The Lizalfos were running.
They had been mining materials for Ganondorf, the king of the Gerudo, when the Hero of time had appeared and attacked. They had fought back because that was what they were trained to do, but all of the commotion was causing Death Mountain to stir. Suddenly, as it had started, Death Mountain erupted.
The Hero of Time looked back, grabbed his Ocarina of time, played a melody, and disappeared, grinning at the Lizalfos. The Lizalfos turned in alarm, saw the lava, and started running. The captain and his second in command started checking them to ensure they were all ahead until they started running. But they missed one.
One poor Lizalfos was far behind and was fighting to stay up and running, his tail inches from the lava. He grunted for help and kept running when the others finally noticed he needed help. But they were too late and couldn’t turn back. Lizalfos could be replaced.
Then something miraculous happened that only the second in command saw.
The Lizalfos was tired and on the verge of collapse when a figure knocked him away from the lava. He thought it was the captain and fought to stay awake, but instead, the darkness started coming into his eyes. And that was all that he knew.
Once the volcano stopped erupting, the second in command ran to the edge from where the other had fallen. She made to look back, defeated, when something caught her eye. She looked down to see a young male Hylian, looking back at her with his mask, cap, and red eye. Then as quickly as she saw him, he turned and ran down the edge of the mountain, never to be seen again.
That’s what this feeling was.
This feeling that was intraping him.
Why on Hyrule would he be feeling pain . . . ?
The Lizalfos startled awake and sat up, questions filling him. Where was he? Was he dead? Why was he in such immense pain-
He fell back, able to sit up no more. Maybe if he held his breath, the pain would fall away. . . He took a breath and held it, feeling the pain slow.
Then he let it out, the pain, agonizing.
“Ow . . .” he muttered, and he opened his eyes. Even doing that was difficult. He must have been inside of a cave, for the world around him was the color of clay. But he couldn’t see anything else, for his sight started to go blurry.
Something moved. He wasn’t sure what it was, he couldn’t see it. He could only hear it. “W-who are . . . you!” He grunted, fighting his body.
The Lizalfos felt something soft being laid on top of him. A soft, kind voice answered him, a voice of a Hylian male, for Hylians had the strangest accent . . . Or maybe it was Lizalfos that did . . . he couldn’t seem to remember as he fought off the overwhelming feeling to fall into nothingness.
“It’s okay, Lizalfos. You’re safe now.” The voice answered, adjusting the cover on him.
“W-who . . . ?” The Lizalfos could not fight it off anymore.
The last thing he remembered before passing out cold was the Hylian saying, “I am Sheik, the last survivor of the Sheikah.”
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The Lizalfos awoke to the sound of a lyre. For a brief moment, he was at peace. Then the pain caught up to him. “Ow . . . ” he muttered, opening his eyes. He blinked a few times, before sitting up, wincing at the cold wall.
He sighed, letting his body slowly untense, before looking at the scenery. He was in a big brown cave, big enough to fit two, single child Lizalfos families. He was sitting at the end of the cave, for the other side was glowing with light.
“Where . . . How could . . . I survived?!” He moved to stand when he noticed the white cloth situated on his legs. He blanched. He had thought that the moment before was just a dream. But seeing the blanket . . .!
“I have to get out of here.” He whispered to himself. With bolts of pain and the help of the wall, the Lizalfos stood up. He leaned against the wall, gasping, when he noticed something. Normally, when he was nervous, he held his tail as an anchor to the world. But why couldn’t he grab it for the life of him?
He looked down and felt his stomach drop.
His tail . . . his beautiful tail had been burned off. He flailed at the wall for support as dizziness started to claim him. He needed to lie down . . . but which way was the ground. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply and frantically.
Suddenly, hands were on his shoulders.
“Breath . . . Just breathe.” The kind and gentle voice said. Carefully, the being led him to the ground, before fetching water and placing a cold towel on his forehead. The Lizalfos opened his eyes to see a young Sheikah who looked about 18 years of age. Sheik, if this was who had been with him the night before.
Sheik had yellow hair tinged with orange that covered his left eyes. His eyes were blood red. On top of his hair was a covering made of bandages. Over the majority of his face was a mask made of cloth that was connected to his top, which had the symbol of the Sheikah on it. Around his arms were bandages that spread all the way to his fingertips. His arms were covered in blue and white fabric, the same as his legs. Slung along his back was a golden lyre, also sporting a few wrappings.
“I . . . Why are you helping me?” the Lizalfos asked.
Sheik just stared at him with their bright red eyes, then turned and grabbed a cup made of wood. Sheik then turned back to the Lizalfos and brought the cup up to his mouth. “Drink. You need your strength.”
The Lizalfos didn’t want to submit, but the water looked so fresh and thirst quenching . . .
The Lizalfos sipped, then leaned back, starling at the ceiling, trying to ignore the Sheikah’s constant staring. After a few moments of awkward silence, Sheik spoke.
“What’s your name?”
The Lizalfos looked at Sheik, not sure how to answer the question. “I . . . I don’t have one.”
“You have no name?” The Lizalfos shook his head. “Oh . . .” Sheik said, contemplating. After a few minutes of silence, Sheik’s eyes brightened. “I’ve got an idea. How about Lizal of the Lizalfos. Just like I’m Sheik of the Sheikah.”
The Lizalfos looked at Sheik with a slightly surprised look. On one talon, he thought that there were better names that he could have. But on the other hand, this Sheikah seemed to think that it was fantastic, and no one else had ever stayed by him long enough to talk to him, much less give him an affectionate nickname.
“Fine.” Lizal said. “I’m Lizal. Nice to meet you Sheik-”
He was cut off as Sheik hugged him. “Thank you for humoring me.” he spoke, holding the Lizalfos tight. “You have no idea what it means to me.”
Lizal was stunned. He had never had this close of contact before, and it was making his face heat up. He mumbled “you’re welcome” and gently shoved Sheik off him. “Why did you save me, Sheik? You must have a reason for helping the enemy.”
Sheik’s eyes darkened. “Must I?” he asked, spinning on his heel to grab a dish. “Eat.” he commanded, shoving the dish in Lizal’s face.
“Is . . . is it poisoned?”
Sheik mumbled a swear, his eyes igniting with silent fury. “Look, I get why you don’t trust me. But if you don’t eat, then you won’t heal, then you’ll die and I’ll have to start the whole process over again.”
Lizal’s eyes narrowed. “What process?”
Sheik’s eyes grew stormy and dark, yet somehow completely active and bright. Lizal swallowed back a wave of fear and stared right back to the Sheikah. With a swift movement, Sheik brought the lyre into the front of his body. Lizal flinched, but stepped back, ready to fight.
He wasn’t prepared for Sheik to play a lullaby.
The notes were slow and calming, gently begging you to close your eyes, pleading you to lie down. Then, they turned soft and sad, making you want to silently sob. Lizal looked at Sheik in amazement as his face began to let the stress fall. “Sheik.” Lizal whispered, feeling tears begin to prick his eyes. “Sheik, stop . . . it’s . . . too much.” He fell into a heap on the ground as sleep crawled up his body. “No . . . not now.” Lizal fought to stand, but froze when the music stopped.
Sheik’s hand was on Lizal’s shoulder, strangely comforting. “Sleep, Lizalfos. It will do you good.” A blanket was draped along Lizal’s back. “Many choices await you tomorrow.” The lyre began to play again as Sheik’s hand left Lizal’s body.
Sleep gently pulled him under.
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Lizal woke up slowly. His body was still crying out for sleep, but his brain was very much awake. Looking around, he noticed how little light was in the room and figured it was the middle of the night. Outside, monsters and wolves howled, signaling fights and pain. Little fairies flew in the distance, playing with the few Kokiri awake. Rushing water grew colder and colder as night continued on, and in the distance was the silhouette of the windmill in Kakariko village.
Lizal sat up, shoving the blanket off him, hoping that the sting of cold air would wake him up. But the cave was warm, shielding everyone inside of it from the outside world. “Sheik?” Lizal called softly. “Sheik, are you up?”
Lizal truly looked around the cave. There was very little about it. It was a little crevice on the side of Death Mountain. Lizal had been sleeping against a wall not far from the entrance. Materials for cooking food lay on the opposite wall. Going farther in, there was nothing except for a small path, hidden by the winding of the walls. Walking into the path, Lizal saw a dead end, holding nothing except-
Lizal looked at the figure of Sheik. He was up against the wall, his arms crossed, his eyes closed. Looking closer, Lizal realized that he was shivering. Guiltily, Lizal looked back the way he came, knowing that back there was the blanket Sheik had used to cover him. Then, looking back at Sheik, he walked back the way he came.
Lizal rushed back to the front to grab the blanket and, after a moment’s hesitation, grabbed the pillow too. Lizalfos may have worked for Ganondorf, the king of evil, but they did not lose their humanity.
Lizal approached Sheik more slowly, making sure not to wake him up. He then gently draped the blanket over Sheik’s shoulders. Once he was sure that Sheik would warm up soon, Lizal went back to the main area, sitting by a pile of wood surrounded by stones. One of the first things that Lizalfos were taught was how to make a fire. Looking around, he found a small stick and began rubbing it vigorously against his rough scales. Just as his scales started to ache, the stick ignited.
Pleased with himself, Lizal carefully held it under a piece of wood, waiting for the flame to spread. Once it did, Lizal began the work of making sure it didn’t go out too quickly. He felt the flames lick at his arms, but did not back away. He was raised in a fire environment. A few flames couldn’t hurt him.
Then, he leaned back, watching the flames do their work of warming the cave. Curling up in a ball, Lizal closed his eyes and slept.