be begging to go home to your mother in a matter of seconds if you went up against me." He resheathed his sword in a fluid movement he'd done thousands of times. "Get out of my sight, boy. You'll be cleaning horse shit off boots until you realize that the bottom of my shoe has earned more respect than you ever will if you don't learn what being a soldier means."
His father turned heel and spared a quick glance down at the small Hylian boy who held all his pride. Link didn't miss the hint of a smile hiding beneath his groomed beard before he strode away, leaving his son to pick himself off the ground and dust the dirt from his trousers. He wiped more blood from his face and picked up the sword he'd outgrow sooner than he imagined, and walked past the boys who were too stunned by the courage he carried to say anything.
Next time he sparred, he wouldn't need his father to save him. He'd be the challenge.