Chapter Text
If someone were to tell Dark a week ago that Demise [The glorified bonfire with a grudge and a massive temper tantrum] was going to send him to kill a bunch of Heroes mainly the one from Skyloft, he would have laughed in your face a kicked you off to get eaten by a bunch of stafoes...
Well...Karmas a bitch
So there he was, stalking a bunch of blonde idiots with no self-preservation on the orders of a stupid god-like volcano, its not like he had anything better to do than send the one who got his but kicked-...wait how many times was that now? he fought that one hero six times, then the sailor, that fairy kid with the sage...ew...,the old man at the water temple that was torture punishment then the war- OH, the war, Dark hated Cia SO MUCH URGH!
If I had control over my body when that witch summoned me she'd would've never even dared try that again
There are a lot of things Dark hates, hot places, Heroes, Bokoblins, Demise, Cia, Ghirahim, Demise..oh and DEMISE, but what could he do? yell at him? run his mouth? Leave?
No...no he couldn't leave even if he wanted to, where would he even go? Everyone would either run or try and kill him, moreover he looked like a corrupted corpse..and maybe he was..he had not heartbeat, he was cold as ice, hell if he laid down he'd be mistaken for a corpse.
Dark spat into the ash-laced ground as he trekked the gnarled path. His boots crunched over bones. Not human—thankfully. He hated stepping on human bones. Something about it made his stomach twist in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Of course Demise sent him to the hotest place in Hyrule, how Gerudo survived in this place is beyond him. Tracking them had been easy. Each one was about as subtle as a Death Mountain eruption. the fairy boy had left behind a string of empty potion bottle. wolf boys prints were unmistakable—heavy, thoughtful, and wolf-pawed half the time. Prince charming had dropped a cape pin at one point. Rookie mistake. And then there was the Skyloftian.
Holder of the holy glow-stick
The mortal who had, somehow, stood against Demise himself and won.
That was the only time Dark had ever seen the Old God truly enraged. Not just irritated. Not cruel. But incandescent with wrath. So furious he’d spoken in the Old Tongue, words that rattled the very air, and reached into Dark’s body to tear something out.
Not that it worked of course but nevertheless it hurt.
He reached the rise of a hill and crouched behind a boulder, peering out. There they were. Nine of them, gathered by a ruined tower, sitting around a meager fire, cooking what looked like mushrooms and bad decisions. Skykid was smiling. Of course he was.
The Master Sword gleamed at his back like it had no idea how annoying it was.
Dark’s lip curled, and for a moment, he considered simply calling a barrage of monsters on them from the shadow plane. But no. Demise wanted this personal. “Get rid of them,” he’d said. “Burn the line of Heroes to ash and drag the Chosen back screaming.”
A vendetta. Personal. Petty. Deliciously so.
Demise didn’t just hate Sky. He despised him. And Dark, ever the loyal lapdog, was expected to act on that hatred. Even if part of him—the tiny, scorched remnant of a boy he used to be—wondered if that was why he was raised in the first place. Not to serve. But to mock. Mock who or what Dark was never told, but assumed it was Hylia, and rightfully so, she only cared for her life-filled creations, never for the ones sent down below to the dark, cold realm of Demises iron foot, it was only warm when Demise was angry, which wasn't as often but not rare either, those heroes kept getting on his nerves just by existing on this mortal plane.
Dark sighed and started creeping closer to the camp.
Don't Screw This Up this time