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It was early dawn in a remote forest of West Virginia; the rising sun had yet to pierce the thick mist among the towering white pines and oaks. Dew glittered on the moss, fallen leaves and forest rot. Outcroppings of rock peaked out from the ground, some the size of a motor home while others seem to break the surface, curved like a wave in the ocean. All is quiet and serene until a morning dove's cry sounds and then a clumsy flutter of beating wings as it takes to the air. A trail meanders though the forest, a path so faint that one would miss it unless they were deliberately searching for it. A lone figure travels it through the underbrush, illuminated in the pale sunlight. They moved as fleet and silently as a deer, leaving no sign that they had ever been there, someone who knew the land well.

She appears completely in touch with her surroundings in near-practical attire. She found her long, baggy blue jeans a bit cumbersome when the thorns from the thickets tore at them. Her face was almost completely round with soft features. Her eyes were hidden behind clip-on shades magnetized to steel-colored glasses with rimless bottoms. They reflected her surroundings like a well-polished mirror and shone like embers in the shadow of her cowboy-style hat. Blonde hair fell past her shoulders and down the back of her denim jacket; the faint light caught it in some places, making the highlights shine like gold. It was a bit frizzy and mimics her movements like a gold cloud. A camouflage printed bag hung heavily on her shoulder. One would have considered her harmless.

If it were not for the twelve-gauge Remington strapped to her back with a guitar sling. Carved expertly into the walnut stock were three letters: 'A', 'R' and 'S', each followed by a period.

For protection she had told herself. Her parents would have been "pissed" to say the least if they had known she was going out in the middle of the forest, it was a good thing they were late risers and heavy sleepers. It was not unheard of for a camper or hapless hunter to fall prey to black bears. And with wolves newly released in the area, her parents had every reason to keep her in the trailer; a frequent getaway spot from suburbia.
All the more reason to sneak out.

After another half-hour or so without incident, she heard something. It was like ringing laughter. Yes, those are the right words. High pitched, soft and bell-like. She looked around, brows furrowed. What the hell was that? There it is again! This time she saw something too. She thought she had been imagining things at first; she sensed movement and turned around just in time to glimpse something dart behind a tree. It had been glowing, slightly larger then her small fist, an orb of acid-green light. She blinked, touching the walnut butt of her shotgun for reassurance. It flitted from tree to tree, never staying in the same place for long. It streaked off into the woods, off her path. She followed it, running to keep up, the branches slapping at her body, the steep incline telling on her endurance as she tried to discover the mysterious object. No, object was the wrong word, she was convinced it was alive--or at least it moved so. Another shrill twinkling sound, almost too faint to hear. It was like the thing was taunting her, showing off its acrobatics with hairpin turns, tight spirals and breakneck dives through the branches.

And then it was gone. With a tremendous burst of speed it shot out of sight, leaving its pursuer painfully winded. One went to her knees as she hunched over, her lungs burning for air as the other massaged her thigh where something hard in her bag had banged against it.

Once she gained her breath, she took a minute to examine her surroundings. It seemed no different then any part of her usual route, only she didn't recognize it at all. Surely she would have come across it before, she knew these woods inside and out. There was a prominent feature about this particular area: Two rocks that jutted from the ground, perhaps fifteen feet high and four wide. Smooth and curved inward slightly, the girl was reminded of rib bones. They leaned against one another, the two ends over lapping, creating somewhat a natural archway. As if the orb of glowing light hadn't been enough. This was just downright queer.

She inched closer, adrenaline pumping, curiosity and suspicion aroused. Her brows once more knotted above the frame of the glasses. Humans have a natural distrust for things they don't understand. Structures like these didn't just.happen. It looked natural yet manmade at the same time, Stonehenge fluttered briefly though her mind.

And what was that?
.Runes.There are runes on this damn thing.

And indeed they were. Ebbed away by what might have been hundreds of years of corrosion by the elements, faint letters from a language she would never be able to comprehend had been chiseled into the flawless piece of.Granite, how the hell is that?.No question that they were manmade now, but in guessing who had gone though the trouble to haul those things either from Vermont or Georgia, shape them, and arrange them in such a position; she was at a loss. Hesitantly, as if it might burn her, she ran her hand down the stone, tracing the runes with her long, strong fingers.

Almost immediately, ringing laughter once again filled her ears. She jumped at the sound, head twisting back to glance behind her.

And there it was, just hovering there, suspended a mere ten feet behind her. Wings that bore the shape of butterfly wings yet the wiry frame and iridescence that of a dragonfly fluttered, seemingly just growing out of that bright center. The light tapered out before the green glow took prominence.

She turned around slowly, eyes never leaving the.thing. It did sort of a somersault in the air before coming closer, drifting past the awed human and between the two stone ribs. The trees beyond the stones that could be seen though the passage flickered, a strange distortion in the air like a wave of shimmering heat had passed over it as the light entered.

"Follow me." A feminine voice whispered, carried on the breath of the breeze that sighed though the trees. Mesmerized, She reached out to the air; it shivered again, like wind disturbing the fragile surface of a pond.

Suddenly, though no will of her own, she lurched forward, plunging head first into the stone archway. The colors swirled together making it impossible to see what was happening. Her stomach churned and eyes watered as she cried out loudly in confusion, only to have it drowned by the roaring wind in her ears. It was darkness and light at the same time, she was both rising into the heavens and falling into the dark abyss.

She stopped abruptly, stumbling and nearly landing flat on her face. It had ended just as unexpectedly as it had begun. She growled with discomfort as she staggered to her feet, rubbing the sides of her nose where the nose pieces of her glasses had been driven into her face. The first thing she noticed was that there was grass underfoot, like a well-manicured golf course in the small meadow. The trees towered into the sky, so tightly packed that she doubted she would be able to pass though them without difficulty. Here and there a shell of a once great tree parted them, the hollow passage leading on to yet another meadow. But if this wasn't odd enough, there were white, yellow and orange lights that drifted lazily around, no larger then nickels. They seemed completely inanimate, unlike the thing she saw earlier. She backed away as one drifted towards her. Feeling slightly bolder, she tried to cup one in her hands, it passed though her flesh as if it were nothing.

She looked around, hopelessly bewildered, confused, awed, scared. I don't think I'm in effing Kansas anymore.Why do I have the feeling that I've been here before? She frowned; lines creased her forehead again. She knew she had been there before, yet, somehow she hadn't. Indeed, she thought it impossible; it wasn't the sort of place you could forget. She sighed heavily.

Suddenly, something growled behind her. She whirled around to find herself face to face with a.wolf? No, it wasn't a wolf. The eyes glowed green like a cat's in the dark, the nails in the front paws were elongated into wicked claws, the tips permanently stained the rust-like color of dried blood. And the front legs--which she was soon to discover were not really legs at all--were that of a primate, able to stand on the hind legs and fight with the fore.

The girl stumbled backwards in fright and confusion. She being so very graceful under stress tripped backwards and landed on her bottom. The monstrous beast lashed out again, slicing the denim bellow the knees into ribbons before she had a chance to drag it backwards, the skin beneath it tore, leaving three thin red lines down her shin. She gritted her teeth, determined not to scream from the pain of it.

She quickly took the shotgun from her back. With a grunt, she brought the butt down on the animal's head, making it yelp with pain and retreat for a moment. She knew instinctively that it would not leave her until one of them was dead--and the girl'd be damned if she was going to be some one's psychopathic rendition of a werewolf slice her up. She stood up, gritting her teeth to keep from screaming in agony. In one fluid movement with the air of an expert marksman, she wielded her gun. The monster leapt at her, jaws open, ready to sink themselves into the vulnerable flesh of her throat.

A shot rang though the forest, shattering the calm serenity.

The animal paused in mid-jump, slumping to the ground in a mangled heap. She had hit dead center; the head was hardly recognizable, sprayed with buckshot, gray matter an blood strewn about. Even though you don't need to have to aim a shotgun very well, she had impeccable aim. She never missed.

She gritted her teeth, reloading. She didn't know how many others there would be, but she dared not bet her life on it.

All the while, there was an increasingly foul stench that seemed to make her throat burn. It smelt like a combination of animal musk, raw meat, sweat, piss and beer farts.

Before she knew it, a club had "lightly" collided with her temple, she fell, eyes rolled up in her head as she herself collapsed, not far from the animal she had killed earlier. She embraced the welcoming darkness just as what knocked her out slung her over it's shoulder, picked up her bag and gun, and slouched off into the forest.

Midnight. It was raining. Tiny silver drops coursed down the sides of the imposing stone barracks, water rolling down the heavy iron bars in the open cell window. The cell was a small one, meant to hold its captives in solitary confinement. The sturdy iron door and bared window could withstand the heaviest of attacks, offering the prisoner inside no hope of escape. The cramped space was dirty and ill kept, the walls bleeding with moisture.

He was alone again. He rather liked these moments he had to himself. They were precious, and few. He didn't know when they would be coming back, and preferred not to think about it.

Lightning coursed though the sky, lacing brief and intricate patterns across the steel colored clouds, in the direction of where the troops were heading. But it was so unnatural, so eerie. It was far too blue to be normal. What was it? Nearly winter he estimated. The air was too cold for thunderstorms. But he was beyond caring about something that seemed so insignificant. Though, others found it unsettling, frightening even. Guards and prisoners alike talked about it in low, hushed, nervous tones.

It lit briefly the very tall, lanky young man, as he lay curled up on the flea-ridden cot. His tanned, well-muscled body lay bare, open to the cold, empty air around him. He shivered violently. He hated being cold; he always seemed subject to it. It could be at the height of the summer and still he would not be able to feel his toes.

He heard something outside over the rolling thunder and pounding rain: an anguished scream and several confused shouts.

Carefully, he sat up, his body aching and weary. His muscles were sore, and as he moved, dozens of sharp stings merged into one slap of seething pain. Vigorously he rubbed together is numbed hands, grimacing from the pain it caused him. He drew a shuddering breath, the frigid air felt like knives stabbing his lungs. He shuffled over to the windows, placing his hands over the icy steal of the bars. Another fork of lightning laced overhead, illuminating his face briefly. His appearance was more dead then alive.

One dark and sorrowful eye reflected the bleak landscape; a muddy, treeless plain that stretched on as far as he could see. The other was nearly swollen shut, the skin around it damaged and a sickly purplish-green. He pursed his lips that were cut and stained with blood. He raked an equally damaged hand though his once-sleek black hair as the single eye moved restlessly about, trying to grasp a bit of evidence for his constant buzzing questions. Where was he? How did he get here? He shook his head to clear it of the haze clouding his mind like the gray clouds overhead hid the full moon. But nothing settled into place, nothing ordered his jumbled thoughts, or made senseof his situation.

What seemed like miles below him was a small group of people moving towards the entrance very slowly. Five soldiers tried their best to support one of their own, the injured soldier carried between them. His tunic and face were charred beyond recognition. Every now and then, a mouth would appear within those black boils and he would scream to the heavens, his sightless eyes turned upward.

He would leave behind a wife, a family of four, and God knew how many friends, some of which would be at his side the moment that the dim flame was claimed by the wind. But he was free, and for that the prisoner envied him.

He knew not how long he had remained in this dismal setting. It could have been as long as years or as short as a few hours: time held no more meaning for him. He could only vaguely grasp what life he had before then, though many pieces were missing from the puzzle. What he could remember most clearly of all was that his life had been better at one point before.before when? He sighed, the single eye closing. He was slowly loosing his mind in this dismal setting, it might not be long before he was no more then an empty shell, a living corpse.

He leaned his forehead against the iron bars, rain becoming lost in his dark hair. And in turn, his tears mixing with the rain on the windowsill. The prisoner whimpered as he slid down to the floor, the wall rough enough to make his back raw. He drew his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them and wrapping his arms around his legs.

He shook terribly. He knew that eventually his captors would grow tired of their little mind games in time, they weren't keeping him there for the hell of it. One day, the questions would be silenced, the beatings would stop. And he knew, that whatever was in store for him beyond that, would send him begging to be tortured.

The floor shook, making him jump with surprise. When he realized that it wasn't thunder, a soft whine of despair escaped his damaged lips. The cell corridors beyond his confines were slamming open; he could hear footfalls outside his door.
No. No. No, not again.

The lock on the door clicked.

Charcoal-blue eyes snap open, unfocused and dull, though the intelligence quickly appears behind them. She realized dully that her glasses were missing, making it hard to make out even the obvious of shapes.

She could tell she was in a tent, the canvas was stretched up in front of her. Rain drummed on the canvas, water pooled on it in places where it was lower then the supports that held it up. The clatter of cooking wear could be heard, along with some indistinct voices and the whinny of a horse.

She was stripped down to her black T-shirt and pants--one of the legs had been pulled up to the knee, the shin wrapped neatly in clean white gauze. She had a pounding headache that she bet rivaled being kicked in the head by a horse. Her shoulder ached dully, she figured that she probably wasn't strong enough to use a shotgun of that strength, it had been months since she had used it. She heard a vague, deep, reassuring voice, but she couldn't make out the words. With much effort, she tried to sit up; a large hand gently braced her back for support.

She didn't know if it was the from pain that flashed though her leg, or the suddenness of her movement--perhaps a combination of both--but she soon commented indistinctly, "Shit." And promptly vomited into an awaiting metal basin.

She looked to the side of her; all she could see was a large mass of blurry blackness. She squinted, but it didn't seem to do any good, so was the extent of her nearsightedness. She waited expectantly in silence, neither scared nor afraid.

"I hope you are not too ill," A gruff, polite, distinctly male voice came from the large black mass. The blue eyes narrowed, but not from her poor sight.

"Who the hell are you.Or what are you? Where're my glasses?" Her voice was deeper then most, but had a feminine tone to it. It was laced with agitation and distrust. The black shape molded and twisted slightly, she felt the steel frames pressed into her hand sans clip-on sunglasses. Hastily, she shoved them on.

Beside her was a man (Well, she assumed it was a man) clad in a billowing black robe. He was hunched down and the robes were quite shapeless, but she could sense that under those folds was a very tall, very powerfully built body. His face and hair was covered, leaving only his eyes in view, which were a very pale color that she couldn't quite make out in the semi-dim light. The eyebrows were bushy and a deep red. She almost thought he was Irish, or something. Her mother had pale eyes like his that sometimes looked yellow when the light hit them a certain way, and there was that kid at school that had the brightest (naturally) red hair that she had ever seen. But the skin was too dark, almost Arabic; she had never seen a pure Irishman tan before. The shape of the eyes suggested that he was smiling at her from beneath those infinite folds.

"Hey, you get lost from a renaissance festivalor somethin'?" she said, a bit sarcasticly.

"Renaissance.? Oh, no, my dear girl, I assure you--" But she cut him off, wanting answers and wanting them now.

"Then what's with the getup?

"Well, it gets a little chilly this time of year on the Field, I don't suppose you've noticed quite yet-"

"Then wear a jacket," She interrupted again. She was distinctly distressed. Well, who wouldn't be after following an eerie light though the forest, ending up in some freakish land, getting attacked by a werewolf, knocked head-over-heels and waking up to a splitting headache and some crackpot running around in bed sheets? "What the hell is going on--"

He shot her a glare that rendered her speechless; it felt like an ice cube had suddenly been slipped down into her stomach.

"You stumbled upon a loophole to parallel universe," He stated with a conversational air.

Boy, did that raise an eyebrow. "You're a goddamn fruitcake aren't ya?"

He dismissed it with a wave of a hand that had materialized from the black folds; large, callused, weathered and strong. "Never mind." He said lazily and stood up, towering above her. He moved off to the side and sat down. His bulk had hidden her bag from view, it's contents strewn all about: A half empty bottle of coke. A skinning knife lying atop its scabbard. A bag of moldy, blackened carrots that she had forgot to throw out. Four boxes of open cartridges, the little soldiers of death lined up for battle. A portable CD player. A haggard-looking brush. A half-opened tube of Cream Savers (strawberry flavored). A graphite pencil with a paper blending stub.A large assortment of junk. But even at a glance, she could see what was missing.

"'A.R.S.' I take it those are your initials?" Said the man idly. He was skimming though her ragged sketchbook, looking with interest at one in particular.

"That's some guy in a video game I like," She stated firmly. She absolutely hated people looking though he stuff, especially her sketchbook. "Now, if you don't mind!"

"Oh, but I do." He cocked an eyebrow in amusement. "You say you like this man?" He tapped on the piece of paper, right at the long nose. "Looks a bit evil to me."

"Well, I like his character." Her cheeks were slowly turning red with embarrassment.

"Oh, don't fret, I like him too, very interesting character if I do say so myself."

She cocked an eyebrow. "You've played the game?"

".In a way," He said, smiling mischievously with his eyes, letting on that he knew something she didn't. She narrowed her eyes again.

"Where's my gun?" she demanded. He chuckled darkly.

"Planning to shoot me, eh?"

"No." (as much as she would have liked at this point) "I just want my stuff. I'm leaving. If I can't get any straight answers from you, I'll go find them elsewhere." She stood up as if to prove her point. Her leg ached dully when the blood began circulating but other then that she was fine.

"You demand answers to questions you do not know," He murmured. "Suit yourself." He gestured to where her gun lay, leaned against a heavy crate. She slipped on her jacket, which had been folded neatly behind her, adorned her hat, scooped the rest of her stuff into the bag (even the carrots) and slung it onto her shoulder--the Remington over the other. She snatched her book irritably from the man in black, who looked a bit disappointed. She glared at him before turning to leave for the tent flap. He could hear her murmuring 'Goddamn fruitcake' under her breath.

"Oh, and Amanda." He called after her. She turned around in an instant, eyes wide.

"How did you.?" she started, but then remembered how pissed off she was supposed to be. "Never mind, I don't want to know."

She stepped hurriedly out without another word, visibly shaken.

He gazed to where she was only seconds ago, then chuckled to himself, standing up once more.

Amanda looked around her. The wind whipped past her, unchecked by any trees or permanent dwellings. She was on a once-grassy plane, the vegetation replaced by thick mud with only a few islands of grass in its expanse. The ominous sky was a featureless, dismal steel gray blanket that oppressed those below it.

There were tents; she estimated nearly one hundred or so, much like the one she had just exited, all of white canvas. A campfire and a horse or two accompanied each. Women sat outside, cold and shivering. Their thin garments soiled by dirt, bright red hair darkened by rain. Yellow eyes glittered on her figure; their expressions just as surprised and confused as her own.
.Gerudo.?

"Yes." came a response from behind, an answer to her thoughts. "Welcome to Hyrule."

She whirled around.

The face had been uncovered. Ganondorf stood before her.

And she didn't know whether to scream or laugh.

He was in a different room now. It was warmer here, larger as well and there was a candelabrum in the corner that gave much light along with a roaring fire. But the moment could not have been tenser. The tall young man was seated in a wooden chair that was bolted to the floor; his wrists, ankles and chest were bound to it. The white cords were stained red where he had strained against them. He bled profusely from a gash just above his swollen eye and twitched now and then when a drop fell from his brow to his cheek. His lips were dry, cracked and still bloody. His throat was bruised; the swollen skin a dark shade of purple. He was not alone. There was an audience of three in the room with him. His eye drifted over them, a curious gleam within their black depths, tainted with mixture of distrust and anxiety.

The first man, the one nearest to him, was elderly, but still sharp as a tack it seemed; he had the broad shoulders of an archer. The second was younger, more hateful and twice as strong. Both had pointed ears. He did not. They were dressed in the militant tunics that everyone wore around the barracks while he was dressed in nothing but a filthy pair of slacks. The third he could not see all that clearly. He was outfitted in a long black and hooded cloak that left little to the imagination and hid his physical features from the prisoner. But, somehow he sensed that the mysterious one didn't want to and wasn't going to meet his gaze.

"Alright, scum."

The man's eye shifted back to the first, his gaze unwavering and defiant. Scum. That seemed to be his nickname around those parts, seeing as that they didn't know his name, and never bothered to ask. He raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment and looked to the man expectantly.

"Don't get smart with me."

'Scum' sighed. So.this wasn't going to be something he could just blow off. No answers, lots of thrashing. That's how it went, right?

"Now then," said the old man, his voice rang out in the large room, rebounding off the walls and making the young man wince. "Do you have any conception of why you're here?"

The index finger of his left met the wood of the armchair twice, making a faint taping noise. The answer was no.

"You are here because you know something and we don't. Isn't that so?"

Three taps. Not sure.What would that be?

"Somehow our enemy has been gaining insight on our positions and troops, he counteracts our every move. Have you been sending him information?"

He felt that he had never been asked a more pointless question. He glanced down at the hands too sore to wield a pencil, to the feet that had difficulty bearing his own weight. He raised a quizzical eyebrow over his good eye.

The man narrowed his almond-shaped eyes then drew back hid hand and slapped the young man with great force. Just another addition to his collection of throbbing pain. The man's head drooped, yet he looked back defiantly still, the primitive rage building within that dark pupil.

"I know you can't send him anything by the conventional methods, damn it! There's no use in hiding it! We all know you have powers!" Another blank stare, this time rewarded with a punch to the stomach. The prisoner was not even granted the luxury of doubling over in pain. Life disappeared from that single eye; it became blank and unresponsive.

He let himself sink, retreating back into the recesses of his mind. There was no pain there. Well, a little, he could still sense it, but he felt so far below it to let it affect him. He smiled inwardly. It was quiet and dark, his favorite combination. The warmth enveloped him like a quilt, the silence bliss upon his ears.

".He's doing it again." Mumbled the second, younger man. "Should I.?"

"By all means," Snapped the old interrogator. The younger man unhooked a long black whip that he always kept present at his hip. He unfurled it, then let it whistle though the air. A red streak materialized on the young man's previously unbroken skin.

He was brought back with sudden shook, a startled cry of pain managing to escape. His head drooped, strong shoulders dripping with newly shed blood and shaking uncontrollably, drawing short gasping breaths.

His interrogator leaned forward, the wizened face uncomfortably close to his own. Had he no conception of personal space?

"Sorry, lad, but you're not going to get out of it that easy."

The young man glared daggers at him, the black eye a firestorm of raging hatred. Mustering what little he had left, he spit at him, the spray of saliva hitting him in the eye. Bold? Yes. Stupid? Well, it depended on whether you wanted to live or die.

There was movement in the back corner. With a disgusted sigh, the hooded man turned and left just as the interrogator slapped him maliciously across the face and the younger man began readying his metal toothpicks. He left swiftly, the cloak fanning out behind him in his escape. The echoing, weak, pitiful cries of agony followed him out the room and down the hall, the sound of it made his gut twist in guilt.

He could stop it. Release the prisoner of his pain, misery, and confusion. One flick of the wrist, a flash of cold unforgiving steel and it end. True, he was disgusted with the prisoner's treatment, he had endured for so long under immense pressure. It was a wonder he was not a ranting lunatic, spilling all that he knew and then some. He was already too strained to make any noises short of animalistic utterances, the strong muscles slowly going to waste, battered and bleeding, too weak to stand much less walk.

Yet, he chose not to. As wrong as it was, he had his reasons. Frankly, it was either the prisoner or him that was going to sit in that awful chair, might as well be him. The battered young man was his scapegoat, an exhausted mouse for them to bat around while he operated right under their noses. They gave them protection while he destroyed them from the inside out, the perfect little parasite.

.Speaking of which, he was late for his meeting. His boot heels clicked angrily as he marched forward at a swift pace. Those in his path quickly skirted to one side, giving him a wide berth, knowing better not to get in his way. The scabbard of his broadsword just peaked out of the hem of his robes, a subtle reminder of his position. No one questioned him or asked many questions, few even knew what his face looked like in that black void covered by the hood. It was a wonder no one suspected him in the first place. But, he had sworn fidelity to the king, that was good enough for them. Fools.

He had reached a simple door, identical to countless others he had passed. He slowed his pace, walked past it just as a bumbling guard had cleared the long corridor, he redoubled without even pausing and went to the door. Key already in hand, he thrust it into the lock and twisted it. With a barely audible grunt, he threw his weight onto it, budging the rusted hinges considerably. With a second slam, the door creaked open, what lay beyond it enveloped in darkness. He shut the door behind him and stalked blindly along the pitch-black passageway, knowing exactly where to step down when he found the steps and where to skirt along the walls where pieces of the stone floors had fallen away to cavernous voids below. But there was light up ahead, he could see it: a thin, dim line that ran level with the floor, illuminating his path. A door.

With a quick flick of the latch, he was inside a small room. The light that had guided his way was an off-setting acidic green, lighted a stone wall where some prisoner had gone mad and scraped his bloody fingers along it till they bled--a fingernail was still pasted to one of them. A low table was the only form of furniture in the suffocating atmosphere. Upon it sat a shallow basin, from which the light emanated. It was filled with a substance that was neither liquid nor gas, it swirled and churned constantly as if a weak breeze tugged at it.

Before this bowl he knelt on the floor, leaning over it. Then, as if someone had traced their fingers though the liquid, words shimmered on the surface.

"You're late," It read simply.

"Yes, I know, sire. I'm sorry," He said to it.

"I'm too strained as it is to keep this connection, the least you could do is show up."

He cringed, as if he could hear the bite of those bitter words. "I had to--" He started but more words has appeared.

"We don't have time for that. I know what you were doing. Now, what are the reports?"

He cleared his throat and his voice took on a dutiful air. "They know you're here, obviously. You did nothing to hide your position, and those lightning bolts you used on our scouts were a dead give away.Honestly, sire, may I make a comment?"

"No."

".Okay then. The first wave of troops will arrive shortly. How soon I can't say."

"How many?"

He hesitated. ".Five hundred on horseback, full armor.

There was a very long pause, so long that he thought the connection was broken or the one on the other side had left. Almost when he turned to leave, words had once more appeared.

"And how are your defenses?"

At this he smiled inwardly.

"Very poor."

"Excellent.And what of the prisoner?"

"Won't say a word. In all due respect sir, I don't think he can be of any use to you."

"That has yet to be decided. Do your best to keep him alive, though his corpse will do if all else fails."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, and by the way, Another crossed over. She is now in my possession and a member of my army. I have a certain fondness for the bitch, be careful not to kill her."

Before he could say another word, the light disappeared, leaving him alone in he inky darkness with only his swirling thoughts for company.

Amanda clutched the steaming porcelain cup in trembling hands. As much as she hated tea, she would do anything to calm her nerves. She sipped it slowly, but she felt as if the cup would just rattle right out of her hands. She was inside the tent once more, seated on the ground, shotgun resting in her lap as she tried to grasp what she just saw.

This can't be real.She told herself over and over again, lied to herself. It was too hard to understand. Too outrageous. Yet, it seemed to make sense in a freakishly twisted sort of way. Everything matched up. But, it couldn't be true, none of it.

Ganondorf.

One of the evil characters a game she played, who supposedly was profoundly evil and sadistic, had tended her wounds, rifted though her sketchbook then offered her tea. TEA of all things! Hell, if he had taken off those robes and she had found that he was wearing a tutu and a g-string she couldn't have been more surprised.

Speak of the devil, the male gerudo opened the flap and crouched down as he entered. She was thankful that he did not wear the mentioned items above, but was wearing his full armor, just like she had remembered from the game. She found it strangely comforting, something she recognized. She sighed and set down her mug. Things were.not right. It was like the game, but somehow completely different.

"Sorry, I had business to attend to.I take it you don't care for tea," He observed, casually seating himself on the floor across from her, seeming to be completely oblivious to the fact that he was in full armor.

"No. No, I do not," Amanda stated, meeting his gaze. He saw no fear within those clear eyes. A curious expression lit his features as he smirked and raised a bushy eyebrow.

"Amusing. You aren't the slightest bit afraid of me, are you?" He inquired with a low chuckle.

She shrugged. "If you had wanted to kill me, you would have done it."

"This is true."

"But then." her brows knitted together, "Why do you even bother to keep me here?"

He smirked. "Is there a problem with that?"

"The hell there ain't," She mumbled, that hard edge returning to her voice. "How did I even get here?"

He leaned back, as if collecting his thoughts before he spoke again. He waved his fingers back and forth before her, moving so fast that his hand was a blur. He stopped abruptly to show that he held a coin between his thumb and index finger. "Have you ever entertained the notion that there's more them one reality?"

Whew, that was a question that she wasn't ready for."Uhhh."

"Let me put it this way." He fingered the coin, rolling it back and forth. He released it, letting it fall to the ground, it made a small ringing sound until it finally stopped, lying on its side. "Say, the coin had landed on the other side, or in another part of the rug, what would become of it?"

Amanda shrugged, not quite sure as to what he was getting at.

".That is where realities split." He murmured, his voice becoming gravely serious. "That slight difference has created an alternative universe of what could have been. Of course, some of the differences are much less subtle but the differences are there. Take your world and mine for a moment if you will. What is the one major difference that you can think of?"

She hesitated, but then the answer came quickly. "Magic."

He nodded. "Our world was born with magic coursing though it's veins. Yours was not. In a way, magic is a hindrance to this place, our world is so far less advanced then your own. You found alternative energy sources, lifestyles and what not, where as we remain behind. And yet these innumerable worlds and states of being have little to no knowledge of the other's existence."

He gestured outwards elaborately, trailing his fingers though the air as if he could feel a drag. "There. I just brushed hundreds of millions of worlds and no one will ever know besides you and I. In some places, the walls between worlds are very thin. Mages and wizards have known this for thousands of years.some even constructing bridges between worlds. You found that out first hand. You weren't the first, nor will you be the last." He grinned.

"So, somewhere, there are many more of you--perhaps one that didn't take up the gun or that draws slightly better or thought tea was the best drink in the world. Perhaps in some alternative reality, I died before I left the womb, had a different rug in my chambers, or." he smiled mischievously, "I escaped without ever being locked away in the sacred realm."

Amanda sat in silence for several moments, just sat there, taking in everything he had explained. She was lost. Confused. And.Scared. More then anything, she wanted something to hold on to, some sort of grip on reality. Something that could tell her that this was all a bad dream and that she'd wake up in her bunk bed back in that run-down trailer with the smell of eggs frying on her grandmother's stove and the distant drone of a television set repeating the same tired, old news.

"Wow." she whispered, breaking eye contact with him to stare at her thirty-year-old cowboy boots with a stoic, mask-like expression. Down to business then. ".but.is there a way to go back?"

He looked at her seriously, a pale fire glowing within those eyes.

"Perhaps," He said quietly, the mirth quickly retreating. "Is that what you wish?"

She nodded. "It's the only place I can call home I guess, and the only place I can feel right at."

She looked at him hopefully.

"I'm sorry, it is not that simple."

Her heart sunk. She was getting desperate now. "Just tell me, I'll do whatever it takes."

Ganondorf drew himself up importantly. "Then consider yourself enlisted. You go into battle in less then two hours."

"What the hell?!" She jumped to her feet, staring at him with wide eyes.

"You know, battle: people to kill. Stuff to plunder. Battle," He explained sarcastically. She narrowed her eyes dangerously.

"You know damn well what I meant!" She spat. His own eyes narrowed into slits as he stood up, towering over her. Yet she wasn't the least bit intimidated or impressed, rising up to meet him. "I wanna go home!"

"It is not that simple," He repeated tersely. "Besides, you could prove invaluable to either side of this war with that weapon of yours. Wouldn't want you to join the enemy, you would be the first I would have to kill." He smiled, but it was far from pleasant.

"So what's this bullshit?" She hissed, the rage mounting. Without even being aware of it, her grip tightened, fingers automatically sliding to rest on the designated triggers. "I become your little soldier of death--practically your Goddamn slave until you get off your ass and send me home?!"

He noticed her actions but took no heed. There was no more warmth to his features, a malicious grin had taken its place; cold, dangerous and feral.

"You're quick, 'Hic.'"

*Cough* OK then. I'll write more, depending on what the reaction to this thing is. Also, I dunno what I'm doin,' if you can think of a possible plot/ending, I'd be grateful.

~A.R.S.