Four Defenses
Nov. 9th, 2019 08:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shinonFandom: The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time
Characters: Zelda, Impa
Word count: ~1100
Warnings: None
Notes: Extra gift for![[archiveofourown.org profile]](https://p2.dreamwidth.org/b164c54b26e4/-/archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
Resilur for Trick or Treat! They wrote me this bomb-ass Wind Waker worldbuilding fic for Multifandom Drabble and their prompts gave me an opening for the exact Zelda-becoming-Sheik fic I've been thinking about for a year, ha ha ha.
Impa said, "The first defense is to not be seen."
Zelda got tired of reciting this sometimes, even if she knew how important it was. The words themselves didn't mean anything to her now; she'd absorbed them so completely they were drained of substance. Everything she needed was already in her head, beyond the level of language. But it was important, the call and response, because if she proved she knew it, it made Impa worry less. She kept weighing out the powder and twisting it into the little paper screws. "The second defense is to be seen only in disguise."
Impa prompted, "The best defense is not to be struck."
"The last defense is to strike harder. That's fifteen smoke bombs," she added, dusting her hands off on the ratty, too-large apron she had been handed down from someone she might never meet. Impa got clothes for her, somewhere, but presumably she couldn't be too specific about the person she was clothing, and anyway Zelda was getting taller all the time. Maybe she'd grow into it.
"You're getting faster at this," said Impa, approvingly. "Let's see one." She picked up one of the twists of paper and threw it to the ground. It split with a crack, filling their underground room with blue smoke. Zelda twitched a corner of the apron up over her mouth and drew careful, stinging breaths through the cloth. She didn't know what to do about the eye-watering, though. Why did Impa never have that problem? Some secret she hadn't shared yet?
“How many did you make?” Zelda asked, muffled and hoarse.
“There will never be too many.” Which probably meant forty or fifty or however many you could make with the powder that they had.
“You don't have to spare my feelings, Impa.”
Smoke kept rolling and rolling out, until she couldn't see a foot in front of her face. Until Impa was just a big blurry shadow, and then the shadow faded to nothing.
“That one was somewhat overloaded,” Impa said finally, and moved to crank open the narrow slatted window. It was twilight outside, and windy, and that evening breeze sucked the smoke out of the room.
She closed the window again. That part was hard. But Impa had promised they'd move on again in a week at most, to some more secure bolthole, and Zelda would be able to see the outside again for more than these fleeting glimpses.
She lowered the corner of fabric from her mouth. “That's a Sheikah warrior's mantra, right?”
Impa looked surprised. “No – I thought you knew. It's what we teach those who are staying home.” Seeing Zelda's frown, she said, “It means that your life is precious. If someone tries to take it from you, fight for it. But avoid any combat that isn't forced on you.” Zelda frowned harder. “Because your life is precious,” Impa repeated.
“Hyrule is precious,” said Zelda. “I want to fight for my country.”
Impa gave her a long, considering look. Zelda wondered what she looked like – they didn't have a mirror here. She knew her hair was getting long, only because Impa kept offering (perhaps threatening) to cut it if she couldn't keep it pinned out of the way while working with explosives, but beyond that, what was she? Probably nothing too impressive. If all their sneaking around was working, she should be something in the neighborhood of a nondescript ragamuffin, and if not, she was the royal child whose errors of judgment had left her whole homeland vulnerable. Nothing to be so terribly proud of.
But she stood straight, and squared her shoulders. “Impa,” she said. “I won't insist on becoming a warrior. But – you taught me yourself. The last defense is to strike harder. If these times are so desperate, we can't simply gamble that our enemy will never find us. I need to be prepared for the day that he does.”
Finally Impa nodded, just barely. “Do you remember your archery lessons?”
“Yes. But what if -”
“That's good. When we move on, we'll have space for you to practice.”
“But Impa -”
“But for fighting at closer quarters, I suppose we start from scratch.” Zelda tried not to let her excitement show on her face; that would be childish. Instead she paid close attention while Impa told her how to place her feet, where to center her weight, and a resting position for her arms that would let her flow into many different attacks or blocks. “And now,” Impa said, once satisfied with her position, “stand like that for as long as you can bear.” Upon which she walked away to make dinner.
“Is this training?” Zelda asked, without turning her head. “Or are you just keeping me out of the way?” She heard Impa's knife at work on stew vegetables, hitting a wooden cutting board with a solid, rhythmic chock chock chock. “It's both, isn't it?”
There was a faint smile in Impa's voice: “Not for nothing do you bear the Triforce of Wisdom.”
The first defense was not to be seen. Smoke bombs and stealth, living in dugouts in the countryside, moving only at night.
The second defense was to be seen only in disguise. Zelda practiced a different walk, a new tone of voice. “Cosmetics can change your face,” Impa said. “The right clothing can change your shape. Magic can do even more. What can you do when you have none of that?” She could change her manner; she could call herself a new name, even when she was alone.
The best defense was not to be struck. She'd had dancing lessons as a child, but never thought to apply them this way, drilling until she could dodge a blow or a projectile without having to think, without even being conscious where her feet were going until they took her there. They knew what to do. She learned to fake the other way with her shoulders, to read the terrain, little magical tricks of misdirection, fifteen more uses for a smoke bomb. And in case all that failed she was designing a suit, padding some places and flattening others, shoving fabric scraps into the embers to test which one really was flameproof. Impa helped measure and cut, but every stitch was her own.
The last defense was Sheik.
Characters: Zelda, Impa
Word count: ~1100
Warnings: None
Notes: Extra gift for
Impa said, "The first defense is to not be seen."
Zelda got tired of reciting this sometimes, even if she knew how important it was. The words themselves didn't mean anything to her now; she'd absorbed them so completely they were drained of substance. Everything she needed was already in her head, beyond the level of language. But it was important, the call and response, because if she proved she knew it, it made Impa worry less. She kept weighing out the powder and twisting it into the little paper screws. "The second defense is to be seen only in disguise."
Impa prompted, "The best defense is not to be struck."
"The last defense is to strike harder. That's fifteen smoke bombs," she added, dusting her hands off on the ratty, too-large apron she had been handed down from someone she might never meet. Impa got clothes for her, somewhere, but presumably she couldn't be too specific about the person she was clothing, and anyway Zelda was getting taller all the time. Maybe she'd grow into it.
"You're getting faster at this," said Impa, approvingly. "Let's see one." She picked up one of the twists of paper and threw it to the ground. It split with a crack, filling their underground room with blue smoke. Zelda twitched a corner of the apron up over her mouth and drew careful, stinging breaths through the cloth. She didn't know what to do about the eye-watering, though. Why did Impa never have that problem? Some secret she hadn't shared yet?
“How many did you make?” Zelda asked, muffled and hoarse.
“There will never be too many.” Which probably meant forty or fifty or however many you could make with the powder that they had.
“You don't have to spare my feelings, Impa.”
Smoke kept rolling and rolling out, until she couldn't see a foot in front of her face. Until Impa was just a big blurry shadow, and then the shadow faded to nothing.
“That one was somewhat overloaded,” Impa said finally, and moved to crank open the narrow slatted window. It was twilight outside, and windy, and that evening breeze sucked the smoke out of the room.
She closed the window again. That part was hard. But Impa had promised they'd move on again in a week at most, to some more secure bolthole, and Zelda would be able to see the outside again for more than these fleeting glimpses.
She lowered the corner of fabric from her mouth. “That's a Sheikah warrior's mantra, right?”
Impa looked surprised. “No – I thought you knew. It's what we teach those who are staying home.” Seeing Zelda's frown, she said, “It means that your life is precious. If someone tries to take it from you, fight for it. But avoid any combat that isn't forced on you.” Zelda frowned harder. “Because your life is precious,” Impa repeated.
“Hyrule is precious,” said Zelda. “I want to fight for my country.”
Impa gave her a long, considering look. Zelda wondered what she looked like – they didn't have a mirror here. She knew her hair was getting long, only because Impa kept offering (perhaps threatening) to cut it if she couldn't keep it pinned out of the way while working with explosives, but beyond that, what was she? Probably nothing too impressive. If all their sneaking around was working, she should be something in the neighborhood of a nondescript ragamuffin, and if not, she was the royal child whose errors of judgment had left her whole homeland vulnerable. Nothing to be so terribly proud of.
But she stood straight, and squared her shoulders. “Impa,” she said. “I won't insist on becoming a warrior. But – you taught me yourself. The last defense is to strike harder. If these times are so desperate, we can't simply gamble that our enemy will never find us. I need to be prepared for the day that he does.”
Finally Impa nodded, just barely. “Do you remember your archery lessons?”
“Yes. But what if -”
“That's good. When we move on, we'll have space for you to practice.”
“But Impa -”
“But for fighting at closer quarters, I suppose we start from scratch.” Zelda tried not to let her excitement show on her face; that would be childish. Instead she paid close attention while Impa told her how to place her feet, where to center her weight, and a resting position for her arms that would let her flow into many different attacks or blocks. “And now,” Impa said, once satisfied with her position, “stand like that for as long as you can bear.” Upon which she walked away to make dinner.
“Is this training?” Zelda asked, without turning her head. “Or are you just keeping me out of the way?” She heard Impa's knife at work on stew vegetables, hitting a wooden cutting board with a solid, rhythmic chock chock chock. “It's both, isn't it?”
There was a faint smile in Impa's voice: “Not for nothing do you bear the Triforce of Wisdom.”
The first defense was not to be seen. Smoke bombs and stealth, living in dugouts in the countryside, moving only at night.
The second defense was to be seen only in disguise. Zelda practiced a different walk, a new tone of voice. “Cosmetics can change your face,” Impa said. “The right clothing can change your shape. Magic can do even more. What can you do when you have none of that?” She could change her manner; she could call herself a new name, even when she was alone.
The best defense was not to be struck. She'd had dancing lessons as a child, but never thought to apply them this way, drilling until she could dodge a blow or a projectile without having to think, without even being conscious where her feet were going until they took her there. They knew what to do. She learned to fake the other way with her shoulders, to read the terrain, little magical tricks of misdirection, fifteen more uses for a smoke bomb. And in case all that failed she was designing a suit, padding some places and flattening others, shoving fabric scraps into the embers to test which one really was flameproof. Impa helped measure and cut, but every stitch was her own.
The last defense was Sheik.
