Author's notes: This story earned Honorable Mention in the Legends and Adventure summer fanfic contest. Title inspired by the song "Kingsword" by Heather Dale, which just happened to be the inspiration for this.

Spoilers for Twilight Princess. Introspective piece.

Herosword

Red and gold leaves crunch beneath his well-worn boots as he walks into the ruins of the Temple of Time. Once he passes the large, leaf-strewn Triforce on the ground, he can see through the arch into the small enclosure that was once the Temple's sanctum. His memory calls up the image of the towering room and the massive stained-glass windows that stretched up towards the sky and compares it to the crumbled walls that barely even hold the forest back. Time passes, even in this timeless place.

He slowly climbs the old staircase, seeing the afternoon sun gleam off the blade standing in the stone pedestal. How long will it be, he wonders, before the forest breaches the walls and overtakes the room entirely? Or are the trees being held back by some kind of magic? He isn't sure, but such a thing wouldn't surprise him. He doesn't know if it's the Master Sword's presence or whatever enchantment allowed him to pass through the Time Door or something else entirely, but the very air seems to resonate with ancient magic.

This is the first time he's noticed this. But, he realizes, this is also the first time he has come here without Zant's curse or the search for the shards of the Mirror of Twilight weighing on his mind. He isn't sure he belongs here, yet the door is still unblocked, the path still open, the Master Sword still resting there before him.

He pauses at the top of the stairs, suddenly all too aware of the weight of his sword across his back. This is a sacred place; dare he enter with a weapon at his back? Why does he wonder that? He was armed last time he was here, though with a different sword, and nothing happened then. He tells himself to stop being so skittish and walks over to the pedestal.

The Master Sword looks no different than it did the day he first drew it, bearing no evidence of any of the battles he carried it through. He smiles; if it can sit exposed to nature for years -- centuries? -- then a few battles are nothing.

He draws his sword from its scabbard and holds it out. Unlike the sacred steel sleeping before him, his own sword is marred by tiny chips and scrapes, telltale signs of the battles it has seen. Rusl may be a great smith, but even one of his best swords is nothing compared to the blade of evil's bane.

Link misses it, sometimes, that familiar weight across his back. His current sword just isn't the same. It isn't as long, nor is it weighted quite so perfectly for him, nor does it hang the same behind him. It is a bit unfair to compare the two weapons, as one is a normal sword and the other a holy artifact, but he can't stop himself from doing so. There's just something about the way the Master Sword felt in his hand that he can't forget.

He sheathes his sword and then reaches out and wraps a hand around the Master Sword's familiar hilt. The holy sword hums against his hand, its magic stirring faintly at his touch.

But he does not draw it.

He has no right to draw it. Before, he needed its power to break the curse Zant cast on him and to drive the threat of the Usurper King and his god from Hyrule. Now, there is no evil to chase away, no need for the Master Sword's sacred power.

There is no reason to wake it now. Great Goddesses willing, there will never be, though part of him knows that it is only a matter of time before the blade of evil's bane will be needed again. There was a Chosen Hero before him, after all. It doesn't seem the least bit strange to think that there will be another after him. Perhaps Hyrule must fall to great evil occasionally in order to truly know peace, like an old tree must die and rot away to nourish the new growth to come.

He tightens his hand around the hilt, the warm leather wrapped around it pressing against his hand. The one who wore green before him... Did the Master Sword fit perfectly in his hand, too? Was the familiar weight of sword and shield against his back a comfort? Link doesn't know, but he has a guess. He releases the hilt and unstraps his scabbard and shield, setting both gently on the ground before sitting down beside the pedestal.

He has no real reason to be here, yet here he is, covered in road-dust and sweat. He looks down at his scuffed boots and the scratches running down his shield and shakes his head slowly. He doesn't look like one with a reason to be in such a holy place. He tries to explain his presence here as a trip to check that the Master Sword is still safely at rest, but he knows that isn't true. He supposes he's really here because he needs to see the sword again.

He sighs and draws his own sword again, setting it in his lap and running his fingers gently down the blade to check it. As if seeing the Master Sword is going to help him figure out what he should do now. He's been wandering ever since the day he returned it to its pedestal. Sure, he helps out the people he comes across whenever they need help, but part of him still feels like he needs to be doing something.

But what is there? Hyrule is at peace. The Master Sword is sleeping. There is no need for the Chosen Hero anymore. He leans back against the Master Sword with another sigh, feeling that familiar magic soaking into his back. His own sword is going dull, he notes with a flinch, his fingers noting the rough edges. Shouldn't he have noticed that before now?

He doesn't necessarily want to be needed again, at least not as Hero. Hyrule has seen enough nightmares to last it lifetimes; he doesn't wish it any more. Even so, strange as it is, while Hyrule was in danger, he had a purpose. Then, he was Hyrule's defender. Now... now, he's merely Link from Ordon, the man who saved Hyrule, and most people don't even realize what it is he's done. He shakes his head, running one hand down the marred flat of his imperfect blade; it needs cleaning, too.

Wanting a purpose makes him sound selfish. He doesn't want recognition. Still, he feels that he should be doing something more than wandering aimlessly back and forth across Hyrule, slowly destroying his blade in meaningless battles, even though he can't stand the thought of being stuck in one place for months anymore.

The shadows lengthen; the sun will be setting soon. It's almost twilight now. The shadows fall over him and his sword, hiding all but the worst of the gashes in the steel. He runs his fingers along the blade again, this time feeling not the damaged areas but the shape of the blade itself, though he still flinches at how dull he's allowed it to become.

Twilight bridges the gap between day and night, light and dark. He finds himself wondering if perhaps he is like the twilight; after all, it seems that Courage bridges the gap between Power and Wisdom. The Hero defends the Princess from the King of Evil.

He reaches into his pack and pulls out his whetstone and a small bottle of oil. It's been a long time since he last sharpened a sword, but he oils the stone and positions it and gently passes his blade over it, and the motion is familiar and true and strangely relaxing.

Perhaps that is his purpose: to be the barrier that connects yet separates good and evil, to be a silent guardian of the light, always watching, ever ready to step in and strike down any threat that dares present itself. He looks over his shoulder at the eternally sharp blade of the Master Sword. The blade of evil's bane rests within its pedestal until such time as its power is needed.

And when it is needed, it will be ready to serve its wielder again. He nods, turning his attention back to his own sword, the silence broken only by the soft sound of his whetstone at work.

There is little difference between the Hero and his sword, he decides. He supposes that being Hyrule's hidden guardian is purpose enough. Purpose or no, it's what he's been doing. It's what he will probably spend the rest of his life doing.

It's getting dark; the twilight fades fast. He sets sword and stone to the side and lights his lantern so he can see what he's doing. The Master Sword glows behind him in the light, reminding him of how it looked when it carried the power of the Sols within it. He turns to face the blade in the pedestal, reaching up to wrap his hand gently around the hilt again. Somehow he knows that he will never have need of its power again, but it is still his strength. He knows all too well that he is alive now only because of the power the blade contains. He leans forward and presses his lips to the flat of the blade just beneath the Triforce engraved in its surface.

A sword wields no strength unless the hand that holds it has courage. Remember those words...

He picks his own sword up again, holding it up; the partially-honed edges catch the light and seem to glow. The steel in his hand holds no magic, but it serves him well nonetheless... because he is strong. He nods. He thinks he understands now.

"I will not fail you." He knows not if he speaks to the Master Sword or to the sword in his hand or to the shade of the former hero or to Hyrule or to himself; he only knows that he speaks the truth.

He goes back to his work, carefully sharpening and then cleaning and oiling his sword, working by the warm light of his lantern as darkness cloaks the sacred grove. The Master Sword will stand vigil here in its pedestal, hidden safely within these ruins deep in these ancient woods. And starting tomorrow, Link will walk vigil across all of Hyrule, hidden safely in plain sight.

Together, the Hero and the Hero's sword will protect Hyrule.