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Chapter Text

The continent of Hyrule that we stand on was not always this vast land, rich with both bounty and turmoil. Preceding time itself, the world in this tale was a shapeless, static place, void of life. From this fabric of chaos, three Golden Goddesses manifested and weaved Their tapestry of creation. Din, the Goddess of Power, created matter of the world as a blank canvas. Nayru, the Goddess of Wisdom, brought structure to the ground shaped under Her Sister’s mighty hands, crowning it with skies to fill it with light and water. Finally, Farore, the Goddess of Courage, bestowed this world with life, to cherish the world’s bounties and honor Her Sisters’ work. Having finished Their labor, They departed for the Heavens, but not before They left behind two gifts. The first of these was the Triforce, an artifact created when They pierced and fled the veil of reality. This magical object symbolized the union of the virtues Power, Wisdom, and Courage, and would grant the wish of any mortal to touch it. The second and final of these gifts was a Daughter by the name of Hylia. The Goddess Hylia was to protect all the world’s peoples, and with them, the sacred Triforce, to keep it from the hands of evil.

But this young era of prosperity did not last long. The Demon King, Demise, heard tell of the magical powers of the Triforce. Rumors of a great power that could fulfill any wish spread from the fallen souls, to lowly imps, until they climbed their way up to the King’s throne room. Immediately, Demise began to covet the Triforce. While on the Surface, the people could cherish hope, those living in the circles of Hell knew only suffering and despair as their sustenance. Then, the Demon King hatched a great plot. He would break through the Surface and build His palace there, so He could build His army and take the power of wishes into the hands of Demonkind.

Hearing the commotion of the demons’ invasion, Hylia grew afraid. If the Triforce fell into the hands of Demise, His wish would disturb all order in life on the Surface. To defend Herself and Her people, She forged a blade so sharp and radiant that it could slay any evil. She gave it to the bravest of heroes to walk the lands, for divine gifts could only truly work in mortal hands. For their safety, Hylia then sent Her people to the skies, where they would take refuge among the clouds, never to fall into the clutches of demons. Hylia Herself stayed behind and together with Her champion they sealed Demise away.

But after a thousand years, the seal weakened. The Goddess, fearing the outcome of the Demon King’s escape, incarnated Herself into a mortal. The power of her champion, the only one who could wield her holy blade, was also born alongside her. Though she thought herself to be safe in the skies, she was soon proven wrong. Demise’s people never gave up on Him. Demon Lord Ghirahim, vassal under his King, worked tirelessly to resurrect his Master’s true power. Inevitably, the seal broke, and Demise was freed.

The indomitable spirit of the Hero prevailed. After a grueling final battle, the Demon King was defeated. In His dying breath, Demise bestowed a curse, with a promise: Wherever there is a kingdom under the Goddess, there will be those that seek to tear it down. When that time comes, His curse will be there to assist them with His power.

And so, with teary regret, the Goddess made a similar promise: to protect the Surface against the wrath of Demise, wherever evil rises, so will a Champion, and a wise Princess to assist him. Thus the Triforce Cycle came into existence; an eternal dance that plunged Hyrule into misery, guaranteed to arrive whenever its prosperity grew.

When the people of the skies returned to the Surface, the land of Hyrule was born. Century after century, their kingdom would rise and fall apart, enjoying peace and legends alike. But others paid the price for their carefree lives, and the kingdom stained its hands with blood under a holy rule in its dark underbelly. The Goddesses favored Their daughter, but seeing the Cycle unfold, They were appalled by Her people's misdeeds. They sought a proper punishment, and in doing so, sealed the Cycle into its current form. Two pieces of the Triforce were to be bestowed upon each incarnation of the Princess and her Champion. But the final piece, the Triforce of Power, was to be given to their enemy. This enemy would serve as an arbiter, to teach humility to Hyrule.

Among these was Ganondorf, the one in this tale, one of many incarnations. Among the Gerudo people, deep in the desert, every one hundred years, a single male is born. Ganondorf was born the twin sister to this boy, and raised to rule as an advisor. Before his brother could come of age, however, a clash at Hyrule’s border took the young royal’s life. This misfortune made sure that this Ganondorf became a being of pure vengeance. With nothing left to lose, he took up his brother’s mantle with far more ruthlessness. The ancient curse of Demise found him quickly and lured him to dark power; thus, a new Demon King was born. But his rule did not last long – like those incarnations before him, Ganondorf was sealed.

With this defeat, Din lost faith in her champion. Instead, she gave her Triforce piece to a powerful sorceress. Using the Triforce’s magic, the sorceress could oversee the events of the past, so they could be chronicled and learned from. Then, knowing that an evil of Ganondorf’s caliber should not resurface, she stored his power in fragments, which she scattered across time.

Yet centuries down the line, the Seer learned that power is a terrifying burden. She went mad, her judgment clouded by power and obsession, all whispered into her by the very darkness she managed to imprison. With the light now banished from her heart, she declared war on Hyrule to take its champion for herself. Abusing the Triforce’s power, she opened portals to the past to break the seals on the Demon King’s resting places. He would deliver the final verdict in her stead.

Even so, the Demon King is full of tricks. He abandoned the Seer the first chance he got to pursue his own nefarious plots. Exacting his vengeance would prove difficult, especially on his own, when all the timelines were crossed. So he sought out the most powerful servants of his past incarnations to assist him. Among them was Ghirahim, the most loyal ally to the Demon King, and the catalyst to the Cycle. His next lieutenant would be Usurper King Zant, an otherworldly being from a place called the Twilight Realm, who himself once ruled Hyrule with an iron fist. Once again, Ganondorf would take Hyrule by storm and take its throne for himself. After he reclaimed his ancestral home, the Gerudo Desert, from an infestation of monsters, he set out to claim his vengeance, once and for all.

This story is one such legend. But it is not a tale of princesses, heroes, or arch-demons. This is a tale of a King and his Sword.

Chapter Text

The stronghold, captured. A moment of respite befell Ganondorf’s forces, and Ghirahim soon found himself resting in the shade of the Rockface Keep. He sat tucked away in the corner of one of the storage rooms, sanding his sword back to its usual sheen. It was no place for a lieutenant, much less a Lord, but it was a quiet one. None knew their blades as intimately as he, much less considering they were an extension of his own body. Any nick, any speck, any hint of dullness sent nagging, cringing tingles down his spine, urging him to pick and polish in a metallic dermatillomania. Tender fiber cloths, scrutinously chosen to shimmer his blade to perfection, rubbed expensive oils into the meticulously sharpened edges. He stood up, holding his blade up to the light. A small window high up the wall of the storage basted his masterpiece in the last rays of the setting sun. The sharp hilt scattered glittering specks throughout the room, as if cutting through the very light itself. His handiwork was complete, and he was ready to do it all over again the next day.

So caught up in his work, he almost hadn’t noticed the menacing presence in the doorway behind him. “Demon Lord,” said the figure behind him, spoken with a voice like wind soaring through a gaol door. “I was hoping to speak with you.”

Behind him stood his fellow lieutenant. Zant, the Usurper Twilight King, heralded from a time millennia after his own. An outrageously overpowered figure, but as Ghirahim had noted during their strife to claim the Gerudo Desert, moreso an absolutely raving lunatic. All bulk and aggression, with not a shred of elegance. He didn’t count on the two of them getting along. 

He hardly looked over his shoulder to meet his gaze. “Is it urgent?” Ghirahim continued to observe his blade, carefully turning it in his hands. A small peep behind him suggested perhaps he had tilted the reflection of the light directly into Zant’s eyes, and blinded him. Certainly not intentional, but terribly amusing. 

“Not quite, though I suspect you may find it a welcome distraction.” Ghirahim’s interest was piqued, and he turned slightly to face him. There he stood, in the same stiff, unreadable pose he was always in when idle. There was no inbetween with this alien figure; either he was perfectly still and impenetrable, or he wore his heart on his sleeve, weeping, screaming, or giggling like a child at the mildest provocation. Ghirahim had to admit - when Zant’s pathetic countenance was capable of holding its composure for once, he was a remarkably intimidating man. Not enough to intimidate him, though.

Ghirahim slightly pursed his lips, having waited for him to continue long enough. “Well? Out with it, then.”

Zant’s life-long role as a servant truly wasn’t doing him any favors. Such a ‘do not speak unless spoken to’ attitude was unbecoming of a King, Ghirahim noted to himself, as he watched the man dawdle before him.

Unmovingly, Zant continued to speak. “You are familiar with these lands, yes? You have been here since the dawn of time.”

Ghirahim frowned, uncertain of what he was getting at. “I have, but the landscape has undoubtedly changed greatly since then. I must remind you, our Master retrieved me from thousands of years past.”

They were silent for but a moment. “Then I will assist where your knowledge fails you. Lord Ghirahim, I wish for you to take me somewhere.”

Ghirahim was getting a little tired of these empty statements. “Whatever do you mean? Where do you need me to take you? Surely you can walk yourself.”

“You have an eye for beauty, Ghirahim.” Oh, were they on a first-name basis now? “I wish to see the Hyrule that was stolen from me.”

Ghirahim scoffed incredulously, turning his blade to a flurry of diamonds with the snap of his fingers. “You want to go sight-seeing after your first mission? You’re ridiculous. You think me some sort of tour guide?”

Zant responded with almost shocking quickness. “Do not pretend you are content with your current whereabouts, Demon Sword. Your metal skin absorbs the heat, and risks scorching your prized garments. You would be as happy to leave this desert as I.”

The corner of Ghirahim’s lips spasmed involuntarily. It seemed this buffoon had some wit in him after all. “I highly doubt we’d get the clearance for this little trip either way.”

“It is the end of the day, and both of us are capable of magical transportation. We would be back before anyone knew it,” Zant bit back, as if he had thought out every possible reply beforehand.

Ghirahim was a little taken aback by this boldness. He did not expect the enigmatic man to be one for such adventurous ideas, but given his erratic behavior on the battlefield… Perhaps he should have anticipated it. The thin line of his mouth crooked into a smirk, but before he could speak, Zant stepped forward and interrupted him.

“Do not get me wrong. I am not so reckless as to abandon my post without a thought. After our victory yesterday, I highly doubt the enemy forces will have the strength to ambush us. Tonight is the most opportune time for such a… Trip, as you called it.”

There was a tone to Zant’s voice he could just not place. It tread a fine line between childish stubbornness, and desperation. Ghirahim knew an opportunity for leverage when he saw one, and he had yet to find his footing in his dynamic with Zant. Perhaps putting him in his debt was a clever next step. He shifted his weight onto his left foot, tilting his hip and idly playing with a strand of his silvery hair. “I suppose we’ve had a long enough day of dilly-dallying. Very well. What did you have in mind?”

Zant’s stance slightly shifted, his helmet tipping upright. He pondered for a moment. “I noticed on the map that the Faron Woods were also in this world. Perhaps that’s an idea?”

“Faron? I suppose that’s a fair choice. Advantage or not, we shouldn’t be wandering into active Hylian territory. I don’t reckon they’re guarding some little villages all too tightly, at this point.” He reasoned. Hot commodity as he might be, he wasn’t enthused to be delivering the two of them on a silver platter. While he wasn’t exactly worried about the laughably weak soldiers that had scattered across the landscape, he certainly feared the wrath of their Master if he were to find out his top lieutenants were acting carelessly out of his watch. He had to make sure that whatever upper hand he was getting over Zant wasn’t going to risk the favor of their King. 

Zant nodded. “I recall Faron posing minimal trouble when I had first conquered it.” Quieter, with the slightest hint of giddiness in his voice, he mumbled to himself. Again an inelegant trait. “I do so wonder what it looks like now…”

Ghirahim donned his classic red cape once more, and dusted the remaining metal shavings off his pristine gloves. “I do hope your little acquisition tour won’t waste our time too terribly, Twilight King.”

A gangly hand placed itself upon his shoulder. “It will, if you insist on bickering like this.”

Oh, what an attitude. He had half a mind to zip the both of them to the bottom of Lake Hylia, and see if the moron could swim. Zant either took too long to get to the point, or instantly smacked down any attempt at conversation. He didn’t know what he wanted, and Ghirahim couldn’t stand it. Zant was right, they ought to get this over with. He gathered his focus, and with a fluid, shadow-trailing motion of his hand, the two were absorbed in a mist of diamonds, and sent to the inner groves of Faron Woods. 

Strategically, he had placed their pair atop the pillars of an old ruin, himself spot in the middle, and Zant with his heels just on the edge. He grinned unseen as a little shriek rang behind him, the hand on his shoulder tightening as Zant lost his balance. With a grunt and a shrill groan of exertion, he shifted his balance and instead tossed himself to another pillar. Zant whipped around indignantly from atop his new perch, scoffing as he met nothing but his co-lieutenant snickering at him with his hands in his sides. “Ghirahim! What foolishness is this!?”

Ghirahim turned his head, peeking at him from behind his bangs. “Oh, please. A little joke won’t kill you. I see you merrily hopping up and down from such heights all the time!”

Zant’s fists balled under their baggy sleeves, his shoulders tightened in what Ghirahim could only assume was an upcoming tantrum. Instead, Zant found himself trailing off before he could give the Demon Lord an earful, turning his head to the environment around them. 

“This is… Near the Sacred Grove?” It was off putting to hear the pitch of his voice drop from that ear-grating squawk to the depth it carried when he was calmer. 

Ghirahim cocked his head. He had no idea what the man was talking about, but the overall calmth washing over the place led him to think Zant may be right. “I’m certain this place has carried many names over the years. There was a temple here in my time, but I see it’s been long lost to history.” He turned to where the building once stood. Now, it was nothing but piles of colossal, carved stones, yellowed and overgrown from their years of disuse. Where there had once been an impressive sanctuary, housing secrets and creatures thirsting for the blood of heroes, was now a long, collapsed corridor of soil and roots, stretching out into a maze of trees and bushes. The light of dusk hardly reached here, the canopies of the colossal trees above them bathing the forest into a turquoise haze. He had picked a good place, indeed. Even the Hylian forces that must have been stationed near the villages had long forgotten the temple grounds existed. They would never think to find them here… Well, so long as they didn’t see any scaffolding or talking trees, they ought to be fine. 

When he looked to the side, he found that the lower hatch of Zant’s helmet had retracted, exposing the bottom half of his face. His lips were parted in a silent awe, his head curiously turning to take in the area. Though he couldn’t see his eyes, he assumed their gaze met briefly, and the two faced each other from across the heights of their respective platforms. “I thought you said you had been here before. What’s so special about it now?”

Zant gazed at him, but did not respond. Ghirahim folded his arms and peeked over the edge of his pillar as the Twili hopped down to ground level, a dust cloud gathering around his golden slippers. He began to wander, head craned to the canopy. “This place is much bigger than the one I know.” Another complete and total non-answer that was impossible to respond to. He sighed, and opted to sit on the edge of his pillar, lounging with his head rested on his palm. To his amusement, he noticed that Zant was getting a little distracted by the local wildlife, perking up at the sound of birdsong as a small flock of starlings fluttered by overhead. Zant stood at the opening of the great corridor, as if pondering whether to step through. Still, Ghirahim felt the mild buzz of mischievous arcane energy coming down from it, and, gifted as he was, he presumed from Zant’s hesitance that he felt it too. A silent agreement seemed to befall the two that fairy hijinks suited well in neither men’s schedules. Zant turned back to him for a moment. “Do you hear that?”

Hear what? The forest was brimming with life, there were a great deal of noises to notice. “You’re going to have to specify.”

Zant turned his head back to the corridor. “Some kind of… Instrument, perhaps? A hollow rattling.”

Ghirahim strained his ears for the sound, but he heard nothing. He made a mental note of ‘auditory illusions’ being one of Zant’s many afflictions. “I can’t say I do.”

“How strange…” Zant stood there staring for a moment again, before turning to observe the other end of the clearing. Ghirahim did not much feel like playing babysitter for much longer, and his gaze trailed off. In the distance, something piqued his interest. He had heard a long rushing sound before, but had thought it to be the roaring of the wind above them. Instead, he found the source of the mysterious noise to be something a touch more interesting. He swung his leg idly over the edge of the pillar, turning to see where his companion (he hesitated at the term) had wandered off to. While he wasn’t looking, it seemed he had started taking botanic samples of some kind, stuffing sprigs of herbs into bottles that he pulled from… He couldn’t tell. His sleeves? What a curious man. Still, he was getting bored just sitting there, and hailed him over. 

“I don’t mean to disturb your academic intrigue, Usurper… But if it’s a good view that you’re after, I may have an idea.” he called him with an idle wave. 

Zant appeared plenty intrigued, and legged his way on over, with a gait far too light and floaty for a man wearing solid metal shoes. “I’m listening.”

Ghirahim, in an instant, once again disappeared into a glittering cloud, and appeared beside him. He laid a hand idly on his elbow, anticipating another startled yelp, but it appeared Zant had caught onto his tricks now, as he didn’t so much as flinch. Mildly disappointed, he showered the both of them in the magic of his teleportation once more, and took them straight to the source of his intrigue.

When the flurry of diamonds dissipated, they stood atop a mighty waterfall, sending the flow of a river behind them cascading into a lake below. Though the cliff they had scaled held them several stories above the lake’s surface, the tall trees of Faron Woods still towered far above them. The forest he had known in his days, since the first descent of the Sky People, was like a meadow of sprouts in comparison. He looked to the side to smugly gauge Zant’s reaction at his marvelous ideas, but found he couldn’t meet his eyes. The Twilight King was not even acknowledging him, gaze transfixed on the view before them. A sea of green expanded below them, interrupted only by the snaking of little blue streams that branched out from the lake below. As dusk fell, the first lightning bugs began to take off from their hiding among the leaves, freckling the landscape with glowing, yellow stars. Where the canopy had blocked out the heavens above them, the forest was compensating with a sky on its own, spread across the lush soil. A mechanical whirring sounded from Zant’s shoulders, as his helmet folded in on itself and retracted into his pauldrons, revealing the rest of his face. Wide, blinking, amber eyes stared out in front of them, his pale pupils just barely discernible among his orange sclera. He truly was deeply alien to look at. 

Ghirahim sighed, crossing his arms. Now was as good of a time as any to pick at the odd man’s brain a bit. He was a little surprised Zant was even capable of calm conversation. “Is it really such a novelty, to be in a forest?”

“My home had no such ecological zones, and when I had conquered Hyrule, I hardly had the time to see Faron outside of its Twilight state. I was much too busy keeping that accursed princess contained.”

Ghirahim shrugged. It was a fair answer. If anyone could relate to the troubles of keeping that girl where they needed her to be, it would be him. He dread the possibility of having to capture her all over again, but with the Princess’ surprising military involvement this time around, perhaps they would be lucky this time around. Maybe they could simply kill her in the heat of battle and get it over with. Lost in thought, he looked to the side, to find Zant fascinated with a lightning bug that had perched upon one of his spindly, long fingers. Ghirahim hadn’t noticed before the sickly grey tint of those hands, far from the rich black of that impish girl.

Captivated by the creature, Zant turned his hand as the little thing crawled across his skin. 

“I see now it would not have survived in its alive state for long, had I succeeded. It would have withered and died like the rest.” He squinted at it one last time, before dismissing it harshly with a sudden flick of his wrist, sending it plummeting to the dirt. They wordlessly looked out over the landscape beneath their feet before Zant spoke again, but did not turn to look at him. 

“… Have you been to the Twilight Realm, Ghirahim?” he asked him, a melancholic tinge in his tone.

“I hadn’t heard of it until our Master summoned me here. I doubt it existed when I last roamed the Surface.”

“Perhaps our travels will take us there.”

He was silent for a moment, then continued. “It is a wretched place, Ghirahim. I only care for it through my vague sense of nostalgia, of belonging. I sought to escape it in favor of Hyrule for a reason.”

Ghirahim didn’t find any inquiry was necessary, as Zant continued speaking on his own. “In perpetual Twilight, few is blessed with the opportunity to live, and nothing gets to bloom. My realm is a wasteland, worsened only by the poison and despair the Hylians cast into our lands. They thought it was Hell, and perhaps they had even succeeded in making it so.”

For a moment, Zant looked up to the canopy to observe the last rays of light peeking through the leaves, shielding his eyes with his hand. A twitch of his eyelid betrayed a slight sting.  “It is a shame I can only truly survive in it. Even with my God’s power, I can only stand to bask in this light for mere minutes without wearing this helmet. Don’t you think it funny? I spent so long attempting to flee the expansive gloom of my Realm, yet I only ended up plunging the next world I inhabited in the very same curse. Perhaps I need a new plan.” His arm dropped to dangle by his side again, stood staring in deep thought.

Ghirahim scoffed. He thought of many words when meaning to describe Zant, but ’starry-eyed’ was certainly not one he anticipated to add to the list. "I wouldn't get too attached to the view. Once Master Ganondorf conquers the throne, we would have little qualms smoking out whatever resistance still crawls around between the treetops."

Zant whipped his face towards him with a slight frown. "You misunderstand me. I am no fool. I know my Master will do as he will with the provinces of Hyrule. Perhaps… I'm simply wistful for a world where light and dark exist in such harmony."

"If you truly detest the Twilight so much, then why did you invade the world of light with it in the first place?"

Zant sighed. "A basic necessity for the sake of my troops, I suppose. A convenient way to do away with those Hylian pests. The will of my God. I could not conceive of a way to break out of the Twilight Realm without dragging its darkness with me, and so that's what I had to do." A small giggle escaped him. "But now… Now this is no longer necessary! An entirely new chance at conquering Hyrule! Taking control of an entirely new world, without reducing it into a husk of my old home… It is a truly unprecedented concept. Aren't you looking forward to it?"

He stood a bit perplexed as Zant spoke. Until then, it hadn’t occurred to him that Zant had ambitions of his own. He was a fine strategist, a less fine warrior, but had thusfar appeared to be perfectly content doing what he is told. Ghirahim knew that he himself had few plans other than to see the manifestation of his King rise to victory. Was he the odd one out, without his own visions? 

His eyebrow twitched behind his bangs. Was he going to let naive aspirations like that get him in a tizzy? There wasn’t a way in Hell. “To think that a man like you had such simple desires. Are you truly content with something like this?” he asked, gesturing below them.

For the first time in a while, Zant turned to face him, eyes narrowed and lips stretched to a narrow line. “Do not think me naive, Sword. Our forces will not lose my loyalty to mere scenery. I simply long to see a different world than the one I know, even if for a short while. You must feel much the same, with the lengths you go to.” 

Ghirahim looked at him a moment, suddenly trapped in an oppressive eye contact the Twili normally was eager to avoid. “… My,” he sighed, turning back to the view in front of them. Zant’s stare did not cease. “This got awfully personal.”

“Only because you made it so.” Finally, his cold gaze released him, as Zant turned away to head to the river beside them, crouching over to look into the stream. Ghirahim shook his head, pondering the bizarre turn his evening had taken.

“You know, Zant, you never would have struck me as the sentimental type.” he had to poke at him, a hand rested on his hip. When he turned to look at him, he found Zant on the edge of the river, stood with one foot on a protruding rock, the other swaying in the air before him to balance himself. 

“And you, ” he started, grunting squeakily as he hopped over to the next stone in the river trail, “never struck me as the type to enjoy talking about anything but himself, yet here we are.” With a few wobbly jumps, he had stopped to a halt in the middle of the crashing river, and looked back to him with a smug little grin. Ghirahim scoffed, eyes widening in mild chagrin, before his expression softened. What a nerve! Not even that green-clad menace dared to speak to him in such a way before. It was so thoroughly unexpected, he couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. Zant joined him soon enough with that ear-piercing chortle of his, the slits in the corner of his lips splitting open as he did. Suddenly, the man disappeared with the sound of a rustle. It appeared he had reached the end of his stone trail, and he promptly reappeared on the other side of the river. 

“Tell me of Faron in your own time, Ghirahim.” he shouted over the thundering of the water between them.

Ghirahim smiled incredulously. “It would be easier to tell you, if you hadn’t run to the other side of the river!”

Though he couldn’t see his expression from such a distance, he could still sense the mischief in his gaze as Zant tipped his head to the side, staring at him expectantly. “Then follow me!” 

And so, Ghirahim found himself a little surprised. Was he, the Demon Lord, going to be capering around in the woods with his co-lieutenant? Well, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. Other than his Master, he had found he was completely starved of a conversational partner. If Zant was inviting him to ramble, he found himself hesitant to deny the opportunity. He took one step forward, before disappearing into shards again, and reappeared at the edge of the river, craning his head to look up at the towering man before him. Zant stood unmoving, but his eyes met his, unblinkingly as he waited for him to speak. This was when the nature of their dynamic became abundantly clear to Ghirahim. All had fallen into place; Ghirahim adored an audience, and Zant was fascinated to hear him speak. At least, unless the right bump or prod coaxed him into a strange monologue of his own… Well, by all accounts, it could have been worse. Ghirahim hummed and tipped his chin with a barely contained swagger as he strutted past him and toward the edge of the cliff. “Right, then. Let me take a look around and jog my memory…”

They spent roughly an hour wading through the shrubbery, each vaguely noting the ruins of landmarks long past. An abandoned clearing, lost sanctuaries, and decayed strongholds peppered the landscape, their traces clearly present though thousands of years apart. Both had been ripped to this Hyrule rather abruptly, and neither had yet considered the actual nature of this world. Where had they been brought, and how long had it been since they left their own legacies? Though they exchanged stories, neither disclosed the ponderings that haunted their minds. Such thoughts were no longer of any importance — they had each been given their second chance at their original goal, and faced their most favorable positions yet. Complaining would be an insult to their Master, which they were both reluctant to do. 

Still, time crawled on, even as the two found surprisingly more fond company in one another than they each had expected. Sunlight hardly crept between the leaves above anymore. Twilight had finally fallen, casting the forest floor in a violet hue. They arrived at a clearing, and the man came to a halt. His shoulders rose and dropped again with a deep sigh. Ghirahim assumed he must feel in his element as the Twilight King, standing under the night sky at the crown of dusk. When Zant looked back to him, the complex markings on his face glowed far brighter than ever before. A smile crept onto the strange man’s face, and he turned to him with his hand extended.

"... I thank you for escorting me. Night is falling. I do believe I am capable of taking us back now, before they suspect us."

Ghirahim stepped back, away from the hand that was about to lay on his shoulder. "I say, Zant, I don't think there'd be any harm in strolling around a little longer… How about we drop by elsewhere before heading back to the keep?"

Ghirahim hardly believed his own words, but against all odds, he found he was enjoying Zant’s company. He was annoying, impulsive, and perhaps a touch immature, certainly, but he appeared to be a good listener. And, well, if he could admit, the man’s antics were just the slightest bit interesting to watch. If they were to return now, he would only spend the rest of the night bored out of his mind, waiting sleeplessly until the first light of morning. He was going to stretch this out as long as he could.

An uncharacteristic glimmer appeared in Zant's eyes. The slits on the corners of his mouth made it nearly impossible to tell whether he was truly smiling, though the squinting of his eyes gave him away. "Ah, well… If you have anything in mind?"

"We could go see Lake Hylia. I reckon it looks stunning in the moonlight."

"That would be intriguing, indeed! I have only ever seen it frozen."

Ghirahim raised the ridge of his brow. "Frozen?"

"Yes! I froze the entire lake during my attempt to conquer. It nearly wiped out half of the Zora's forces,” Zant gleefully proclaimed, spoken with the same cadence one would when describing a pleasant outing.

Ghirahim stared at him. After spending a shred of an evening in relatively lighthearted conversation with him, he had almost forgotten Zant’s cruelty quite matched his own. Perhaps he was worse. "... Now there's an idea. You ought to bring that one to the plotting table next time we plan our next assault." Conveniently for both of them, he didn’t mind in the slightest. 

Zant simply giggled in return, and held out his hand. A request and invitation, all at once, as though asking him for a dance. 

Well, perhaps he could hold off on trying to drown him in the lake until some other day…

Chapter Text

The initial peace of their arrival had long last run out. None were content with simply conquering the Gerudo Desert and claiming it as their territory. No, The Demon King’s plans were far more grand than this. Their forces were ever-increasing, supplied by new recruits that had wretched themselves free from Cia’s control. More and more were pouring out the Gates of Time by the hour, and they were happy to take in any that she didn’t manage to indoctrinate. As Ganondorf’s highest commanders, it was up to Ghirahim and Zant to manage these recruits while they made their way to the Valley of Seers. 

Today was one such moment of actively managing troops. To Ghirahim’s surprise, he was finding that the Darknuts and Bulblins were far more talkative than the Moblins he was used to. Their highest generals - recognizable through their large sizes and increasingly more decorative helmets - joined them at the plotting table of their current camp. Maps, pawns, and stocks were laid on the surface of the table and were being thoroughly discussed by a pair of ruffians slightly diagonally across the table from Ghirahim. Frankly, the upfront planning of strategically planned conquests wasn’t his strongest suit. He was far more suited to the actual battlefield, where rallying (or rather, bossing around) troops was one of his greatest strengths. The logistics of ‘strategic outposts’ and ‘soldiers that need to eat and sleep’ simply did not suit his area of expertise. Still, he had to keep up images, as became clear from the two generals currently facing him and Zant, waiting for input on their current plans. Ghirahim frowned at the two documents he had been given and was about to turn to his co-lieutenant to listen to his input, but he came to an absolutely baffling discovery.

Was he… Sleeping?

Standing up? Like a horse?

This was unprecedented. He stiffened his expression as much as possible to prevent his jaw from falling wide open at the absolute audacity Zant was performing right in the middle of an active warzone. Moreso, he had to exercise every bit of restraint he could to stop himself from punching him in the shoulder and yelling at him for his transgressions, right in front of the very people that held them in the highest of regards. Well, he had been silent for longer than five seconds now, and he had to figure out a way to save face, and fast. He squinted down at the scroll of paper that described their current livestock preservations, but before he could give any insightful comment on it, Zant, without having moved a muscle, interjected.

“My apologies, I was thinking through our options. You have been investing far too much attention into warding off archers. I must remind you that soon we are heading into Eldin territory, wherewith their height advantages, we need to prepare far more for their catapults and highland ambushes. We are skirting Goron territory, after all.”

Ghirahim frowned again as his gaze flitted between Zant and the generals beside them, who, now looking pensive, returned to the table for further discussion. Had he been wrong? Was Zant just uncharacteristically quiet, listening on?

Still holding onto the scroll, he stepped back to stand closer to Zant. He figured it would give him a good cover to pretend to be discussing its contents when, in truth, he was about to berate him. 

“Zant, I almost daren’t ask, but… Were you seriously sleeping? In the middle of the briefing?” he hissed, eyes on the scroll but face slightly tilted to face Zant.

Where he had hoped to hear an insulted gasp and a denial, he instead heard a muffled laugh. “Ah, good. You only just caught on.”

WHAT?

“What!?”

Zant looked over his shoulder to join his ‘reading’ of the scroll and continued to speak. “I must admit to a bit of mischief. I cannot lie to you, I have been sneaking in a nap here and there, the past few days.”

It took every ounce of his being not to grimace and shout at him. Instead, he whispered increasingly frantically. “You can’t be serious! That’s — Hideous! Wildly irresponsible! In what realm is this acceptable behavior!?”

Zant simply hummed in reply. “I suppose, in the exact same realm you lot continue to insist on attacking in broad daylight, despite most of our forces, myself included, functioning at our best in the dark.”

This was unbelievable. “Napping. During a meeting!”

“Without anyone noticing, indeed,” Zant nodded, stating his response with baffling solemnity.

He was ten seconds from walloping him with the scroll. “Regardless! How can you-“

Zant interrupted him before he could blow his gourd, nudging him in the shoulder with his elbow before leaning down with a whisper. “Let me be clear, Ghirahim. These meetings, especially our presence at them, are mostly for show. The past few battles we plotted have been child’s play. All I need is a quick look over the table, my wit, and the rest is basic improvisation.”

Ghirahim’s kayfabe shattered, and he was fully gawking at Zant, at a loss for words.

“And despite all that, every single one of our battles thus far has been a grand success, no? Not to worry. Once we enter more threatening territory, these briefings will have my undivided attention. But until then, I’ll be preserving any energy I would otherwise spend simply standing around being bored.” He hummed thoughtfully, taking the scroll out of Ghirahim’s nearly paralyzed hands. Zant spoke louder this time, catching the attention of the other commanders in the room. “We need to prioritize fowl in our meat stocks for the time being. Kakariko has an abundant supply, and we can expect the Hylian forces stationed nearby to be making ample use of them. We should be setting forces aside for raiding their convoy from where they least expect it.” 

Ghirahim stood in awe as Zant with a wave of his sleeved hand motioned the generals into action, who nodded away and sent the first of their messengers out of the tent and into their camp. The man was a prodigy. An absolute wild genius of warfare. And there was absolutely no way Zant could find out that he had come to this conclusion.

The two had retreated to their usual, casual bickering. After their meeting concluded, they stayed behind in the tent, sat atop stools, and nursed sips from their waterskins. Though the initial shock and dismay had now faded, Ghirahim found himself still irritable after their briefing. 

Ghirahim crossed his arms, whipping his hair out his face with a flick of his neck. "I still cannot believe you've gotten away with sleeping during tactic meetings so many times!"

Zant chortled again, needle-like teeth visible past his broadly grinning lips. "You speak as though I've done nothing but slumber for the past few days! All I say is, I can easily doze off a bit when I am not needed, so long as I stand still and keep this helmet firmly closed," he stated, gesturing to his head. It was that damned helmet, for sure. It was growing to be an increasing annoyance to him.

"So long as it doesn't end up in careless mistakes around our Master…" Ghirahim sighed with a noncommittal gesture, to which Zant quickly squawked in reply.

"I would never!"

His irritability was slowly making room for amusement. Getting to know the Twili outside the battlefield was teaching him just how his chaotic behavior intertwined with his personal life. It was equal parts fascinating and completely vexing him. Before their conversation could turn to pointless babbling about semantics, Zant returned to the topic of his helmet. "There really is an art to it. You could consider getting one of your own. It’s so perfectly pitch-dark inside this helmet, it's difficult not to sneak in some shut-eye."

Ghirahim scoffed, dismissively waving his hand at him. "Oh, please. Cut it with your excuses!"

"I am serious! I could very well let you put it on, you can see for yourself."

Ghirahim felt apprehensive about the suggestion. Put on Zant's helmet? It seemed like an awfully intimate gesture, one he certainly wasn't comfortable with. Moreover, it probably didn't smell the best inside that thing. But… Somewhere, his curiosity was winning, and Zant was already undoing buckles by his shoulders. 

"I advise caution, it is quite heavy,” Zant warned him, hooking his fingers around the edges of his shoulder guards to lift the massive piece of armor off his head.

He grimaced in return, feeling his pride itch. "Heavy? Realize who you’re talking to, for once, you oaf. I’m made of solid metal, nothing could possibly be too heavy!"

And yet, when the oversized chunk of steel was placed on his shoulders and caged his head in that hollow dome, he had to admit, it was throwing off his balance. How strong was Zant exactly, to be lugging this around all day?

He chuckled, a little caught off guard by the echo. As Zant said, it was completely dark, the only bits of light peeking through the minuscule eye holes above him. It seemed this thing needed an obscenely long neck to properly wear. "Well, how do I look?" he asked, posing idly.

A muffled giggle rang from outside the helmet. "In your own words, unsightly!"

——

Their forces advanced. Today had been a complete and total wildcard, yet somehow, it was working out for them. The outskirts of Eldin Province were but mere hours from being locked in their control, and it seemed they had Zant to thank for it. He had purposely ordered a ceasefire until their wizzrobes could accurately predict the next rainfall and immediately ordered an attack when the heaviest of it would come pouring down. It was almost too ideal; the rain itself vastly hampered visibility, rendering any projectiles, whether arrows or heavy boulders, nearly useless. Wet soil and heavy winds prevented any attempt at cavalry assault from breaking through their forces. As such, the only true way for the Hylians to fight back against their advance was through hand-to-hand combat, and none of these pushovers could ever hope to overpower the beasts they sent their way. More importantly, the thick, rolling clouds above blocked out the sun. If Zant had been a sight to behold before, he was an absolute spectacle this time around. Uninhibited by what could only be called his greatest weakness, he was proving himself to be an absolute beast. His magic was a horrifying flurry of chaos, ripping nonsensical objects from the void and sending them flying through entire platoons of defenseless men. Though battling in the middle of a storm was always a perilous decision, all appeared to be going in their favor.

But not for Ghirahim. Ghirahim was wet, dirty, and miserable. The battlefield encroached the foothills of Goron territory, and the stone-hide busybodies decided to lend their aid to the Hyrulean forces. Normally, this would not be a problem, but at some point, he had been surrounded. During his struggle to break out of the formation, the rock-covered backs of one of those brutes managed to chip one of his blades. 

Now, this was one of his many blades. Out of roughly a dozen, it really shouldn’t have been much of an issue. But summoning, much less repairing entire parts of his essence in their physical form, was decidedly a downtime activity. Not one to be spent crouched behind a rock ledge, hoping that the boulders aimlessly sailing through the air wouldn’t collapse his hideout. Now that he was sat, he could assess the damage. No, not that of the mud on his beautiful boots, cape, and bodysuit. Rather, the horrid crack that ran down the razor edge of one of his finest rapiers. He slid his thumb across the thunderbolt-shaped fracture, wincing, not only at the strange ache it caused in his chest but also in rage. Of course, those responsible for this massive blow to his ego had already been reduced to trampled carcasses in the muck, but the insult still stood. He would have to spend the rest of this fight with only one blade.

Suddenly, he was ripped out of his train of thought. The rain was still pounding into the ground around him, but hardly any of it was hitting him. He looked up, only to be met with a large, gaudy sleeve, shielding him from the downpour.

“Ghirahim. It is unlike you to be caught off guard like this. Are you injured?”

It was Zant, standing bent over him. What was this madman doing? This wasn’t the time for smalltalk. Whatever he wanted to achieve, he had to get to the point, and quick. “Not quite,” he grimaced. “Those worms somehow managed to crack my sword,” he stated, showing him the damaged blade. “I will be fine. You ought to put my magnetic personality to the side for a moment and head back out there.”

Zant did not respond to his quipping but did seem to eye the broken sword. “I see.” He quickly turned to look over his shoulder, before staring back down at him. “The Hyruleans have stationed one of their higher commanders here today. Midna. Just as I, she is stronger than she usually would be during clear day, and, well —To put it bluntly, she is not quite keen to find me alive,” he stated with a stiff chuckle.

Ghirahim frowned. That imp? Certainly, she should have been no match for Zant. “Why are you here? You can take care of her, no?”

Zant shrugged in return. “I am not the one who cursed her this time around, and I can’t know the extent of her powers. I’ve pulled back for the moment, to let our commanders exhaust her a bit. She should have blazed through her worst within mere minutes, I reckon.” Though he was concealed behind his helmet, the tone of his voice gave him an inkling of a self-satisfied smile.

Playing cat and mouse with the enemy. Ghirahim shook his head at the concept, but couldn’t exactly berate him for it. It was, by all means, a smart move. In the meantime, he didn’t see any point in keeping the cracked sword laying in his lap, so he dismissed it with a wave of his hand, wincing at the sensation. His soul was like its own scabbard, built to perfectly sleeve every blade that he hid within himself. When one of those blades suddenly bore jagged edges, it stung through his entire body. 

This did not go unnoticed. “… Ghirahim. You must rest. Our forces need you in peak condition on the battlefield.”

Ghirahim shook his head. “No! Don’t be ridiculous. I am no child, you needn’t coddle me.”

“Then I speak as your co-lieutenant, and as your friend. I insist you retreat.”

“You ask the impossible of me. I can, and I will fight,” he bit back but was met with the insistent looming of the Usurper. “… Fine. Have it your way! I’ll take five. But the second I’ve recovered from this ache, I’m heading back out there.”

Zant seemed to find his compromise reasonable. “Then I have an attractive offer for you. I will continue to drive Midna back out of the field, and when I give the signal, you can join me in delivering the final blow. You will know when I call for you. Until then, take your rest.”

It was… Uncharacteristically kind. It almost seemed like there was a catch. Ghirahim paused, a little taken aback. "You're saying, you'll share your prized kill with me?"

"If it means you will stop acting recklessly, yes."

Ghirahim blinked up at him, before his expression softened into a smile. How very twistedly sweet of him. For a moment, he didn't quite know what came over him. The one moment he was just crouched over on the floor, and the very next, he craned his head up and reached for him with his free hand. Satin-clad, deft fingers found their way to the back of Zant's neck and pulled him downwards. Before he knew it, he had planted a kiss on the "cheek" of his helmet. "Thank you, Twilight King."

Pristine white lips stained now by rain-diluted blood, he did not break his gaze at the daunting helmet. Zant's expression, unreadable. He had half expected him to screech and run off, but he simply lingered silently until the hand on the back of his neck slipped back down. After a moment of silence, Zant whipped back around again to gauge their position, before stepping back. 

An unsubtle clear of the throat rang behind his helmet. "I will call for you when I need you. Be on your guard until then," he demanded, before nodding firmly and sprinting off with a wigglier gait than he'd had when he arrived.

Ghirahim couldn't think of anything than to smile and wave him off.

He sat panting in his hideout a little longer. The pain of his broken blade did not quite fade, but his body slowly learned to adjust to its new shape. He would have found greater success in his recovery, had not every other troop that marched on by paused to fuss over him, nearly the same as Zant had. His co-lieutenant had been right. Witnessing one of their high commanders, beaten and drenched by the deluge, did a big number on the overall morale of their army. It broke his concentration, but not quite yet his will. A small group of lizalfos took to shielding him, hissing and squawking in idle conversation with one another. The curious creatures stood their guard, tongues flitting from their maws as their eyes carefully scanned the battlefield around them. 

Ghirahim found it nothing but wasteful. Those beasts should be out there fighting, not guarding someone who could pulverize any approaching threat with a flick of his wrist. 

As fate would have it, the two lieutenants found each other in their respective eleventh hour. From the other side of the battlefield, just past his hideout, a series of great purple bolts shot into the heavens. Zant, though a reckless maniac, was not so tactless as to abandon his aim without good reason. He was calling for him, no doubt about it. He dismissed his lizalfos guardians with a booming shout, took his remaining blade in both hands, and sprinted off to the source of his calling flare.

It was quite a distance, taking him to the edge of the field. He could only guess the two Twili had chased each other all the way to the Bridge Keep. Getting there was not much of a problem, not for a demon made of pure metal. The Hyrulean forces were holding out stunningly well, but even their fighting spirit was no match for the being of sheer rage barreling toward them. All decorum had gone out the window as he ran his way through masses of soldiers in his mud-stained suit. He elbowed, kicked, and walloped men with the flat of his blade as he forced his way to his goal. Steel helmets dented and shields shattered under the force of the pommel striking them with reckless abandon. A cacophony of sickening crunches and screeching metal sounded wherever he set foot, as if announcing his arrival with a violent fanfare. He was in too much of a hurry to pay it any mind. Blood. Rain. Whichever, ceaselessly drenched him as he pressed on. The poor sods were too trapped in the crowd of battle to even attempt to get away from him. With the obsidian metal shining under his skin, the Hylians were powerless to retaliate. Such pathetic sticks couldn’t even get a dent in him. Their sheer attempts were disgraceful. It wasn’t his most elegant fight, but he had to save time and energy for what actually mattered. 

One last push and he was finally out of the crowd, standing at the edge of the Eldin Bridge. By some miracle, it had escaped the battle unscathed (so far), and he stood face to face with a grand gate. It was wide open, but he was more concerned by what lay beyond. Great orange barriers stood behind the fence, reaching skyward. He could pass through, he knew, but it posed one major problem. One of the two Twili had played their trump card and led the both of them to a Twilight Realm. They were at full power.

He ran up to the gate but ducked behind one of its pillars first. He was not so foolish as to rush headfirst into a keep with two arcanely charged beings, who were undoubtedly, neither in the best of moods. He peeked around the corner to gauge his surroundings. It was almost like a temple, with crumbled walls and pillars lining the mountain corridor. They hadn’t even been here yet, and it was already on the verge of collapse. The two Twili stood in the center, with Zant, shockingly, subdued. Two golden wolves were on each of his sides, biting down harshly on his sleeves. Dark red puddles were already gathering on the floor below him as he tried to wrestle out of their grip. When he looked at the imp who had to be Midna, Ghirahim found himself a little perturbed. For a friend of the Hyruleans, she was awfully menacing. A dark teal aura gathered around her, wafting off of her like smoke from a wildfire. She grinned triumphantly, but her heaving stance betrayed exhaustion. They began to speak, and Ghirahim warped himself closer to eavesdrop.

“I’ve got you now, you wretch! Try casting those wicked spells of yours without waving those gangly arms around!”

Zant laughed at first, but whined terribly as the wolves sunk their teeth into his arms. The thick fabric of his sleeves was failing him. “You must think you’ve gotten a great advantage,” he wheezed, giggling through his pain. “Dear Midna. To think I would find a Twilight Realm in these lands, and it wasn’t even my own doing! Are you finally seeing the advantages-“ he spoke, but was interrupted by a sudden rip at his arm. He screeched in agony as he was yanked to the side, as if the beasts were trying to split him in twain. 

She curled her lip in disdain as she spoke. “I don’t even know why I’m continuing to let you yap. Really, I should kill you right now.”

“Then why aren’t you?” Zant asked, panting in his exertion, but with a smugness in his voice as he tried to save face.

“And risk you coming back from the dead? No thanks. I’ll be taking you in as a prisoner, what, with all that bragging you’ve done about your God resurrecting you?” She prattled on, idly examining her nails. Zant, at this point, was starting to shiver, desperation creeping up even behind the concealment of his armor. Midna then turned to him again, a wide, teeth-baring grin on her face. “Though, he didn’t exactly do that last time, did he?”

She threw her head back in laughter as Zant’s composure snapped, and he struggled as high-pitched grunts of rage echoed out from his helmet. She simply yawned and reclined in mid-air while he panicked in her grasp. “Oh, spare me the effort. Do me a favor and hold still, will you? This’ll only hurt… Hm, a lot, probably,” she snickered, as she raised her arms, preparing what looked to be her fate-sealing spell. 

It was a shame they were on opposite sides. Ghirahim reckoned he might have gotten along with her.

Right as she was about to unleash a frightening amount of crackling energy, something broke her concentration. Midna’s head shot around in shock at the sound of a horn in the northeast. She glared back at Zant, who was still straining against the insistent jaws of her wolves. “Kakariko! That’s out of the warzone, what are you doing!? Elders and children are hiding there!”

His head hung low, but his shoulders shook with laughter. “Then I suppose you should have hidden them better!”

“You’re a monster!”

Zant raised his head again, gagging on his own spit as he coughed out a snickering, sneering reply. “And you’re surprisingly negligent! The Goddesses know your forces haven’t found our most vulnerable!”

A visible rage bubbled and fizzed inside Midna. The tendrils of her hair glowed a violent orange, twisting and coiling as they raised behind her, like a scorpion’s tail preparing to strike. This was Ghirahim’s cue. He showered himself in the diamond flurry of his teleportation magic, and appeared directly behind Zant. The metallic sound of his quickstep maneuver alerted their foe, but she only truly realized what had happened when an obsidian black blade drove itself through the powerful neck of one of her spectral familiars. The beast yelped, releasing its grip on Zant’s bloodstained sleeve, before dissipating into shreds, like burning paper in the wind. He quickly ducked underneath Zant’s arm and, while his co-lieutenant attempted to break free from the second wolf, sprinted at Midna to deliver a swift strike. Instantly, she changed the directory of her hair, and swung the radiant tendrils towards him, instead, their frayed tips aimed right at his chest.

This was his greatest gamble, but one he had chosen wisely. He and Midna had never faced each other in battle before, and so, they were both ignorant of one another’s abilities. Ghirahim’s finest ability happened to be his perfect blades. Bracing his free hand against the blade’s blunt edge, he shielded himself with his sword, parrying the oncoming assault with one swift, slicing motion. He hardly had to exert any force; Midna’s own furious strike gave enough of a push to get the job done. Not expecting the sheer sharpness of his blade, instead of pushing it to the side and overpowering him, her tendrils were split instantly like shaved wood. 

To most people, the agonized scream that burst out of Midna would have been horrid, but it was music to Ghirahim’s ears. She gripped her head tightly before quickly retracting her tendrils. They did not bleed, but clearly, she had feeling in them. This, too, they could use to their advantage.

“Greetings and salutations!” Ghirahim flourished and bowed, “three against one is simply no way to win, wouldn’t you agree? I thought I’d balance the numbers a little bit.”

Midna, still reeling from the blow, glared daggers at the two men before her. Zant joined by his side again, having wrestled his way out of the other wolf’s grip. She was furious. The energy she had been building returned to her at once, and with a wild fling of her arms, she sent a massive ball of twilight magic hurtling toward them. Zant was by far too winded to dodge the blow, and Ghirahim, shamefully, couldn’t get out of range fast enough. Though the blast only grazed his leg, the impact soon surged through his whole body. Like a lightning bolt, dark energy crackled and conducted through his metal core, nearly sending him falling to his knees. Now, that just wouldn’t do. The ache inside him reawakened from her magic, but his rage fueled him with adrenaline, pushing past the limits his pain oh so futilely tried to restrain his abilities with. Rapier extended, he lunged at Midna, aiming straight for the face. Hitting this little woman proved incredibly difficult; not only was she quite small, but her command over gravity allowed her to zip away from his blows like a buzzing insect. It was infuriating, and not doing many favors to his technique. Still, she was equally struggling to land a blow on him. She now feared the sharpness of his blade and turned hesitant. In his flurry of strikes, she couldn’t seem to find an opening past the barrier of jabs and swings. Even so, Midna was tricky. Before Ghirahim knew it, one of her oversized ankle-biters was gnawing at his injured leg. The beast yelped as teeth struck steel past his negligible layer of skin, but it only added to the distraction. It was only ever a distraction. While his eyes quickly darted to the wolf, she instantly took the opportunity by the horns. The large, hair-woven hand extending from her head clutched his dominant arm in a flash. With a quick twist, she threatened to dislocate his beautiful features, the metal of his joints groaning against the pressure as she forced him to bend backward. It forced his hand open, and his sword clattered to the ground. He could rip and writhe all he wanted. Though he exceeded her in brute strength, any tug he made at that tendrilous arm simply made it extend further from her head. Was this brat going to overpower him so easily?

Obviously, the answer was no. With a snip of his fingers with his free hand, a row of daggers began floating above his head, points aimed straight at Midna. Of course, sharp as she was, she saw this and prepared to dodge.

She could only come as far as preparing. Suddenly, she gasped, and her body froze. Zant had stumbled up behind the two and, with a raised hand, restrained her with his own magic. Spindly fingers twisted and squeezed the air as she began to contort, gasping and choking as the air was pushed from her chest. With another snap of his fingers, Ghirahim sent the daggers flying straight at her face. A miscalculation on his part. The pest managed to rip her head free and, with a twist of her neck, deflected most of his projectiles against her stone helmet. But not all of them. A nasty gash had been cut across her cheek and lip, and her shoulder was grazed by a rogue dagger. Not his finest work, but it had to do. 

“I will take it from here,” a deep voice rumbled behind him, before Midna was launched backward, smashing against the wall of the keep. This fight was personal, and Ghirahim stood down. Despite this harsh blow, she was still standing. Zant, limping and swaying from his injuries, dragged his way towards Midna and lifted his hand again. A storm of purple, glowing orbs spouted from his sleeves, hurtling at her at breakneck speeds. She raised her hair-clad hand in an attempt to deflect them, but the last of them managed to burn a hole in her defenses. She was struck, sent spinning from its force, and snarled in pain. But Midna did not go down so easily. With a remarkably quick lunge, she zipped through the air towards him and, with her fist balled, pushed him backwards again. He grunted against the impact but struggled to regain his footing. When he managed to bend himself back upright, he was enraged to find that she had turned her back on him. Midna was getting away. With a screech, he swung his scimitars free from his sleeves and sprinted after her. 

It was no use. She looked back at him once more, and with a single wave of her hand, disappeared into a portal underfoot. 

Zant screamed in protest, attempting to jump into the portal after her, but it disintegrated before his feet hit the ground. His metal shoes thudded into the dirt path instead. Whimpering and seething, he stomped where she vanished, as if the force of his feet alone could send him where she had gone. His stomps lost their vigor as the pain of his injuries overtook him, and he simply slumped over. That is, until he raised his hand, preparing to conjure a portal of his own. 

But before he could attempt to, a glove-clad hand pulled his arm back down. “Zant, that’s enough! She’s fled!”

Zant whipped his head around to face him, his voice shrill and ragged. “Yes! To Kakariko! I know where she’s gone, I can—“

“You can get yourself killed. If that brat retreats, her troops will follow. We won, Zant.”

“But she got away,” he whined, pulling insistently to try to free his arm. He hissed when the nagging pain of his injuries refused to let him do so.

“Yes, but we captured her pinnacle keep. That is enough, for now,” Ghirahim insisted, leaning closer to that tacky helmet of his. “The Master would not be happy to hear one of his lieutenants risked an advantage over foolish, reckless decisions. You told me so yourself, no?”

Zant panted and cried as he regained his senses. They stood there a while, quietly staring at one another. Ghirahim increasingly sternly squinted at him, trying to will him out of his bloodlust stupor through his gaze alone. As they stood there, the taps of the rain on Zant’s helmet slowly began to thin out. The storm had finally ceased, as if through a twist of fate, the Goddesses smiled upon their victory for a change. Ghirahim sighed and peeked past the tall figure of the Twili before him to examine the battlefield. The clash of steel was slowly fading. With the alarm call from Kakariko, it appeared the Hyruleans became far more occupied with defending a single village, rather than guarding their dwindling territory from the Demon King’s advance. 

The sentimental fools.

A gangly hand clutched his arm, as Zant fell to his knees before him. Ragged wheezes echoed from behind his helmet, as his body quaked and shivered. Just how much did those two manage to injure each other?

Ghirahim sighed. “You can whine and whimper all you want, but I’m not carrying you back.”

Zant did not respond. 

For just a moment, he was caught off guard by his own train of thought. I certainly hope I haven’t gone soft, he thought to himself. He rolled his eyes, and placed a hand on Zant’s shoulder. Before the first rays of the sun could peek through the dwindling clouds, they were already long gone, fading to the keep in the cloak of Ghirahim’s diamond flurry.

Chapter Text

That night was one of thorough merrymaking. The capture of the Eldin outskirts had proved to be an overwhelming success, despite the beaten states of their lieutenants. Their own casualties were minimal; Zant’s gamble had proved correct, and the enforcing of hand-to-hand combat of man against man worked magnificently in their favor. The Hyruleans were squished like bugs under their thumbs, and turned tail right when their commander did.

Ghirahim was seated at one of the higher tables in the mess hall, pleasantly mingling with some of their chief commanders. Or, well, seemingly pleasantly. Frankly, he didn’t care much for their company. They were simple beings with simple desires, mortal souls with little in common with him. He just smiled cordially when he was spoken to, resting his chin on his hand, idly looking on at the group of party-goers before him. He wasn’t quite listening to his surroundings. It was all just meaningless noise to him, buzzing in one ear out the other. Had he any equivalent organs to speak of, he would be getting a headache right about now. Or… Perhaps he already did? Midna’s magic had done a strange number on him and hadn’t quite yet run its course. He gazed at the mannerisms enfolding before him. Large mugs of ale poured into the gaping mouths of his monstrous forces, fizz bubbling down the corners of their mouths as they billowed with laughter. They sang, playfully hit one another, and stuffed their faces with the spoils of war. Despite many of them being injured, some missing entire limbs after the battlefield, it was like it had been simply any other day. Of all the distasteful things they were doing, Ghirahim supposed he admired that kind of resilience, in a way. 

Something was awry, though. He hadn’t actually seen Zant since the preparations for their feast started.

Something unprecedented rang through him. As he sat staring in his seat, as though looking directly through the crowd before him and into another world, he managed to put his finger on just what that feeling was. Anxiety. A mild one, but certainly there. He found himself a touch worried for his co-lieutenant. 

And that annoyed him. Certainly, he hadn’t succumbed to his injuries, but instead locked himself in some secluded room, tucked away like a sick animal feeling sorry for himself. Just the thought of such a piteous display made him angry. He hesitated to say that Zant was better than acting like that — it would have been fairly typical of him, in fact — but, if the man wanted to masquerade as a powerful ruler so badly, he ought to at least act like it. He excused himself, and promptly left the hall. 

The new Eldin keep was a rather straightforward building. A large block of a structure, with one main ceremonial hall (currently being desecrated by their partying forces), some storage rooms to the side, and a second story of personal dwellings. Ghirahim reckoned it was a servants’ house, once. Well, it was better than a tent. His search for his companion did not take too long. He swung open the door to one of the storage rooms, only to see a distinctly bamboo-shoot-shaped silhouette a ways out the little window. At least he’s not holed up somewhere, he thought to himself, before zipping himself to the other side of the window. 

He found Zant outside the keep, facing west, seated upon a stool he must have snuck out of the dining hall. The sun was only barely peeking past the horizon in front of them, blurry and shivering in the illusion of its own heat. He figured those last rays of light were the reason Zant’s helmet was still on.

Ghirahim cleared his throat, catching the attention of his co-lieutenant, who struggled to turn back to him. “We seem to keep finding each other at dusk, don’t we?”

“It was you who found me, but yes, it seems so,” he replied. Zant’s voice was its usual haunting depth, suggesting an overall calm mood. Surprising, considering his state when they last saw each other.

Ghirahim shook his head with a chuckle. “You’re not joining us for the festivities?”

Zant shook his head in response. “No, ah… Far too noisy. I do quite prefer it out here. It’s peaceful, this time of day,” he stated, idly examining the mug he held in his grip. “Though,” he said, grunting a bit as he turned in his seat, “I wouldn’t mind sharing this peace with fond company.” 

A second stool materialized next to him, and he gestured with his sleeve with a sweeping motion, inviting him to come sit. Declining would only be impolite. Ghirahim sighed through his nose and smiled, playing along with his offer, moving over to sit next to him. Zant appeared to be doing not much more than staring at the sun. He surmised there was some form of bittersweetness to the sight to him. Such a thing of beauty, even if it threatened to scorch his skin if he bathed in its glory too long. 

He turned to Zant again, who, as if on cue, met his gaze before he could even speak. “I do think you should at least show your face in there, Zant,” he began. “I do so hate to admit it, but we only won the way we did today because of your planning.”

Zant sighed in reply, but Ghirahim interrupted him before he could smack down his offer. “They’d be carrying you through the hall on their shoulders! Our forces are in an exceptionally good mood after today.”

Nothing but silence came from the stone-cold helmet, before he spoke again. “… You have been bragging about me to our men?”

Such an astute observation! Ghirahim thought he’d been subtle enough with his words. “Ha! I suppose so. I had to repay you for what you did for me on the battlefield somehow. I’m not quite fond of the thought of being indebted to you,” he chattered, reclining gracefully in his seat.

If Ghirahim didn’t know any better, he thought he heard a snicker. Zant sat back, temporarily retracting the tongue-like visor of his helmet to take a sip of his beverage. His pointed lips curled into a smirk against the cup. Oh, he was laughing. He had to put him in his place again quickly before the smugness got to his head.

“… Next time, I suppose taking naps in the middle of our briefing is off the table. If you hadn’t been dozing off, then perhaps you would have considered the possibility of finding Midna among the enemy troops, and we wouldn’t have gotten battered the way we did.” Ghirahim sneered, though playfully. 

Zant’s smirk faltered, and the shutter quickly closed over his mouth again. “I suppose,” he sighed, “I got a little ahead of myself.” His fingers idly drummed on the edge of his cup, cyan nails knocking on the ceramic. Did he… Paint his nails?

“This too, however, is an advantage. I believe I have sufficiently teased out the worst of her abilities today. Now we know what to expect,” Zant continued, at this point more talking to himself.

Ghirahim just grinned at him. “So you let yourself get clobbered on purpose?”

Zant hummed, unable to restrain a laugh. Ghirahim joined him. “Please, let it rest.”

Silence fell on the amused pair. They were content at that moment to sit, drinking in the view with the distant sounds of celebration behind them. Still, it seemed the two were as starved for conversation as they usually were, as Zant soon turned to him again.

“Ghirahim, how are your injuries? I do hope you’ve managed to restore the damage done to your sword. As a living weapon, your ability to fight is quite a pressing matter.”

He raised his brow behind his bangs. He didn’t expect genuine concern from the man. “Injury isn’t exactly the right term, you know. But, no, I’ve not yet managed to repair it. I was planning on doing so tonight when all calms down.”

Zant nodded. “I reckon it might be a while before it ‘calms down’, though,” he stated, gesturing idly to the bustling noise behind them. “I’m aware of how well you take care of your weapons. I imagine you must be on edge, with one of your favorites in such a state of disrepair.”

Ghirahim sighed. Zant was right, but it didn’t matter to him either way. He didn’t exactly need to sleep, so there was no real rush to repair his sword. So long as he didn’t have to move too much, or think too hard, the ache the lodged blade radiated through his body was perfectly manageable. His eyes quickly flitted to Zant. The Twili, though sitting in a semblance of comfort, didn’t seem to be managing his own pain well. There was a stiffness in his pose and a wheeze to his breath, as one would when struggling to alleviate the pressure of an injury. Still, his robes and armor were clean, as though he hadn’t set a single foot on the battlefield. 

He supposed he had to ask, too, for politeness’ sake. “What about you? She really let you have it back there, and I don’t exactly see any bandages.”

Zant swallowed in reply. “They’re under my clothes. Ah, I will — Manage. So long as I can walk and move my hands, all will be well.”

That reply was all Ghirahim needed to know that he wouldn’t be seeing Zant leave his dwelling all too much the next day. To his foes, he could lie and scheme as though it was his mother tongue, but it seemed his honesty slipped through the cracks around his allies. How thoroughly unexpected.

The sun was truly setting now, reduced to a mere sliver on the edge of the horizon. They once again found themselves in that orange and pink haze from several nights before, though there were no trees to shield them this time around. Such a fledgling twilight got Ghirahim thinking. He wondered if Zant was loose-lipped enough from the candidness they had since established, and whether he was enough of a lightweight to get chatty after half a cup of mead.

“… Zant, forgive me if I pry, but I have been wondering,” he began, Zant turning to him as he spoke. “The battle of this afternoon seemed… Charged. I can’t help but assume there’s a certain history between you and that Princess.”

A sigh heaved in reply. “To put it simply, she despises me. I hesitate to say I don’t do the same.”

He was silent for a moment, hunching over to rest his elbows on his lap as he considered his next words. “We were friends as children, but… As it became clear that we were both suitable competitors for the throne, I suppose we must have drifted apart. She and I had… Different, ideas, about what it meant to rule.”

Zant clenched his fist as he spoke, his voice gradually rising in pitch and his teeth clenching. “While our people, our lands, were deteriorating before our very eyes, Midna chose inaction. When she ripped my spot on the throne from me, she gained the power to change everything, and she simply sat idle. I could not stand for it.”

He shook his head, slumping over as he thought to himself. “I will not pretend that I’m proud of everything I did to her then. But let it be known that Midna was, and is, an infuriatingly unreasonable, stubborn hellion. She just wouldn’t listen until I made her. There was some painful irony in forcing her into a body she would grow to hate, but she left me little choice. If I had left her unencumbered, she would have tried to either stop or kill me.”

Zant sighed, but chuckled bitterly as he realized something. “I suppose she succeeded at both, in the end.” He regained his composure and pulled himself back upright with a groan. “Perhaps this second time, I — We, rather, will be more successful.”

It was a curious development for Ghirahim. Truly, Zant struck him as a remorseless, cruel fiend. He was like a living tornado on the battlefield. Same as he, Zant delighted in the trail of carnage he left behind. He spoke so nonchalantly about his plans and deeds that to find a man such as himself carrying regrets of his own was like cutting a stone in half, only to find it bleeding. “I didn’t expect a brooding man like you to be so eager to tell me his life’s stories like this,” he pondered out loud with raised eyebrows, struggling to conceal his surprise.

In their silence, Zant appeared to have been drifting off to someplace else, but Ghirahim’s comment pulled him back, grounding him. “Ah, well… I spend plenty of time inside my own head. It’s nice, in a way, to have a listening ear, other than my own.” The shutters of his helmet rose again as he put his cup back to his lips, draining it with a tip of his head. He growled when the liquid slid down his throat, setting the cup down on the ground beside him with a light smack. Ghirahim figured, in mild amusement, that he wasn’t fantastic at holding his liquor.

Zant sat hunched over, breathing a little less heavily than he did before. “Ghirahim, won’t you trade me a tale for a tale? Surely, in your centuries of living, you have stories worth telling.”

Ghirahim laughed, his fangs peeking out from behind his lips. “Oh, no,” he raised a hand, as if to halt him, “you will not get candor out of me so easily. I’ll not let you be privy to my many secrets just yet. Perhaps when we face my own rival, I may tell you a thing or two about her.”

And yet, that little information was enough for Zant to find a topic to hook onto. He sat perked up, lips mildly pouted in intrigue. “Rival? You mean, the spirit of the Master Sword,” he questioned, childishly mimicking a walking motion with his fingers. “The dancing one?”

Ghirahim groaned and nodded. “That very one.”

Zant gazed at him for a while, seemingly thinking, before speaking again. “Something just occurred to me. How come that that blasted hero always wields the same blade, but our Master battles with something different every time? Wouldn’t his weapon of choice logically be… You?”

Didn’t he just tell that nosy, impudent fool that he wasn’t going to indulge him? And to pry in such a sore spot, after he himself had been so considerate. If he wanted to make things awkward, then so be it. “Oh, well,” he sighed melodramatically. “I was supposed to be, indeed, but in our fateful battle against the Hero of the Sky, my Master, Demise… Shattered me.”

Zant’s curious expression from earlier faltered. He seemed to be feeling bad for asking. Good. The Twili’s lips tightened in a frown. “… I see. How very careless.”

Ghirahim’s lip twitched, annoyed by not only his prying but now also an insult towards his true Master. He was perfectly content with letting the conversation drop and excusing himself, but Zant continued. “I suppose it’s a good thing you’re back now, same as I.”

He smirked. “And thank the stars for that. Where would you lot be without me?” he cooed, resting his chin on his hands. 

Zant laughed in reply, toeing a fine line between genuine warmth and mockery. “Oh, yes! I would propose a toast to that, but it appears that you don’t drink, and my cup has since gone empty,” he moped, picking up his mug to examine its lack of contents.

“Please don’t get a refill. You’re already woozy.”

“That,” Zant raised a finger in emphasis, “would be the blood loss.”

The sheer timing startled him into a laugh, which Zant responded to with his own guffaw. “Oh, you’ve got jokes, now?” Ghirahim snickered, covering his mouth with his fingertips. He hadn’t meant to lose his poise like that.

“You and I are learning quite a lot about one another lately, it seems,” Zant wheezed as his chortling died out.

If there was anything Ghirahim wasn’t expecting, it was Zant’s ability to lighten the mood. From the moment they met, he had been a silent, awkward, ominous being, incapable of responding in sentences longer than five words. Perhaps it had been the booze, or simply a long-dormant desire to chat with a like-minded being. Probably both. They continued to chat absolute nonsense until the sun disappeared completely, draining the keep’s terrain of its light and color. Now, the only things keeping them out of the dark were the torchlights of the feasting hall behind them, and the soft, teal glow of Zant’s clothing, bouncing off of his metallic skin. At some point, he had scooted closer to him, as Zant’s combined exhaustion and inebriated state began to dim his voice. At one point, the man had turned to him, eyes only somewhat visible, glowing behind his helmet. 

“Ghirahim, I had one more question, if I may.”

He rolled his eyes in return, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “You’ve already waltzed right over my toes several times tonight, what’s one more?”

Zant paused, looking for the right words. “What you did when we parted on the battlefield this afternoon. What did you mean by it?”

Now things were getting interesting. Ghirahim was wondering whether Zant would bring up the topic and was pleasantly surprised to see him being even a semblance of boldness. “You’re being frustratingly vague as usual, but I assume you mean when I kissed you.”

Zant sat there tongue-tied for a second, mouth tight and expressionless. “Yes.”

He sighed. “Oh, I don’t quite know,” he prattled. It was an honest reply, and despite his eagerness to tease, he found himself unsure of what he actually thought of what he did then. “You had shown me such kindness amidst all the chaos, and I suppose I must have gotten a little carried away in the moment.”

“I see,” he mumbled in response, turning his head to look out in front of him again.

After a pause that seemed like ages, Zant straightened himself up in unforeseen, yet anxiously stiff determination. “Ghirahim, I suppose — I wouldn’t mind, if you were to get carried away again,” he crooned, his attempts at cloaking his nerves with courtesy failing miserably.

“Twilight king,” he smirked, tipping his head as he leaned towards him. “Is that your pathetic attempt at asking me for a kiss?”

Zant swallowed audibly, seemingly a bit peeved by how forward Ghirahim was being. “If you wish to put it so bluntly…”

His unexpected bashfulness caused Ghirahim to titter. Certainly, those aiming for the throne should have more confidence in their attempts at courting. He casually rested his arm on Zant’s shoulder, leaning on him to lock them in intimate eye contact. The Twili turned to him but did nothing to escalate his advances. To Ghirahim’s great interest, it looked as though Zant was expecting him to take the lead. “… Well? Are you going to take that clunky thing off your head so I can reach? Unless me kissing your helmet already does it for you.” He was powerless to deny such a power trip.

Clearly, Zant was not a being of great subtlety. Nearly instantly, a clunk sounded from the back of his neck, and the complex mechanisms of his helmet folded into one another. To Ghirahim’s surprise, he did not wear his usual balaclava; the garment must have been pressing too tightly on his bruises. Pinkish red hair draped in chopped locks down to about his chin, and long, pointed ears extended from either end of his face. Any other time he would comment on a haircut so atrocious, but he let it slide this time. The second his helmet retracted fully, Ghirahim draped his arms around his neck, pressing his chest against his. He wanted to tease the man just a little longer, and it was working magnificently. Zant’s ears perked up and twitched and, unless it was a trick of the light, a blush began to spread across his cheeks. He gazed at the man blinking sheepishly down at him, and slowly took note of how oddly graceful his features were. His markings glowed softly under the starlight, tracing down to the gentle slope of his nose. Those big, unrelenting eyes, normally shy to face him, now looked straight at him, wide and with a feline sharpness. There was truly not a shred of subtlety to him once that helmet went off. Every bit of fluster was clear as day on his face. Ghirahim broke their eye contact with a bat of his lashes, peeking down at his grey, angled lips, before looking up at him one last time. He closed his eyes, humming as he leaned in.

As their lips met, Zant once again stiffened beneath him. Though he had requested it, it seemed the Twili hadn’t the slightest idea what to do with himself while they kissed. After a beat, the orange glow faded from beyond Ghirahim’s eyelids, meaning he had at least closed his eyes instead of dumbfoundedly staring in front of him. It then dawned on him that either it had been a very long time since Zant’s last kiss, or that he had just stolen his first. 

After a few seconds of being pressed together, Ghirahim pulled back, tongue quickly darting past his lips. He hardly tasted of drink at all. What a lightweight. “There,” he purred, “are you quite sated?”

Zant let out a squeaking gasp as they parted, once again staring wide-eyed at him. He was still stiff as a board. Such an absolute bore , Ghirahim thought, now aiming to loosen him up.

Before he could respond, Ghirahim made the call for him. “I know that look. That’s a ‘no’,” he chuckled, before quickly moving in again to kiss him a second time. Zant yelped in protest, the flapping of his sleeves and tassels sounding between them as he struggled to put his hands on his waist. They separated again, mostly due to Zant’s head bucking backward.

“Ghirahim,” he stammered. “Show some restraint!”

He just rolled his eyes in response, pushing against him to send the pair of them swaying. “Oh, why? It’s just the two of us. What are you keeping up images for?”

Apparently, he made a compelling enough argument. With a single determined grunt through his nose, it was Zant who initiated the kiss this time. He was clearly unpracticed, but oh, the lanky arms wrapping around his lower back were just too endearing. The poor sod was really trying here. Ghirahim just hummed against his lips, allowing himself to sink into the pillowing of his robes. His steel-hard body must have been painful against his beaten flesh, but from the way Zant held him, he wouldn’t have thought it. To think that a man such as he was capable of such sweetness. 

Still, he noted that Zant forgot that he could still breathe through his nose, and so, he pulled back. He lingered in his arms just a moment, head tipped with an amorous smile when they locked eyes again. “And,” he asked him, “was it everything you’ve ever hoped for?”

Zant, who had been staring, panting softly in his trance, slowly regained his composure. “Oh, spare me.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” he snickered, still hanging from his shoulders. Frankly, it had been a long time for him, too, to show affection for someone else. Affection? Was that what he felt? Zant was a strangely adorable figure, who, the past few days, he’d be getting along swimmingly with. Though he hated to admit it, they complemented one another. He was an irksome, unpredictable person, but just so terribly interesting. Had it not been for him, then their conquest would have been an equally lonely, frustrating affair as his attempts to resurrect Demise. Ghirahim thought he preferred to work alone, but to be honest, he did so hate to be bored. Since their friendship had come to fruition, he hasn’t been bored for more than a minute. Certainly, getting to shove him about in a more romantic sense would prove to be devilishly amusing too.

Oh, Hell. Was he staring? 

Even if he was, Zant stared right back at him. The moonlight framed him so handsomely, his radiant features contrasting against his skin like stars in the midnight sky. He truly was a creature made to dwell in the dark. Maybe the perpetual twilight wasn’t exactly in Zant’s plans anymore, but it certainly would do his appearance far more favors than being locked behind that tacky helmet all day. 

While Ghirahim was more than happy to stay locked in this embrace for a few more hours, his companion was getting a touch nervous. He averted his gaze, and with a clear of his throat, slowly disentangled his arms from the Sword Demon's back. “Ghirahim, I thank you for your companionship and your indulging of my — Advances, but,” he quickly looked to the keep, anxiously checking for any peeping toms, “after such a day, I do think I must retire for the night.”

So formal, even as they stood in each others’ arms. He couldn’t resist taunting him a little bit. “Oh? Are you inviting me to your room already? How cheeky.”

He managed to make him stutter. “Ghirahim..!” he sputtered, hiding his hands in his sleeves. “I… Am flattered by your offer, but my body is far too worn from battle, I don’t think I—“

Ghirahim shook his head with a laugh. “I’m just yanking your chain,” he drawled, idly tucking a strand of hair behind Zant’s ear. It truly was such an abominable haircut. “You hurry along, now, Twilight King. Thank you for tonight. I’ve truly had a splendid time.” He stepped back, his arms sliding off the tall man’s shoulders and crossing before his chest. Zant nodded in affirmation, supposedly cordially, but he was shaky from both his injuries and his fluster. 

“Goodnight, Demon Lord.” He slowly stepped back from him, ribbing him with his proper title, before heading back to the keep.

Before he could leave him proper, Ghirahim called out to him again. “Rest well! I expect to see you again at the briefing tomorrow,” he paused, as Zant looked back at him. “Awake, this time!”

… Did he just flip him off? Wow. Perhaps a trip to Lake Hylia wouldn’t be a bad idea for their first date…

Chapter Text

There stood the bane of his existence. His foil. The dim glow of their sky, the perpetual haze seeping the horizon like rotting honey, deepening the shadows on her face. Midna, standing atop her balcony, one hand gently lain atop the balusters as though caressing it. She was adorned in her brand new veils and jewelries. Truly, she had the appearance of a queen, though such robes could make even a mutt look of noble blood. She looked down upon their courtyard, a gaze so affectionate. It couldn't fool him. Behind that royal love laid a petty sense of pride, self-satisfied in her accomplishment, her crushing of the competition. Zant knew, he knew, for he would have had the exact same look on his face. She mocked him, even when she presumed he wasn't around. Midna was the same as he!

Yet, yet. He must compose himself. He stumbled towards her, step by step, though his shambling gait made no noise. His feet didn't touch the ground.

“Allow me to congratulate you, Twilight Princess, with your ascension to the throne," Zant stated, bowing in feigned respect.

If she was startled, she masked it well. Midna turned to face him, pushing herself away from the balcony railing. “… Zant. What uncharacteristically high spirits you’re in.”

“Such a cold tone," Zant responded, tutting slightly. "Whatever happened between us, Dear Midna?”

She deigned to respond, but her eyes lingered on his shoulder guards. Never a man for the battlefield, he realized she must have never seen them before. Did they intimidate her? He hoped so. May she dwell on their implication through the entirety of this accursed encounter! 

After enough of her silence, he hummed, narrowing his eyes. “Oh, don’t worry. I know, indeed. But that does not erase our history," he stated, stepping towards her. Her eyes darted down to the floor, before settling her glare back at his face. "Midna, tell me. Who was there for you, when your little friend from the Light World abandoned you, and your scrying mirror no longer responded to your call?" He took another step. "Who was there to dry your tears, to listen to you when the cold walls of our court proved too much to bear?”

Midna sighed, dismissing his words with a flick of her wrist before turning away from him, facing the view past her balcony. “Our past changes nothing about the rift you’ve wedged between us now, Zant. Why bring up this sentimental babbling now?”

In the blink of an eye, he was now right in front of her. “Because everything has changed, Midna.” 

The Twilight Princess flinched, quickly whipping her head to where he stood before. Only to find that, indeed, he had popped up before her with near supernatural speeds. No amount of forced elegance, of disdain, could hide her surprise! Her perturbation!

“Just yesterday, mere minutes after your coronation, I met with something truly spectacular," he stated with a giggle, bracing his knees to launch himself backward. His sleeves flapped and fluttered in his ascent, tassels jingling like wind chimes as he floated to where he stood before. Her eyes were glued to him in… Wariness? Dare he say, fear?

"I met God, face to face in all His glory, and he bestowed upon me something truly unimaginable. You can feel it too, can’t you?”

He stepped closer again. Still, he had little control over his movements. It was like he had grown too big for his own body, bursting from his skin, creaking his bones. It was like puppeteering his own body like a marionette with the strings entangled, dragging himself slumped across the ground. It was like sweet, liberating agony, a spider struggling wildly to break free from its molt. His joints twitched under the sheer electrifying magic as he raised his arms, basking in the surge of strength.

“The power. How it sings through my veins. Even now, it rings in my ears, clouds my vision. This delectable symphony of the arcane! Just listen. ”

A droning hum. Like ink-black flames, licking at the air around him, shadow intersected with shadow at his feet. He bathed in the glory of his darkly divine aureole, undeniable as it was! Not even their ancestors’ magic could hope to live up to this overwhelming, euphoric feeling!

All Midna could do was stare, frowning at him with wide eyes, fingers tightly gripping the baluster behind her. What a sight! Such glory, to sweep her feet out from under her! Dared he kick her while she was down?

“I could change everything with this. We could," his voice quivered as he spoke, extending his hand to her. Was it… Always that color? This strange grey? His magic was changing even his body!

Just as he began to admire his new features, her very next words snapped him out of his second-long trance, forcing his gaze to her scowl. “You’ve gone mad.”

He threw his head back in laughter, ear-grating and brutal. "Then perhaps madness is the price I will have to pay for this blessing!"

Zant was getting carried away, and his situation was dire. The royal family only continued to tolerate his presence in the Palace through his extended position as a servant. And the grains in his hourglass were rapidly running out; her gaze turned to the doorway, and she was about to call for whatever guard patrolled the halls. He needed to occupy her attention again before he could. 

Almost amicably, he lowered his arms again, palms upturned in submission. “I have a proposition for you, Midna. A final offer of reason," he smiled, and she, for just a second, exhaled audibly, sighing off her tension. He did not allow for relief for long. "Marry me.”

Immediately, Midna’s face turned from an unsettled frown to a full-blown grimace of disgust, “What!?” she snapped, fully backing up against the balcony railing. Oh, how he delighted in pushing her around. But not like this. Even he was not such a brute.

He shook his head. “Let me be clear. You hold no affection for me, and neither do I you. But think of the lengths we’ll go, Midna,” he raved on, swept away by the splendor of his own schemes. “With the love you’ve won of our people, and our combined power, we have a chance of finally retaliating against the Hylians-“

But Midna interrupted him harshly, her incredulity managing to rip her free of her fearful paralysis. “Again with this nonsense! Zant, when will you understand?” she hissed, fists balled at her sides. Such an infantile posture, not changed even a bit from when they were children!

“The Twilight Kingdom doesn’t want war with Hyrule. It is nothing other than your own selfish ambitions!”

“Selfish!?" He shouted, pupils narrowing and drool trailing between his teeth. "You call me selfish? Look around you, Midna,” he gestured to the city she so fondly looked to earlier. Amid his bubbling hatred, the true, despicable nature of their rotten home became ever clearer. All a sickly beige, stretching out into the horizon, interrupted only by blackening and withering shrubbery. Even the sky itself was ill, stuck in the same perpetual dim orange, shedding neither light nor darkness on the lands below. Day in, day out, if such a concept even existed! Their world was like a decaying beast that had forgotten to die. They were living like maggots inside a corpse! And she had resigned to it, dooming them to this fate!

This sobering realization brought him back to his usual calmness. He simply had to convince her. “Behold the wasteland in which they’ve cursed us to live. Our Sols — the lifeblood of our world, poisoned by the scum they’ve sullied us with. Thieves, outlaws, murderers pepper our landscape like rats scurrying in the sewers. Perhaps we can live like this a little longer, but we will never thrive,” he snided, eyes narrowing as he straightened his posture again, looking down at her with as much poise as he could muster.

Instead of listening to him, she simply laughed. As she always did! “Pfah! Listen to yourself! We go to war, and we die! ”

But his resolve would endure. “Then that brings us to two options. We can die in conquest, or we can slowly wither away, doomed to an agonizingly slow death under your hideous, neglectful leadership!”

“That’s enough! I’ll no longer tolerate this madness,” she spat, a firm gesture of her hand cutting his words short, like a knife through thread. “All of this disrespect, and you still dare to ask for my hand in marriage!? I reject your proposition, now, and forever! Now get out of my sight. That is my order, as your Queen!”

Zant stood in silence, but not in surprise. The truth was, he never did expect his reasoning to land with her. After all these years of mockery and social exile, any attempt to converse with her was a shot in the dark. Perhaps there was a slim chance she could have said yes, and he would have been more than happy with such a strategic position, even if he had to share it with someone he so despised. 

“… Very well,” he nodded, and with a resounding clunk, the mechanical whirring of his shoulder guards assembled his helmet over his face, gazing down at her in menacing opulence. Slowly he stepped towards her, as she raised her hands almost feebly, trying to keep him at a distance.

The truth was, he just wanted to see if he could scare her before he got her out of the way.

With a single swipe of his hand, Midna was sent flying to the ground. There was no other choice. He was dead set on the throne. Zant had to take over. He was the only one who could! The only one with the ambition to rip their people from this dying world! His reasoning was impeccable. He had to. He could not sit idle and wait for someone else to do it, and now, he had all the power to take not only this crown, but the ones in worlds beyond! The Fused Shadows, laughable as they may have been in comparison to his magic, now in Midna’s possession, had to be done away with. And their owner with them! Such distractions would not be tolerated! 

He had to. He had to! He must! 

Though, it would be boring to kill her. Perhaps too cruel. His loyalty he may have abandoned, but his soul, he did not!

So instead, he found an alternative. Before his very eyes, Midna began to change. But her transformation was not painful. It was instant, like blowing the dust off an old book, only to find it drastically changed underneath. Within the blink of an eye, gone was the beautiful Princess of Twilight. On the ground lay nothing but a small, insignificant creature.

Zant stood petrified, in shock of his own power. All he did was rid her of her abilities, wedge a shard of his grudge where she could not reach it. And it had turned her into the pathetic semblance of a child. Not a trace was left of her beauty, her cunning, her graceful form, demanding of awe and respect. As if they’d never even existed. Was this what happened to their kind, if drained from the magic of their noble bloodline?

It was terrifying. It was astounding. It was magnificent. 

She began to come to, slowly rising from the ground, only to find her body worked far differently than it should. She stared in horror at her pitiful, tiny little hands, and whipped her head around to face him.

“What have you done to me..?” she whimpered, her voice shaking.

A twisted grin began to stretch across his face.

“What have you done to me!?” she now shouted, pupils small as birdseed. Zant simply laughed.

This was sweeter than any victory. No attempt on her life could have produced a more satisfactory result. Not pushing her off the balcony, watching her plummet down into the abyss, smacking down on the bricks and splattering like an egg. Not wrapping his fingers around her throat and squeezing, until the lack of breath made her skin thrice as blue as usual. Not slashing her throat and watching her drown in a pool of her own crimson.

No, here she was, perfectly alive, and whimpering at his feet. He had kicked her while she was down and ground her to the floor with his heel like the stray ashes from a pipe. Zant rapidly came to find he much preferred this dynamic. Such colorful humiliation! Perhaps it would compare to all those years she spent shattering his esteem! 

“Run, little imp! Run,” he bellowed as she scrambled to her feet, stumbling down the stairs of her balcony. As if his goading alone could knock the disgraced royal off balance. “Your cowardice will be remembered, Twilight Princess!” 

As she left his gaze, he panted in exertion. Ridding such a powerful mage of her powers proved to be an incredibly taxing ordeal. He had to recover, and he had to do it quickly, he thought, slowly turning back to the castle. The throne now stood empty, abandoned by its ruler. It was his for the taking.

The rest of his trek through the palace was a haze. 

Black. 

Deep, rich, black, clouding his gaze like a lace blindfold, holding him so tenderly in its embrace as it coaxed him into abhorrent violence. He recalled shouting, frantic tugs at his sleeves as the palatial staff attempted to put an end to his advance, but to no avail. With nothing but his gaze and the flick of his hands, stone carvings appeared from thin air, melting themselves against the faces of struggling Twili. Flesh torn and crumpled, bones twisted and cracked, twisting into abominable shapes, punishment and degradation into his servitude. No longer would he be bossed around by these people. 

It was his turn for dominion. 

He drowned in the sensations of his golden slippers against the stone floors, each echoing clack sending shivers of delight up his spine. His feet dragged him striding forward, stalwart to nothing but his own cause. At last, his dream was in reach before him, his so-deserved title . As he stood in the gateway of that glorious throne room, it was as if it had been his first time setting foot inside it. That once so dreary room, a source of envy and disdain, was now bathed in a glory he could never have fathomed.

And as he turned and sat, the sound of a thousand trumpets sounded in his ears. All blaring in deranged joy, so deafening his vision blurred. A perfect, bloodless usurpation, with kneeling servants where their mangled bodies should be at the foot of his throne. And he could do nothing but cry. Weep and scream at the overwhelming sensation of relief and exemplar. Hot, fat drops of tears hurried their way down his cheeks, but as the first of them dropped their way past his gaping lips, he found they tasted remarkably metallic.

Zant awakened. 

A dream. 

A memory? The line was blurry these days, yet he was confident in this one’s authenticity. Ever since his God had blessed him with his divine power, his mind had changed. Elusive like glass windows shattering to dust under a hurricane. Cracked, like floating ice caps, drifting and wobbling under the motion of the water beneath. Those closest to him were, though unstable, easy enough to reach. The further away he went, however, it required increasingly arduous jumps, sending him plummeting into the mind-numbing, freezing abyss between, only to find upon clawing his way out of it, the slab of ice had irrevocably changed.

This one, however, was always within reach. Fresh. This particular memory had its very own bridge, its foundations hammered with jagged nails into his very psyche.

He found every time he reached it, it evoked an intense emotion in his sleeping mind. Today was no different. He seemed to have bitten his tongue. A slight grimace folded his face. Rolling the bleeding appendage around in his mouth, he rubbed its injured edge against the roof of his mouth. Fed up plenty with his other injuries, he decided this one would heal on its own, as it usually did. 

He slowly rose, dismissing the drapes of his light blankets. The thing was hardly necessary in such a sweltering environment, much less with the pillowy layers of his night robes, but he found he enjoyed its pressure as he slept. Comforting, reassuring, lulling him into the embrace of abyssal sleep. Immediately upon moving his coverings, his body greeted him good morning with the hellish pains glowing through his arms and chest. They made the groggy, hungover ache in his head nigh forgettable in comparison.

Zant mildly cursed himself for having found it a good idea to get drunk the very evening after a grievous battle. That Midna, that princess, that wretched woman that undid all his hard work while letting some boy do most of it for her. That repulsive, smug little face, the way she looked at him as if he were lesser than the dirt under her impish feet. How he longed to tell her the feeling was much reciprocated! But alas, either she would never let him finish speaking, or she would simply ignore him, brushing his words off like he was void before her. It was such a compelling urge to grab her by the shoulders, screaming every word that stabbed into his heart in her face, until his undying rage and animosity were the only things her feeble mind had the space for.

The fabric of his sleeves bunched his grip as he hugged himself tightly, gnashing his teeth and digging his nails into his skin. She was detestable. Midna would never understand his grief, his fury. Even though he had conveyed it to her, 

over, 

and over. 

Only to have his pleas ignored, deemed selfish, deemed insane. Overwhelming, red-hot, vindictive rage bubbled up from his toes to the bulging veins in his neck, but fizzled as the bruising squeeze of his fingers in his already battered arms pulled him back to his senses. 

Hot, glowing pain. 

A reminder, yet a damper on his motivation. The crown jewel of his loss. 

His manic whimpering turned to heaving, forcibly slowed breaths. Yes, he realized it. As satisfying as it would be to pour his heart out to her, it would hardly have the effect he’d wished for. He hung his head with a sob.

Those injuries. That woman, that blasted woman, had injured him so deeply. In front of his closest comrade, no less! His fingers shook as he tried to lift his hands past the agony in his forearms.

Muscles straining, tendons flexing, and skin tugging around the holes bored into the now absent flesh by her spectral familiars. Wolves. The so-called manifestations of heroes. A ridiculous notion! How egotistical! He almost had to laugh, if it didn’t hurt so terribly. He wheezed, his ribs aching with every breath taken too deep. 

Ragged. 

Pathetic. 

Dispelling her magic from his body was easy enough, but his body now bore the aftermath of the sheer force of the cannonball she’d blasted straight into him. To his dismay, he realized it was likely time to change those bandages. 

Carefully, he unwrapped himself. He was greeted by a purple bruise underneath the black membrane over his arms, radiating from the bite marks like a smoldering crater. An amber-colored ooze was smeared on it, caking to his puncture wounds. His injuries were healing, but not as quickly as he would like them to. Still, he was given strict orders by incredibly stern-sounding poes not to touch them, and as any wise man he was hesitant to argue with the dead. His magic could easily cure the worst of it, but he knew that he was best left sparing as much energy as he could. A treatment of fresh bandages would have to do, to draw the ‘ichor’ out, as they had so pleasantly called it. He idly washed his arms with the water stood at his bedside, tipping the contents of a ceramic jug into a tub and soaking some rags in. His chest was next. He carefully peeled back the countless layers of his robes, bunching them over his shoulders, to reveal his black and white form below. These wounds were the least severe, nothing but bruises, though it had been a miracle that Midna didn’t crack a rib or two. The marks on his breast were green and yellow, speckled with sickly purples, skin broken here and there from the sheer friction of the arcane ball that had struck him. Winding the bandage around himself proved to be the most difficult task. The pain of moving his body so dexterously screamed in his joints, as if knives had been buried under his skin, poking and slicing him from the inside as he moved. 

All that, and he had another briefing in mere hours. What a magnificent situation to be in.

Still, he got himself sufficiently cleaned. He idly wondered what time it must be; the staff below was oddly quiet, and men were not yet out in the training field for their usual spar. With a bit of a pleasant smile, he realized he had, for a change, awoken quite early, and had all the time in the world until he was called for. He knew exactly what to do with this time. Grogginess be damned.

Chapter Text

It was the next morning, and Zant, his co-lieutenant, was unfashionably late to rise. Ghirahim had spent the last stretch of the night quite leisurely, repairing the damages to his sword that had been inflicted that afternoon. Despite the strenuous labor that went into it, it nourished him, refreshing both mind and body as he polished part of his soul back to a presentable state. Kinks and fractures were beaten and smoothened back to their original state, and finally, he felt whole again. Though the weirdly nauseating buzz of twilight magic was still lingering in his core, he was essentially once again fit as a fiddle. By all means, he could return to the battlefield in the next hour if he must. 

His companion was not so fortunate. Zant, though having attained arcane mastery, was still a being of flesh and blood. He presumed it would take days before he fully recovered from his injuries, even with the assistance of the Poes’ magical healing. The Twili was a secretive creature, he came to find. As such, he wasn’t able to assess the state of his injuries. Still, the limp in his step and his sluggish movement from the night before surely weren’t from the drink alone. Ghirahim could hazard a guess. 

And now, with the last time that he saw him tickling freshly in his mind, he once again felt a pang of concern. After all the battles they had won before, were these nudges going to do him in? It was unbelievable. He should have been alerted by the moan and groan of that whining creature, nagging about the ache in his ravaged arms, hours ago. His room was across the hall, after all. Instead, there was a perfect silence, all the while the sun peeked past the horizon and the first of the staff busied themselves with their livestock and caring for the injured. There were mouths to be fed and graves to be dug, and depending on the state of it, his neighbor across the hallway would be the recipient of at least one of those services.

He shook his head. What ridiculous things to worry about! Zant was their lieutenant and should be the absolute top priority of their medics. Certainly, he had been assessed already, and if anything had happened, Ghirahim would be the first to hear about it. Certainly.

He still found himself standing in front of the Shadow King’s door. How infuriating! After the invigorating battle and intriguing night they shared yesterday, not even a peep had come from his fellow commander. It was preposterous. Didn't they begin to share a bond? He tapped his foot, half in impatience and half as a nervous tic, scrunching his nose as he pondered. It gradually began to annoy him that the longer he stood there, nothing but silence came from Zant’s sleeping quarters. Even though it was entirely unrealistic to expect him to be aware he was out there, he still felt like somehow, the mad wizard should be. Oh! He was getting so irritatingly angry with him. Ghirahim decided he no longer had the privilege of being warned to protect his privacy and opted to instead teleport right to the other side of the door.

He expected to find him asleep but instead encountered a figure sitting at a desk next to the door in dim candlelight, studiously engrossed in the task of combing through a daunting stack of books. Said figure clearly noticed him, as he could tell from the startled screech that rang from him.

“Ghirahim!” Zant shrieked, “have you no sense of decorum!? What business do you have in my quarters, unannounced like this!?” He clutched and covered his body with his arms as though he had been spotted nude, despite the flowing flax robe that covered him almost completely. 

Ghirahim knit his brows, rolling his eyes. “Oh, please. Is that how you greet your fellow lieutenant, who so graciously took it upon himself to check in on you? Frankly, I expected you to be sleeping.”

Zant responded with a scowl, hugging himself as he shrunk into his seat with a hunch. “I refuse to accept such excuses. You are not to enter my room without my duly consent!” He huffed, averting his gaze from him with great effort, as though fearing Ghirahim would harm him if he took his eyes off of him. “Moreover, I am not properly dressed! I do not wish to appear before you so indecently, at this time of day.”

Ghirahim hummed puzzledly, examining Zant head to toe. He didn’t understand what the fuss was about whatsoever. The Shadow King, though not as particularly accessorized as usual, was perfectly concealed by what appeared to be several layers of robes. The only skin he could see was that of his hands, his neck, and his face. Otherwise, his usual bell-like silhouette was perfectly intact. Clearly uncomfortable with being browsed so thoroughly, Zant turned his body away from him with a fluster. It was an amusing sight, to see him act so prudishly. “I assure you, Zant, you are as thoroughly covered as you usually are.” He stepped toward the desk, his eyes scanning through the items strewn atop it. Picking up a small glass vial with some form of long-dead, yet still glittering insect inside it, he examined it idly as his companion could do nothing but sputter. “How are your injuries?” Ghirahim inquired, too focused on Zant’s odd little collection to meet his eye.

Zant stammered and fumed, visibly restraining a yelling fit. A rare display of constraint came to him, it seemed, as he sighed out in frustration, stiffly pressing his back to his chair. “I am finding it a bit difficult to move, though my wounds have been treated well, and are at no risk of infection. I need only worry for their persistent ache to pass.” 

Ghirahim nodded, turning to face him again, but Zant quickly looked away from him. Equally annoyed and endeared by this shyness, he smirked. “That is fortunate enough news, I suppose. Will you be attending our briefing?”

Patience was wearing thin. Zant dawdled for a moment, huffing and tapping his fingers on the arms he still clutched himself with. Finally, with a determined sigh, he looked at him again, a stern frown crinkling his brow. “Ghirahim, I will be more than happy to mingle with you after I’m dressed, but for the time being, I must request you to leave!”

Ghirahim scoffed. What bond was supposed to develop between warriors, or potential lovers, even, who could not even stand to have the other witness his bare form? That being said, they were both fully clothed! Imagine the tantrum he would have thrown if it were any more drastic a situation! Before he could utter even another word, a hand smacked itself on his forearm, and before he knew it, he was teleported right outside Zant’s door. He let out an affronted cry, sputtering as he turned to the closed door now in front of him. Unbelievable! He had half a mind to simply walk off and ignore the man for the entire rest of the day, but he soon realized that he was still holding one of Zant’s field samples. With a frustrated sigh, he realized he would have to return to him at some point and give this strange bug back to him. He was not quite so petty as to break his things in indignation… Yet. For now, he returned to his room, opting to wait out however long it took for Zant to slip in and out of his copious amounts of clothing. Walking down the hall, vial in hand, it now occurred to Ghirahim that maintaining partnerships was an incredibly tedious affair… But at least not a boring one, by any means. He ought to not allow that lunatic to keep him too much on his toes.

As it turned out, that lunatic was really keeping him on his toes. It must have been half an hour later, by now at least seven in the morning, and Zant had not yet called for him. Knowing now that the man was in stable condition, he no longer had to worry about anything too awful happening in his absence, so he felt it well within his right to once again become irritated. To keep someone like him waiting! Had Zant already forgotten? Or was he so fed up with him he no longer felt the need to invite him? Both options were completely unacceptable. Lounging on the bed that was set up for him, but was hardly used, he began to pout and fidget at the transgressions committed against him. A Lord such as he was too important to be cast aside! 

As he sat there fuming, the air got thicker and thicker with his own annoyance. With a flip of his hair and a frustrated grunt, he teleported himself to the nearest window and dramatically threw open the shutters to alleviate the sheer miasma accumulating in his little hidey-hole. He slumped against the windowsill with a sigh, gazing out over the dry mountain valley beyond. The slowly rising sun on the other side of the complex bathed the dry, sandy landscape in gold. A fine commemoration of their battle, as though the universe congratulated them with riches. Still, Ghirahim's mood was as dark and brooding as the tall shadow that stretched out into the distance, cast by the very building he stood in.

Loneliness. That's what he felt, and what he thought he frequently felt in the past, but never truly noticed until he had built a budding friendship with Zant. And now that he was denied this companionship, he found it stung far more than before. Such mopiness was unbecoming of him! He knew rage, he knew agony, and he knew what to do to those that burdened him with such feelings. But he didn't know such petty and persistent feelings like these naggy ones. Any proper response to this small, juvenile thing was unfathomable. 

It was a little cold out, so early and before the sun had fully risen, and the cool breeze tickled the short hairs at the base of his side shave The sudden sensation forced him to retract from his thoughts. Nigh sparkling air, scattered with dew, broke the barrier between his slightly stuffy room and the fresh chill of the world beyond, wind billowing the various drapes and fabrics that lined his walls and shelves. There was something pleasant about it; perhaps he could take a walk. 

Or, alternatively, he could use his slightly refreshed state to stomp over to Zant’s room and give him an earful.

He ended up doing the latter.

Ghirahim stood in front of Zant’s door for the second time this morning, resisting the urge to blink himself straight to the other side of it again. Still, he was hesitant. After the extreme reaction from earlier, he thought that he might get more merit out of their interaction when acting a touch more amicably. So instead, he opted for a firm, rapid knock. Though not instant, indeed, the scrape of a chair and a shambling footfall sounded from behind the door. About time!

“Ah, Ghirahim,” Zant exclaimed upon opening the door. “I had been waiting. Please, do come in.” He took a slight step back, gesturing with his sleeve to the room behind him in slight genuflection. Ghirahim returned the gesture with his own curt greeting but did not step through his doorway quite yet. He gave him a bit of a look up-and-down, quietly noting his appearance. Zant was dressed in his usual garb, though he had foregone both his balaclava and his red banner. Perhaps this was the man’s idea of ‘casual dress’. It appeared that his host took notice of his hesitation, as he began to slightly stammer. For just a moment, Zant looked rather bashful. “Right, ah — I must apologize for my earlier behavior. I have been a bit irritable this morning, and you startled me amidst my focus. I was fearing I may have affronted you, but from your return, I assume I have not angered you too terribly..?”

Again, Ghirahim was completely mystified by the man’s mannerisms. He did not expect to find such decency in a man who would start screaming and flailing every time he was mildly inconvenienced. Well, he supposed it was about time to leave that single-faceted view of him behind, by now. Zant had proven himself to be a complex character with many different faces, but he continued to find great difficulty in predicting which mask he would be met with every time he approached him. Even so, an apology..? This one was new. His pride stung, but he realized that it would likely reflect poorly on him if he were to reject him. After staring at him with raised brows for a couple of seconds, he sighed, running a hand through his bangs to press it to his forehead. “Ah, well… I suppose I was careless in my treatment of you, myself. Let us agree to let bygones be bygones, yes?”

A bit of a smile stretched across Zant’s lips. “Yes, that seems agreeable,” he nodded, taking another step back to allow Ghirahim entry. He found himself so jarred, the urge to berate him for his earlier insults suddenly left him. Instead, he decided he could retaliate by being a completely nosey busybody. Which, fortunately, circumstances allowed. Now that the room was a little more well-lit, he could have more of a proper look-around. Zant’s quarters were shockingly well-furnished for a military camp. There stood a bed in the corner between the two tightly locked windows, where a light blanket was neatly tucked into the edges of the wooden bed frame. Several chests and a closet lined the wall toward the left side of the room, where his various pieces of equipment had been displayed. It was a little unsettling to witness that helmet ‘airing out’ without being attached to Zant’s body. He felt oddly watched.

By far the most eye-catching part of the room was his desk area. It was strewn with books, papers, and samples, with a repurposed medicine cabinet placed upon it, and a small, two-story bookcase next to it. Whatever he was doing, he seemed to be quite busy with it. How strange it was, to see this man — the arguably less… Refined, of the two — reside in such a personable room. Certainly, it was a work in progress, but after a single day, it already looked lived in. Ghirahim’s own was incredibly bare in comparison. He was almost getting a little embarrassed. 

Zant idly followed him, passing by him to sit back down at his desk. Ghirahim joined him, standing at its edge. “Right, I was still holding onto this, somehow,” he pondered out loud, holding out the vial with the beetle inside. “Here you are.”

A gangly gray hand reached out to his hand, brushing fingers against his gloves as he took the specimen from him with a smile. “Ah, yes. That was my incentive for you to return. Thank you for indulging me,” he snickered, before groaning slightly as he opened his cabinet and placed the vial in an empty slot. Presumably, his injuries still bothered him. Ghirahim shook his head a little, smiling incredulously. He couldn’t believe Zant thought so strategically about these kinds of things, but in hindsight, he probably should have. His eyes strayed from his companion, scouting the top of the desk again. He had two volumes open, one in Hylian script, yet the other bearing scribbles and abstract sketches he could not conceive. A strange, stiff quill stood stabbed into an ink pillow, next to a sheet of paper that Zant must have been writing on. Whether this too was an alien script, or his handwriting was just indecipherable he genuinely couldn’t tell. 

His curiosity got the better of him. “You seem awfully busy. What have you been working on, so early after daybreak?”

“Ah, this,” he responded, rifling through his belongings in an attempt to tidy them, “is somewhat of a… Study, I’m working on.”

Ghirahim hummed and raised his brow, prompting him to continue. “I have browsed through a variety of subjects, like some personal favorites of mine I’ve managed to bring from home. Though, lately, I’ve been taking a bit of a novice interest in Hyrulean political history, as well,” he stated, bending back to squint thoughtfully at his bookcase. “Right now, I’m focused on comparing various bestiaries of the locale. They've proven to be quite dense."

“Oh, yes. A real assortment,” Ghirahim drawled, half-seating himself on the space that was now cleared out on the edge of the desk. “Is that why you’ve been dragging me along on little hikes all this time?” He recalled now the various times Zant would bend down to scoop sprigs of vegetation or insects into vials and jars, thinking of it as nothing but an odd quirk until now. The man wasn't simply strange, he was an academic. A wizened eccentric. It almost made him more intimidating.

The question interrupted Zant's train of thought, and his attention was dragged away from his work. Instead, he looked up at Ghirahim, a touch flustered. “Well, yes, though… I’ve also grown to enjoy your company, over time.”

Ghirahim smiled at him in return, daintily clasping his hands together at his knees. “Certainly I don’t blame you. I, myself, find myself pleasantly surprised by your interests. You do not hesitate to burn the entire province down, and yet here you are, writing down everything you can before you turn it to ashes. You’re an amusing man, Zant.”

Zant laughed heartily, baring his teeth and wrinkling his eyes. “Well! It is only a little pet project of mine,” Zant prattled on pleasantly. “The biodiversity of Hyrule is truly staggering. The Twilight Realm was far more restrictive in species richness, especially in the area my House reigned from. As you said, indeed, I would very much like to at least document as much of it as I can before our forces repurpose the landscape.” Ghirahim stood in bewilderment as the man continued to rant. “Simply compare the volume of these tomes, for example,” he stated, smacking his hand down on the stack next to him. “This one,” he wiggled a graceful black tome with a pressure-carved spine at him, “describes the various dynamics in the faunal food chain in the Twilight Realm wastelands.” Said tome was now shoved in Ghirahim’s hands, opened on a random page, for his perusal. 

The Twilight Realm. Zant spoke of it several times before – the accursed place with that enviously, obsessively desired throne. It was an interesting contrast, to hear him deliberate on it. He detested the Twilight Realm, though he 'loved' its people, while coveting the Light World, despite despising nearly everyone in it. This love, in the meantime, appeared to be a twisted, possessive sensation in Zant's mind. As a demon, he shared this difficulty with viceless affection, so he supposed he understood. 

Though Ghirahim didn't much care for scenery, the Realm never did quite sound appealing. An eternally dark, withering expanse. Beaten and starved like a beast of burden past its prime. Growing up in a place like that, he assumed anyone's mind would crack under the sheer mind-numbing monotony, but even Zant at one point admitted he was the odd one out in that regard. Too intense, too passionate, bursting with want and fury. No wonder he was awestruck by the Light World, which was ever-changing even when stuck in the same Cycle for millennia. Ghirahim, having been absent and then resummoned after thousands of years, could attest to that. To someone who has been shunned all his life for wanting an escape, this world, with all of its strange, unpredictable phenomena, was everything Zant could ever want and more. When met with such a fervor for research, the least he could do was indulge him.

In the meantime, his Scholar gestured to a second tome, which was thrice the size to the point he daren't even lift it. "This one is from the same approximate ecological zone, but in the Light World, instead. You see the difference." Zant absolutely did not exaggerate. “I hope to have written up a bit of a compendium, or at least a field guide, by the time our army reclaims the Triforce.”

Ghirahim idly flipped some pages, thumbing through stark white paper with pure gibberish. Other than the occasional drawing, he didn’t understand even a lick of it. “Well, in that case, I do hope your wit is as quick as the way you swing your scimitars. If every campaign we face packs out like yesterday, we might reach the Valley of Seers sooner than you think,” he smirked, snapping the book shut in his hand.

“I admire your optimism, Sword. Your lust for war is truly one of your virtues," he chuckled in response, taking the book back from Ghirahim as he held it out to him.

By now satiated by his rambles, Ghirahim once again took it upon himself to wander. He slowly strode across the room, idly dragging his finger across the surfaces of furniture along the way. Despite its furnishing, the room was obviously set up with just one person in mind, as he found it dreadfully lacking in seating areas. Not that he was one to talk. Instead, a very appealing alternative failed to escape his notice. Was he so bold as to sit on his bed? Oh, of course he was. Zant had his back turned to him, busying himself with the various stationery on his desk once their conversation died out. In other words, he had not the slightest idea what he was up to back there. What a perfect opportunity.

"That reminds me, Zant. You so rudely left one of my questions unanswered earlier – though, of course, I've chosen to forgive you, for now," Ghirahim babbled, leaning back on the bed with his legs crossed. Zant did not react vocally, but his shoulders hunched the slightest bit. "Do you think you're well enough to attend our briefing today?"

A clear of the throat rang in response. Zant idly thumped a stack of papers on his desk to straighten them and laid them aside. "Of course. It would be a disgrace for me to idly sit here and abandon our troops."

"Ah, excellent. After yesterday's victory, we do have plenty to discuss," he drawled, fiddling coyly with the chain on his cape.

Zant sighed. "I suppose it was a victory, in the end. If only we didn't let their commander get away."

Ghirahim groaned, draping himself back on the mattress. Bouncy, what was it filled with? More importantly, what could be laid upon it? "Now you're simply being a nag. You got us that battle, Zant, and though you never seem to fight with grace, you did do so valiantly."

"A delightfully back-handed compliment as usual, Ghirahim,” Zant chortled, for a moment again rising in pitch. Ghirahim noted that such displays must be not-so-subtle indicators of genuine amusement, rather than a polite front. Were they getting that familiar already, at this hour? It was almost endearing. How easily the infamous King of Shadows lowered his guard around him! Zant hesitated a moment again, before continuing to speak. “I must commend you, in return, for coming to my aid so swiftly after I called for you."

Ghirahim idly waved him off, rolling over to lay on his side, draping an arm over his hip. "Ah, well… I was nearby, is all." That was a lie, but he didn't know that.

And yet, Zant smirked, turning his head with an inhuman, snake-like twist in an attempt to look over his shoulder. "Oh, yes, how fortunate. Without you, we likely wouldn't have delivered our definitive blow before dusk. I was fully prepared to have been battling until after nightfall."

"A good thing we did, otherwise you wouldn't have had the time now to sit and work on your hobbies."

Zant turned back to him, smiling with his lips slightly parted as if to say something, but he seemed a little taken off guard. Without that massive helmet on, the man was an open book, a breeze rapidly flipping through each of its pages, allowing him to read his every thought. The sight of a graceful and alluring creature such as himself, draping himself on his bed, proved to be too much for him to bear unflinchingly. Those big, softly glowing, amber eyes blinked at him, before resuming his speech. “I take it you must have passions of your own? I am aware of your lack of mortal necessities, and a diligent person such as yourself surely doesn’t spend the entire night waiting around for the sun to rise.” A smirk crooked his lips as he cocked his head.

Ghirahim fiddled with a lock of hair, propping himself up on his elbow. “Hmm, well. I do have a handful of activities I occupy myself with." Zant looked at him expectantly, like a dog waiting for scraps to drop. He couldn't help but tease. "But… I am thinking it best to just show you. Not today, though. My room is not quite presentable.”

Zant scoffed. “Those are quite the words, coming from a man who so gleefully barged into my own room, without a care in the world for the state I, or my room, were in!”

Tapping his lip thoughtfully, he hummed in thought. “You do make a compelling argument. Then, perhaps, tonight I will invite you over.”

“Oh, splendid!" Zant gasped delightedly, though an air of smugness dripped through his tone. "You appear to be quite easily swayed when it comes to inviting me to your room."

Ghirahim shrugged, caught in the act. "What can I say? I prefer not to beat around the bush," he lowered himself, now laying fully back and rubbing the sheets between his fingers. Zant's eyes combed through him, glued to his form as he so sultrily displayed himself to him. But there was something unprecedented about it. His eyes did not have that lewd, ogling possession that Ghirahim was so used to being cast his way. Instead, he beheld him as though he were the stars themselves, a look of awe and adoration. An unknown pulse coursed through his chest. He needed more of it, and desperately. "Besides, you already invited me over to yours."

This flirtatious behavior proved to be too much. Zant walked on over, the limp in his step much improved from the night before, before taking his seat on the bed next to him. Ghirahim was quick to rise, scooting over to sit a little closer to him, just barely shoulder to shoulder. “Ghirahim,” he started, looking intently, though a bit playfully at him. “This briefing… How much time do we have until then?”

The thump in his chest had finally landed, like doves upon the branches of infinite possibilities. It all made sense – he yearned for it. Ghirahim found himself overcome with a sudden ache for companionship, and the feeling was mutual. The Twili sitting so close to him trapped him in his gaze once again, penetrating past his false skin, and into the proxy of his core. But it was not an intrusive one. It was gentle, like fingers gingerly parting the curtains to let in the light of dawn. And whatever Zant had found beyond, he was basking in it. What an addictive feeling!

He had no choice but to indulge his every wish. “Hmmm…" The tip of his tongue briefly darted between his lips, like an invitation. "I say, probably another two hours.”

“Very well, then," Zant deliberated, looming over him, lips close to his scarred ear. "If I might make so bold of a suggestion," he whispered, spindly fingers coursing through his silver hair. "I do think it best we spend such time wisely.”

Ghirahim laughed, but leaned back to gaze at him daringly. It was now his mission to goad him into boldness, just to see if bullying alone could turn him into an assertive partner. “I won’t play such games with you, Zant. Speak clearly. What do you want?”

“Kiss me.”

“What, not even a ‘please’?” But before he could reply, he was met with lips suddenly pressed against his. Excellent, he was learning. As endearing as he found the hesitant mannerisms Zant showed before, he did always prefer a more confident partner. His arm hooked around Zant's neck, pulling him in to press their bodies together, and denied his dear any attempt at pulling away. He sought to entrap him, as Zant had him, eager to show him the consequences of coaxing him with such affections. His companion, too, found himself a little handsy. Ghirahim felt one arm snake its way around his waist, while the other placed itself upon his knee, squeezing him in his grip. 

Their contact deepened. Something tingled inside Ghirahim as a familiar taste crossed between their lips. Coppery. Thick, and staining his lips.

… Blood?

For a moment, their kiss was interrupted, a mutual gasp between them as they parted. Zant had pulled away, but lingered close enough for their noses to brush. "Ah, Ghirahim… As much as I enjoy your company, might I request we not – Escalate too far? I suspect my bruises would not take too kindly to anything too strenuous…"

Ghirahim roused from the rosy feeling of their kiss, at first befuddled by his pulling away, but soon softening. "Oh, why, of course. You must be exhausted still, I understand." He didn't. Mortal needs were a mystery to him. But, honestly, after Zant's hesitance to bare himself from earlier, he reckoned the Twilight King was a touch too nervous about the prospect still. He was going to be more difficult to seduce than he thought. "Not to worry, King of Shadows. I know just the way to take care of you."

Zant perked up at the words. His feline eyes widened in excitement as Ghirahim began tickling his fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. "My… How intriguing. Do what you will, then," he cooed, tittering in anticipation.

The Twili blinked, tilting his head and leaning in with great interest as the object of his affections loomed over him with a smirk. "I will," assured Ghirahim, before pressing their lips together, not to part until duty called.

Thus was the start of their near-daily routine.

Chapter Text

“Ghirahim.”

The sword spirit in question squinted. Zant had a knack for yapping at the least opportune of moments. Such as right now. They laid entangled in the drapes of Zant’s vast satin blanket collection, and his even vaster layers of night robes, idly chatting and kissing the morning away. The past few days, they’ve been spending their mornings (and often, evenings) quite like this, like a pair of lovestruck teenagers. It would almost be a bit embarrassing, if Ghirahim wasn’t dreadfully bored in-between battles either way and was more than happy to have something so thrilling to fill the hours with. 

“What is it?” he responded with a sigh.

“Do not take this as an affront to your character, but as of late, you have been sluggish. Even now you wince occasionally under my touch,” he began, trapping him in his gaze again — those intense, half-lidded eyes. Pale pupils like sugar crystals in old honey stared straight at him, demanding he focus on him and him only. “Midna’s magic, does it still bother you?”

Ghirahim wanted to brush him off and deny such claims of his weakness, but he knew there was no point in lying to him by now. Zant turned quite adept at getting under his skin. He was right; the buzz of Twilight magic persisted. Unprecedented nausea, crackling pain as he exerted himself, and strange, smothering aches in his chest. All manageable, of course, but they prevented him from performing at his best. 

“Oh, well. Nothing I can’t manage, but yes, a bit,” he said, nonchalantly waving his hand. “It’s taking awfully long to fade away, even if it gets a little better by the day.”

“Yes, our magic can be quite persistent if left alone.” Zant brushed his fingers through his bangs in response, humming in mild concern. “You should have told me.”

He just barely managed to escape the entrapment of his stare, averting his eyes. “I did not want to waste your time worrying over something so trivial. Really, I can handle it just fine.”

Zant squinted at him. “I do not doubt that you can, Ghirahim. I am merely offering to help you. Won’t you let me soothe this ache?”

He hesitated. A desire to prove his endurance, and maybe stubbornness to admit Zant was right, prevented him from responding with immediate affirmation. But his eyes were so unrelenting, and his offer so uncharacteristically gentle. He buckled far too quickly. 

“Alright, if you so insist," Ghirahim sighed, hesitantly meeting his eyes again.

“As you wish,” Zant crooned, before closing his eyes, pressing his forehead briefly against his. Such soft little gestures of intimacy still puzzled him, but he was too curious to deny him. Ghirahim perked up when the hand on his waist suddenly retracted and slowly hovered over… His chest. 

Instinctively, Ghirahim flinched away from his impending touch, swatting his hand to the side. “What are you doing?” he asked, a bit more snippy than he’d expected. But it was only logical that he did. Such a place was not meant for mortal touch. It was an affront to not only him, but his Master, to even reach near it! “That’s-“

But Zant interrupted him before he could finish, eyes creaking open the slightest bit as he looked intently at his chest. “Your core, I take it?”

Taken aback, Ghirahim's voice faltered, equally distrusting as he was peeved. “… How did you-“

Zant clicked his tongue in response. “Please. I am a trained mage, Ghirahim. The arcane vibrations coming from your chest are hard not to notice. Besides, you aren’t particularly subtly dressed to conceal it.”

Touché. Though to any ignorant party, the cutouts of his bodysuit simply appeared as a bold fashion choice, to anyone with even the slightest know-how it might as well have been a target. Mingling exclusively with wizards and epic heroes nowadays, his vanity was starting to bite him in the arse. He huffed, now a touch grumpy. “Either way, a warning would have been nice," he mumbled.

Zant looked a touch guilty, narrowing his lips as he thought. “My apologies. Then, allow me to ask again," he leaned in again, the same hand now carefully bracing against the side of his ribcage, voice smoky as he spoke. "May I?”

Ghirahim failed to mask his shudder. It was a bit of a frightening prospect, if he could admit. He knew how powerful Zant was at this point. If he wanted to, he had the power to shatter him to pieces with a single pulse of his magic. Or at least change him so irrevocably, not even his Master would find merit in attempting to repair him. Was he going to allow him access to his core, the very center of his being? He looked at him again, trying to scan his expression for anything treacherous, any ulterior motive. Zant was incredibly clever and seemed to treat any social interaction as a means to a carefully plotted end. If he had spent all this time winning his affections only to betray him at his most vulnerable, this would be the pinnacle of his plan. 

… But why would he? Other than a bit of playful bullying, what had he done to him to deserve such a betrayal? Zant was unpredictable, dangerous, and cruel, but every time he had been, he’d had a motivation to. 

He was taking too long to decide, yet Zant did not appear impatient whatsoever. Instead, his hand remained soothingly at his waist, rubbing slow circles into his hip. He had him wrapped around his obscenely long pinkie, gradually coaxing him closer and closer to him with only the slightest bit of active seduction. How unlike him, to get swept away like this! 

Zant picked up on his state of unease, and resigning to it, he narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, before beginning to speak. “Ghirahim, do know that it is perfectly understandable to-“

“Do it.”

Big eyes like free-range egg yolks blinked at him. “Pardon?”

“Go ahead. Remove this curse," Ghirahim stated firmly, looking at him with apprehension yet determination.

Zant smiled the slightest bit, nodding in response. “Very well,” he murmured, leaning a bit closer to him to whisper. “I promise to treat you with the utmost care, Ghirahim.”

His grey hand hovered above his chest again, fingers splayed and twitching as he prepared for his spell. Carefully adjusting the positioning of his hand, Ghirahim felt an oddly invasive feeling, as though he was being picked apart and each little piece browsed, until —

***

Cold. 

Strange waves of a deep chill radiated through his entire body, washing over him from every outer extreme, racing toward his core. It felt as if the force of Zant’s magic had sent a current of cracks into him. They zigzagged ubiquitously like the tunnels of an ant’s nest, the hollow space within filling with ice in an instant. He froze, for a moment paralyzed by the violent chill, and his mind went blank. The previous rushing of thoughts turned overwhelming and panicked at first, until he found that nothing coherent could keep a hold on him whatsoever, his own mind simply flying past him and out of his sight. Finally, there was nothing, nothing but a searing light, blinding every corner of his mind. He was prey to the sensations assailing the embodiment of his soul, powerless to lift even a finger against it.

That's what it was. A numbing, enforced catatonia, dulling his senses, and distracting him with petty ailments. And now, they were all concentrated where he was most vulnerable, churning inside him like a maelstrom of frostbite and gloom.

Though he had no lungs to draw air, he instinctively forced a sharp gasp inside his body. His whole body clenched, stiffening his shoulders, arching his back, and tipping his head back from the strange sensation. He was in pain, but the kind of pain indicative of a thumping wound at the cusp of healing. A comforting agony, assuring him that the worst has passed, and all would be right if he could just bite through. Pulses of befuddling energy continued to course through him as Zant began to shush him, gently nuzzling the underside of his upturned chin. Ghirahim dug his fingers into his shoulders in response, a desperate attempt to anchor himself back down. An able hand continued to motion circles into the air above him while his core filled with a buzzing hum, crackling and stabbing, the rest of his body feeling gradually more hollow. 

Then, Zant pinched his fingers together, and something ripped open inside him. Not viscerally, but like the careful opening of a hatch that had been there all along. With a slow, pulling motion, he drew the wretched malaise out from him. He flicked his wrist as though jerking the last stitch taut over a sewn-up gash. Something tugged at his chest, before the floodgates opened, and a small trail of dark turquoise poured out from him, dissipating in the air into little wisps of smoke. 

Ghirahim whimpered. He was being drained of that wretched feeling, forcing his chest upward as the barbs of the curse refused to relinquish their grip on his very being. But as he would expect from the mad sorcerer, Zant's skillful touch prevailed. It was all far, far too much. The false breath he'd drawn left his gaping lips in shudders, fading into nothingness just as the last little swirls of Twilight magic did. In an instant, his body grew slack, and his head dropped back into the pillow, hazy but relieved.

Yet, the vertigo remained. Ghirahim panted from the exertion of having his very essence rooted around in. Zant, too, was beginning to look a bit winded. His careful hand continued hovering above him, searching for anything that may have lingered. But oh, how strange it all was. Little tingles bubbled through his mind and body as Zant continued to work, popping and fizzing like beached seafoam. His mind felt blurry and his legs shook under the dizzying feeling of his dispelling. He should have been afraid, he should have resisted, but at that very moment, he could not even remember what it meant to struggle. The freezing cold from before thawed, making room for a strange heat he couldn’t place. But he had to place it, for his entire body began to violently ache for the source of this new sensation. Confusion and frustration tore through his mind, overwhelming his senses with questions and wild conclusions. He tipped his head back down to face Zant, breath heaving, but found he couldn’t take refuge in his gaze as he so desired. His Twili was frowning, looking down at the keyhole opening of his bodysuit instead. Before he could make an amused, though woozy comment about such boldness, Zant began to murmur to himself.

“How strange… Perhaps your demonic biology conducted the curse to places it shouldn’t be,” Zant soliloquized, knitting his brows together thoughtfully. “Forgive me, there is still more. This will feel strange.”

And just like that, Zant laid his hand flat on his chest, and immediately, his ears began to ring. Strange was an understatement! Shocks of powerful arcane energy coursed through his body, from his chest to the tips of his toes. They were the strongest at his core, squeezing and feverish, like it'd been swallowed and chewed. This was different. Zant was not just examining him anymore, drawing out what he could find; he was entering him with his own essence. The proxy of Zant jabbed its way through whatever barrier might have prevented him, plunging in and probing wherever he had the space to snake inside. Burning static spread through him wherever Zant left his mark, momentarily blurring the edges between himself and his so-welcome intruder. His bodily sensations slowly grew further and further away again, as his senses were overwhelmed by the magic crashing through him like a landslide. Zant was ripping him apart with surgical precision, tearing loose any bit of alien intrusion that had nestled inside the tender gem of his core. 

He was rendered powerless, squirming and writhing against his mercifully intoxicating touch. Someone was invading him, not to take from his being as his Master would, but to hold him together, to fix him. Zant’s magic was filling his very self, surging through him with a suffocating feeling he could not place, as if making their souls as one. 

And just like that, something violently cracked in his chest, shattering his false skin, the little bits and pieces fading into shrouds of diamonds. But he hardly even noticed it. Enthralled by the warbling, alien magic soaring through his core, his own senses could not even hope to break past all the noise. 

He keened, a sound he hadn’t made perhaps in years, as he was held so tightly, so protectively. It was as overwhelmingly intimate to Zant as it was for him, it seemed, as he was pulled slowly from his trance to the sensation of kisses pressing to his neck, pulling him close in his embrace, sweat-damp fabric pressing against his stomach. It was only as he slowly regained consciousness, ears thumping with the beat of his own pulsing core, that he noticed something truly extraordinary. In his stupor, he had lost control over his self-preservation and bared his core to him. Zant’s hand was now directly gripping his gem, sending purple flickers into it. They coursed through his murky, dark gemstone like a storm of lightning bugs, buzzing through him in a wild swarm through the ink-black fog. 

Ghirahim wrapped his arms tightly around his neck and shoulders, locking him in his embrace and pushing him firmly into the spot in the nape of his neck, while the last pinpricks of his magic began to fade from inside of him. Only then did he notice the first tears streaming down his cheeks. Was it from the overwhelming feeling of his magic? Or sheer sentimentality, caught up in the moment of his affection? He so hoped Zant wouldn’t tease him for acting so childishly vulnerable. The spell’s droning feeling slowly retracted from his body, meandering carefully through his core back to Zant’s hand, and finally, it ceased.

***

He was empty. Nothing remained of those foreign intrusions, not Midna’s, not Zant’s. Finally liberated from that pesky, ill feeling, but in drastic need of collecting himself. By all means, he should feel the way he always did, if not more tired than usual, but he found it was not quite so. Now, something entirely different occupied the deepest chambers of his soul. Not from any sort of intrusion, but a purely self-inflicted mess of conflict and desire. Zant hadn’t harmed him in this dangerously intimate act, quite the opposite, in fact, and that realization was astoundingly unfamiliar.

“Are you quite alright, Ghirahim?” inquired the man now trapped in his arms, huffing slightly from the arduous effort he’d just put in. 

“Oh, darling,” he sighed, laughing to mask his tears. “Better than I have in years. What have you done to me?”

That was a good question. What has he done to him? The euphoric afterglow of their union was beginning to wane, and he found himself beset by a sudden, horrible anxiety. They had hardly been friendly for a month or two, their romantic interests limited to a matter of days , and he had already bared his core to him. It was reckless! Dangerous! A threat to not only his image, but his loyalty to his Master!

Zant, pleased with himself, simply giggled in return, leaning in to nuzzle his neck. Ghirahim sighed in return, against his best judgment, endeared by the gesture, and stroked the small of his back fondly. He had to nip this in the bud before either of them could get any big ideas.

"... Zant. I need you to know one thing," he interrupted him sternly. Zant craned his head back, eyes wide in curiosity.

"Do not count on me letting you do this again any time soon. This was… Incredibly personal, and treacherous to myself. It will take quite some time for me to entrust such a thing to you again." His co-lieutenant frowned slightly in response. Worry? Guilt, perhaps? "I only allowed you this time out of pure necessity,” Ghirahim finished, his head sinking back down into his pillow.

"... I see." Zant cast his eyes downward, understanding, yet a little hurt. This was exactly why he had to push him away a little bit. He knew very well by now that his Twili was an intense person, who felt very strongly about anything he could attach himself to. He feared that if they crossed this boundary, neither of them could bear to turn back. "... Ghirahim, did I impose myself on you?"

Oh, he was torturing the poor thing! "Please, do not make such hasty conclusions. You did me a great favor today, Zant, and with care I did not think possible, but…" He stammered, looking for the right words. "I have to be a bit careful. You understand."

Zant looked at him a bit puzzledly, but relinquished with a nod. "I do." 

The confrontation seemed to have left him a bit shy. It was truly so jarring to have such a threatening person act sentimental around him. Never would he expect a man like Zant to worry, to care about having wronged him. Oh, Demise forgive him. 

He was falling.

How could he not? 

"Ah, come here, you," he swooned, wrapping his arms around those lanky shoulders of his, pushing his face back into the nape of his neck. He heaved a sigh, content to rest in their embrace, and Zant followed suit soon after. 

They became entangled once again, Zant draping himself across his torso, his hand notably avoiding the center of his chest. The two of them fit together like puzzle pieces, shockingly, despite their drastic differences in anatomy. In the desert heat, Zant was all too happy to huddle up against his rapidly cooling metal body. It was as if he had forgotten all about their intense encounter from mere moments before. He became increasingly aware of the heartbeat pulsing through the Twili’s lithe chest, slowly beginning to sync with the rhythmic thumping of his own exhausted core. How strangely comforting. In his attempt to recall the last time he had laid like this with another, he found his mind yet blank.

If this went on, they would be laying here all day, and they very much had duties to attend to. Feeling a spark of mischief ignite, Ghirahim grinned as he tapped a finger on the gentle slope of his flat nose to get his attention. "What say you we take another few minutes to cool down, and then get dressed for the day?"

Zant hummed in response, digging himself further into his fake skin. "Hmm… Mere minutes?"

"Have some self-control, you!"

Their advancements in territory did not go unnoticed. The Valley of Seers was now not many battles away. Since their last great battle, a handful of skirmishes were carried out. To their convenience, the two lieutenants found they did not have to do much more than hand orders to their subordinates from a distance. Though, on occasion, they found themselves perched atop a vantage point, watching the carnage unfold as their troops captured keep by keep. The Eldin Province, save for the stronghold at Death Mountain itself, was nigh fully in their grasp. 

As a reward, it seems, they’d received a summons. They were to return to Gerudo Valley at the earliest opportunity and take a humble Company back with them. Of course, this meant the pair had their affairs in order before noon and swiftly blinked themselves to the gates of their home base before their soldiers could even finish strapping their luggage to their steeds.

The further they advanced from their main base of operations, the closer the two began to bond. Returning then to this original location, with so much having happened between the two of them, was a little jarring. Even more conflicting was the matter of their Master. There was a good chance he would not take kindly to his best commanders being distracted from their duty through romantic involvement. For the time being, though it conflicted greatly with everything Ghirahim stood for, they agreed to keep it under wraps. 

With no time to waste, the two were swiftly escorted to the throne room under the guidance of two shrouded Gerudo women. Though not all of the Gerudo people chose to remain loyal to the destructive power of their Master and betrayed him for the Hylians, some had returned to the once-abandoned city in support of their King, and now took great luxury in residing around His Palatial Grounds. 

There was much work to be done still, but in their absence, the Palace had already been subjected to great renovations. Even as they walked through the main hall, bulblins and Gerudo alike were clambering on the scaffolding high above them. All busying themselves restoring plaster and elaborate, geometric patterns that once adorned the architecture of the building. The women halted them before the doors to the throne room, leaving them standing before the grand, gold leaf-clad goliaths that creaked from the hinges under their opulent weight. The women’s delicate hands knocked with surprising strength, sending pounding alerts into the room beyond. 

And there it was, that stentorian and powerful voice, booming from the other side of the door. His Master, Ganondorf, was demanding their entry.

The servants before them placed their hands flat upon the doors, heaving to push them open, and allowed them entrance into the grand throne room. Certainly, it would have been a grand structure, but Ghirahim did not pay it much heed. His eyes were solely glued to his Master as he padded across the black-and-white tiles towards the pedestal of his throne. Black sandstone, glittering obsidian, and polished gemstones enshrined Ganondorf on that glorious seat, clad in elegance that he had never seen His Demise indulge in.

Yes, Ganondorf was different, but he was Demise’s descendant, His incarnation, and His power coursed through him. He took one last glance at his form, hulking as he was, seated upon the throne like a mountain had been given flesh. As he gazed upon that embodiment of war and grandeur, he fell to his knees in genuflection. His eyes trailed up while his body fell, and for just a moment, their glances met. Those golden eyes, already piercing clean through him even when he didn’t glare with intent to make him grovel, immediately forced his gaze back to the ground. Behind him, he heard the mechanical whirring of Zant’s helmet. His fellow commander kneeled beside him, face bared as a sign of respect. 

But Zant was not as quick to do so as he usually was, Ghirahim noted silently, before the Demon King’s words ripped his train of thought to shreds.

“Lord Ghirahim, Shadow Lord Zant. I expected nothing less than to see you arrive here in one piece.”

To anyone, Ganondorf’s thundering voice would be terrifying, a sign of impending doom, but to Ghirahim, it was his grounding anchor. The deep reverberations of his voice buzzed through him, forcing him to straighten his shoulders, firm up his stance, and cast any distracting thought inside.

“Of course, Demon King Ganondorf. It is an honor to be summoned to you once more.”

“We hear you bring news from the Southern Front, Your Majesty.” Zant joined in. 

Ganondorf briefly cracked a smile, tusks peeking through his dark brown lips. 

“Your taste for brevity extends beyond the battlefield, as I have heard, Zant. I, too, prefer not to waste time with any more formalities,” he rumbled. Thick and calloused fingers, like lion’s paws, clenched the armrests of his throne, heaving himself upright. The Demon King loomed ominously above them, daunting and fierce as his sheer size veiled his downcast face in shadow. “Let us not dawdle while our enemy yet stands.” 

Ghirahim had to crane his head up to face him, look him in those burning eyes. “As you say, Master Ganondorf. What do you demand of us?”

Ganondorf met his eyes for just a moment, before a single squint forced Ghirahim’s head back down to the ground instead. Devotion should not lead to boldness, and he knew this. “There will be a new lieutenant joining our ranks. Cia has similarly made an enemy of him. Given my previous self’s amicable ties, I decided he would prove to be a valuable asset to our army.”

Heavy leather boots nearly shook the ground as the Demon King stepped forward, his eyes scanning his lieutenants for any reaction. He found none. Their sheer sense of duty had frozen the two men into submission. Had Ghirahim looked up to him, he would have found his Master most pleased.

“It is your duty to familiarize him with our campaign,” Ganondorf continued. “By tomorrow, I expect you all to have devised our next advance.”

Ghirahim and Zant nodded in near unison. “Understood, Master.”

Zant interjected with his own comment. “We will not fail, Your Majesty.” 

Ganondorf grunted in response, slowly beginning to descend the steps. “I expect nothing less than excellence from you both.”

His core was aflutter. Such praise was unheard of from his True Master! He tipped his head with a smile, lips parted to speak his gratitude, but the presence of the Demon King’s hand hovering in front of his face interrupted him. Ganondorf looked expectantly yet sternly at the both of them. Before those sun-wrinkled eyes could even blink, though, Ghirahim had long taken the hint. He gently cupped Ganondorf’s hand into his own, his gloved fingers dwarfed in comparison, and pressed a kiss to the bright gemstones of his rings. His eyelids fluttered shut, drunk on his own devotion, before hesitantly pulling back. 

When he looked up to him, a smile greeted him unprecedentedly. A broad, dominant grin, but acknowledgment and contentment nonetheless. Ganondorf chuckled, amused by the subservience of his most loyal servants, and turned his back to them.

“You are dismissed. I have more visitations to see to,” he growled, before dropping himself back into his throne. The way he sat there, back in his rightful spot, was almost reminiscent of a votive statue. Massive and sturdy, hewn in one piece from solid marble. Ghirahim lamented that he was not blessed with the time to gawk. The pair of lieutenants bowed one last time before rising, turning to leave back out the way they came. They were perfectly silent, walking back towards the throne room doors as they were held ajar for them, not wishing to disturb their Master’s peace. For the always chatty and snarky Ghirahim, this behavior might have seemed strange, but to him, nothing was more natural than obeying his Master’s every command, meeting his every wish. While under the watchful gaze of the Demon King, he was focused on nothing but.

When they stepped back into the main hall and the doors closed behind them, it was like a candle had been blown out inside him, and whatever state his mind was in before had extinguished. Gone was the comforting, drone-like clarity of servitude, and in came the chaos of racing thoughts, reminders of all such pesky things he now had to take care of. Make no mistake, Ganondorf’s will was final. Still, the prospect of having to work out the synergy with yet another lieutenant was not quite exciting to Ghirahim. Trying to work with the erratic and bossy behavior of the Twilight King was hard enough.

Though… Lately, of course, he had begun to mind less and less.

Either way, that had taken quite enough effort. If they were lucky, this next figure would be a bit easier to manage.

There was no time to waste. “Where do you think they’re keeping this new recruit?” he asked, turning to Zant. He noticed that by the time they left the throne room, his co-lieutenant had reassembled his helmet, his face peeking through the opened visor.

Zant stood in silence for a few seconds, seemingly thinking. “There were still empty chambers in the sleeping quarters when we left. I presume our new arrival must already have been appointed a room. Otherwise, I would guess one of the solars…” Zant trailed off, suddenly tipping his head back with a frustrated sigh. “Ah, it will likely be some time until our forces arrive with our belongings… I have forgotten to bring my favorites with me.”

Ghirahim scoffed at him, smacking him in the shoulder. “Oh, please! Focus, Zant. You cannot be thinking about how to spend your free time when we have such dire responsibilities to attend to!”

Zant snorted a laugh, before suddenly walking off.

“Where are you waddling off to this time?” he asked incredulously, hands at his sides as he watched him go. “I was talking to you!”

“You spoke of dire responsibilities, and I am attending to them! And now you complain when I do not, as you say, ‘dilly-dally’ any longer?” Zant intoned, not looking back at him as he spoke.

He shook his head in response, quickly taking off after him. “You truly are insufferable sometimes.”

Zant finally craned his head to the side to look at him, sharp eyes squinted with his self-satisfied little grin. “Yet you humour me.”

“I fear what would become of my sanity if I didn’t,” he teased, hooking his arm around the thick fabric of Zant’s sleeve in a half-embrace. 

They continued bickering, frivolously yet fondly, as they made their way up the grand stairs of the castle. They skillfully dodged servants and carpenters, weaving sneakily through the hallways in the hope of dodging their gossip. Unfortunately, finding this newcomer was not as easy as they’d hoped. They browsed the hallways of lords’ and ladies’ chambers, but their knocking on doors only landed on the deaf ears of empty rooms. Dejectedly, and a little annoyed, they hurried their way back down. Zant’s second guess of the newcomer lieutenant’s whereabouts was their next destination. Instead, it seems they were found first.

A shrill, sing-songy voice ripped through the grand hall towards the sitting rooms, prompting both of them to turn around immediately. “Why, you must be Lord Ghirahim!”

Demise have mercy, though He should have none. 

Upon finding the source of the noise, Ghirahim’s eyes landed upon what could only be described as an explosion of color. The stranger had a massive cluster of curling red hair, framing a face caked in more makeup than his skin should even have the space for. His clothing was similarly gaudy and indulgent, bursting with barely-coherent hues and glitters. To top it all off, this fashion disgrace was quickly making his way right towards them. Still, Ghirahim had to be a bit polite. 

“My reputation precedes me! Who do we have the pleasure of joining our army?” Ghirahim purred, bowing ever so slightly, while Zant stood completely still, likely flabbergasted underneath his quickly reassembled helmet.

The figure now stood right before him, looking intently at him with a glimmer in his eye. “Oh, never mind all that! Let me have a look at you,” he waved him off, rapidly leaning to each side to peruse him thoroughly. “My word. You have quite the face on you, don’t you?”

That sealed the deal. He was going to like this guy.

Chapter Text

Ghirahim cocked a brow at the curious figure so busily admiring him, bewildered yet charmed by his immense enthusiasm. “And yet I must insist! I’m afraid the Master has not yet given me the gift of your introduction,” he said. “I would very much like to put a name to my admirer.”

The strange man snapped out of his bout of fascination, and with a flourish, took a step back. “Where are my manners? Of course, Lord Ghirahim,” he curtsied, his arms, clutching his staff in one boney hand, spread to either side. “Yuga, High Sorcerer of the Kingdom of Lorule! I am very much looking forward to our cooperation. If the tales I’ve heard of your battling prowess are anywhere near as accurate as those of your stunning appearance, then we are firmly set on the path of glory, indeed.”

“You do so flatter me. I’m afraid I must disappoint you, though. As of late, I happen to be occupied,” Ghirahim laughed with a gesturing peek to Zant, fingers casually resting against his cheek in amusement.

Yuga scoffed, for a second looking almost disgusted. “Oh, please. Do not get ahead of yourself. My appreciation of your beauty is merely an aesthetic one. I have no intentions of pursuing anything so frivolous!”

Perturbed, he just grinned in return, shooting another quick glance at his still shut-away companion. Had that helmet not been blocking his view of his face, he might have caught a glimpse of the steam coming out of the Twilight King’s ears.

“I see! Well, then… What is it exactly you are pursuing, then?”

“Why, mere artistic intrigue! You have such delicate features, dear Lord,” Yuga dismissed his staff and clasped his hands together. “Have you ever considered having your portrait taken? I can see it now, you would be an absolute delight to paint.”

Now, Ghirahim’s impression of this man was skyrocketing. A portrait? Of him? Thinking about the past, he did remember how his likeness was portrayed by the people of the skies. Hideous, unflattering blotches of paint, making absolutely no attempt to depict him accurately. Meanwhile, such vanity was denied him by his own people, as, rightfully so, Master Demise was central in their so-abstract iconography. Naturally, the glory of such a powerful figure could do nothing but overshadow his measly importance in comparison! There had never been a need to deify him similarly, but…

This was different. He was now a commander of high standing, and Master Ganondorf seemed to grant him somewhat more of a spotlight in their conquest. Certainly, a portrait would not be too drastic to request..?

He blinked at the man again, looking him up and down. Certainly, he did strike him as a painter… Never had he met any artistic fellow that didn’t look horribly tacky and eccentric. If such correlations were to be believed, this harlequin-like figure must know what he was talking about.

“A delightful offer, certainly. My only problem is pinning down a proper moment for me to sit and pose… You must know, we are terribly busy.”

“Of course! I am well aware of my duties here, but surely we have some time here and there?”

Ghirahim’s eagerness to be flattered almost made him lose sight of his initial goal. Indeed, he did not come to find the man for small talk! “That we will, indeed, but today is not that day. Our Master has requested we walk you through the progress of our campaign thus far. If you would be so inclined, you ought to get yourself ready and head to the war room. Do you know where to find it?”

Yuga nodded. “Right off to work already? Ah, I adore such an efficient pace! Yes, I will gather my bearings, as you wish.” He awaited Ghirahim’s acknowledgement, before bowing his head as a polite gesture. “I expect to see you there, then,” he said with a smile, before trotting off toward the staircase.

The hall was cast in a deafening silence once their new associate left them to sort out his business, leaving Ghirahim and Zant to stand there thoroughly nonplussed. Well, if anything, Yuga had set a baseline of thorough friendliness, so he expected to find no more trouble in meshing with him throughout their mission. Zant, on the other hand…

Amused, Ghirahim brought a hand to his cheek, tapping a finger to his face in thought. “I daresay, Zant. When was the last time you complimented me like that? If I wasn’t so fond of you, you might have had competition.”

Zant’s head whipped around to him with such speed the metal of his helmet squeaked. “Unbelievable,” he exclaimed. “That is all you think of right now? This entire conversation, and he did not acknowledge me even once!”

Ghirahim laughed. “Oh, it’s terrible, I know. Forget about a third wheel, you weren’t even near the wagon,” he nudged him in the elbow playfully, but Zant did not share this amusement. “I suppose I do draw the eye.”

Zant grunted in annoyance, turning away from him at once. Silence befell the pair again, but Ghirahim did not relinquish his self-satisfied stare, boring holes in his co-lieutenants helmet. Whether he noticed this or not, Zant’s confidence whittled away nonetheless. “… Do you truly wish for me to praise you in such a way?”

A shriek of laughter burst out from him in response. This new ‘friend’ of theirs was truly making life so much more amusing, and it hadn’t even been ten minutes since they had met! Just this encounter alone had the menacing King of Shadows feeling jealous and insecure in his courtship. It was a delight. “Please, Zant. Can we discuss this later? You’ll kill me before we can teach our rookie the ropes!”

He was met with silence until Zant set off down the hall again. “Very well,” said Zant, the sharp snap of his metal soles against the tiles betraying an irritable mood.

“Oh, you’re mad at me, now?” Ghirahim tittered, unable to resist the opportunity to bully him, and fully embraced the snappy fit of bickering that came to follow…

Despite the pair’s now thoroughly acquired taste for shenanigans, they were still bound to their duty, especially in such a pressing situation. Master Ganondorf had given them the time window of tomorrow to introduce Yuga to their campaign, but they both knew that that was more the window he gave them until swift punishment was to come. By all means, it meant they should be ready by tonight. And if there was any place in Hyrule fit to orient any fledgling commander, it was the war room of Gerudo Palace. Ghirahim stepped nostalgically inside, squinting to adjust his eyes to the contrast of the torchlight and cavernlike darkness that blanketed the room. The place was made to be nigh impenetrable, which meant that it had been situated in the basement, not a speck of natural light entering it. Such a setup was preferable to their night-dwelling soldiers first of all, but also ensured such high security, not even a fly could enter unauthorized when the meetings were ongoing. The room was certainly imposing, and every time he stood in it he felt as much of an invigorating sense of devotion as he did when he first stepped inside. Banners and mosaics, depicting scenes from ages of Demon Kings long past and alternate adorned the walls, emblematic of Ganon’s forces. They had mostly been gifts from the sorceress, Cia, in an attempt to appease Ganondorf’s boundless fury and lust for power, but as things stood, his Master of course had simply pocketed them and chose to betray her either way. The real showstoppers, enshrined above an auxiliary throne to the north of the room, were depictions of Ganon during his time of victory, the once humanoid-appearing Demon King then twisted into a mighty, giant-tusked wild boar. The other mosaics were equally grand, and though they all depicted battles ultimately lost, they were not to be understood as attempts to sugarcoat his Master’s losses. Instead, they symbolized his unwavering tenacity, his endurance, and the inevitability of his return, no matter how many times his soul was sealed or ripped from the mortal realm. Ganondorf’s pride as a Gerudo was similarly celebrated through the antiquary of traditional weapons and armor displayed near the walls, showcasing his people’s mastery of smithing and fast-paced, efficient warfare. All golden helmets placed in the corners of the room gazed at the centerpiece of the room; the strategy table, a dark wooden surface that now stood empty, waiting to be covered in maps and pawns. 

Zant passed into the room before him and walked straight past the central table, instead browsing the shelves across the entrance. With astounding clarity, as though he had already figured out their exact steps, he began scooping map scrolls and various boxes of navigational pegs and tools into his lanky arms. Soon, he had spread the biggest essentials neatly across the table, and under Ghirahim’s watchful eye began dividing the first pegs to denote the advance of their skirmish thus far. Right as they were about to devise a way to summarize the past efforts of war, Yuga, indeed, found his way to the room and stood idly turning his flaming staff in his hands.

“You will have to forgive the delay, gentlemen. Those bokoblins of yours simply couldn’t figure out how I wanted my room!”

“Tell me about it,” Ghirahim groaned, before idly beckoning Yuga to approach the table. He quietly noted Zant’s mood dropping the instant their new coworker made himself known. How adorably juvenile! 

Yuga strutted his way on over, gait floaty and rhythmic as he bounded across the carpet, and came to a halt at Zant’s side of the table. Half-lidded eyes brought out his rainbow-layered eyeshadow immensely as his eyes scanned over the table, perusing the various maps and registers of stocks. “Oh, yes. You lot are certainly more organized than my previous team. I reckon we will take over the Valley in no time flat.”

Ghirahim but smiled at him, while Zant gave him not more acknowledgment than a brisk nod, and a short “indeed.” To prevent himself from getting annoyed, instead of endeared, by Zant’s indignant grumpiness, he quickly changed topics. With Zant’s assistance, they completed marking the keeps that they had captured on the maps and gave Yuga an overall run-down on their available troops and provisions. The summary was welcome to Ghirahim, as well, as, to be frank, other than the delightful memories he’d made of thrilling victories and near losses, he himself was losing track and had Zant do most of the talking during briefings. Invigorated by their talk, he assembled another stack of documents and was about to reach the next stage of their meeting. Alas, his enthusiasm was struck down quickly enough, because Yuga interjected.

“Ah, if I might be so bold. Before we are to discuss any future plans, I do have some of my own intel that will be most crucial to our advance,” he offered, hovering with the narrow end of his staff above the map, using it as a pointer. 

Zant hummed. “By all means, continue.”

“Now, it is still in the works, but on my way here from the northeast, I heard tell of an ambush from the Zora preparing to take our flanks during our next advance,” Yuga daintily tapped the end of his staff on the map. “They will surface from the water somewhere north of the lake, and skirt the river to strike right at the edge of Death Mountain. They will be led by Princess Ruto, and some rumor General Impa will assist. Though, personally, I find it very unlikely she will leave the Hylian Princess’ side for even a minute.”

Ghirahim leaned on the table, peering down at the trail Yuga had laid out. “This is valuable information. You ought to have led with that, I’d say!” He laughed, only to be met with a contemplative purse of the new lieutenant’s lips. 

“I thought it wise to gauge our resources first, is all! That way we can get right to the planning.”

Zant had not responded yet. He simply loomed over the table, staring at the map. “That will not be a problem,” he suddenly said, with the same grave clarity he had every meeting. “I propose the following,” he gestured with his own designated pointer at the map, drawing a trail from their pinnacle keep in Eldin to the north. “You join us in our trek through Eldin, but split off to intercept their ambush. There is another entrance to the Eldin cave system that leads near Lake Hylia; I trust you are familiar with it?”

Yuga nodded. “Oh, yes. It’s how I got here.”

“Excellent. You split off with your troops to intercept them at the edge of Hyrule Field, where I suspect they will surface to organize their formation. It will be wisest to allot you a sizable company of Lizalfos, who will be able to chase the Zora even as they retreat into the water.”

Yuga, who hadn’t given Zant as much as a glance before, was now paying great attention to him, eyes increasingly gaining a spark of captivation. Ghirahim, too, found himself once again swept away by the vividness of Zant’s plotting.

“While you are there, I request you dedicate several platoons to the capturing of King Dodongos.”

Yuga cocked his head, turning his gaze from the map to Zant’s helmet. “Dodongos? As far as I know, those linger on Death Mountain, no?”

“In this world, there is a pseudo-aquatic variant. For the time being, two will suffice. We will need as many beasts as we can throw at them,” Zant said with candid eagerness. As cold and calculating as he might be, Ghirahim came to know that such brutish assaults remained one of his guilty pleasures.

“I see! Very well, that all sounds feasible.”

They continued plotting the specifics for about an hour or so. Ghirahim was once again out of his element, somewhat, but to his comfort, Yuga appeared similarly overwhelmed. Much like him, he was used to bossing around smaller groups, while any further strategy was limited to simply letting loose a random number of monsters on unsuspecting Hylians. This comforting level of peerage at least soothed his biting feeling of incompetence a little bit. Still, one thing bugged him. Their last advance, they were thwarted by the sudden appearance of one of the Hyruleans' higher commanders. With the injuries they inflicted upon Midna, she would likely be out of commission for some time. Yuga’s arrival may have given them an advantage in that regard, but even then, it was three against… At least eleven, at this point. Cia may have been whittling away at them at another front, but in her exacerbating madness, she was no longer reliable. Not to mention, while Zant admitted to having acted carelessly at the time, it took both of them to take down just one of the enemy’s higher commanders. As good-natured as they might claim to be, the Hyruleans may have caught on to the weakness that emotional turmoil brought upon Zant, arguably their most terrifying commander, and sought to exploit it. Ghirahim worried, idly, what they would throw at them next, and if perhaps he would be targeted this time around. Nevertheless, chipping away at team morale was the last thing he wanted to do, especially in front of their rookie. Such worries would have to be left for another time.

With their negotiations wrapping up, each lieutenant retreated to their individual duties for the day. For Ghirahim, this meant another afternoon spent in the training fields. As the resident master swordsman (though quite a few ranks below his Master, still), it was his duty to perfect the form and technique among their troops. This proved to be somewhat difficult, as by far not all their troops actually wielded blades . Furthermore, the sheer differences in anatomical proportions between all their rich types of troops proved to be quite a challenge. Still, he had many a trick up his sleeve, as there was a clever method of striking available to all, no matter how stubby their legs or the count of their fingers. By far his favorites to train were the twilit Darknuts, not to speak of the elegant and disciplined desert warriors of the Gerudo. Frankly, he hardly had to teach them a thing, but their eagerness to learn new techniques and to spar with him caused his pride to swell and soar. Where other people might prefer to wind down for the day with an idle evening tide hobby, Ghirahim found the best way to ease his frustrations to be a good tussle out in the dust. It was bullying, frankly. Unless they played dirty, none of their troops stood a chance against him; and of course, everyone held him in too high esteem to try taking potshots at their commander. The battlefield was his dancefloor, one he glided through in ferocious choreography. His feet rhythmically striding across the beaten dirt, he used nothing but his hands to deflect the flurry of swords advancing on him. Blades screeched to a halt between his fingertips and chipped when bouncing off against his metal body; he needed only flick his wrist to disarm even the most frothing beasts from their weapons. He was in peak form once again, now that the ache of cursed magic no longer ailed him. No weapon could harm him, slicing through his false skin as they may, littering his body with a hatching pattern of facsimile injuries. The glittering black and white of his true form were slowly unveiled to the world around him, dazzling the nearest troops with the scorching sunlight refracting off of him. Straps of his clothing tore off of him in the scuffle. Any other time he would be angry, but oh, he had just so much fun like this, and it could all be made right with swift jabs of his elbows to the teeth of the offenders, stomps on their toes, or kicks in their groins. Others may leave this battlefield battered and bruised, but he was looking forward to leaving it a new man. Gradually, those brave enough to try and face him grew fewer and fewer, intimidated by the sheer number of monsters backing away from him, limping or not. He panted, a smile stretched across his face as he retracted his excitably lolling tongue back into his mouth. 

“It was a decent effort you all have put in today,” he spoke, straightening his posture as he referred to the crowd around him. “But next time, I expect far more of a challenge out of you! Look at yourselves, and I haven’t even broken a sweat!” Hundreds of beady eyes looked back down at him, sheepishly nodding berated yet determined, and the lot of them turned back to the barracks to nurse their injuries. These brutes knew only the rule of the strongest, and lithe as he might be, he once again firmly seated himself at the top of their hierarchy. Perhaps one of these days, he ought to invite Zant or Yuga to come spar with him, and see where they landed in the pecking order… For the time being, he ought to change into his more presentable threads, before the dinner bell could summon them back to the halls.

The sun was slowly setting as he entered the mess hall, clad in his open-backed body suit and a shawl lazily draped over his arms. He only ever hung around here as an excuse to socialize; he did not need to eat, but the distant sounds of merrymaking tended to make him furious was he not involved in them. As usual, he entered it alone, though he quickly heard an unfamiliar footfall coming up behind him as he stood waiting at the doorway. Behind him, of course, was his admirer — the one he wasn’t romantically involved with, that is. He turned to see Yuga, too, had changed into more leisurely clothing. Though he was as gaudily caked in cosmetics as before, his layering was far less obnoxious. This time, he simply wore a flowing dark robe, adorned with subtly shimmering tyrian purple patterns. Small beads glittered on the outlines of the inverted triforce emblems on the fabric, almost delightfully tasteful compared to his previous attempts at dressing himself. Hands daintily clasped in front of him, he addressed Ghirahim with a smile. 

“Lord Ghirahim! What a joy it is to see you again, not to speak of getting a glimpse of your extended wardrobe!”

At least someone gave him his well-deserved attention. “The sentiment is quite mutual, Lord Yuga. I take it you have settled well?”

Yuga nodded pleasantly, his massive curls bouncing under the motion. “Oh, yes. All is in perfect order,” he purred, before his eye contact was, with visible struggle, broken, his eyes instead wandering around the mess hall. “Shall we be seated? I reckon it will be much easier to converse over a warm meal.”

Ghirahim hummed in thought, peeking for a moment back into the hallway. Unfortunately, he did not find what he expected — no one else appeared to be coming. “Ah, well,” he started, “it appears Zant hasn’t quite arrived yet. It would be best if we sit at the darker end of the table, so that he may join us later.”

Yuga’s smile cracked just a bit at the mention of the Twilight King’s name. “Right, Zant.”

It was evident Yuga did not care much for the Twili’s company. From their very first encounter, he seemed to ignore him completely, only giving him the slightest bit of recognition during their strategy briefing. Disliking Zant was terrifically easy, but Ghirahim was deathly curious how he could have immediately developed a disdain for him before having spoken to him even once. Perhaps he could tease it out over dinner? “Oh? Do you dislike him?” he queried, bringing a hand to his cheek as he made his way over to the grand table reserved for their commanders. 

Yuga followed him obediently but let out a conflicted sigh. “Oh, I shan’t gossip on my first day! For now, I have… Some respect for him as a commander, nothing more, nothing less.”

So there was something that awakened his ire! What a delicious development. They approached the table, bowing in respect for their Master who sat at the center overlooking the mess hall, and quickly took their seat after receiving his greeting. In the few minutes they sat there chatting, Ghirahim would learn an awful lot about their new co-lieutenant. Nothing he explicitly told him, per se, but rather the quirks that his rambunctious attitude completely failed to hide. Yuga was horrifically vain, even more so than himself, and extended this obsession with aesthetic perfection to every bit of his surroundings. He carried himself precisely so, from the way he consistently brushed the wrinkles out his clothing, to the careful and sweeping gestures he moved his hands with to avoid damaging his manicure. Really, he was starting to wonder if a creature so keen on his own appearance could survive even a second on the battlefield, but he made his way all the way over to Gerudo Desert from his respective Gate of Time, so perhaps he could set his gargantuan pride aside for such moments. 

Soon, a demonstration of ‘such a moment’ arrived. All decorum went out the window when Yuga suddenly appeared distracted, his eyes widening and his jaw falling slack as his fingers tightly gripped the edge of the table. If it were not for the bustle of hundreds of men gathering in this hall, Ghirahim could have heard the wood creak under his knuckle-whitening squeeze. Yuga exclaimed a high-pitched noise of shock at whatever he was looking at and hastily began beckoning a certain someone to take their seat near them.

Zant had arrived.

The royalty-obsessed Twili had failed to change garbs as they had, but he was notably lacking the armor usually perched on his shoulder. Much more interesting was the completely befuddled look that pulled at the four corners of his split lips, and hesitantly, he made his way over to their corner of the table via the proper procedure. 

Yuga had sat quivering in his seat, looking as if about to explode all throughout Zant’s advance towards them, and whatever pent-up energy burst out from him as soon as he stood at the seat they had reserved for him. “Zant! I thought that abominable helmet was your face all this time,” he hissed and screeched. “Good Lord! You are… Beautiful! Perfection!”

Ghirahim reacted to this statement almost as severely as Zant himself. He sat there with his brows knit, eyes wide, as Yuga began to wax poetic at his boyfriend. Zant, similarly, had not the slightest idea of how to react to such treatment, standing stiff and powerless as a bright red blush coated his cheeks. The poor man could do nothing but stutter out a ‘pardon?’ before being assailed with further compliments and carefully manicured hands snatching him by the chin to observe his face from various angles. 

“Oh, forgive me for being so awfully forward! I simply… Agh! You, too! I must paint you! Never in all my years of living have I seen faces like yours,” Yuga clasped his hands together in a fawning gesture, continuing to ramble. “Coming here has truly been a fantastic decision! Had I known you two were hiding here, I never would have lingered in that shadow image of my home.”

Much of that evening was spent being mercilessly praised and ogled by Yuga, which Ghirahim was far more capable of taking in stride than his fellow sufferer. Zant only managed to fend off his delirious admirer with the feeble request to have his meal in relative peace, after which Yuga, too, remembered his mortal needs, and agreed to join him for dinner. The matter of Zant’s eating habits, Ghirahim suspected with some smug amusement, was very likely to put a damper on Yuga’s enthusiasm and redirect the praise he had for that bumbling fool of a Twili and back toward himself. Which, frankly, would be a favorable outcome for both of them. At first glance, the shadow-veiled King’s table manners might appear impeccable, with how patiently and delicately he handled his utensils. Ghirahim knew better, though. He looked on with a smirk as a dangling strip of meat was lifted to Zant’s mouth, and promptly, the end of it disappeared into the sharp-toothed maw. He chewed but a few times per overly-gluttonous bite before leaning his head back to swallow the entire slab whole, a visible lump slowly sliding down his undulating throat. Even past his gorget, the detail of his neck’s bulging anatomy was unpleasantly visceral to look at, though Ghirahim had grown used to it. He expectantly looked at their newest co-lieutenant, hoping to find him unnerved, but instead, read nothing but morbid fascination on his face as he continued to eat.

Oh.

Well.

Perhaps Ghirahim was not the only one with an iron stomach at this table. 

Now that the bustle of the day was dying down, their conversation turned to more leisurely matters. Yuga once again inquired about their portraiture and was shocked to find neither of the men had their likenesses depicted in quite some time. The time to pinpoint a date for their posing was drawing ever closer and more inevitable, it seemed, which seemed like such an inane prospect in the midst of war. Even now, miles and miles away, troops were dying in battle for their glory, and here they were, discussing paintings and looking on in amusement at their fellow commander’s oddly lizardlike gorging. It struck him then, what a different life he was leading under Ganondorf’s leadership. In his efforts to resurrect Demise, he could not even dream of a moment to himself, spending every waking second scouring the lands for iconographical hints and monsters to beat into submission. And here he was, leisurely sitting at a dining table, finding the time to mingle with his fellow men. Taken aback by this realization, his eyes wandered to his Master, who was engaged in pleasant conversation with one of the previously reigning Gerudo governesses. Equipped with an acute perception of when he was being gawked at, Ganondorf soon met his gaze and, upon noticing he was occupied with neither dinner nor conversation, he beckoned him over with a sweep of his hand. Nigh instantly, and without looking back to his companions, he stood up and marched towards him with great enthusiasm. Though Ganondorf was seated upon his throne-like wooden chair, Ghirahim found himself in no need to bend down to meet his gaze and simply took his place beside his throne. To be at eye level with him was infinitely jarring, but there simply was no space for him to kneel, and the Demon King showed no sign of malcontentedness at his presence. 

“Ghirahim,” Ganondorf rumbled, voice resonating through his metal interior. “I trust that your negotiations with Yuga have concluded successfully.”

He closed his eyes with a nod in response. “Indeed, Master. All is in order for our briefing come the morrow.”

Ganondorf hummed contentedly, leaning his chin on his rugged fist as he overlooked the rich chaos in their mess hall. “And what of your cooperation?”

That made Ghirahim pause. Less than an hour ago, the matter stood that Yuga and Zant had a remarkable distaste for one another, that only just now seemed to be mending itself. He glanced at the end of the table where the two engaged in idle conversation, their earlier unease with each other beginning to fade. Though their bickering was far less snappy and furious than his own early days with Zant, he found himself at a loss for an answer. “Ah, well,” he started, hoping to find confidence in his words as he went along. “I myself am getting along quite swimmingly with our new recruit,” he gestured to himself with newfound pleasantness, “and I expect Zant to follow quite soon.”

To his barely disguised horror, Ganondorf let out a chuckle, idly shaking his head. “You should know better than to come to me with such trivial matters, though I suppose the morale of my most loyal men is not entirely irrelevant…” The massive man shifted in his seat, wood creaking under his weight. “Your synergy. How fares your compatibility in battle?”

Long he had feared this question. Yuga was not even the biggest thorn in his side over the matter. Truth be told, even after the past few months of battling together, he and Zant still had not the slightest bit of synergy. Though they were adept at assisting one another in fending off threats, their styles of battle completely clashed. Ghirahim found himself better off standing at the sidelines while Zant went off on his many rampages than attempting to squeeze himself into the front and risk his hide. To face his Master with this knowledge fresh in his mind felt like an affront to everything he stood for, and he feared that he could read the inner conflict from his expression. “I must confess, Master. I have not yet been able to gauge the new lieutenant’s skills. We were quite occupied with his settling, and our plans for the next campaign,” he finally stammered, less secure than he would prefer to appear before the Demon King.

Ganondorf averted his gaze from him, idly rubbing at his beard. To Ghirahim’s anxiety, his warm amusement from earlier faded with the wind. “Then see to it. I entrust the assessment of Yuga’s fighting prowess to you, Ghirahim, and with it, his place on the battlefield.” Sternly, he looked at him again. “I realize I may have spoiled you, but I cannot afford you shirking your efforts when not on my watch. You all are irreplaceable. Even one of you falls, and so does our formation. Do not give me any more reason for concern. Understood?”

Ghirahim could do nothing but respond with a nod, before as quickly as he had summoned him, Ganondorf dismissed him again with a wave of his hand, and he sheepishly returned to his seat after a brief bow. Rejoining his companions then felt like crossing a threshold, the worry caused by the scowl of his Master forcibly setting itself aside to avoid showing weakness in front of his peers. Said peers greeted him again pleasantly with a hint of curiosity, but both knew better than to pry into the private matters of the King of the Gerudo. Instead, they dawdled for a moment, wondering whether to pick up their conversation from where they left it, before Ghirahim folded his hands together and leaned forward with great felicity. 

“So! What did I miss?”

Night fell, and the pair retreated to their usual spot in Zant's chambers. His quarters in Gerudo Palace were significantly larger and furnished as Ghirahim would expect of the Twilight King. After dismissing a gaggle of gruff-looking Gerudo from fussing with his room, they finally seated inside to collapse after a long day of negotiations. This room, unlike the one at Eldin, had an actual seating area, and to his mild chagrin, that's where they had sat down. It seemed that Zant's earlier tolerance for his presence on his bed was primarily motivated by the lack of other seating before, and now that they could be sat politely, he decided to park the both of them straight there. Well, whatever. For the time being, he was happy to simply sit and gawk. He noted that some of the furniture had been freshly painted with details of some sort of phosphorescent dye, mimicking the teal glowing markings so typical of Twilit artifacts. Particularly receiving an upgrade was Zant's desk area, which was fitted with multi-compartment storage, and two sizeable bookcases on either side. Save for perhaps a dozen books, the text on all of the covers was illegible, meaning these were likely all smuggled from the Twilight Palace. Naturally, him being the only person capable of reading the text, these volumes were better off in his personal collection than the palatial library. His eye then fell on the bed, that big, pillowy thing, with its large mass of pillows and the sheer, sparkling shroud that encircled it. He would pout about his lacking presence on top of it, but amid their idle chatting, Zant had found something to giggle about and thoroughly distracted him. His eye was drawn to his face, only to spot one peculiarity. Sitting across him, rather than every night at his side in entanglement, allowed him to idly notice more things than usual. Right now, it occurred to him that Zant's hair was getting long enough to obscure the mark on his forehead.

Ghirahim sighed, gesturing nonchalantly at his balaclava. "Say, Zant. Isn't your hair growing awfully long?"

Zant hummed curiously, running a finger through his front bangs. "I suppose so."

Suddenly struck by an idea, Ghirahim shifted to sit on his knees. "May I?" he asked, reaching over to his balaclava. Zant gave him a brief nod, curiously eyeing his hands, squinting his eyes shut as Ghirahim's fingers slipped under the garment framing his face. Gradually, he pushed the tough, leathery fabric back, fingers running through his hair as he went along. As he thought, it was getting long. That messy mop upon his head was in even more disarray now that the haphazardly chopped locks were starting to tangle and overlap.

His eye returned to Zant's face, back at those big, bug-like eyes that stared so expectantly, and mildly flustered, up at him. "You're due for a haircut, I'd say. If you are to have your portrait taken, you want to look your best, wouldn't you think?"

A mischievous glint sparkled in Zant's eye. "You mean, the way you do every day?"

To Zant's amusement, the hand that was still plucking through his hair quickly stiffened as Ghirahim let out a scandalized squeak, and promptly delivered a light smack to his cheek. "Oh! You and I both know you wouldn't have said that if it weren't for Yuga riling you up earlier."

Zant squinted his eyes in a daring smile. "You'll never know for sure," he sneered.

Rolling his eyes, Ghirahim sat back down, his hand trailing to rest on Zant's shoulder instead, and he turned to the triptych vanity near the easternmost window. The idea of a man like Zant, constantly covered by his helmet, and overall frumpish as he was, possessing, much less using such a thing was perplexing to him. He wondered the last time the elegant granite surface must have last had elbows resting upon it, at the mercy of whoever was dolling themselves up. Peeking back at Zant through the slight gaps in his bangs, he promptly stood up, starting to pull him off of the couch and towards the vanity. Zant yelped slightly in response, the sudden manhandling likely rousing his scabbed-over injuries, while Ghirahim dragged him over and shoved him down into the seat before the mirrors of his dressing table. Fingers ran through his hair again while Ghirahim loomed behind him, meeting his restlessly darting eyes with a flirtatious gaze. He bent over to hover with his face next to his, fiddling with the locks of his hair — stretching out his bangs to measure their length to his chin, ruffling the back to see how it puffs out. Much of it was now shoulder length, unexpected from a man who’d always kept it fussily cropped short. Perhaps it had gotten away from him, with how occupied his evenings had been. Well, thank Demise for it!

“At least I have plenty to work with,” Ghirahim chuckled, fluffing his hair as he stood back upright.

Zant scoffed. “ You? You’ve taken enough possession of me to start cutting my hair?”

“I only mean some offense by this, but every time I’ve seen that hair of yours, it’s messier than the last time. What you need, is someone with a steadier hand.”

Zant folded his arms poutily but was unable to think of a retort that did not incriminate him. Ghirahim continued his stylistic brainstorming instead. “You know, now that I look at it… Don’t you think you would look quite regal with longer hair? I could trim the ends, so it all grows out evenly—“

Zant quickly raised a hand, stopping his line of reasoning. “Ghirahim, I have tolerated your musings until now, but this I must decline,” he hissed, before his next words left his mouth with more of a mutter. “I do not see myself in my own reflection, when it is long.”

Ghirahim paused, then chuckled. “Surely it is not so drastic!”

But Zant’s expression did not change. “I am serious.”

He stood there blinking, caught off guard by his grave tone. Such an abstract concept was nigh incomprehensible to him, but if anyone was familiar with being picky about one’s appearance, it would be him. So, he did the next best thing: play right into his hand. “Right. Then, I’d like to suggest we stick to your usual length, but try to make it look less like a herd of goats went and ravaged it. Does that sound agreeable?”

Still in a bit of a sore mood, Zant’s earlier sternness lingered, but Ghirahim’s incessant taste for bugging him chipped at his composure. Soon, he sighed, meeting his eye again through their reflections. “If you absolutely must.”

Ghirahim chuckled victoriously, finally relinquishing his toying with his hair. And how good it was that he did, as that sweaty, greasy mess was starting to make him cringe to touch. “I’d reckon we ought to find an opportunity to wash it before I do, though.” 

A sudden spot of genius struck him. “Why! I have the perfect idea. Before we get back to Eldin, we ought to make good use of the bathhouse here. Surely you’ve seen it!”

Zant, by now fed up with being treated as a dressing doll, refused to speak to him through their reflections any longer, and instead turned in his seat to look up at him. Their meager height difference as he sat was a little grating. He nodded. “I have been to it, on occasion.”

Speaking to him today was just one surprise after the other. Someone as modest as he? Sneaking off to bathe in a public place? Voluntarily, without him to goad him into it? Ghirahim was learning many new things about him, and he hardly even had to prod for the candor to come dripping out. “That spares me the effort of showing you around, then,” he nodded, resting a hand on Zant’s shoulder again. The Twili did not even as much as acknowledge the gesture. “Perhaps it’s an idea to invite Yuga along?”

This startled Zant out of his monotony. “Yuga?” He stammered. “We have only just met! You want our second encounter of diplomacy to be spent in… Well! In the nude?” 

Ghirahim jeered, retracting his hand from Zant’s shoulder to wave him off with it. “Oh, he wouldn’t make a fuss! Most he’d show is an enthusiasm for sculpting us, or something like it,” he drawled on, reminiscing their earlier encounters with that eccentric figure. Indeed, most Yuga had done was ogling at them, but in a distinctly… Platonic way. The man viewed the two of them with deep aesthetic admiration, but in the same way one would a picturesque landscape or a particularly pleasing assemblage of still life knickknacks. In short, Yuga beheld the both of them as though they were living, breathing pieces of art already, itching to immortalize them. Needless to say, Ghirahim wanted to make fast friends with him. 

Zant frowned at him for a moment, before his long, pointy ears drooped with a sigh. “Oh, I truly do detest how right you are. Very well; though I wish to gauge his reaction, personally, when you do offer, otherwise I will take to the baths some other opportunity!”

Ghirahim smiled, again sidling up behind him, laying one hand on either of his shoulders. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Your Majesty.”

Unable to resist the charms brought on by his enthusiasm, Zant exhaled a single squeak of amusement, leaning back to rest against him. Ghirahim’s hands slid their way up his neck, gliding past its taut muscles, and rested instead upon his jaw, stroking thumbs across his cheeks. His lips puckered in endeared enthusiasm as Ghirahim looked down to him so fondly, the heat from his face spreading to the darkened metal of the sword spirit’s hands. Oh, if only kissing him wouldn’t wobble the two of them off balance.

Amidst their sickeningly saccharine display of affection, Zant broke their fond silence. “If this is your attempt at seducing me into letting you crawl into my bed again, it is working,” Zant purred, cracking open one eye to peer up at him.

Offended as he was, Ghirahim couldn’t help but laugh, his face wrinkling in a mischievous grimace. “You think me a harlot!”

Zant giggled in response. “Throughout at least half of our conversation earlier, you were eyeing the sheets without even so much as a shred of subtlety.”

Ghirahim narrowed his eyes sharply and dug his fingers in to squeeze his cheeks as punishment. “Well, then. Aren’t you going to invite me?”

“Do I need to? You tend to simply go wherever you please.”

That was enough! Ghirahim promptly smacked his hands back on his shoulders, shrouding the both of them in yet another explosion of monochromatic diamonds. They arrived at the other end of his spatial warp wrestling for the better spot, somewhat in mid-air before they dropped with near-synchronized ‘oof’s into the mattress of Zant’s aptly king-sized bed. It had been a few days since their last night together, but from the previous handful of times, he remembered he must savor his time wisely. The Shadow King was a surprisingly kind lover, preferring his affections to be light and feathery over the carnal crashing of mouths Ghirahim was so used to, and tonight was no different. Still, they never did stay entangled for long. The passionate creature had a way of caressing him like a poem had its arcs, which meant that no matter how swept away they may get during its central stanzas, an end truly meant an end, and he would always request his leave after. There was something he was hiding, certainly, but he found this form of courtship oddly intriguing. Perhaps it was a Twili custom, or simply Zant’s overall way of being, that made him treat their budding romance as a dance, guiding Ghirahim through its various steps and twirls all the way through. His curiosity for whatever came next bested his impatience in this regard, but eventually, his urge to turn the tables would burst free from its chains, and show Zant just how fiery a lover he could be. For now, he was content to lay in his arms, those strange, split lips leaving their marks on his own, before bidding it all farewell for the night.

Chapter Text

Another day went by in their usual routine. This time, it was Zant who approached Ghirahim’s quarters come daybreak. The man arrived at his doorway somewhat dispirited, dark circles set under his eyes, though he greeted him with a smile as always. He was mellow that morning, to Ghirahim’s great surprise, and simply seemed to want to poke around his room now that it was furnished. In comparison to Zant’s scholarly clutter, his own abode was disturbingly minimalist, save for what he could only refer to as his sewing corner. Currently lacking any projects, all there stood was simply a mannequin and a shelf with rolls of fabric, which Zant took to with great interest. Much of that morning was spent with light-hearted chatting, with the Twili leaning on him, seeking comfort from an ailment he would not share. Ghirahim found himself trying to brush it off. Certainly, if it was important to their mission, he would have poured his heart out to him as the impulsive creature was expected to do. Despite this sound logic that usually would sway him, an odd worry continued to eat at him. His Master’s words echoed in his mind; if even one of them were to fall, it would spell doom for their entire mission. Zant’s well-being was crucial to them all, as dubious as his mental state usually was. Still, Ghirahim found it was not merely his sense of duty that agonized at his inability to gain his trust…

Odd mood or not, the war continued. Their briefing with Ganondorf and the lower-ranking commanders went by as smoothly as it could. The Demon King seemed most pleased with their negotiations, and, as though reading Ghirahim’s mind, had only the possibility of the higher Hyrulean commanders swooping in as a concern. That very noon, scouts would be sent ahead on either route, hoping to spy on camps and keep an eye on any noteworthy occupants. Despite his disappointment from the night before, to Ghirahim’s great joy the Master actually seemed pleased . Still, he could not grow complacent just yet. That very afternoon, he was set to spar with Yuga. As expected from a mage, the man was far from an expert in melee, but this did not take away from his overall versatility. His choice of weaponry was most confusing, as other than the beams from his staff and a frequently summoned trident, his primary way of fighting was carried out… Using a picture frame. 

“Oh, those are portals!” Yuga cheerfully proclaimed, swinging his staff wildly to force Ghirahim back out of melee range. “They summon various elemental magicks, weapons, and, well,” he ranted on, assailing his opponent with narrowly-dodged bolts of lightning and arrows pelting out of thin air, “They also pack quite a punch!” 

Ghirahim grunted as out of the corner of his eye, he noticed far too late a teal smudge hurtling toward him at breakneck speeds. He reeled as it smashed into the back of his head, cracking the false skin upon impact. Thankful then for his constitution, he only needed to shake his head to rid himself of the worst dizziness. Yuga covered his lips with the tips of his fingers, a little bashful under the burning glare he shot at him. “Oh! I do beg your pardon, I expected you to dodge that.”

Indeed, it was his mistake. After this morning, he had been distracted, and in his attempts to tease out Yuga’s abilities, he overestimated his reflexes to the point of carelessness. How unbecoming of him! “Quite the nasty tricks you have. If anything, it made for a fine demonstration…” he trailed off, his attempts at saving face interrupted by a familiar giggle coming from the shadows of the nearby storage rooms. It appeared they had an audience. Zant apparently found the time to sneak off and watch their practice and took great amusement in his fumbling.

Ghirahim responded to this mockery with a scowl. “Don’t you have some bugs you need to be looking at?”

Zant’s earlier amusement all but faded, but he did put his hands in his sides, squinting at his snide comments. “I am simply here as your fellow commander, sating my curiosity about our new lieutenant’s skill in battle. If you so desire to make a fool out of me, I will be more than happy to join Yuga in beating you into ingots!”

Ghirahim grimaced at him with a sarcastic laugh, before lunging back at Yuga, rapier extended. Not expecting the sudden onslaught, Yuga shrieked, just barely deflecting the tip of his sword with another flying frame. This time, he had the upper hand, driving the man back by continuing to push against his shields. He stabbed and kicked at the translucent frames that appeared before him, pushing the sorcerer backward with each strike, before finally deciding to sidestep past. With one decisive thrust, the tip of his rapier was now under Yuga’s chin. 

“Your skills are terribly interesting, I do say, though your defenses could use some work,” Ghirahim said with a smile and a tilt of his head. “Sturdy as those frames may be, they’re quite easy to slip past.”

Yuga swallowed, the bob of his adam’s apple briefly pushing the blade further into his skin. “I see! Well, ah, thank you for your insights!”

“You are most welcome. Oh, by the way,” he intoned cheerfully, removing the blade from the poor man’s throat. “Now that Zant is here, I have a proposition…”

It went without saying, but Yuga was incredibly enthusiastic about the matter of there being a bathhouse, even more so about joining the pair for an afternoon of socializing. Zant, on the other hand, was more difficult to persuade. He seemed to be having a severe case of ‘cold feet’. It was nothing a bit of well-timed prodding couldn‘t help, though. Before he knew it, he had the lanky thing stripped down to his robes and padding, and shuffling obediently, yet uneasily, down to the north of the building after him. Yuga had gone on ahead, apparently in more need of preparation than the both of them… Whatever that meant. Walking past the colonnades and into the bathhouse itself, the two men quickly went to the dressing rooms, the sound of gently running water just behind the wall. They had the place to themselves, Ghirahim had seen to that — they’d be meeting nobody but the occasional attendant.

“Ghirahim, I must attend you to one thing,” Zant stated with slight apprehension in the hitch of his voice. “When I have undressed, you may find my anatomy… Not as you expect it.”

Now he was even more curious than before. He had promised Zant to keep his back turned until they were both more or less bared, but the temptation to look over his shoulder was starting to get nigh unbearable. “Not to worry, I’ve long since made myself comfortable with your otherworldly appearance. I’m certain it will be nothing shocking,” he intoned, trying foolhardy to mask his burning curiosity with a nonchalant tone. Oh, but what if it was shocking? The possibilities were endless! He had felt his body pressed against his, but only ever through the padding of countless robes! Whichever way it went, he was terribly intrigued, and could only imagine what was hidden on the lanky form beneath.

Zant was silent a moment, before humming in mildly conflicted affirmation. He heard nothing more but the gentle slaps of shuffling straw slippers on the tiles and the rustling of thick clothing for a while, until they had both well and enough prepared themselves for their little afternoon of relaxation. By now Ghirahim decided he’d waited enough, and he promptly turned around.

The Twili stood before him, a woven towel held loosely at his waist. Against all odds, the humble creature had indeed undressed to nothing but his footwear, allowing him his first-ever glimpse of whatever mystery he hid behind his eternal mass of robes.

Various features could have caught his eye. It could have been the weak glow of the elaborate markings adorning his body, or the black-and-white patterns swirling around his limbs and torso like shadows, or even the way the deep black on his upper arms slowly faded into a sickly grey the further down his arms he looked. Instead, his eyes were promptly glued to one particular trait.

Were those..?

Those were definitely..!

A small clear of the throat snapped him out of whatever wild goose chase his mind was sending him off on. “I must beg your pardon,” said the voice diagonally in front of him, “I realize this may be somewhat difficult for a man of your stature, but I truly would prefer for you to look me in the eye when we speak.”

Embarrassed, Ghirahim quickly craned his head back to meet Zant’s gaze. He feared having insulted him, but instead, he was greeted with a smile, clad in subtle, eye-squinting smugness. That bastard was toying with him! 

“Of course,” Ghirahim found himself stammering, shamefully, yet futilely, fighting against the blush creeping up on his cheeks. “Oh, I do apologize… How unbecoming of me,” he muttered, clutching his towel to his chest during a struggle to find an appropriate pose for his arms. 

Zant’s smile broadened, baring the first glimpses of his teeth. “Very forward of you, indeed,” he crooned, “but such curiosities and inquiries will have to wait until some other time.” 

As Ghirahim still stood there, perplexed by the strange up-and-down in the gravity of this situation, Zant was already turning to leave. “I believe we have a guest to tend to, and it would be even more unbecoming if we left him waiting, no?” 

Turning to look over his shoulder, Zant curiously gauged his next course of action or perhaps hoped to spot him sneaking in more opportunities to ogle. Against both their expectations, Ghirahim found himself, shockingly, too shy to do so, and instead stood staring at the face so gingerly obscured by the choppy locks of his plum-colored hair. Him, shy? Embarrassed!? It was unheard of! He had to save face quickly. 

“You are most right, my dear,” he purred, briskly taking off to keep up pace with him. “Let us hope our new comrade hasn’t gotten himself lost a second time!”

Soon enough, they encountered Yuga standing in the middle of the hallway leading to the baths, hair wrapped in a towel. Without his gaudy clothing and flashy hair, he could only recognize him from his boney, yet delicate build, facing away from them to gaze out the window to the courtyard oasis. The sound of their sandals slapping against the tiles alerted him, though, and he turned with a smile. It seemed that his horridly pale skin and long lashes were natural, for he was lacking his trademark jester-like makeup. 

“Ah, gentlemen! Not to worry, I wasn’t waiting long,” he said, casually looking the both of them up and down.

Ghirahim, fully aware of this, cocked his hip, a hand resting on his waist. “Good to hear. Lovely place, isn’t it?”

“Oh, indeed! I only hope the water isn’t all too heated. It is sweltering in this desert!” Yuga responded, fanning himself with his hand with a sigh.

For once, Zant cut in. “You will find it to your liking, then. Come along. I hear that I’ve a need to wash up.”

Trying his very hardest to crane his head up to look at him, Ghirahim watched the Twili leave rather quickly, making his way straight for the washing rooms. Zant’s sudden change of demeanor was puzzling to him, but he supposed he preferred it over having to drag him kicking and screaming. In fact, his favorite part was coming up next. He trailed after him, Yuga in tow, to reach the lineup of square plaster tubs that lined the entrance of the bathhouse proper. Casting his towels aside, Zant lowered that towering body somehow down to the shoulders into the very first bath he came across. Ghirahim saw his moment and shot his shot. Before Zant even noticed him coming up, he already sat on the edge of the bath directly behind him and locked him in place with his legs over his shoulders. 

Zant yelped. “What foolishness are you up to this time?”

Ghirahim chuckled, reaching over to the edge of the tub to fetch a handful of bottles of soap. “Hush, you. Some people would pay for this kind of treatment!” 

Zant groaned as well-manicured fingers found their way to his hair. “I can wash my own hair perfectly well, thank you!”

“Oh, I know. But I can do it better.”

“You-“ he sputtered as water was promptly poured over his head, running into his eyes and nostrils. A frustrated whine sounded from him, struggling in vain against the legs that so firmly held him in place. His stubbornness would not hold, though. A cold trickle of soap cascaded upon his head, and soon, hands rubbed across his scalp, pulling apart the strands that were once held together with sweat and grease. If anything could successfully pacify even the most aggressive and nasty-mannered of people, it was having one’s hair played with. Zant, who now grew slack under his touch, was evidently no exception.

“You might want to pick another bath, Yuga,” Ghirahim remarked bluntly. “Lord knows what I’m about to scrub off of him.”

“Oh, say less,” Yuga responded blandly, before so luxuriously claiming an entire tub for himself next to them.

A good scrub-down later, it was just about time for the primary goal of their outing. They sat Zant across the window, close enough to the light to allow them to work accurately, but far away enough for him to not get scorched within seconds. Zant nervously eyed the two men who hovered around him like vultures, fiddling with the asymmetrical locks that now limply hung wet from his head. Ghirahim frowned at what he saw, once again, before taking hold of the long strands of his side bangs. 

“Now, whatever is the point in these?” he inquired, twirling one of the locks in his fingers. Zant stared vacantly out in front of him for just a second or two, and then he simply shrugged in return. Ah, so they were pointless. It made sense, the man was never one for fashion. But before he could approach with the scissors, Yuga halted him. 

“Ah-ah! Not so fast,” he said, taking the strand into his hand. “Now, hear me out. What if we were to braid this, and then…”

As they continued bickering, it was clear that Zant had absolutely no say in what was to happen to his own hair, aside from the length. Ghirahim was the one holding the scissors, after all, and he made sure Zant knew better than to even attempt to take them from him. Yuga, in the meantime, was proving to be a fine assistant, using his many years of experience in portraiture to pick out just what would look flattering on a royal. A King Zant was no longer, but getting to play the part still seemed to bring him some delusional fulfillment. Who was he to deny him such a pleasure? Damp, purple locks gathered on the floor around him, but mostly on Zant’s shoulders and lap, as his face was slowly being framed with an unprecedented, actually decent-looking haircut. Seemingly zoning out to someplace else, the Twili wide-eyed and obediently followed their every command in the angling of his head and the squinting of his eyes, and he hadn’t uttered a word of protest since they’d trimmed the hair away from his forehead marking. Perhaps the undivided attention of two people vastly exceeding him in levels of stylishness finally shattered his poise. 

A good ruffle with a towel later, Zant was sitting stiffly upright, eyes darting between them as they styled him back to perfection. 

Yuga stood back upright, adjusting the knot of the towel he had wrapped around his chest to cover himself. “Why,” he exclaimed delightedly, “how lovely this looks! Zant, if it weren’t for your one-in-a-million face, I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

Indeed, Zant was quite the looker when he actually put effort into his appearance. Or, well, if others put the effort in for him, Ghirahim casually observed, dissipating the scissors into thin air. “We ought to find you a mirror… But first, you might want to wash all those little hairs off. Careful not to get your head wet, we worked hard over here!”

Idly, but with utmost carefulness, Zant began to feel at the silhouette of his hair. “I appreciate your efforts, ah,” he contemplated, “but I will refrain from thanking you until I’ve seen it.”

Yuga rolled his eyes with a laugh. “You’re worried? Please! Our tastes are hardly any more flashy than yours.”

Zant narrowed his eyes with a hum, shivering under a sudden chill. Ghirahim had taken the liberty of giving him somewhat of an undercut, which those twiggy fingers were now curiously rubbing at, fascinated by the texture. 

As Ghirahim expected, though admittedly, he was also a little relieved, Zant was most pleased with their work. Less pleased he was by the otherworld sorcerer now constantly buzzing around him, who was far more interested in him now that his appearance was a bit more groomed. A brief wash-up later, Yuga signaled them to go on ahead, as his own hair care routine could get rather lengthy, and he wouldn’t want to keep them standing around in the dry heat of the desert that wafted in through the windows. 

Little did he know, this was the exact window Ghirahim had been hoping to get. For what was a trip to the bathhouse without a bit of skinship? A short walk down the next hallway later, he took Zant by the wrist to halt him in his step and quickly slid in front of him.

“Bend down, you nasty creature, and give me a kiss,” Ghirahim murmured, shimmying up to stand closer to the object of his affection. “We’ve been wandering about nude for nearly an hour, and you expect me to keep my composure?”

And yet, Zant stood perfectly upright still, unmoved by his advances. “I do! We have a guest!” He cheerfully chimed in, before giving him but the mildest peck on the nose, and promptly wandering off again. The nerve! To reject him was one thing, but to belittle him was just plain unnecessary! 

Huffing grumpily all the way, he trotted after him. “Whatever’s wrong with, ‘no thank you, Ghirahim, some other time, Ghirahim’,” he inquired, caricaturing Zant’s voice. “Why must you make a mockery of me?”

Zant snickered in response. “You spend every breathing second trying to get a rise out of me, so forgive me for retaliating!”

“You bumbling fool! I ought to drown you,” he growled, clawing hands about to dig into the Twili’s ludicrously long waist, but he promptly warped out of his grip. Amused by the thrill of teasing him, he reappeared quite a few paces ahead of him, gait floaty and arms swaying. Zant looked back at him just once from across the hall, a smirk stretching across his face, before he disappeared around the corner. One way or the other, he had to figure out a way to get his hands on that man…

They made their way over to their reserved bathing space, away from the burning sun, and into a cooler apex of the building. Such a space was preferable, not only for the overall comfort of all three of them, but also because Zant would last perhaps five minutes if exposed to any more of the deadly rays of daylight. They had an entire pool to themselves, not exactly large but certainly clean and heated, which they casually reclined around, dipping their feet in the lukewarm water. Yuga had not arrived yet, which gave them a few precious minutes to sit shoulder to shoulder, doing… Whatever nonsense Ghirahim could tempt him into. He swayed his feet in the water, watching the little waves lap lazily at the Twili’s ankles next to him. His gaze trailed up his body; he found himself captivated, then, by how the refracting light from the cyan water danced across his pale skin, making the dull glow from his markings appear that much brighter. Against the cool blue hue the water cast the room in, his orange eyes were once again quick to draw and trap his gaze. Zant caught him staring and cocked his head playfully.

“Peeping at me again?”

Not a problem. He could segue into favorable territory with ease. “You truly do look far more handsome with your hair like this, you know. You ought to let me do this more often.”

“Perhaps I will,” Zant chuckled, turning to face him with an almost serpentine motion of his neck. “You, too, are looking quite a few shades brighter after your wash-up, Sword.”

It seemed that Yuga’s incessant flattering still kept him on edge and at a need to overperform. Either that, or Zant’s amorous mood began to match his own. He leaned in, unsubtly pressing his shoulder to his arm. “You’re quite certain you don’t want to sneak in a peck or two?”

Zant smiled at him again, slinking away from him. “Quite certain indeed,” he said, before unceremoniously dropping himself into the water. Thankfully for the both of them, his sheer height made sure not even a droplet of water landed on his freshly-groomed haircut. 

Ghirahim laughed purely out of reflex at his tremendously quick escape. His chin rested upon his palm and his elbow on his knee, he leaned forward to look down at him. “Of course, I’ve no intent to force myself upon you, but you’ll have to forgive me for wondering about your sudden insistent prudishness.”

His inquiry was met with a sniff. “In roughly twenty seconds, you’ll see,” Zant smirked, before swimming off to the other side of the pool in a surprisingly swift motion. Long, lanky arms flowed like octorok tendrils, jetting him forward in bursts. Perhaps his earlier mental comparisons of him being a lizard were unfair, he pondered. The man was really much more like a frog. Zant continued to amuse himself in the water, twisting his body back to face him as he continued to paddle himself backward. He really wasn’t going to let any more words slip, was he?

Oh, this cryptic creature! He blew his bangs out of his face with a single puff and crossed his arms in a miffed gesture. Truly, he wished he would just tell it to him straight sometimes, but with the way he was always sending him back and forth with his own teasing, he supposed he had it coming. The meaning of the Twili’s words soon became apparent, as indeed, a few seconds later, Yuga came around the corner, holding a sizable fabric fan, and his hair hanging loose and wet over his shoulders.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting for too long! I managed to hail a servant, she’ll be down here with a jug of wine in a little while,” he said cheerfully, dapping the water out from his ear.

Zant crooned approvingly, while Ghirahim’s eye was moreso drawn to his new accessory. “And where did you get that thing?”

With a smirk, Yuga unfolded the fan, and daintily fluttered it before his face. “I borrowed it,” he giggled, before joining the two of them to sit across the pool. 

Much of that afternoon was spent with varying degrees of productivity. Ghirahim knew that between lieutenants, even outings such as these were meant for diplomacy. He recalled it so during his time under Cia, where any alliance was wobbly, and his compatriots could be expected to be swayed by their own selfish needs any minute. Not that he particularly enjoyed spending time with either Volga or Wizzro; the former was a bore, and the latter… He preferred not to dwell on the thought too long. But as he sat there, watching his Twili dipping in the water and Yuga reclining close by, giggling under the enjoyment of a cup of wine, he couldn’t help but consider the two as friends. Yes, they were all united under Ganondorf, unwavering in their loyalty to the Demon King. They had a cause and a promise, with incredibly little need for worry of subterfuge. But perhaps he was naïve in assuming that. Still, today was not about gathering intel or picking apart every little word to hope to wring out any and all secrets that would come dripping out. It was about… Companionship. Boosting their morale. Finding another moment of cheer before those goody-two-shoes could swoop in and beat the tar out of them, and vice versa. As the day of their campaign through Eldin crept ever closer, Ghirahim could not think of a wiser way to spend their time.

The day flew by. They had dried off and had their supper, and after the last meetings were tended to, the bustle of the castle died down, the troops inside retreating to their chambers under the setting sun.

All but two.

Ghirahim and his co-lieutenant sauntered through the hallway to their chambers, having joined each other wordlessly in their stroll. Yet as the doors that would come to separate them grew ever closer, Ghirahim broke the silence and looked up to the King of Shadows, who had long since shed his helmet.

“Are you feeling better after this morning? I hesitated to bring it up, but you seemed somewhat… Downtrodden, when you first came to see me today.”

Zant perked up, his ear twitching slightly at the sound of his voice, as he looked down at him with a smile. “Your care for me flatters me, Ghirahim. Yes, it has been quite a productive day. I find myself quite fulfilled, indeed.”

Humming in response, he once again found himself lost in thought. So childishly they stood before the door to Zant’s sleeping quarters, not knowing what to say yet not wanting to bid goodbye just yet, toeing at the ground and hesitant words sucking back into their throats. He was a weapon, a tool for bloodshed and destruction, yet here he was, at the mercy of the thumping in his chest. Truthfully, Zant frequently angered him, dragged the proverbial blood out from under his nails with his foolishness and incompetence. But when alone with him like this in the shades of evening, he found himself longing for nothing but his company. A man so strange, so opposite from him, threatened to be the one to understand him most intimately. 

This, too, ticked him off. Was he going to let a lanky imbecile like him play him like a fiddle? He had to suck up this timid reluctance and assert himself once again. Zant perked up as he stepped closer to him, and gingerly reached over to him, taking hold of his forearm. “We needn’t say goodbye here, Zant,” he whispered, craning his head up to look at him. “Won’t you let me stick around?”

Zant swallowed, yet in his shyness, did not break eye contact. “If you’re so inclined,” he responded with a sigh, “but we have a long day of preparations yet ahead of us, you oughtn’t to stay long.”

Again with this! His hand slid from his arm down to his wrist, and despite his apprehension, Zant clasped their hands together before Ghirahim could think to do so. He needed to hear it, he wasn’t putting up with getting pushed out any longer. “Why must you always dismiss me? Have I not earned your trust?”

For once, it was Zant that broke his own hypnotic gaze, darting his eyes away from him as inner conflict furrowed his brow. “It is not just a matter of trust, Ghirahim,” he muttered.

Oh, this man was going to be the death of him. Once again, the alien creature had managed to slip past his defenses and rid him of any desire to snap at him. “Then whatever could be the matter?” he insisted, “Tell me.”

The Twili visibly hesitated in his arms, his spindly fingers squeezing his hand once, before retreating from his grip. Yet, Ghirahim did not let him relent, and stepped in closer to him, stroking his gloved hands up his forearms as his eyes pleaded with him for an answer. Finally, Zant sighed and met his eyes again. “Restless dreams plague me, and unbothered sleep does not come easy. You, as a being without need for sleep, must know how terribly long such nights feel.”

The warmth of his body radiated off him, the beat of his pulse thrumming through his sinewy arms. Ghirahim slid his fingers down that barren grey skin, only to end up hand-to-hand, lacing his fingers with Zant’s. “Then why not seek out my company?”

“You do not know what you might find,” he responded gravely, trying to shy out from his grip.

Such struggles were only met with another step closer, and a tip of Ghirahim’s head, looking up to draw their faces parallel. “Do you think me afraid?”

“No. Perhaps I am.”

“Then let me soothe those fears, Zant, creature of the night you are,” he whispered, lips now agonizingly close to his, enough to feel the Mortal’s breath on his skin. His voice buckled under the weight of his words. “Please don’t send me away again.”

Hesitation. The Usurper looked down at him, eyes glazed over with a film of early tears. A tremble coursed through his body, holding back the crashing waves of an insurmountable feeling, one so strong Ghirahim could feel it through his skin. Raw, arcane, and violent. Yearning deep enough to infect him, surging from his lips to his core.

Attunement.

Suddenly, silk-clad, lanky arms wrapped tightly around his waist, and pulled him through the threshold of his chambers. The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind them and sheltered them from the outside world with a click. Pale lips met his own, and all faded around him when his back hit the cushioning of the mattress, losing himself to a living dream when the shadows of the Twilight King enveloped him. 

For just that night, Zant would lift the weight of such a betrayal of loyalty. He was his, and they were one.

Chapter Text

Weary eyelids lazily batted open and closed, peering through the shroud of darkness in the room. Unless his eyes deceived him, the first light of dawn was entering the room through the cracks of Zant's nigh-impenetrable shutters. Though, it was always hard to tell under the shadow of Death Mountain. 

Their days had flown by. Never did they get to enjoy the luxury of Master's Palace for longer than a couple of days at a time, and the past week had been no different. They were already back in the Eldin Province, busy with directing skirmishes and raids to gather enough resources for their next advance. The Hyruleans were closing in, which meant either trouble or easy money. Given their track record so far, things were shaping up to be the latter… Unless another of their Lieutenants showed up, at least.

To Ghirahim, such concerns had to wait a little longer. This morning, he found himself quite the busy boy. He laid stretched out under the covers with the Usurper King, who slept so soundly beneath him. The Twili's warm back rose up and down slowly against his chest, pressing against the weight of the metal man on top of it. This was now perhaps the fifth night they spent together like this, and it was already becoming disturbingly routine. 

You see, Zant was not kidding when he spoke of "restless dreams". Every few hours or so, weak sobs and whimpers would break out of him in shudders. Yet, his mind never allowed him to escape from the clutches of whatever plagued his resting mind so. Ghirahim, with no need for sleep, took it upon himself to daydream atop him, shushing and stroking him were he to grow panicked. Most of the time, this would work. The sniffling and trembling would soon die down, surrendering to a semblance of peaceful slumber. Other nights, Zant would snap awake and throw himself out the bed, pacing and weeping. No matter Ghirahim’s best attempts at coaxing him back, he would always request his leave, as he was so used to doing. The next morning, Ghirahim would pretend, then, that he didn't see the bruises that would besmirch his skin afterward.

But tonight, it was peaceful. Zant was still, interrupted only by the slightest shifts and jitters. It left Ghirahim with perturbingly little to occupy himself with. Still, truly bored he would never grow in his company, even when he was asleep. When he got tired of dwelling in his own mind, he instead found his hands wandering, stroking through his far-more graceful-looking hair, or lacing their fingers together. Otherwise, he could simply lay there and stare, intently observing the odd anatomy of the creature that made himself so vulnerable below him. Ink-black skin stretched over the protruding bones of his spine and shoulders, looking deceptively thin like paper, but he knew better than anyone that the Twili was much sturdier than he appeared. Zant’s ceaseless acrobatics were emblematic of astonishing core strength, that even the Sword Spirit’s counterpart could hardly hope to rival. Not to mention, he recalled several occasions where, by some miracle, the Twili managed to pick him up with relative ease. Even laying on top of him, now, he pondered how puzzling the arrangement was. At the end of the day, even if his disguise made him leagues more light-footed, he was made of solid metal. Being treated as, essentially, a weighted blanket, when to anyone else being squeezed for hours like this would be torture, was unprecedented. Above it all, every morning, without fail, he would be greeted with a pleased, eye-squinting smile, to boot. It was as baffling as it was cute.

His eyes trailed to the markings on his neck and shoulders, swirling and geometric, set into his skin like they’d been carved. Those markings were dark now, only occasionally pulsing with a weak glow. Were he anyone else, the softly blinking lights might have driven him mad throughout the night, but without his need for sleep, he found himself oddly comforted. Whenever he would drift away in thought, those lights would be there, luring him back to the realm of the living. Drawing all his attention back to that softly snoring being below him, with his eyes squinted shut and his lips slightly agape, who would wake up to refer to him affectionately with an unintelligible term he’d refuse to translate. How ironic it was, to be anchored by a man who was so thoroughly far gone himself.

He supposed he understood now why Zant was so fascinated with those small, meaningless gestures of affection. Now that he laid there, the sleeping Twili at his mercy, it was hard not to poke at him. To see him at rest, his features almost appeared softer than usual. The tensions of what plagued him during the daytime had left him to slumber, for now, the spirit of sleep gently caressing him until it dug its claws in his throat with capricious abandon. Until it could, Ghirahim would entertain his own ridiculous musings. How much could he fiddle with an organic being so deep in slumber, let alone an alien one, before he snapped him awake? With the utmost care not to wake him, he lightly brushed the top of his nails across the soft skin of his back, watching intently for a reaction. None came; not even a slight shift. It was jarring how tranquil he was, he thought to himself, reaching over to brush his hair out of his face. His eagerness to get a closer look at his porcelain-like visage was swiftly punished. He bumped into his ear by accident, causing it to twitch on reflex. Slowly but surely, twilit markings began to pulse with color. Teal faded in like the light of the rising sun, and Zant stirred in his waning sleep. 

Ghirahim was, frankly, a little embarrassed, but with the impending daybreak, they couldn’t be laying around much longer either way. Almost apologetically, he leaned down to press light kisses to the back of his shoulder. 

“Waking up?” he asked, before kissing him once more. He chuckled softly when Zant responded with nothing but a groan, and the burying of his face into the pillow. It was a novelty to find him so eager to keep sleeping. Now that he was undeniably awake, though, his own fickle mood was setting in. The Demon Lord did not like to be kept waiting!

So be bothersome he did. He traced along the markings on his back with his finger, fascinated by how they would light up under his touch. When that didn’t work, he leaned in even further, grazing his teeth over the long, finned ear that stuck out easily within his reach. Zant hummed, turning around to peek at him with a pink tinge on his cheeks. That was an interesting development!

“I trust that you slept well? You were remarkably quiet tonight.”

A thin membrane blinked vertically over Zant’s eyes as he blearily looked back at him. Eugh! “Indeed, [my cherished one],” he responded, his voice still thick and murky with sleep. “Perhaps… My sleeping mind has grown to be comforted by your presence.”

Ghirahim laughed. “So I assume you’re going to ask me to come lay on you to be bored more often?”

The somewhat dejected look on Zant’s face made it clear that his teasing didn’t land. “Ah, well. If it’s a bother, then-“

Quickly, he interrupted. “I’m pulling your leg, dear,” he cooed, continuing to caress along his patterns. “I find there’s plenty to occupy myself with. Such as…”

That was not a lie. He simply had to trace back the steps of his trail of thought from that night, and try to remember what he had wondered about which discovery. One glance around the slowly brightening room was enough.

“… That sword,” he pointed across the room to his armory. There stood displayed an absolutely incomprehensible weapon, with asymmetrical, curving shapes, and intricately smithed patterns. Looking at it, it looked more as though it was hewn from stone than fashioned from any kind of known metal. “What’s its story?”

Zant’s eyes followed his gesturing. “That, would be the Scimitar of Twilight,” he replied, resting his head down on the arms he’d crossed over his pillow. “An ancient artifact, hailing from the days of the Interlopers. I took it with me from the Palace, I thought I would put it to better use.”

“And yet, you never actually wield it. A shame of such a beautiful blade,” he scolded him and inquisitively leaned his chin on his shoulder to get a closer look at him. “How come?”

He was lifted temporarily by a heaving sigh from the man under him. “Truthfully, I’ve grown so used to dual wielding, I find my confidence in handling a two-handed weapon far too lacking to bring it with me.” 

Oh, Demise help him. Lacking confidence? Completely involuntarily, images of Zant’s behavior on the battlefield flashed before his eyes. The barbaric and haphazard ways he swung those poor, defenseless scimitars around were already difficult enough to witness. The stumbling footwork, the massive gaps in his defenses, and the constant threat of slicing his own arms clean off… It was a matter of time until something went horribly wrong! That was his idea of confidently wielding a blade? He could not stand for it. 

With an unimpressed grunt, Ghirahim pushed himself off his bedmate and back upright, greeting the day with a mechanical creak and pop of his shoulder. “Come on, now. Time to get up.”

Zant rolled onto his side, the glow of his awakened markings now lighting up the pale skin at the front of his lithe body. Self control, Ghirahim… 

“You appear to be in a rush,” he yawned, pointy teeth popping out from their sockets.

Ghirahim responded by summoning a comb from nowhere at all, and brushing his bangs back where they belonged. “Well, yes. You still need to do your ungodly stretching routine, and I have plans for the both of us. I’d like to be out of here before the Cuccos cry.”

Zant sat up next to him, greeting him with a nuzzle of the splits in his lips. “Plans?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he firmly told him, but not before acknowledging his affections with an encouraging pat on his lower back. “I’ve decided I can’t stand for this lackadaisical treatment of priceless weapons any longer, so I’m going to teach you how to properly swing that thing, even if it kills me.”

——

As any proper (self-ascribed) nobleman, Ghirahim valued discretion. Even moreso, he valued a lack of busybodies, who would undoubtedly be shocked to see him kick his co-lieutenant around like a sack of flour. Sparring out in the usual training field, therefore, was completely out of the question. But in the light of the rising sun, the dry grasslands of Eldin were not exactly their ally in finding a proper, secluded spot. That was, until they stumbled upon a rock outcropping near the base of Death Mountain, where craggy rock formations would obscure the view of any possible adversaries. Yes, this was where he was going to beat the tar out of his boyfriend in full courtesy. He warped the both of them there and sauntered around the perimeter to gauge the amount of space they had for this tomfoolery. Zant, meanwhile, wordlessly watched him. His usually so impenetrable, stock-still-looking stance now moreso made him exude the confidence of a newborn heron getting used to its own legs. 

Either way, the cavern was ideal. The gaping maw of the rock shelter opened up to the north, meaning they would be out of direct sunlight for pretty much the entire day. And even then, the trees right outside would keep them out of view. Ghirahim dragged his feet through the dirt somewhat and found that the dust beneath had built up to a decent layer. Now, this is plenty of padding , he thought to himself. Any meager reservations he still had about throwing Zant repeatedly to the ground were promptly discarded. To top it all off, there were only a few stalagmites and boulders scattered about, and they had plenty of space to spar. Thus, opportunities to push him into the rocks and lasciviously pin him against them would be limited to a tastefully small degree… Agh, focus!

Still, Zant evidently had his reservations. His sword hung uneasily from his hand as he began to speak. "Are you quite certain teaching me is a wise course of action? I am the first Twili you've met. Such novelty in biology may impede on your ability to instruct, to the point of reluctance.”

"Oh, please. Advising anyone the art of swordsmanship, regardless of their anatomy, is my primary duty," he frowned, before strutting back over to him, leaning on him with a sway. "Besides, out of anyone, I'm quite confident in being the most intimately familiar with your anatomy," he purred, his tongue darting out toward his helmet. Zant let out a flustered squeal in response, ducking away from him.

"Point taken," he stuttered, before carefully examining his sword. Ghirahim had equipped both of them with simple training swords, and Zant’s was a decently weighted longsword. He didn’t want to risk either of them damaging anything more important, given the False King’s affinity for wild swings. Speaking of risks…

Promptly, he stepped away from him, throwing his arms to either side with a flourish. “Allow me to slip into something a little more comfortable,” he proclaimed, before showering himself in a mighty cascade of diamond magic. Bit by bit, his exterior began to crack, sending clothes and false skin alike to fade away into naught but energy. The metal of his body creaked and groaned as his true form was finally unveiled; larger, sturdier, and with delectably defined musculature. His hands thrust forward out through the shroud and dismissed it with a showy sweep of his arms. A deep sigh of joy and satisfaction left his lips, now reverberating through his canny throat. Hands stroking through his opalescent hair, he relished in just how good this felt. Certainly, his usual form was his own customized, chosen appearance, and as special and perfect as it was, like this… He was powerful, unencumbered, and complete. His eyes fluttered back open while his hands glided over his smooth, glittering skin, and his gaze pierced straight through Zant’s helmet.

“There. Now you couldn’t hurt me, even if you tried.”

Zant stood there silently for a moment, and Ghirahim then remembered he hadn’t seen his true form up close all too often. Perhaps the last time was a full month ago, and even then, it had only been a glimpse into the heat of battle. Well, he would make sure to let him savor it today. 

Still, it wouldn’t be a morning with that oaf if he didn’t ruin the moment. “Even though your core is right in the open?” Zant inquired, gesturing with a nod at his chest.

Immediately, his graceful pose fell into shatters, and he threw his hands up in frustration. “Why do you think I’ve left our actual weapons back at the keep? Non-magical weapons such as these mass-produced wastes of ore can’t even hope to scratch me, core or not!”

Zant similarly raised his hands, though in a gesture of peace. “Forgive me for inquiring.”

"Right then, Zant. Please get into position."

He watched on as Zant, far too bashfully, lowered himself into a hunch. Before they could even get to the sword-fighting part, Zant’s posture and footwork were in urgent need of improvement. Standing there swaying like seaweed in the current wasn’t going to hold up when wielding a longsword. It was painfully obvious that even something this basic needed some real work, even though he knew Zant had such impeccable muscle control! Despite his perfect example, that lanky fool still had the gall to mess it up.

Nigh instantly, Ghirahim clicked his tongue. "Your front leg is bent too far. Holding that any longer than a minute will injure your knee. Come on! Watch closer," he demanded, narrowing his eyes to scrutinize every little twitch of the Twilight King's muscles. Zant shifted his weight again, this time leaning back rather than forward. The front of his foot lifted. It was time for a lesson.

Within the blink of an eye, he darted towards his pupil and took out his front leg with a low sweeping kick. Zant shrieked, threatening to be thrown to his side, but he somehow righted himself with the wild swinging of his arms. That unique quirk of his was ripe with potential, but he ought to cover the basics first. 

"Surely you must now see how unstable your footing is!"

Zant huffed in frustration, straightening his legs and looming over him. "Then tell me what is wrong!"

He would not be intimidated by a man so easily kicked over, even if his core was right within hand's reach, and Zant fully able to harm him through it. Mostly, he didn't want him to give up and stomp off just yet.

"Of course. I merely wanted to show you the consequences of such clumsiness," he padded over beside him again and lowered himself. "Knee above the ankle, feet flat on the ground, and weight carried in the middle. Show me!"

Zant did as he was told, uncertain of his footing at first, but surely, eventually, he stood. Ghirahim took a moment to circle him, lips pursed in thought as he observed his form. 

"That's better," he nodded. "Alright, I'm going to push you now. Try to stay upright!"

"What-" Zant attempted to speak, but interrupted himself with another screech as two rock-hard hands shoved him flat on the back. Though his torso bent drastically forward, one solid stomp of his left leg prevented him from tumbling fully. 

Standing alone being this much trouble was a foul omen for the rest of their crash course.

And foul it was, indeed. Though choreographically there was astoundingly little flaw in Zant’s stance and footwork after some work, his reflexes and endurance were abominable. They had been shuffling back and forth towards each other long enough for a beaten path to wear down underneath, and his opponent’s strength was rapidly fading. Of course, the punishments he delivered did not help his withering stamina whatsoever.

Of which an opportunity presented itself, right this second. 

Zant had failed to notice the additional step Ghirahim took towards him, and thus, ended up directly within his weapon’s range. Before he could so much as blink, Ghirahim already swiftly smacked him in the forearms with the flat of his blade, sending him tumbling to the ground with a yelp. 

Blade held at his waist, he stepped over towards his prone body. “This is your problem, Zant. You have the strength and the quick thinking, but you haven’t the endurance! Falling into your horrid habit of panting and giggling just will not hold any longer,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re getting sloppy already, and we’ve hardly been at it for a quarter of an hour.”

“A mere quarter! It feels like an eternity,” he whined, splayed on the floor with the approximate grace of a squashed snail. “There isn’t much I can do when you keep beating me down like this.”

Ghirahim twirled his blade in his hand, resting its heft on his shoulder. “The rules are simple. You fail to get out of the way of a swing, and you die. You’ve been on the battlefield many times now, you know this!”

“Yes, but usually I am at least capable of defending myself before that happens!”

“It hardly makes sense to me to teach a child how to write before it can even walk properly,” he sighed, pretending for a moment to understand mortal lifespans.

Not appreciating such language, Zant merely growled in response, fists balling in the dirt below him. Was he truly going to let him throw a tantrum in the middle of, what was essentially, their date? The Shadow King was known, first and foremost, for his horrible temper. The more he thought about it, the less he wanted to put up with it. And so, he decided to throw him a bone.

“… Fine. Get up,” he bemoaned, holding out his hand. “We will go over a few strikes, and perhaps if we have time, I will show you some guards I think would suit your posture.”

Zant latched onto his hand with frightening eagerness and pulled himself upright. 

It was not hopeless, exactly, but it certainly took a while. Endearing as his attempts were, Ghirahim would prefer if he could see whatever that bumbling fool had up his oversized sleeves. He watched from the sidelines as he had Zant repeat the same few motions, hoping to spot improvement in his fluency of grip and stance after his very best instructions. But his improvement was such a hodgepodge of different snapshots, Ghirahim could hardly keep up. Sometimes, he would swing his sword around with reckless abandon, scoring himself another kick to the chest as punishment. Other times, he’d suddenly move with striking elegance. There was serious potential locked away in there, somewhere, if only he knew how to tease it out… "Perhaps this is just easy for me to say, but you truly must view your blade as an extension of your own body. You shouldn't even have to think which is the false or sharp edge!"

But really, if he didn’t simply engage him in battle, then he’d never learn. Ghirahim left him there to spar with the air, walking off to snatch his blade from the rock he’d left it leaning against, and quickly occupied the empty space Zant was just swinging at. It was time to bolster him through this training something fierce.

"I can teach you every technique under the sun and moon, but it will be useless if you do not manage to outsmart your opponent. It’s not about speed, it’s about timing.” He emphasized with a furious strike, which Zant retaliated with his own, hitting the two blades together in a truce. Ghirahim lashed forward, pushing against him with a grunt. “The moment you realize your opponent attempts to overpower you, you push back, and turn the tides,” Ghirahim continued, pushing his sword forward. Steel edges shrieked and sparked under the sudden force of the movement. Suddenly, he relinquished his pressure on the binding of their swords and allowed his blade to be carried by the force of Zant’s quaking strength. To Zant’s chagrin, he noted far too late that it sent the blade whacking right into the side of his helmet, sending him stumbling, but not yet into a fall.

Ghirahim demanded him again to stand and lunged at him a second time. Again Zant blocked him, but was now reluctant to push back. It was like he played into his hand on purpose! How delicious. “And when your enemy hesitates, all you have to do is take control.” With a twirl of his wrists, he swiveled his sword against the now flexible hold Zant had against him, and drove his blade directly into the padding around his gut. The Twili stumbled back with a screech, hand clasped over his now undoubtedly bruised hip. 

“Not unlike taking a lover, really,” Ghirahim chuckled, his tongue darting out to lap at his sword.

“Then quit fooling around,” Zant spat, “and let me try!”

Just for the sake of demonstration, he lowered his guard just a touch. He wanted the both of them to have some fun in the end, either way. Their swords struck one another with resounding clangs time and time again. With varying degrees of clumsiness, Zant managed to lock their blades in his favor and slip past his defenses. If Ghirahim didn’t know any better, he would almost think he was starting to enjoy himself behind that hideous helmet, leaving him to deal with the negligible pinpricks of his blade. This was all well and good, but he shouldn’t let him grow complacent. He waited for a decent rhythm to settle between them; back and forth, blocking and redirecting strikes, before he kicked his mischief into gear. Right as their blades stuck together in their bind, he smirked up at him. Before Zant could even think of reacting, he lunged in to hook his arm around his neck and lanky torso, and pushed. Chest pressed against chest, he snickered mischievously, pressing that struggling and whimpering buffoon closer to him.

One swift kick to his calf was all it took to knock him off balance. With a yelp and a wave of his arms, Zant protested, but hit the ground all the same. All of the defenseless Twili’s breath was forced out with a wheeze under the weight of Ghirahim’s metal body, and he laid there squirming, trying to wiggle out underneath from him. Of course, hooking a leg around his thigh for good measure, Ghirahim wasn’t going to let this happen.

He snickered, lifting his head to look at that deadpan helmet. “You were doing quite well, right up until you got distracted, there.”

“Your point has been made. Please get off of me,” Zant grunted, writhing again for good measure. He delighted in the subtle stutter of the man’s voice. Such a valiant attempt at hiding his fluster! Even when pinned under him like this, heaving and drenched with sweat, he was dead-set on properly practicing fighting with him. It was oddly sweet, to be so serious about a sparring session.

As much as Ghirahim was enjoying his time as the personification of a bear trap, he too had to relent, both for Zant’s and his own sake, and released him from his clutches. “Let’s try that again, shall we? And pay attention to me, this time.” A statement that went without saying, if you asked him!

Keese resting high, high upon the ceiling of the cavern huddled together with bulging eyes and watched carefully, shielding their ears from the monstrous clash of weapons below them. It certainly wasn’t that Zant was incapable. Though he wouldn’t admit it, bestial strength was hidden behind those stringy arms, and he hesitated not to remind him of it every time their swords smacked together. Still, each match lasted three seconds at most. The Twilight King was used to battling with his fists laced with magic, which made him a thoroughly fearsome opponent. However, the whole point of this exercise was to increase his martial skill. For all Ghirahim cared, he could fiddle with ways to combine proper sword-fighting techniques with his ancient magicks in his own time. Frankly, he couldn’t wait until he showed him what glorious recipes of death he managed to concoct. But he actually had to know how to handle a sword to do that, first. Every once in a while, Zant would slip past his guard, but each time, he could deliver not more than a would-be nick. Ghirahim, in the meantime, was showing him every corner of the cave, literally and metaphorically, sending him flying and skidding across the floor with every other thrust and kick. There, his footing was too far apart, and there, he left himself wide open for a stab, and there — He was losing count of the number of times he managed to punish him with gleeful violence. Zant wailed in frustration as Ghirahim knocked him over once more, laughing as he watched him fall. 

But if there was one thing Zant was good at, it was pushing himself to his limits, and far beyond it. He endured such beatings, such humiliation… To see such a side of him would be a privileged novelty, but truth be told, this was par for the course. But to do so even without the will of their Master, or the mortal threat of true battle… He couldn‘t help but dig around for hidden implications, and for just a moment, entertained the thought of it being all for him. This escapade was just far too exciting! 

Zant, too, was fired up. The thrill of getting to cross blades appeared to do wonders for his willpower. No matter how many times Ghirahim smacked him against the helmet or jabbed him into the shoulder, he would keep lunging for him, or flinging the oncoming assault away with his own strike. Such harsh attacks were powerful and effective, certainly, but posed a serious risk to the durability of his blade… Well, to try and beat that fighting style out of him was much like convincing a fish to stop swimming. Ghirahim decided it was pointless to drill him on it during his first lesson. 

And yet, right when he thought he had him cornered once again, Zant managed to trick him. With one step to the right and a swift turn of his wrists, Ghirahim had the tables turned on him. With his sword locked on Zant’s crossguard, he could only watch. Within a split second, his blade slid down his own, and the curled tip jabbed him right at the base of his neck. 

A smile graced his black, metallic lips. “I see you’ve finally decided to stop messing around.”

Zant giggled, stepping back to return to his starting position, freeing Ghirahim from the (non-existent) threat of his blade. “I have simply been closely observing you, as you’ve said.”

That snake! How long had he been fooling him for? From their battle with Midna, he should have learned that Zant was not beyond self-sabotage, to reach the goal of analyzing his enemy. With a twirl of his blade in his hands, Ghirahim smirked, and held his guarding blade in front of him again to force a wall of steel between them. “Then show me what you’ve learned.”

Zant paused, but did so steadfastly, observantly. He felt those eyes crawling on him, to the wiggle of his fingers and the slight bob of his legs as he braced himself with the right amount of spring in his step. Right when he was about to launch forward and catch him off guard, Zant struck first.

… With his elbows too far apart.

And so, he ducked right underneath the much taller man’s swing and smashed him right upside the chin with the pommel of his sword.

Even with a helmet on, such a blow was painful and staggering, and as expected, Zant lost his footing and landed flat on his back with a gasp. The hand that once held his sword, but no longer, dropped down defeatedly into the dust next to him, and he laid there, motionless.

Until he started to giggle.

Ghirahim shook his head, standing over him with his hand at his side. “I’ll have you know this is no laughing matter. Had I been serious, I would have shattered all your teeth with that maneuver.” Yet, those words only made him laugh harder. Zant’s chest shook with the force of his chortling, and he sat up, head hung limply down.

“Stop laughing. You’re dead! I’ve killed you!” He scolded, but completely involuntarily, the corner of his mouth crooked into a smile. For good measure, he decided to smack him on the side of the helmet, hard enough to make it bong like a temple bell but not enough to topple him over.

“Oh, this is hopeless,” Zant wheezed, shaking his head with defeated laughter. This only got him another whack of Ghirahim’s sword on his helmet, who was now similarly unable to hold back his laugh.

“Get up! Or I’ll kill you again,” he threatened, though the distraction of his giggling significantly hampered his power. His once so swift and furious swipes were now reduced to half-hearted taps. 

“Then my life is yours to take,” Zant swooned. He flopped backward, his arms falling limply and spread out by his sides. “I am exhausted.”

An unexpected pang shot through him at the Twili’s words, even though he knew very well they were intended as a joke. In an instant, he dropped his sword to the ground. The flimsy blade clattered for a moment, before coming to a standstill, dust kicking up under the impact. Before the cloud of sand could dissipate, he had already dropped down to straddle him. His hands slid down Zant’s sleeves and intertwined their fingers. He needed to make sure the Twilight King understood the weight of those words if spoken to a weapon. Zant was dense, but had he perhaps understood? Had he noticed, that his invitation today was not simply out of annoyance toward his lacking skill, but something more? Leaning close enough to hear the heaving breaths from behind his helmet, he whispered. “Do you promise?”

“… Ah.” Zant was frozen in place, both from his restraints and from the unrelenting thump of Ghirahim’s core, pulsing into him through his clothes. He understood, then, that accepting this invitation, and entangling in battle with him… It was never a matter of simple sparring. With a gasp, the visor of his helmet retracted, exposing the lower half of his face. “Ghirahim,” he uttered, his name like a confession on his lips. The whirring of the retracting shutters hardly had time to cease. Ghirahim already dove down, pressing a solid metal kiss against that mouth, before the sweetness of his tone could fully leave it.

… And it was met with a yelp.

“Oh! You’ll have to beg my pardon, I don’t know what came over me,” Ghirahim stammered, quickly freeing up his hands to fuss over his face. Zant groaned, rubbing at his sore lips. “That will leave a bruise…”

Against all odds, Zant appeared to still be in good humor and laughed off the petty injury. “I suppose we will have to leave further practice for some other day.”

Happy to not have ruined the mood too terribly, he decided he was laying quite comfortably on top of him, after all, and didn’t see any need to leave him. He casually folded his arms over the Twili’s chest and reclined on him. “The good news is, today was not as disastrous as I’d expected. But, but but but,” he tutted. “You are far from ready to wield that gorgeous blade you have stashed back at the keep.” He reached over with a finger, and sternly, yet playfully, pushed it on the flat of his nose. “I will want to train with you like this every morning… And perhaps the nights, too, if I don’t see enough improvement.”

Zant sputtered. “Every morning!?”

Clicking his tongue in response, he retracted his hand, tucking it back under himself. “Yes? As do our troops. What, are you scared it will take too much time away from snuggling before duty?” He bantered, cocking his head playfully.

With surprising strength for someone who just spent an hour getting clobbered, two stringy arms suddenly wrapped around him. Just like that, he was trapped in boney limbs and stiff fabric. “Is that not what we’re doing right now?”

“You — Childish fiend,” he spat with the undying confidence of someone who wasn’t maddened by affections. Of someone who wasn’t wrapped so thoroughly around some maniac’s little finger. “I’m taking us back to the keep.”

“That is, if you manage to untangle us,” Zant giggled, trapping him in an impenetrable barrier with his arms and tassels acting like a snare, and he the unsuspecting hare. “You wish to be discreet around our men, no?”

He struggled, wrestled, by all means, capable of ripping himself free now that he was in his true form, but knew he couldn’t. A smile involuntarily crept up on him when he realized just how little he wanted to. 

“You’re impossible!”

Chapter Text

“Oh!” Yuga exclaimed dramatically, “all this time we’ve spent together, and never had I the opportunity to depict either of you in more than a sketch! ”, he bewailed and bemoaned. The three of them stood at the gate of their Eldin keep, bidding farewell to their fellow lieutenant. With an astounding lack of the ability to teleport himself, Yuga was forced to travel the old-fashioned way. By carriage, of course. Two ink-black steeds were hitched to the front of a tyrian purple carriage, scrutinously chosen by Yuga himself. It had been such an enormous hassle back at the stables to pick out a suitably complementary pair of mounts, that even the horses snorted and shuddered to remember the ceaseless bickering the Primadonna of Lorule had assailed the defenseless stableboys with. Either way, there he stood now, theatrically leaning on his staff as though his whining would buckle his knees.

“Come now, Yuga,” assured Ghirahim. “Would you not think it to be a far better opportunity to paint us after our victory in battle? It would be more… Commemorative,” he thought to reason, patting him somewhat uncertainly on the shoulder in an attempt to shush his plight.

Yuga sighed, resting his chin on the wrist hanging so desperately onto his staff. “Right you are, but I have some worries about it, still. You must promise me you will return unblemished,” he swooned, clutching Ghirahim’s arm insistently.

Ghirahim clicked his tongue in response. “Please, I can repair any ailment to my skin with the snap of my fingers. I’ll return perfect as always.”

“And you,” the sorcerer whipped around, pointing a perfectly manicured talon accusingly at Zant. “Under no circumstance are you to take off that helmet!”

Zant, having been unreadable this entire conversation, grunted in return. “The sun would scorch me if I did. You needn’t worry.”

Yuga scoffed, yanking himself back upright. “Scorched!” he exclaimed as if the topic hadn’t come up a dozen times already. “Any other second I spend here I grow insane with worry for my models! I must be off, truly.”

With great, and only halfway feigned sympathy, Ghirahim agreed thoroughly with him. Out of pure courtesy, he assisted him with boarding his vehicle, gingerly taking that bony hand in his. The two of them waved the clattering carriage goodbye, but promptly turned to avoid the cloud of dust kicking up behind the wooden wheels and blowing in their direction.

Side by side, they walked back to the keep. “I do hope the Zora Princess doesn’t end up decimating him,” Zant mumbled. “I was growing quite fond of him.”

“Oh, not to worry, he will be fine,” Ghirahim waved him off. “If worse comes to worst, he can just retract into a wall painting. It’s impossible to hit him then.”

Zant looked at him, and he stared back.

“… I’ve tried,” the Sword Spirit muttered, masked with a cough.

———

The day of their advance had arrived. It was a simple enough concept: clear this coming wave of Hyrulean resistance, and they would finally break past the borders of Eldin, encroaching upon the edge of the Valley of Seers and leaving those dreadful volcanoes behind them. As always, it was easier said than done. In a desperate effort to protect the sorceress’ homeland, troops gathered by the thousands at the edge of the border, crawling through their camps and makeshift forts like termites on a hill. But mortal men were just that — mere bugs under the looming soles of monsters and demons. Ganondorf’s forces could be revived, conjured, or ripped from the fiery pits of Hell by hand if they must. Every fallen Hylian simply meant nothing more than weeping mothers. Lips curled at the frothing mouths and gnashing teeth of the Demon King’s troops, eyeing the edge of the battlefield like hunting dogs straining against a taut leash. All they needed was to hear the warhorn, and they would be upon the enemy forces in a wild stampede. Ghirahim felt it, too, the thrumming of anticipation in his chest. The wild call of battle, evoking an instinctual, gnawing hunger to feel blood smeared on his swords. He, too, tugged at his own leash of self-control, standing at the front of his troops. This was it; their final moment to prove themselves to their Master — after this, the Demon King would come marching through the path they’d cleared for him, and lay down the Valley in one fell sweep. All they needed to do was rip whatever was between them and their goal to shreds.

He stared out into the distance, ears on high alert for any stray sound of beating hooves, but found none. Hyrule was waiting, theirs for the taking. One look to the side confirmed it. Zant, too, had directed his gaze his way from across their formation. They came to the same conclusion. With only the subtle raise of his hand, the Darknut commander behind Zant raised its banner. One by one, the flagbearers of their units raised theirs in sequence, a wave of glorious red and gold washing over dismal forces. Their warhorns sounded in cacophony; the battle had begun. 

Ghirahim’s forces headed east, while Zant’s departed westward. Their armies were descending upon the enemy formations like a fish-trap, funneling whatever caught in its edges towards the deadly center. Blinded and furious, an Argorok was being dragged along the marching troops by the chains, their ends wrapped around the rugged arms of Bulblin captains. Each yank on its bonds only served to make the wretched beast angrier. Its fangs bared and forked tongue darted viciously find the source of its torment to no avail. Hylia, Din, Farore, and Nayru have mercy upon whatever poor fools ended up in the reach of the agitated creature. Zant’s finest work never did disappoint.

Wind coursing through his hair, Ghirahim soared through the battlefield, troops not far behind. The first of the Hyrulean banners came into view past the hilltop. A stain of silver, shields and armor glittering in the morning sun filled out the valley below. Indeed, their numbers were grand this time around, but his Master’s were grander. The only problem was the report from the scouts. Somewhere in that mass of Hylia’s menaces, her greatest menace of all was scurrying between the lines of soldiers. This generation’s Hero of Hyrule was spotted at the military camp, and he would undoubtedly make his appearance today. 

Well, not that it bothered him much. As jarring as seeing that boy had been before, it was not the one he quarreled with in his own time. Annoying, those blond little brats always were, but the thought of him today brought him nothing but a smug desire to snuff out this particular lineage of Links. In his pleasant rumination, he had crossed a significant distance and was now belting straight towards the front lines of the first of Hyrulean units. Shields raised and spears extended, they formed a seemingly impenetrable wall before him. 

Well, impenetrable to those limited by the fabric of space and time, at least. Really, it’s like they had no idea who they were up against! In a blink, he vanished from sight. Leaving the wall of shields behind him, he floated jarringly between states of corporeality, trying to find a proper spot to reappear. Just a slight opening, there , behind a third line of men! He stepped back into the veil of reality, and promptly skewered the first soldier to his left. Chaos ensued, the troops at the front struggling to choose between holding the line and defending their own lives, and the formations behind them scrambling to close the distance. Such confusion could only work to his advantage. The first bokoblins were pushing against the shields on the other side of the line, squeals and screeches escaping their throats as the frontmost of them pushed against the Hyruleans’ spears. He couldn’t wait any longer. His core pulsed in anticipation, eager to hear the crack of bones and splattering of gore under the clubs of the brutes begging to be let through. He had to break this formation open, and he had to do it fast! With a roar and a raise of his arms, an impenetrable canopy of diamonds rose above the formation rapidly closing in on him. The Hylians below were shed in glittering light, refracted by the glassy surface above, but before they could even notice, Ghirahim clenched his fist.

They didn’t even have time to scream before the sheer force of the platform slammed down on them, folding the soldiers below like sheets of paper. Those out of range behind them could only look on in horror, as the Demon Lord turned around with a laugh, and began to slaughter the very walls that kept the monsters from breaking through.

Red-skinned devils flooded in like a swarm of rats, only diverting their path to swerve around their blood-drenched commander. He stood poised and refreshed amidst the parted sea of hooting and hollering bokoblins, rushing past him to rip and tear into the Hyruleans. It hadn’t even been five minutes, and it was already proving to be an absolutely magnificent day. Hopefully, Zant was having an equally good time!

Forces closed in but had no choice but to be driven back. The ambush from the Zora had evidently failed; Yuga must have been holding strong a day’s march away. Their flanks were clear, and their scouts had found nothing but their own outposts for the past ten leagues. All went in their favor! In front of him, soldiers lined up by the hundreds to be pushed into the meat grinder of his formation, and behind him, yards away, the sounds of reptilian roaring and shrieking men whittled away at the morale of their enemies. With the gorons being held back in the East, this side of the battlefield had no choice but to act as nothing but meat shields for the sorceress far beyond. It was only a matter of time until they broke through.

But something unexpected neared. Ghirahim busied himself keeping soldier after soldier at bay, flooring them with arcane barriers or bursting their veins open with throwing knives, when an unfamiliar face forced itself through the crowd.

Or, well. Face..? A mask? An incredibly ugly hat? Bouncing, purple plush ears stuck out just barely above the crowd, before the full character burst through the frontlines. Some other eccentric fool had joined the Hyruleans, apparently, as before him stood a purple-robed man with a rabbit mask shielding his face.

“Finally, I’ve—“ spoke a squeaky, nasally little voice, before interrupting itself. “Hey, you!” the little man exclaimed. “Where’s Yuga? I’ve got a mallet with his name on it!”

The gall. The absolute nerve ! ‘Hey, you’ ? ‘You’!? This worm hadn’t the slightest idea who he was talking to! Ghirahim’s nose wrinkled in annoyance. The fury bubbling in the back of his mind expressed itself thoughtfully with a swift kick to the chin of the poor sod that thought to sneak up behind him. With a twirl, he turned to face this hooligan of a newcomer again with a smile. “You just missed him,” he chimed in with a tilt of his head, before snapping his eyes wide open in a scowl and lunging forward with his rapier.

With a startled shriek, the stranger jumped back out of reach and fussily brandished his hammer. Looking at it closer, it looked to be made of wood. Wood! Bringing a piece of lumber to his refined, masterfully crafted arsenal, and expecting to be his equal in battle? Distasteful! Oh, this freak of nature was getting on his nerves so terribly already. He had to do away with him quickly. Ghirahim launched himself forward, slashing right at that unsightly hood over the stranger’s face, only to slice a deep gash into the mallet instead. 

“Yikes,” the creature shouted, continuing to stumble back. “Hey, uhm, can’t we talk about this?” he stammered, continuing to dodge out of the way of his attacks with infuriating nimbleness. Ghirahim deigned to reply; he’d much rather he stopped talking altogether. Strike after strike was either dodged or deflected using the strangest items: staves, mallets, and wooden shields that splintered upon impact, all yanked out of a massive burlap sack he carried on his back. If that was where this roadside magician got his ludicrous tricks from, he ought to put a stop to it. Tired of the shenanigans, Ghirahim decided he, too, had something up his sleeve. A false jab aimed straight between the eyes caused the bunny-man to duck down on instinct, but the second he did, Ghirahim turned his wrist and instead stabbed right into the ratty old bag. 

A sharp gasp resounded from under the mask, as a massive collection of… Well, everything, came tumbling out. Magic artifacts, bombs, arrows, and haphazardly collected weaponry rolled out onto the floor. While his opponent was distracted by the loss of his trump card, Ghirahim lurched forward once more and landed a hit directly across his chest. Carving clean through the armor hidden beneath the robe, a red streak, though more shallow than he’d wanted, seeped dark blood into the rich purple fabric of the stranger’s robe.

“So no talking, aha,” the man whimpered. “Fine by me!”

To Ghirahim’s surprise, his attack seemed to have awakened something in this odd fellow. Immediately, he dove to the floor, snatching some odd crossbow-looking item. “Seems you’re the one I was looking for, either way!”

With one finger poked in his ear and the other hand pointing the crossbow to the sky, he pulled the trigger, and sent a bright red ball of fire hurtling into the skies, whistling as it exploded high up above.

A realization dawned upon Ghirahim, leaving him staring daggers at the smug little creature that now scrambled back to his feet. This man wasn’t a soldier, he was a scout! And now, he’d been found, and his location relayed to whoever was waiting for the signal! He grit his teeth, once again closing in on his adversary, but the rabbit man was already sprinting back into the safety of the crowd. Ghirahim took off in pursuit, but his escape route was now guarded by a wall of shield-bearing soldiers that wrestled him back into the clearing he’d stood in. It was no use forcing himself past — he had lost that nasty little cretin, and could now only hold back until whoever had been alerted showed their miserable face.

Soon enough, Ghirahim found himself surrounded by a pen of shields, his northward sight blocked by tall, rectangular panes of blue-painted metal. Trapped, he never was truly, but he found himself too intrigued to burst past it. Behind him, his forces closed in, threatening to swallow up the puny walls that had been placed before him in mere minutes. So, instead, he opted to stay in this little arena, whacking down any wayward fool that dared step in there with him. Eyes transfixed on the blockade, he prowled with his sword in hand, tauntingly baring his teeth and lolling his tongue out from between his lips. There, another raid captain, flashy feathers atop her helmet, dared to cross the border into the lion’s den, and promptly met her end through the edge of his blade. Soon, the Hyruleans began to realize they failed to trap the Demon commander. They only gave him a playpen. Bodies gathered at his feet like blossom petals in the spring, armor denting, and tendons cracking underneath his feet as he danced his way to strike down whoever drew too close. It was as if the battlefield sang to him through its countless strikes of metal upon metal, whistling arrows, and boots splashing in puddles of blood. Its music cradled him and him alone, spoken in a whisper that only a living weapon could hear. Whoever was coming there to meet him would encounter him gore-drenched and depraved, as alive as a metal being could ever be. He was ready for them.

And find him they did. A presence made its way towards him, parting through the ocean of blue-clad soldiers as it went. Ghirahim stared, transfixed yet battle-ready at the wall of men before him. He tasted blood in the air, but by far not enough yet. His stance, adjusted; his senses, honed. He felt kinship with the vultures already circling above the battlefield, waiting for the bustle to die down to pluck the meat from the carcasses. Valiant and loyal soldiers were reduced to nothing but fodder, ripped out from their armor like crab meat from carapace. Honor was frail like glass, yet so desperately chased after on the battlefield, and the perfect picture of it was hurtling right at him. Bursting from the frontlines, a flash of green jumped at him, sword extended and glowing. Link, the Reincarnated Hero of Hyrule, had rushed in to stop him.

Certainly, he’d like to see him try. In an instant display of disrespect, he gripped the blade pointing at him with his gloved hand. The Hero’s momentum let him hurl him over his shoulder with ease. Link cried out in surprise in synchronization with the ear-piercing shriek of his little fairy companion, and the two tumbled through the mulch. Immediate silence washed over the crowd around them as the two of them faced each other, Link scowling at him from the ground, and Ghirahim mocking him with a smile. All understood, then, that this was their little corner of the battlefield. Not a soul could step foot in it until one of them had fallen. With an enervated shout, Link bore down on him again, his sword striking naught but Ghirahim’s own blade. 

“Hello, boy, ” he snarled with a vicious grin, pushing sword against sword. “To what do I owe such a personal visit?”

In this incarnation, too, Link was a man of few words. Instead, a shrill little fairy found its way past their crossed and whining blades and spat a lecture or some other in his face. Giving it no second thought, he raised his free hand and promptly sent the little pixie plummeting through the air with nothing but a flick of his finger. Startled and enraged, Link pushed forward, locking his rapier on the crossguard of his sword and pushing forward. They exchanged thrusts and blows, and Ghirahim soon noticed that the sheer magic wafting off of this young man was not one he wanted to play games with. As it stood, he could hurt him, with a weapon that looked so infuriatingly familiar. Link flew at him with a spinning strike, his feet grinding tracks into the blood-drenched sand as the force pushed him back. Strong he was, certainly, blessed with a gift from the Goddesses. Since their previous encounter, his fighting style had improved. He wielded his sword with unwavering confidence, but one that by far outranked his actual skill. His training was proving fruitful, but there was a key difference, here. Link had been honing his skill over a matter of months. Ghirahim spent millennia. There he came again with a broad slash of that gleaming sword, with his stance too wide, too unstable. He’d punished his darling shadow for less! He swooped in, sword drawn tight to his chest like a praying mantis eyeing its prey, and thrust forward. It was a clean hit, too clean. The magic barriers in his armor bounced back the tip of his sword, but the force alone was more than enough to send Link flying. No matter when in time, all of these Chosen Heroes were the same. Too naïve, too bold, and too persistent, loyal like ratting dogs. And this one was a mere novice! In the split second Ghirahim watched him sail through the air, he came to the grinning realization he had already won. The Princess was far too fond of her little pet, and the second any real harm threatened to come to him, she would immediately demand his retreat. The second that green tunic was besmirched with the mud and gore of the battlefield, he would turn tail and run. 

Or so he thought. Before Link’s back could hit the ground, the Hero received aid from an unexpected place. A brilliant blue apparition burst free from the sword in his hands, and dove straight at Ghirahim, heel-first.

Thankful for his reflexes, he caught Fi by the underside of her shoe with his blade and threw her off to the side. Thoroughly unaffected by gravity, she spun in the air, righting herself back on her feet just a few inches above the ground. When she turned to face him again, her face was, as always, completely blank. Though she had come to the aid of someone she supposedly treasured in her own time, she showed not a hint of anger, not a single sparkle of thrill for battle. A sword was an object meant for war and bloodshed — if Ghirahim embodied the spirit of violence in its intention, it was Fi that truly represented its aspect as a ‘tool’. Fluttering and dancing through the air, she made her way towards him again. Like a butterfly with wings like razors, her dainty elegance was contrasted heavily by the brute force she slammed into him with her metallic legs. He skidded across the floor again, before sending her darting away again with a snip of his fingers. Daggers burrowed into the floor one by one, following her in a trail, but not without one managing to graze her through her cloak-like wings. Even after such a display of dirty tricks, her face remained vacant and pristine. It seemed she had no need to be upset either way, as during that time, Link had risen, and it was now two against one.

One of these meddlesome brats he could handle, but two at once? If there was one thing the Hyruleans were fond of, it was ganging up on them! He had but half a second to push one of them out of his way, or the other would be right behind him. A pair of heeled boots struck him in the shoulder, sending him stumbling directly into Link’s sword. With one swift stroke, the burning of the Goddess Blade sliced through his gut like he’d been made of wax, straight through his false skin and into the surface of his true form with a metallic screech. The heat of the friction alone, enough to cauterize the wound shut. Link’s eyes burned bright blue like a flame bursting from copper as their gazes locked, but it was different. Unlike the boyish gleam in the eyes of the sky child, this Hero’s glare was stained with the fury of war. An unprecedented strength. The red string that bound the two of them through time and space was now carved into his body. He’d been scratched! An actual sting of pain coursed through him, confusing his senses about what to do with such an unfamiliar feeling. He rammed that green-clad menace out of range again with his shoulder, and using the same momentum, swung the impending Fi away from him by the ankle. He would not be kicked around like this! Barriers, barrages of flying daggers, and ferocious swings of his sword all aimed to keep them at bay, but with undying tenacity, they simply kept coming. 

Suddenly, something rustled behind him, but before he could turn to determine its source, his back brushed against the familiar texture of padded robes.

“Such a flashy display of glowing red magic could only come from one man,” echoed Zant’s voice from behind his helmet. “I thought to come to your aid.”

Ghirahim raised his arms, a dome of diamond magic gathering around the two of them. “Funnily enough, that was the enemy scout’s work. You’re not a moment too soon, Zant!”

Zant hummed curiously, before whipping his twin scimitars back out his sleeves. “Consider this my opportunity to pay you back for your assistance, during our battle for Eldin.”

“What of the Western front?” Ghirahim inquired, dismissing his barriers with a clap and throwing himself back at Fi.

“King Darunia retreated to the mountains when our captains climbed their way up to Goron City,” Zant exclaimed, sliding in to guard Ghirahim’s flanks. 

Link, before on guard, was now visibly enraged, his eyes cracking wide open in a vindictive glare at his words. 

“Oho,” Zant giggled, “does that upset you?”

With a shrieking cackle, Zant set off in a whirlwind of his own making, spinning wildly with his swords extended. Sparks flew off of the young Hero when the scimitars carved into his armor, sending him stumbling back. Coming to a halt, Zant looked back over his shoulder once more, before continuing to lure his adversary further away, locked into a one-on-one battle. 

Now, it was just him and Fi. 

That Hero was just a descendant. The Goddess’ dog, a mere shadow of herself from ages past, serving diluted royal blood over the deity Herself. But this? This was his Fi. The very one who, in the hands of his folly, struck down his Master. And all this time, she hadn’t spoken even a word to him. Then again, never did they have the chance for a proper one-on-one. The battlefield had a distinct lack of thrills, of personal vendettas, and the appearance of his counterpart might change it. Every time, that wretched boy stood between them, and she could shield herself behind her Master to avoid confrontation. Now that he was out of the way, it was time for a bit of quality time between swords.

Steel clashed against lattice stockings, and the two of them were locked in combat. “You pretend that we are strangers, but we were forged for the same cause, you and I!”

He stepped in closer, only to be met with a threatening kick of her heel to his face. He ducked and found himself an opening. “Did our countless battles not thrill you,” he panted, leaping to strike at the gem embedded in her chest. “The opportunity to prove which of us is the better blade?”

Fi remained frustratingly silent, diverting his rapier’s trajectory with a twirling smack of her wings. Bluebird of the goddess, she danced around him, spectral blades circling her defensively to prevent him from getting any closer. She fought him, surely, but he may as well have been anybody. Not a speck of recognition crossed her gaze.

“And yet, you do not acknowledge me! When there is so much more that I can show you,” he twirled, trapping her into a barrier of his own making, and pointed dozens of floating daggers her way with a snap of his fingers. “It is unbecoming of the Goddess Blade to act this dull, so fight me seriously for once!”

The sound of a crack. So small and subtle, it could have been a pin dropping. But when he looked up to the floating figure before him, he found its source. Fi smiled. An eye-squinting, curled, mocking smile.

All those times he had embarrassed himself before her. How he had scratched, fallen, ripped at his hair, and thrown tantrums in front of her, yet her poise remained. Those times he had prodded at her, thrown himself at her to evoke any reaction at all, to have it all fall on deaf ears. How he crumbled to pieces before her under his Master’s hand, and she remained, composure pure and untainted. 

Fi was perfectly aware of how she frustrated him. She simply didn’t care for it, up until now, when it became amusing to her.

Her grin vanished like snow before the sun, and she shot herself skyward, kicking him upside the chin in her ascent. He tumbled backward, his false skin chipping away in diamonds. Focus broken, the barrier above them shattered, and Fi escaped his containment. Daggers flew by, stabbing into empty soil once more, gathering in a lotus of sharpened steel where Fi once stood.

A furious roar escaped his throat, and he flung himself to his feet, chasing madly after the apparition that so cheerfully skated away from him through the sky. 

His rage made him careless. In the blink of an eye, the manifestation of the Master Sword surged straight for his chest. In a panic, he attempted to deflect the blade with a wild swing of his own rapier, but Fi slipped effortlessly along its length, past the cross-guard, and sliced through his glove in its merciless advance. The world went white as the tip of it plunged directly into his core, and sent a violent crack through the concealed gem. 

Ghirahim stumbled. His rapier quivered in his hands as the snow in his vision continued to blind him, rendering him powerless against Fi's onslaught. A heeled boot struck him directly in the face, cracking his false skin in the process, and sent him hurtling to the ground. 

An enraged screech from a so-familiar voice pierced through the deafening sounds of clashing metal from the battle around them. From the ground, he could now see, though blurry as it all was, that Zant had grown desperate. The green-clad brat bore down on the Usurper, but his sword was caught on the deceptive curves of his scimitars, and he threatened to be disarmed. Still, even the maniacal strength hidden within Zant's sinewy arms couldn't rip the Master Sword out of the young man's steadfast hands. In one last crazed attempt, Zant swung his arms to the side, sweeping Link off balance with their blades entangled, and left him wide open for one of his deadly spells. Grunting and squeaking, he drove his opponent back with shock waves from his stomping feet and raised his arms to summon a glowing sphere of crackling magic. 

"Hold fast, Ghirahim!"

Link, who still struggled to regain his balance from his earlier attacks, was hopeless to dodge. He got launched backward, dust clouds kicking up from the impact of his tumbling body.

Ghirahim, too, almost found himself in the same situation. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Goddess Blade dangling above him, ready to deliver what could have been the fatal blow. Quickly, he rolled out of the way. The sword stabbed into the ground instead. He swung himself back to his feet, hissing at the pain thumping through his core, and turned to his opponent. Fi had dislodged herself and flung at him again.

Then, he noticed Zant had disappeared, leaving the Hero to anxiously look around him, stanced ready to strike. 

Ghirahim stabbed, kicked, and swung at his would-be Sister. Those cold and calculating eyes were unrelenting as she dodged and deflected his blows with frustrating ease. She had weakened him, and he would not hold against her long, were he to stop striking at her and turn into the victim of her assault instead. He lost count of the number of times his sword chipped against her steel legs and pleaded, begged for the spirit of Demise, wherever it lingered, to bless him with just a few more minutes, before the rapier would inevitably snap in two.

A beastly roar suddenly bellowed through the skies, freezing every combatant where they stood. It was the battle cry of the territorial King Dodongo, and it was coming right from the northern Hyrulean base. 

He looked at his two opponents and saw hesitation. Link, still conflicted about the sudden disappearance of Zant, shot one look at Fi before legging off directly to the source of the sound. The Sword Spirit, instead, had her eyes locked straight on Ghirahim, simply floating with the rigid posture she always had, dead eyes like the lifeless face of a statue aimed straight at him. 

One warhorn blared after the other, panicked and desperate for help. The King Dodongo was undoubtedly making quick work of the puny Hyrulean soldiers.

She then squinted, an unprecedented look of disdain, before lunging at him, and sending him tumbling to the ground with a swift kick. Before he could retaliate, she was already gone, speeding off to assist her Master.

There laid the Demon Lord, beaten and shattered in the dirt, too weakened to even lift his hand. He was not dying, certainly, but if either of those two decided to come back and finish him off, he would be powerless against it. Fury bubbled in his soul as tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. What a pathetic end! Everything he had ever lived for screamed in his mind, demanding he take up his sword and fight, but his body would not listen. He could do nothing but lay there as the blue skies above gradually blurred into a searing white, and his consciousness faded.

But then it all turned black, instead.

"Do not falter. I am here," murmured a voice like the embodiment of a graveyard shift. Zant's spindly found its way to his cheek, breaking through the tear-stained trail gathering there with a swipe of his thumb. Then, a strange sensation overtook them. With a rustle, suddenly, they were out of the battlefield, instead huddled in the bushes of an unknown location. 

Vision still blurry, his eyes darted hopelessly to try and find a hint of where he'd taken him. It was quiet out here, the air clear of any trace of violence. Wind soared through the leaves above them, translating to quivering green smudges in his failing sight. "Where are we," Ghirahim whimpered.

A thick, padded sleeve slipped underneath his neck, propping him up slightly to hold him on the Twili's lap. "Someplace safe. For now."

Panic overtook him as the weight of those words settled. Zant had just taken him off the battlefield, leaving their troops behind. His teeth gritted and his chest tightened, the barbed wire of dread ensnaring his core until it left grooves on its surface. He struggled in his grip, feeble but bursting with desperation. "You are not," he wept, "forcing me to desert this battle!"

With unprecedented gentleness, Zant began to shush him, bracing a hand against his shoulder. "Be still, Ghirahim. This is only a temporary measure. The beast I've unleashed upon them will only keep them occupied for so long, until they come bursting through our frontline again," he said, soothingly rubbing circles into his false skin with a thumb. "But you cannot fight like this. That much is clear."

Heaving sobs found themselves trapped in his throat, clawing at the gates that his stubborn fury held locked in front of them. Zant was right, but it enraged him to be so helpless. To find himself scalded and humiliated by the piteous eyes of his co-lieutenant. Knowing he wasn't going to get an answer out of his Sword Spirit, Zant cast his eyes down, instead, a troubled expression pulling at his features.

"It pains me to ask this of you again so soon. Still, I beg of you, [my beloved]. Let me help you," Zant whispered, brushing his hand so gently over his sore and tender chest. "Bare your core to me."

Zant's words stung like he'd been stabbed a second time. His eyes snapped back open, glaring right into those deep, orange eyes. It wasn't simply that the suggestion affronted him, it was the crushing realization that he truly had no other options. Either he agreed to Zant's offer, he pulled back, or he died, swiftly and without honor. In both latter cases, he would once again fail his Master. But in the former, he would betray Him, as he'd done before. This he could not bear.

Sensing his immense conflict, Zant spoke again. "I, too, wish for nothing more than your glory. Please trust me."

Already, the brush of Zant's hand sent thrums through his crumbling core, though the Twili likely hadn't intended it. Nearly every inch of his body tightened with panic, begging him to decline, to push himself away to safety and gather his bearings some other way, or that otherwise, death was preferable.

All but one inch, one whisper, that got so caught up in the way those big, glowing eyes looked at him, and remembered. Remembered how not long ago now, those hands had touched him with such tenderness, genuine compassion, and care . A care that had filled him with an insatiable hunger, so overwhelming yet without ever bearing the intent to harm him. 

And with every second, that vague flicker of a feeling grew brighter and brighter, until it crowded his every line of reasoning, and cried out from every corner of his mind, desperate to be filled with that spark of magic again. 

He wailed . He brought his clawed hands to cover his face, as the facsimile of skin on his chest burst open, leaving the cracked gem of his core exposed to the air.

Gangly fingers traced gingerly across the edges of his core, those feather-light touches alone strangling his body and soul with agony. Zant hissed, looking upon the weakly glowing fracture that stretched across the gem. “Oh, Ghirahim… What have they done to you,” he pondered meekly, cradling his weeping form in his arms. “I will fix this. Be strong, you must endure.”

***

To any mortal being on the battlefield, the curing of wounds was a viscerally mundane prospect. Potions, ointments, and bandages. The mending of flesh, and the setting of bones. All to be slowly and agonizingly recovered bit by bit, confined to sickbays under the watchful eyes of battle medics. To a sword spirit like Ghirahim, all it took was magic. 

Zant’s hand once again tightly clutched his gem. The second his skin grazed the jagged surface of his fracture, a searing pain shot through his entire body like a lightning strike that would not yield. Ghirahim cried out, his eyes rolling to the back of his head when the pressure just would not stop, every part of his being scrambling to alert him something was horribly wrong. He writhed against his grip, his eyes wide and panicked as one impulsive, yet terrifying thought crossed his mind. Had Zant betrayed him after all? Was this his way of finishing him off? A broken, disheveled, sobbing mess, far away from his Master? Would he-

It was then that his magic entered him once again. A cool, tingling breeze embalming the agitated faces of his shattered core. He choked on nothing at all when more of that overpowering occult force seeped through his cracks, numbing his so tightly wound body into submission. His head fell limply to the side, burying his face in the elbow of Zant’s sleeve. Now, he was too hazy and overwhelmed to get annoyed about the wet fabric smearing across his face. That intoxicating feeling, of being filled with smoke and static cleared every doubt he had, as the first of the hair-thin cracks began to mend across his chest. 

Dazzled, he blinked his tears away, his vision clearing for the first time since he’d been injured, and looked up at the Twilight King. Zant was captivated by his task, the marking on his furrowed brow glowing a gradient of teal and red, the first beads of sweat running down his cheek. As he closed his eyes again, lulled into a resigned feeling of safety, the sparks of energy dancing behind his eyelids.

Then, something struck him. 

Zant’s magic was an alien one — ancient and mutated under the strange anomalous properties of the Twilight Realm, and unfamiliar in every aspect. Where other magical auras were like fog or lightning, that of the Twili was like a mycelium. Pulsing, entangling, and undeniably alive. But amidst that quivering web of purple energy, there was something shockingly familiar. A magnetic pull snagged onto his very being the second he noticed it. It was small, a mere shard of it, even, reduced to nothing more than an amplifier, perhaps, but it was undeniably there.

It was his Master’s power. 

Ghirahim cried out with a whine. His hand shot out to clasp at Zant’s wrist, desperate and trembling to press it tighter to his core. He needed more of it, to be filled with this power that he was so intimately familiar with, and it couldn’t come fast enough. Startled by this sudden reaction, Zant for a moment faltered, but before he could inquire what the problem was Ghirahim hissed, squeezing his wrist and pushing his hand down as though he’d bleed out with any less pressure. 

Zant nodded. “Not much longer, now,” he whispered. “Stay with me.”

That euphoric haze of magic flooded his every sense again, his grip growing slack under its influence. If there was any more pain in his body, he wouldn’t have noticed it. He was happy to endure it if it meant he could spend even another second with that delectable bouquet of his Master blooming inside him, nurturing his very soul. The crystals of his core melted back together with a sound like grinding glass and he whimpered, simultaneously ecstatic from the sensation of healing and heartbroken by knowing it would end. His body stiffened, legs rubbing together, unable to stop himself from squirming from the butterflies swarming in every inch of his being. Slowly but surely, the webbing of Zant’s magic began to tug loose, branch by branch, as the last of his spell retracted back into his hand. Closing his eyes one last time, he bid the fading glow of Demise a quiet farewell. The very last shard of his core fell into place, and it all sunk back into his chest.

***

When he opened his eyes, he awoke to the sensation of Zant’s fingers gently stroking his cheek, undoubtedly worsening the smearing of his tragically running cosmetics. He let out a laugh at the gesture, and as he did, he came to a baffling realization. Unlike the last time Zant invaded his core, he wasn’t pained or exhausted. Rather, he was invigorated. 

“Ghirahim, we mustn’t dawdle. How do you feel?” Zant inquired, cupping his cheek in his hand. 

A vocal answer wouldn’t cut it. He shot upright, delirious with the strength that slowly spread through his body again, and threw himself at his Twili with a kiss. Teeth clacked in their mutual enthusiasm, wincing but not in enough pain to pull back, until Zant so boorishly pulled them apart. 

“I see,” he laughed, gingerly stroking the opening over his chest with his fingers. “I have given you a shred of my power, Ghirahim. I will want it returned after our clash today is complete, but for now, I demand but one thing of you.”

His helmet reassembled before him, leaving only his visor up and his mouth uncovered, as he leaned over to whisper in his ear.

“Make them pay.”

A burst of anticipation surged through his body, causing him to shudder. Rising to his feet, swaying and laughing, he knew what had to be done. A whirlwind of diamonds engulfed him, glowing brighter than it ever had, and he resurfaced from it in his true form. He looked down at his arms, the bustling glitter of his metal skin now enriched with a vague blue hue, and clenched his fist with a savage grin. Maniacal laughter burst from his throat, and he set off with a sprint, jumping through the permeable barrier of space-time, and landing back in the middle of the carnage.

His entrance into the battlefield commanded instant silence from all around him, as every warrior, demon or Hylian, paused to gawk at him. With his disappearance and the departure of the Hyrulean commanders, his private arena had dissipated, and he was now spot in the middle of the battlefield. Like an orb weaver returning to the center of its web, surrounded by the bound corpses of its prey, the sun’s light turned him into a beacon of spectacle. Twilight magic coursed through him, his once so pure black skin illuminating a soft teal that now bounced off the armor of those standing around him. He felt it as a puppet’s string, yet bracing, not controlling. Unlike anything Zant had ever forged his connection to, he did not mean to leash him; he merely gave him an extra push. This small droplet of the Twilight King’s soul was embedded within him, tying the two together in mind and body, but each, free. When he looked upon the surrounding masses, Zant did not command him, rather, he encouraged him, and stood at the ready to amplify his every move.

The first of the Hyruleans lunged towards him, only for his sword to shatter on his shoulder upon impact. In an instant, he grabbed the unfortunate soul by the helmet. Whimpering was drowned out by the foreboding groan of metal as Ghirahim began to squeeze. With frightening ease, he crushed his skull like a nutcracker would an almond. What menacing power! Normally such a move would cost two hands, at the very least! He relinquished his grip on the lifeless sack of meat and steel, beholding his gore-stained hand adoringly. What if he could..?

He flexed his fingers, and out from his index and little fingers, his claws extended into long, deadly talons. 

His other hand followed suit. It was time for some fun.

Razor-sharp nails tore through armor and flesh like scissors through fabric. Even the bravest of soldiers turned hesitant to block his advance. The bulwarks of men rapidly dwindled to the equivalent of rope fences, terror freezing them in place. A single swipe of his hand would send heads rolling, tearing through armor with the force of a dragon’s claw. Not far behind him now, the Argorok ripped at its chains, maddened by the overpowering smell of blood that wafted off the trail behind him. He was barreling straight towards the eastern keep, and not a soul dared to stop him.

Gates fell shut in front of him, and his head craned up to the sound of creaking bowstrings. Trembling lines of soldiers stood atop the balusters, aiming crossbows at the glorious affront to the Goddess that waited below them. Empty eyes stared back at the steel tips pointed at him, anticipating, no, daring them to shoot. Clouds of arrows volleyed towards him, air whistling through the feather fletchings, but tinked uselessly off his metal hide. 

They reloaded. Ghirahim stepped forward. 

Eyes back on the gates, he leisurely padded onwards, brushing off hundreds of arrows with as much ease as he would raindrops. Above him, archers grew frantic, the fumbling of their hands preventing a steady aim. Standing right before the gate, he reared back his fist.

Fuses lit above him. Ghirahim’s gaze snapped up within the blink of an eye, and he spotted that gaudy purple mask again, cockily tilting down as its wearer aimed a triplet of bomb arrows at him. Grubby little fingers freed the drawstring, and a cascade of fire and sulfur enveloped him with deafening thunder.

Silence, dawning horror.

Smoke cleared, and Ghirahim was unscathed.

The gate was not. Adamantine fists pounded into the steel latticing of the barricade before him, sending men scattering out the other side. He dug his fingers into the bulging metal and pulled. Hinges cried and whined in his steel-bending grip, until they finally gave way, and left a gaping maw of shredded iron behind them. Cheering bokoblins flooded in past him, kicking out the last few Hyrulean imbeciles that were too stupid to flee. 

The Eastern Front was a massacre, crawling with demons and imps that infested keeps and outposts. His advance was halted by none until the pounding of hooves approached him from the north. Mounted atop a pitch-black stallion, another familiar face showed herself, recognizable through her trademark white braid. She took one look at him, at the pathway of carnage he’d ripped into the battlefield, and scowled, spurring her horse to gallop right past him, back to the keeps he’d claimed. Over his dead body, would he let her through! He leaped towards her, clawed hand extended to tear through her horse’s legs, but something caught his wrist and threw it back. Once again, that divine nuisance had shown up. Shielded by the bulk of the Sheikah commander, Link had hitched a ride behind her unseen and swiftly jumped off her horse to assist her in her escape.

Little under a league behind them, zaps of dark magic ate through chains, and the Argorok climbed up the air in flight.

“Fancying a second round? Your surprise attacks will work on me no longer,” Ghirahim spat, licking the blood off his fingers. 

Link glowered at him, but remained undeterred by his display of wanton cruelty, raising his sword in brave idiocy. He must not have seen what he’d reduced the other soldiers to, yet. Perhaps the goddess’ dog could relay it to him later, were either of them to survive this battle. He lashed out with one clawed hand, scratching sparks off of the taunting emblem of the Hylian shield. What a surprise. Armor that could withstand him! Well, it was getting a bit too boringly easy, either way. The Chosen Hero stabbed at him from behind his shield but failed to land a hit, as Ghirahim kicked him back before he could reach him. The gargantuan force launched him back, but with a twist of his body, Link landed on his hands and feet and sprinted right back at him with a throat-tearing battlecry. His blade was bound with the demon’s talons, one sword offering valiant resistance against four. Light coursed through the goddess blade as it slipped past his defenses, and Ghirahim squinted his eyes shut with a scowl as it struck his skin —

And left little more damage than a pinprick.

A wave of ecstatic realization washed over him. Even the holy sword could no longer damage him in a way that mattered. This was the result of their combined power, of Twilight magic coursing through his veins! Link staggered backward, washed over with dread, and braced himself for impact. There stood the embodiment of courage before him, having now realized he bit off more than he could chew, about to choke on his own hubris. Zant’s words echoed in his mind like a serenade, as his teeth bared into a grin.

Make them pay. 

He lunged forward with shrieking laughter, slashing his claws with reckless abandon. Link stumbled backward, his dwindling confidence masked with rage while he deflected blow after blow with his shield. Oh, how he’d longed to humiliate this very same face for centuries! Dagger-like talons bounced frustratingly off his shield, but he found plenty of joy in simply shoving him around. One last thrust at his core left the boy wide open, and he thrust his arm parallel to his opponent’s, claws extended in a wicked strike. 

The tip of his index finger struck Link’s chest. Golden veils of protective magic were punctured, exploding outwards like shattering glass, and the hero tumbled backward once more, clutching himself with an agonized cry. 

As if on cue, Fi surfaced once more and forced herself between the two quarreling men.

“Out of my way, Fi. You know I’d hate to cut our dynamic short.”

His counterpart stood unmoving, staring straight ahead. Ghirahim stared back.

She had been unable to damage him in her Master’s hands. Yet Ghirahim, free of any wielder, managed to flatten the entire Eastern Front. That frozen stare pierced straight into him. Was she distracted, or did she notice the subtle wiggle of his fingers? His claws itched. Just like he, her core was bared to the outside world. He knew that if he played his cards right, he could shatter her to pieces with just one strike.

“The odds are in your favor today, Ghirahim.”

That voice, so robotic, robbed of any bit of soul or immersion. Just hearing it enraged him, evoked an eerie, sickening feeling in the depth of his core. This clean-slate wretch of a creature symbolized everything that motivated his alliance with Demise and all His descendants, and he could not stand to look at her even a second longer. He lunged for her, but she swiftly kicked his arm out of the way. Again, he struck, desperate to put the sword out of its misery, and again, it deflected. Heels and talons collided time and time again, and cores were left untouched. For once in their millennia-long facsimile lives, they were true equals. For once, Ghirahim felt well and truly alive.

A shadow blotted out the skies above. Mere seconds later, the great black steed of Lady Impa sped by with the thundering of hooves. The two sword spirits, blade bound against blade, looked upward.

Flying over them was the Argorok, piloted by the chains in the hands of one very familiar lunatic of a man. Cheered on by the rancorous infernal bellowing of thousands of monsters, the Twilight King made his way north on the back of a ravenous wyvern. He was heading for the keep. 

In an instant, Fi broke away from him and joined the stumbling Link in a last-ditch effort to guard the northern base. They were wounded and outmatched, so he decided to let them. Having them dead might have been more convenient, but to let them dwell on the aftertaste of this defeat was far more of a tantalizing thought.

“You magnificent bastard,” cried Ghirahim, fist raised to the sky. “Show them what the King of Shadows can do!”

He dashed through the battlefield like a living arrow, and none made an effort to stop him. The sight of Zant flying over pulled on him like a magnet. Any remaining Hyrulean forces had been thrown into chaos by the onslaught of monsters, and couldn’t have found even a minute to regroup. His iron soles beat into the charred grass left by the King Dodongo, whose behemothian corpse laid not far ahead. Maw agape and claws still embedded in the walls of the northern keep, it lay dead against the fort. Its reptilian brother had been more fortunate in that regard. Perched atop the front of the keep was the Argorok, smoke and acid dripping from its jaws. The scent of burning fat and ashes filled Ghirahim’s nostrils. He quickly realized that the dragon had made mincemeat out of whoever remained inside that keep, and struggled against its bindings to feast upon its spoils. For now, its rider would not let it. Planted firmly upon a saddle, chains in hand, Zant silenced the masses of demons below with the raise of his hand.

“The Princess has fled, and the border is ours,” he bellowed, his normally so frail and husky voice amplified to thunder. “Any Hyrulean setting foot in these lands is now an intruder. Hunt them down, give them no quarter!”

Ganondorf’s forces exploded in a victorious roar, fists, weapons, and shields raised to the sky. Now, all that was left was the clean-up, and with the eagerness of children being set free for recess, their troops turned back to the battlefield to salvage whatever trampled goods they could. 

Ghirahim, however, stayed right where he was. His eyes were transfixed on the man so proudly stood upon the fort’s walls, undoubtedly giggling to himself under the racket of rallying beasts. The light of falling dusk bathed Zant and his draconian steed in golden light, a glorious halo of Twilight, the skies themselves cheering for their umbral king. His blood-stained helmet turned to face him. Though he could not see his face, the puppet strings connecting them conveyed Zant’s manic joy as if it were his very own. Ghirahim welcomed the smile that stretched across his face, involuntary but not unwanted, and stepped forward to greet his co-lieutenant after their victory.

But his knees buckled. A sudden feebleness buzzed through his legs, and he fell to the ground. Brought to his knees, he shakily looked at his hands, only to see the blue glow start to dim under his skin. As Zant promised, he was taking his power back, and the full wave of exhaustion of the past hours was crashing into him in its full riptide. Before the world went fully black, he felt himself tipping over, and hands with uneven digits caught his face before it could hit the gore-drenched mud.

Chapter Text

"Good morning, [my Diamond]."

For the first time since that battle, where their souls became one, Ghirahim awakened. Zant lay next to him in his nightgowns, brushing the backs of his fingers across his jaw. The sword spirit’s mattress was much harder than his own. Likely, because it often went unused. Ghirahim groaned, squinting his eyes shut, and rubbed his fingers through his hair. In all of the time they spent together, Zant had not seen him sleep until now. He could only surmise he was rousing from a most unfamiliar feeling. 

“What happened,” he murmured. “I… I remember the battle, but… How did I get back to the Palace?” Hands stroked his face, pulling at puffy eyebags. 

Zant propped himself up on his elbow. “You have slept for five days,” he stated, very matter-of-factly.

“Five days!?”

Five days. That is how long he spent by his side. After driving himself to his very limit, Ghirahim fell to the ground at the Eldin Border, and simply would not rise. Zant remembered how quickly he dove for him, clutching him in his arms, searching for any sign of life. The pulse of his core was weak, then, but undeniably there. It hid there, the precious thing, sheltering deep within him in recuperation. Medics and generals gathered around the pair, fearing for the worst, but Zant pacified them soon enough. But he could not remain there. Using his magic to lift him, the large, metal man was soon brought hovering to his chest, a hand held in the small of his back to guide him through the air before him the same ease one would when playing with bubbles of soap. When he returned him to their keep in Eldin, he did not leave his side. When his comatose body was sent to the palace, he did not leave his side. And though duty called during the negotiations with their Master, he returned each night to his chambers without fail, and joined him in his bed. Zant knew nothing of sword spirits, of demons, yet every day he kept a watchful eye over that gentle flicker within his core. Whatever happened, that faint glow must not die. The cost of power would not be paid with the life of his companion. 

Every night that glow remained stable was one of simultaneous relief and guilt. Ghirahim was not dying. Yet, Zant could not help but think that his current state was his doing. So gleefully he had danced through the battlefield, his dagger, and so tranquil he laid there now. To be united in the way that they were, he was granted a peek through the screens to reveal so much of him. As small and relenting as their tether had been, Ghirahim’s pure joy and pride glowed through the strings that bound them. Time and time again he stated that he was a weapon, but the fulfillment he took in acting the part bloomed even into Zant’s very soul, and he now understood it fully. It put a twisted warmth in his chest, one he could only recall fondly now that it was gone. He wondered, then, what pieces of himself had entered into his beloved. What knowledge he held of him now. 

Three days, Ghirahim had laid unchanged. On the fourth night, suddenly, his chosen skin appeared again to shroud his body. Zant sat excitedly, then, waiting for him to awaken. Only to splay across him, weeping softly, when he did not. Certainly, it meant slowly, but surely, Ghirahim was regaining his strength, but his impatience, his desire to see him, was taking its toll. Ganondorf was growing impatient, their generals anxious, and Yuga, oh, spare the thought.

It was the sixth morning. Ghirahim was awake.

In response to his startled query, he nodded, cooing happily as he nuzzled him. Ghirahim was anxious, only meeting his affection for a second. A smile graced his lips, but his brow creased with worry. Soon, he dismissed him to sit up, a feverish eagerness to return to his post overtaking him. The Sword only knew to serve. But before he could fully rise, he clutched his head and fell back into the pillows. 

Zant braced his hand on his shoulder. “Do not rush, Ghirahim. All your duties are accounted for until your recovery.”

The demon groaned and writhed before him. For a man such as he, having not a single thing to attend to was unheard of, surely. Even as he took his hand, he continued to bemoan his fate. “How pesky it is, to lay here idle! What of our Master? I’m certain he will be positively cross with me, for our carelessness.”

Zant stroked his thumb over Ghirahim’s gloved fingers. Indeed, Ganondorf had been displeased with the lack of progress of Ghirahim’s recovery, and certainly, now that he was awake again, he would put him to work straight away. For now, he wished to shelter him as long as he could. To enjoy that rare moment of being his sole occupation. “I have briefed our successes to our Master. Fortunately for us, word travels fast. Your massacre on the Eastern front was most thrilling to him, [my dear].” Sweetened was the pot, and Ghirahim relaxed just a bit. “Though, I’ve not relayed all the details yet. He will want to see us again and inquire.”

Ghirahim’s lips tightened to a thin, white line as he averted his gaze to the sun peeking past the shutters. Zant drew his attention to him again, with the press of a kiss to his knuckles. He turned to him and spoke. “What of our advance?”

“Oh, you needn’t fret for another few days. We are sending out skirmishes before returning to the border. The Master wishes to send us to Death Mountain, next. The Gorons are holding too fast for his liking, and I must agree.”

Ghirahim nodded again thoughtfully. The buzzing ache of duty ate away at him, hollowing him out beneath his false skin, leaving nothing but the desire to rip himself out of bed and get to his post. Even his affections could not slither their way past that worried scowl. Zant thought carefully, wondering how he could lower his guard, and sink him back into the pillows in relaxation for just a few more precious minutes.

He scooted on the bed towards him, clutching his hand to his chest. Ghirahim looked with hooded eyes at the odd gesture of affection, his attention captured by the heartbeat that resonated through his metallic interior. Zant smiled when he faced him again. “You still have not recovered, Ghirahim. It is quite alright to spend a little more time in leisure.”

“Sentimental creature,” Ghirahim scoffed, a smirk splitting his lips. “I take it you have just been laying here, waiting until I wake up? So unwisely you spend your time.”

He squinted at him. The gravity of the situation simply did not occur to Ghirahim. Not for a moment, did he consider his worries, how he had agonized over his sleeping state. A sword he was, indeed! So tragic was he, to be forged for bloodshed, and understand so little of everything else. If it was practicalities he was worried about, he would soothe him with them, first. “Rest assured, I have been attending to my duties, and yours, perfectly adequately. But, indeed, I spent my nights to watch over you. I do not regret it. Privileged am I, to be the first to see your waking face.”

Ghirahim’s eyes widened, and his brow subtly knit, the tips of his ears getting just a small reddish glow. He was to say something bothersome again, to try to push his buttons. How he desired, instead, to see that blush increase. “Stay with me, just a little longer? I have missed you so terribly, Ghirahim.”

A pause. Ghirahim rolled over on his side, slowly, as to not agitate his dizziness, to face him properly. He looked down at the hand Zant still had pressed to his chest, fixated on the grey fingers gently stroking his own. His eyes flitted up to him again, his milky lips parting as he sought his words. The Demon Lord witnessed him now, truly saw him, how haggard his countenance and disheveled his hair had become. “You worried for me?”

“The term ‘worry’ cannot begin to encapsulate the grief I felt, looking upon you in that wretched slumber.”

A flicker of recognition shone in Ghirahim’s ink-black eyes. The reflection of his chandelier danced in his irises as the stars would reflect in a midnight lake, the fancies he carried within those deep voids bubbling to the surface. A gasp escaped his lips. Slowly, he drew closer to him. They silently entangled, Ghirahim’s face burrowing into the pillowy fabric on his chest as he held him tight. Silently he whispered, muffled and elusive like the turning of a page. “Thank you, for caring for me,” the words left his lips with uncertainty, their pitch stuck between a broken sob and a question. 

The frigid waking body of the Demon Lord slowly warmed in his arms. Cry before him, he would not, but the heavy eyelids fluttering shut as he rested his face upon his breast carried solemnity. Words of gratitude, of lament, and the joy of reunion did not need to be said. They carried their meaning in the gentle touches they placed upon one another, of hands grasping at clothing, and fingers combing through each others’ hair. 

As he cradled him so tenderly against him, Zant smiled.

——

"Tell me. Which of you was it who faced the Chosen Hero?"

Even the spellbinding intimacy of that morning, as much as he’d safeguarded it, had to come to an end. As Zant expected, the very minute their Master suspected Ghirahim’s return to the waking world, he had them summoned to his throne room. They kneeled at his feet, faces cast down to the ground as they gave him their report. Most of it, Zant had relayed himself. But Ganondorf found one slight crack in his report that could cost them both. The Gerudo King fully intended to wring the concealed guilt out of his subordinate ‘til the last drop.

"You let him live," Ganondorf stated coldly. That disdain in his voice. Though he was not permitted to take his eyes off of him, through the very air, a silent whimper. He heard Ghirahim falter. 

"... Yes, Master."

"In your carelessness, your thirst for battle, you injured that boy into defenselessness, and you let him live ," he snarled, a fist balling with a creak of his gauntlet's hinges as he pounded it on his armrest. A stammer quaked out beside him, dribbling from the lips of a paralyzed Ghirahim who sought desperately for a proper excuse for his selfish behavior. Against his precious Master, he could never find one.

"I do beg your pardon, My Lord," Zant interjected, immediately attracting the furious gaze of the Demon King to himself. "Though indeed it may appear careless, would you not say his actions on the battlefield accorded well to your wishes? The boy is your prized kill. To take such a monumental achievement from you would only displease you."

Silence tore through the throne room in an instant. Ghirahim, wide-eyed and shocked, ceased his mousey whimpers. Zant and Ganondorf were locked in a sharp, fiery gaze, golden eyes burning holes in one another.

Wrinkles formed at the corners of Ganondorf's eyes. The mighty Demon King threw his head back in roaring laughter, his hand smacking atop his armrest. "Right you are, Shadow Lord. Truly, you know your King."

Zant smiled, closing his eyes and nodding with cold serenity. Better than you could ever know, My Lord.

Ganondorf grunted as his laughter died down, looking between the two of them. "You have done well in securing the border, and though the fortune of coincidence has smiled upon you this time, I will tolerate no further acts of mercy. I have summoned you here to kill for me, not engage in quarrels of your own."

The two of them nodded solemnly in response. Their Master had no need to remind them of the consequences, should they displease him even a shred further. The arrival of Yuga may have strengthened their forces significantly, but it also jeopardized the positions of the two lieutenants. Bit by bit, they became gradually less irreplaceable. A man of flesh and blood at the surface, but below that bronze skin weaved an ever-growing tapestry of golden power. Anything that stood in the way of that power was to be disposed of, camaraderie be damned. 

The pair marched back to the hall, soles clacking on the polished tiles in unison. Veiled Gerudo women closed the massive, gilded door behind them.

Ghirahim remained silent. The thoughts racing through his mind the second he crossed the threshold of subservience might as well have been reflected in his eyes. Yet, not a single word passed his lips. He was stunned.

Zant placed his hand on his shoulder. Ghirahim shrugged it off. 

“Why did you make excuses for me? I am no child. Such blunders have consequences, and I was prepared to face them,” he snarled after whipping around to face him.

Zant remembered the tremor in the air. How the very floor bore the burden of his fears, threatening to crack and fissure, swallowing Ghirahim into the fires resting below the surface. The look on the sword spirit’s face, reflected in the polished surface of their Master’s shin guards. It was the face of a man who had fled the clutches of death, only to hear it knocking on his windowsill in the dead of night.

The shutters of Zant’s helmet closed over his face before his scowl could become any more obvious. “You were not.”

Ghirahim clenched his fist and grit his teeth, but could find no retort. Such a whirlwind of emotions, this one. If only he knew the extent of the typhoon that reckoned before him. Zant braced his hand on the small of Ghirahim’s back and began to walk. He knew that he hadn’t the strength to move the solid metal being if he tried, but much to his satisfaction, he followed along with him, a barely-disguised shuffle stumbling his otherwise straight-postured gait.

“Come, [my nightshade], let us mull over it no longer,” he purred, walking him down the corridor. “The Master has forgiven us for now. If you wish to please him, you would do better to return to your duties than to sulk at me. There is plenty to discuss in the camp. Troops are expected to return with our supplies, to-day.”

Ghirahim clicked his tongue, the pep returning to his step. “I wasn’t sulking. With all the nonsense you pull, I am fully justified in my occasional outburst.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

——

A sharp gasp startled Zant nearly out of his desk chair.

“What beautiful embroidery,” Ghirahim marveled, taking a folded garment carefully out from his wardrobe. He unfolded it, holding it before him. The dark fuchsia robe, decorated with a subtle wave pattern in white, was dangling from his fingertips, its ends just barely off the ground. “And such exquisite colors! Zant, why do you never wear this?”

Ah, he’d almost forgotten about it. Perhaps now was a good time to retrieve it, but… Somewhere, he shuddered to. With Ghirahim rousing from his deep sleep, Zant was finally in a fair enough mood that Yuga felt comfortable pestering him about portraiture again. Of course, his sword spirit caught onto this and appointed himself to be the one to dress him for the event. Or rather, simply ripped his wardrobe open to rummage inside. Powerless to stop him, Zant had resigned himself with a sigh. Instead, he sat at his desk, attempting to engross himself in completing a field chapter through all the noise. It was not going well. 

He leaned back in his chair, meeting eyes with the giddy thing peeking past the sea of fabric. A hum escaped through his nose. “That… Is part of a set. It is far too ill-fitting on its own.”

The immediate glitter in Ghirahim’s eyes made him somewhat regret those words. “A set?” He immediately dove back into the closet. “Where is the rest of it?”

With a sigh, he stood up from his chair and joined his side. “There are ten layers total-“

“Ten!?”

“Yes,” ignoring the rude interruption, he gestured with his sleeve to the closet’s interior. “These shelves hold the bottom eight layers, and the two overcoats, I’ve hung back here,” Zant murmured, pushing the coats and robes that hung in his closet aside with a sweep of his arms, revealing a pair of spread robes hung tightly against the wall. The outermost was an almost sheer, midnight blue, adorned with the pale swirls of twilit medallions, while the one below it was a bright cyan, decorated with a sprawling pattern of ferns. 

Ghirahim gasped, delighted at the craftsmanship of the robes that were so scandalously tucked away from the light of day. Indignated, almost, he ran the fabric through his fingers. “Why you choose to wear the same thing nigh every day when you have these gorgeous robes just catching dust is beyond me.”

“They’re quite arduous to don,” he pondered. “The whole ensemble needs several attendants to put together.”

Ghirahim looked at him so sharply and quickly that the alarming jingle of his earring drew his eyes straight to him. “How many attendants?”

A dawning realization fell on Zant as he drew a breath. “At least two,” he murmured after a beat of silence. 

It did not take long for him to be set up in the middle of the room, his co-lieutenants once again swarming him like scavengers around an increasingly more well-dressed carcass. He stuck his arms out to either side, while the two men — one behind him, the other up front, busied themselves with robes and sashes. Groaning and frowning, the pair of rag-tag dressing maids soon realized the reason Zant hadn’t worn it in their presence before. It was an incredibly complex piece, requiring specific layering of pins, ribbons, and knots. Not only to keep it in place but to retain the inherent symbolism hidden within the layering of the garment. This, Zant insisted on. Despite it having been a year since he last donned it, he somehow managed to remember what pin went where. More amusingly, it gave him the opportunity to swat and bicker whenever either of them failed to follow his instructions. Childish it was, perhaps, but he wanted to exact a little vengeance on them. They’d been far too comfortable pushing him around!

Nevertheless, sooner or later, they had him dressed. Heavy layers dragged on the ground behind him as he walked towards the standing mirror. He’d been clad in a palette of black, gold, turquoise, and fuchsia, embracing one another in a turbulent gradient. Sweating and disheveled, Ghirahim and Yuga squeezed hands in quiet celebration behind him. Indeed, they’d done fine work. It was a lovely garment, though looking at it, he decided he’d rather not dwell on the memories of having commissioned it. After looking himself up and down once more, he turned back towards the pair, only to find them lingering awfully close behind him. Zant flinched, backing up just a step in surprise, blinking down at the pair that followed him in step. As it turned out, a change of clothes alone would not suffice for royal portraiture. His attendants would not rest until he left this room jingling and glittering with bits, bobs, and bangles. There was a painting to make.

More doll than man was he now, held together by pins and combs and jewels. Zant found himself in the Lorulian sorcerer’s atelier, seated on a prop wooden throne that just barely managed to fit his mass of robes. Across from him sat Yuga, accompanied by Ghirahim, who decided to stick around until he got bored of watching blotches of paint sculpt into shape. Eyes bore down on him, one gawking at him from idle curiosity, while the other pair glared at him with an intensity that could rival the light of the sun. Yuga’s eyes held him in a tight grasp, almost, forbidding him from moving. Rattling at the gate of his consciousness. Though there was nothing antagonistic about it, the sheer heat that flushed the back of his neck prompted him only to stare back, contesting that fierce gaze. And yet, he found he could not trap Yuga within like he could do others. The fluttering sounds of pencil dancing across canvas crackled in his ears as every detail of his form was devoured by the sorcerer’s ravenous eyes. The curve of his jawline, the shade falling upon his nose, and the markings upon his brow, every essence was plucked from him and copied onto the canvas. 

Their gazes met once more. Deep brown met gold, locked together, and stayed, until he was no longer looking at him at all. Zant stared straight through him, swallowed by the void black of his pupils.

Vision blurred, faded, and regained shape. He was now on his throne back at home, illuminated only by the soft glow of turquoise runes, and gazed out in front of him. Though he looked, he saw nothing, his vision clouded by a strange haze. He stared, and stared, and stared, until he realized what it was that he saw. It was not a blur that troubled the translation of sight and interpretation in his mind. Instead, his sight was segmented. Like the bulbous, paned eyeballs of a fly, he saw himself. Not through his own eyes, no, but stolen from the blank stares of his attendants standing at the foot of his throne. Now, he understood the depth of his bewitchment! His curse! 

Oh, how he missed his shadow puppets. So obedient, yet so vicious. 

Each and every one of his servants was caught in an endless web of puppet strings, himself at the center, attached to him through jagged hooks embedded in his mind. He needed not to raise even a finger to force them to do his bidding, powerless against his invasion. On his throne, he sat, indeed, but simultaneously, he was everywhere. Yet he was not scattered, he was fulfilled! Drowning in the delirious tyranny of his own power! Every particle of light that entered his countless eyes, blinding enough to roll his pupils to the back of his skull. The rustle of even the smallest creature scuttling away from his vessels could not go unnoticed. Scents of dried grass and ocean winds and urban bustle, enough to make him see smoke. The overwhelming potpourri of senses collided into him all at once. He was presented with the gift of omnipotence in a goblet and had gripped it with both his hands, gluttonously gulping down to drain every last drop, whether it would go down his throat or spill past his chin. 

Contented he sat, the blur of his vision replaced by disturbing clarity. If he looked closely now, he could see the little strings of his marionettes suspended between himself and his thralls, glittering under the light of his runes.

Until something snagged on his wrist. His eyes snapped open, as if he had opened yet another pair of lids, and transfixed on the source of the odd little tug. There, from under his skin, burrowed in the veins, was another string. Subtly, it shone and sparkled under the light, drawing his eyes up, up, up towards the ceiling to trace its trajectory. His mouth fell agape when he saw it disappear into the shadows of the ceiling.

A voice called.

It insisted.

"Zant," called a shrill voice now with astounding clarity.

He was in Yuga's room. That's right. He was posing. "Yes?"

"Are you feeling quite alright?" Yuga inquired, having stepped away from behind his canvas to approach him. He noticed now that while he drifted someplace else, Ghirahim had left, and Yuga was looking quite a bit more paint-smeared than when he last saw him. The curtains were drawn, though, so he hadn’t the slightest idea how long he’d wandered into the fog of his mind. Rather a touch disoriented than baking in the sun, he supposed. 

The painter continued, cocking his head and clearing his throat as he spotted him losing focus again. "You had quite the scowl on your face for a moment there."

Zant chuckled in response. An artist’s eye is eternally sharp, especially when staring intently at its muse. How careless, to let himself get so lost in terrible thoughts! "Oh, it's really quite embarrassing. I have an itch I daren't relieve, and I didn't want to move to tend to it. I must have gotten distracted."

Yuga laughed, seemingly a little relieved. To mislead him through mundane matters seemed like the best option, indeed. "You can feel free to move a bit, you know! So long as you return to your position after." 

"No, I do not want to risk dislodging my robes. I will manage."

Yuga hummed, and returned to his place behind the easel, humming cheerfully. "Do know that you can be candid with me. I do quite enjoy it!"

Over the next few days, Zant would oblige that offer. A marvelously quick worker, Yuga was, but even she could not finish such an arduous project in a single day. Every day they would have a handful of free hours, Zant found himself returning to the foppish lady’s studio, clad in those heaving robes and sweating the hours away. Every time silence fell, and those heavily painted eyes peeped curiously past the canvas, he found himself sharing just a little snippet of his life.

"It was not a delusion, you know. My pursuit for the throne."

The wispy, scratching sound of brush upon canvas ceased. Yuga looked past her easel with intrigue.

"I truly was considered to be next in line. Our throne is elective – the reigning monarch perishes, and the most suitable successor is decided through vote."

For a moment, Yuga simply stopped and blinked, until a slight smile crossed her, and she returned to painting. So, so eager to catch this expression, this tug of the lips. Zant was fulfilling her wish for candor, every word caught like precious raindrops in the drought. "Is that so? I daren't offend, my most esteemed sitter, but I must say, I had always assumed you to occupy a similar position as I."

Zant shook his head, stiffly and controlled as to not dislodge his many adornments. Jewelry and hairpins jingled in the motion. "I served, indeed, as High Clergy, but I occupied the same realm as princes. But alas, it was not meant to be. Midna, due only to the love of our people and her blood relation to the previous monarch, claimed it for her own."

On a particularly hot day, he appeared to the painter in his undershirt. The unpredictable, ever-changing nature of the Light World never ceased to bewitch him. Still, he allowed himself moments to complain about this so-unfamiliar concept of sweltering desert heat. Wax candles needn’t be lit to melt, in this weather! Yuga lounged around him, piecing together sketches of his face from various angles. Madly he hovered around him, wielding a candlestick to observe how the shadows fell upon his face. Little wicker flames flickered, stuttering in the wind of movement. An almost crazed look lingered in Yuga’s eyes, engrossed in his task. Studious was he, pointed and lacquered nails digging into his skin as he turned his face to whichever angle he wished. Yuga peered at him, a brush between his teeth, lap-sized canvas clutched tightly in his hand. Any other time, it would have unnerved him, but his professionalism made it endurable.

Another ramble struck him. "I do admit, she was my equal in the realm of magic. But she was stubborn. Childish. In scholarly realms, I by far exceeded her, and in ambition. Gods! The only ambition she had was that of peace. In that wretched place, we had suffered nothing else than this coveted 'peace'. The word stagnation would suit it better. A slow death of her spirit. I could have brought feasible change, but alas, I lacked her charisma, her poise."

Yuga, though visibly interested, allowed him to finish speaking, yet still admonished him for daring to move his jaw during such a careful study. He refrained from sharing any more that day.

Yuga was in a fair mood that day. He had presented him with a basket of grapes, to idly eat while the painter worked into the last details of his robes. No longer did he have to stare so intently at his face, but he spied the man occasionally meeting his eye, either way. He popped one of the dark, purple fruits into his mouth. Casually he sat eating, waiting for a chance to once again draw his attention.

"In any other case, to have retained my position would have been strategic. I could have exerted my influence over the reigning monarch and forced that change into being, but Midna… Midna, I could never hope to control. She is too steadfast for that."

His fingers twitched in his lap. The many robes stifled him, made his skin itch like it was ill-fitted. Never could he fully sit still when his temper failed him, his anger masked by gritted teeth and a bitter smile. "Perhaps… Had I kept my old name, I would have had a better chance at gaining the throne."

Again, a pause. Zant partook in another grape. His tongue crushed it against the roof of his mouth, bursting its juices to the inside of his cheeks. He grimaced, subtly. This one was sour. His ear twitched, acutely hearing the quiver of the brush in Yuga's hand. Earrings jingled. 

Hesitation, yet burning with curiosity, held back slimly by his desire to stay polite. Hisself-controll snapped like worn rope. "Oho," Yuga inquired, "If I may ask, whatever might that be?"

Zant chuckled in response. "Perhaps some other time."

This final day was fairest of all, but longest, as well. Yuga pleaded him to sit hours into the night, and had even invited Ghirahim over to join them. His sword spirit sat behind Yuga, draped over a lounging couch, chin resting on his hand. Deep, black eyes curiously, yet with a hint of boyish boredom and envy, stared at the canvas that Zant himself could not see. He looked between him and the painting, and Ghirahim smiled fondly. It was the smile of someone trying their best to hide a surprise, the bouquet they hid just barely peeking past their silhouette. Zant flashed a smile in return, before returning his attention to Yuga. The man paced before the canvas, smearing the excess paint on his hands off on his stained apron, and wiped his brow. Thrilled eyes darted between Zant and the canvas, perfectionism curling his fingers into claws. He lunged back to his canvas every so often between his fits of staring, feverishly working on nothing but a few dots of white on shining lips and jewelry. Amused by his enthusiasm, the pair of lovers exchanged a glance, mouths tightening to stifle a smile.

Finally, Yuga decisively dunked his brushes into the tin of water perched upon his stool and marveled at his work with his hands thrown into the air. “It is finished!”

Ghirahim rose from his chair, covering his lips with his hand. Almost bashful, he gazed upon his depiction! Could he be shy to see him in such opulence? 

“Why, Yuga. Such fine work you’ve put in! This really is one of your better works yet.”

Yuga beamed in response, adoringly grasping Ghirahim by the cheeks. 

“Could one of you help me up? These robes weigh me down, after so many hours of sitting,” Zant cut in. A scandal it would be, for the very subject of the painting to be left out of the conversation. Ghirahim soon made his way over to take his hands, pulling him back upright from the wooden throne. Hand in hand, the two of them walked over to the easel, as a valet would help his Lordship from a carriage. 

Zant gasped as his eyes fell on the painting. So elegantly, he had been depicted! He clutched his robes to his chest to keep them from disheveling, leaning forward close enough for the golden coating to glitter in his eyes. Cosmetics split and creased on his face as he grinned widely. “Oh, Yuga. I adore it. Such a fine way to be immortalized! Truly, you see beauty where others fail to notice it.”

Yuga shrieked with laughter. “Of course you’d love it! I settle for nothing less than perfection, with such a stunning model.” Caked with dried paint, perfumed hands found his face again, and tugged him down. Overcome with joy, Yuga pressed a kiss to his cheek, leaving a smudge of gloss upon it. The past days have made him awfully comfortable with touching him. He wasn’t sure he minded. “What a marvelous sitter you’ve been! I would be very fortunate, indeed, if you were to pose for me again.”

A subtle clear of the throat rang behind him. For the first time since he first laid eyes upon it, he managed to tear his gaze away from the glorious painting and turn his neck to face the noise. “I believe someone else needs tending to, first, Yuga.”

Ghirahim stood self-importantly behind them, pacified only slightly by the paint-stained hand that patted reassuringly on his shoulder.

“Of course I have you penned thoroughly in my schedule already, my dear Ghirahim. But a man can look to the future and hope!”

The gloved hands posed grumpily at his waist, dropped down to dangle beside him, and a playful smile graced his lips. Sneering some comment or other in a whisper at Yuga, he stepped forward, and stuffed his hand into the mass of robes at Zant’s side. Ghirahim locked their elbows together and leaned his head on his shoulder, resting on the pillowing layers of fabric. For just a moment, they gazed at the portrait together, with Yuga stanced proudly behind them. Zant wondered, then, what could be going through the sword spirit’s head. What emotion burned so brightly, that he felt it through countless robes? Perhaps once Yuga had finished his painting of that ivory creature, he would gaze upon it, and understand what Ghirahim felt at that very moment.

Suddenly, something tapped insistently at both their shoulders, and they turned.

“Alright. Out, you rascals! My masterpiece needs to be varnished and framed. I wish to be alone with it!” he squawked, pushing against the both of them, herding them towards the doorway. Bewildered, the sorcerer could never make him anymore, but a startled smile pulled at his lips nonetheless. So intense he was, even at this hour, after such tiring labor! He feared what would become of him when he sat down to paint the capricious man now latching on to his arm. The door slammed shut behind them, and the two were alone. 

In silence they stood in place, disturbed only by the sound of eveningtide cicadas outside. This side of the palace was dark and abandoned, and by now, the maidstaff knew better than to even think about this corridor past sundown.

“… So,” Ghirahim purred, pulling on his arm. “Shall we get those robes off of you?”

“If I did not agree with you so thoroughly, I would scold you, you tomcat,” he snickered, eyes squinting under the fondness of his smile.

——

That very morning, Yuga arrived with bokoblins in tow, carrying his preciously wrapped portrait. It was displayed proudly on the wall opposite to his bed, Yuga beaming and prattling on with pride the entire time he lingered, eager to spend every second he could get with his work. Nevertheless, he left. With the men departing from the room, the day went on, the secret vanity of having one's portrait taken trapped behind the shelter of his helmet.

His door closed behind him with a click, followed by the harsh thunk of the lock, twisted into its socket with a decisive turn of his clenched fist. Tonight, no company would join his chambers. He did not fear they would. The Lorulian sorcerer, his paint-stained hands and chewed-end brushes prowling for a model, had begun to deeply fancy the Demon Lord. Fine he was indeed, with his pearlescent hair and skin the color of bleached bone, with such beautifully sculpted features. Yuga had found his muse. Desperate to be admired as he was, Ghirahim could linger hours into the night, simply wasting wax, just to satisfy the hunger for being ogled and depicted. 

They would not disturb him.

He stepped towards the center of the room. 

Shadows licked at the paved floor from beneath his brass slippers, writhing beneath him like wicked tendrils. He took another step. Next to him, the curtains were drawn tightly, blocking the last rays of sunlight from entering the room fully. 

His sole landed on the tiled floor with a clank, the sound bouncing off of the black walls, echoing throughout the room before being swallowed by the hum and crackle of twilight magic. There was another curtain on the wall opposite him. This one did not quite lead to a window, but in a more fortunate life, it might have been. Yuga would have been appalled by the presence of this curtain, but Zant cared not. Not a soul, beyond the three of them, could know what lay beneath. Not even the servants could be trusted with a peep. They gossip.

He stood before it now, craning his head up as he gazed at the turquoise velvet drapes that hung from the rod fastened into the wall. Something buzzed at the back of his mind as he lingered there. Not a whisper, not an urge, but more like the crawling of an insect, taking residence behind his skull and chewing on his optical nerves. If eyes could itch to see, had a mind of their own to bear witness, his would be clawing their way out of their sockets to clamber behind the curtains. Such a simple offer, really. Take a look? 

He dug his fingers into the fabric and ranked the curtain down. Rings were sent flying, fabric tore at the grommets, and the drapery fell to the ground.

Behind it, lied his own face.

Yuga’s portrait.

He stumbled back. With a flick of his wrist and a clench of his hand, one of the chairs from his seating corner screeched across the floor towards him. Eyes never leaving the portrait, he slumped back into his seat. Upon his dressing table stood a delicate crystal drinking set, with a bottle of brandy as its centerpiece. Gingerly, he lifted its faceted bottle cap, and poured himself a glass. 

Yes. It was a fine portrait. 

Drink tingled at his lips as he took his first burning sip. He looked at the version of himself beyond the picture frame, where he sat smiling serenely, enshrined eternally in an infinite, golden haze. The eyes that gazed back at him, too, were rendered with golden paint at his irises. So intricately, Yuga had captured him. Angular and flowing were the contours of his robes, blurring into one another like the stratum of a rock face. They led the eye towards his face, where a black shroud and tyrian purple hair framed his marble-like visage. Golden pins, blackened metal clasps, and the sharp facets of gemstones accumulated into their own little treasury around his face. His pointed lips rested in the mere hint of a smirk. Brows relaxed, and eyes slightly hooded, he was the picture of peace, of contentment, of a man aware of his achievements and having eaten his fill of them. 

Yet, past that peaceful smile gracing sharp and perky lips, that little sparkle of triumph, Yuga had captured something else. True emotions remained irresistible to any painter. The sorcerer must have seized this moment when he thrust upon him his sliver of candor and immortalized it unknowingly in his work. Past the layers of paint and varnish, something wicked had nestled! Something carved below, seeping in through the scraping wounds left by brush on canvas, and festered in its makeshift grave! True intentions had been captured in that atelier. He saw it, now. 

It was a stab, an insult! A simple indulgence of a delusion, playing along with the poor, wretched Usurper, who’d been bumped twice from the throne he’d claimed. This other version of himself now mocked him in its tranquility. On the other side of the canvas, it lived in a world where it was King, knowing itself to dwell in the twisted abomination of a juvenile dream. 

There Zant stood, on his own side, feet planted in the reality where he was nobody at all. 

And it gazed right at him, lips curled into a disdainful smile, mocking him for daring to have ever dreamed at all. Suddenly, he was struck by the vanity of the piece. His glass shattered in his grip, sending a glittering shower of crystal and spirits splattering onto the floor. Teeth gritted, little drops of blood seeped from his hands. Instead of recognizing his honor, his grace, the painting posed him as the candid guest of a Masquerade. No, it was not vanity; it was confrontation, fodder for the beast of shame and delusion. In an instant, he felt his footing wobble, the tower he had built to the heights of glory crumbling beneath him. Truly! What was he, without a throne? Licking the heels of those more successful than he? Those eyes. Those shining, golden eyes encapsulated everything that had been stolen from him, and sat on the spoils, taunting him from the painted realm!

Zant shrieked and threw himself at his depiction. His chair clattered to the ground behind him, but before it could land, he had already dug his fingers into the canvas. Nails tore the painted surface to ribbons. Lovingly rendered, grey skin disappeared into shreds as he clawed his way through. Gold faded; ostentatious robes tore to bits; his smile, ripped into a yawning, shredded hole, splitting across his doll-like face. Yet, no matter how fiercely he scratched his way through that miserable canvas, nails screeching and bending as they hit the paneling below, those piercing, golden eyes would not relent in their gaze. Wider, they seemed to grow, staring straight at him. Mockery. Disdain. Amusement at his plight! He whimpered and cried, digging his claws desperately in an effort to break that horrid stare away from him. To release him from its judgment, from that horrible reminder of his own hubris. From the knowledge that he had died and failed, thrown away every chance he was given. That gaze. That wicked gaze, why would it not cease!?

Tears burned on his cheeks. Something trickled down to the floor. Like the snapping of a harp string, suddenly, Zant was able to wrestle away from the stifling eye contact of his painting, and looked down at his hands. 

Grey fingers were coated in blood, the underside of his nails sticky and clumpy with fresh scabs and skin. He stared at them in horror. Had the accursed depiction come to life, bearing blood and flesh? His lip quivering, he raised his face —

Only to be met with the mirror, and his portrait behind him, left untouched. It was not the canvas he had assaulted. Instead, in his frenzy, he had clawed at his own face. He shuddered and examined his reflection. Blunt nails did not damage him too terribly, but the bloody red streaks they’d left would surely raise questions. Pain brought clarity. Indeed, that picture, in its loveliness, had taught him a very valuable lesson. None — not even those he had come to consider dear friends, considered him king. Those assertions of his title had been playful, a play-pretend to keep him meek and satisfied. Curiously, he could not find it in him to resent his companions for it. Their dishonesty, in and of itself, held truth. 

Standing there, tracing gingerly over the grooves he’d left on his skin, the blood from his tender flesh staining his fingers, he made a silent promise. He realized what he must do. What had to be done, to prove that he, too, belonged in that promised Golden land!

But first, he had to come up with a proper excuse for these injuries.

Chapter Text

Skirmishes began to dwindle. Cartloads of food, lumber, and rupees were being lugged throughout the Demon King’s territory in droves, supplying camps upon camps with the necessary provisions and luxuries. As more and more land slipped through the Princess' fingers, Hyrule's people were being bled dry of the last drop for the glory of their new Ruler. The Demon King’s march to the Valley was to take place very soon, every soul in the palace in a constant state of bated breath. Their Master was holed up in his offices, most of the time, busy with the upkeep of his ever-expanding Kingdom. Frankly, how any of the other Lords and Ladies dared to make more demands than simply groveling and begging for their lives, was beyond Ghirahim. Either way, paperwork wasn’t his realm of expertise. With the irritable mood that hung around his Master like a thundercloud these days, though, he was affectionately suspecting it wasn’t Ganondorf’s forte either.

Strange tidings were afoot in the Palace. Mostly, it appeared everyone was too busy for him. With his decades of experience as a royal advisor, Yuga had taken up the task of accompanying the King in every other bout of diplomacy. Where they dwelled for the time being, they were much more in need of quills than they were of swords. Thus, Ghirahim felt almost out of place. With his place at his Master’s side now temporarily off-limits, but one man was left to linger about. One that, against his expectations when they first met, he’d been spending most of his time with of all. Ever since their habit of sitting for Yuga’s portraits, the pair found themselves taking up more and more of each others’ time. From casually keeping each others’ company every other morning or evening, to sharing a bed at night, they now arrived at a point where they’d grown accustomed to seeing each other nearly every second of the day.

Against his better judgment, he found himself drawn to the Twili, like a moth throwing itself at a flame in reckless abandon. Their souls had touched during the battle for the Eldin Border, and though Zant’s presence left his core physically, it never did escape his mind. For some reason, Zant held a shred of Demise’s power, and that alone coaxed him to draw ever closer to that bumbling fool. His company had the smoky aftertaste of treachery; it threatened to crawl deeper and deeper under his skin. Intimacies he preferred to be left untold seeped through the cracks left on his surface, and each time, Zant devoured them eagerly. His fear of growing addicted to adoring lips pressing on his own seemed to dwindle by the day. Instead, he found himself chasing the feeling. And so, with the most potent connection to his True Master out of his reach, he sought out the other. Even if it pained him.

But recently, Zant grew a little avoidant. It wasn’t particularly difficult to find the trigger for such behavior. Just the day after receiving his portrait he sheltered behind his helmet even more insistently than usual. Ghirahim figured out the reason when he came to him with fresh scratches covering nearly every inch of his face. To just about anyone else who caught a glimpse, he came up with a different excuse. He seemingly didn't care that Ghirahim would hear his contradiction. Surely, he had to have realized that his closest companion would have seen through his lies before he could even utter them. He could only have raked those scars into his skin himself.

Previously when Zant hid away, whether in a tantrum or a simple desire to recuperate in silence, he chose entirely random locations. He would tuck himself away in storerooms, abandoned ruins, or elsewhere none would find him. These days, though, he would linger almost exclusively in more common places.

Despite having been haphazardly thrown through time, it appeared Zant was building himself a home in this strange land. The most scatterbrained man out of all of them was actively anchoring himself to meaningful places. Almost enviously so, as Ghirahim realized that without the company of the Infernal King, he found himself empty no matter where he stood. Even he noticed, eventually, that the places Zant preferred to linger happened to be those that they had visited previously. Seeds of fond memories were planted there, and in his visit, Zant was tending to their sprouts.

And so, Ghirahim followed the trail. Both bedrooms were empty, as was the solar. There they sat in after-hours, chatting away until the scent of chamomile made them both drowsy. The wider Palatial Grounds weren’t a productive search either. Still, he took a moment of fond recollection at the oasis. Here, they’d stroll by to pluck fruits and wade up to the knees in the water (though he’d most definitely pushed him over and soaked him more than once). The town, meanwhile, was far too bustling for Zant to use as a quiet escape — that meant wherever he was, it wasn’t in this desert.

To travel near Eldin now was a risk, but one he’d have to take. He padded through the trampled ground where their forces once clashed. Sprigs of grass once greeted the sun from their heel-pounded craters but were now again stomped into the ground by the Demon Lord. The spot behind the keep, right where they’d shared their first kiss, was now occupied by soldiers’ tents. He’d crinkle his nose at such a desecration, but he focused most of his frustrations on his fruitless quest to find his companion. He refused to let worry dominate his agitated state. Clarity just came so much easier when his temper heated up!

Dashing through the keep like a ghost, their old rooms hosted only the mosquitoes that flew in through the gaps in the shutters. He draped himself on the windowsill of his own abandoned chambers, staring out the window with a thoughtful, yet scowling pout. Before he could even latch onto another trail of thought, his eyes wandered to the mountain. Suddenly, he remembered. Of course! There was only one more place Zant could be. With a triumphant grin on his face, he closed the shutters again, and himself disappeared from behind them.

A soft chime and a shower of diamond sparkles announced his arrival, but much to his chagrin, Ghirahim found it had gone unnoticed. He’d even posed for the occasion.

His eyes scanned the outcropping. Indeed, he’d come to the right place. If there was anywhere else Zant could hide himself for peace and quiet, it was their little training cave. It had gone unused for a little under a week now. They shamefully dropped the habit more and more as the fussy Lorulian Painter claimed regency over their free time. Now, though, it seemed that they might kindle their training sessions once more. Soundlessly, he slipped his way through the cave, alerted suddenly by a piece of black fabric peeking out past a rock pillar. Finally, he’d found his companion.

"Reading in isolation again?"

"Ah, Ghirahim," he noted, for a moment startled, ripped out from his captivation. Zant perked up, craning his head to look at the creature that so mischievously peeked into his hiding spot. “Indeed. I wished to get away from the busy sounds of the Palace, if just for a moment."

“Catching a moment’s peace before the great battle, I understand,” Ghirahim nodded. He slid his hand down the pillar, instead placing it upon Zant’s shoulder, and hunched down to drape himself over him. “You dare to come to our training spot without a sword? How very cheeky.”

Zant tipped his head to rest it against his own, sighing with a soft moan at affirmation of his affections. “If I wanted for you to beat me senseless today, I would have invited you along.”

“Fair point,” Ghirahim laughed. His eyes wandered down to Zant’s lap, where he’d cradled a book in his gangly hands. "Well, it takes me quite some energy to transport myself all the way here, so you ought to make it worth my while. What caught your attention today?"

Zant hummed, momentarily examining the cover of his book. "An old favorite of mine. I've decided to pick it up again. It is a philosophical work from around two centuries past, by Scholar Taurc. It details…" he pondered, lifting his face to stare at the stalactites above. The stone spikes hung over them like dragon’s teeth. "The effect of timelessness on our conscience, and the subsequent beauty to be found in desolation. It's enthralled me for years now, with its sharp yet flowery language. Though I'd imagine you would think it quite dull."

Ghirahim hummed. Indeed, a fitting title for a melodramatic man like himself. When he looked down at the pages, he laughed quietly in himself. Zant’s use of the word ‘flowery’ might have been a pun, he noted in amusement. Looking at the way the words sprawled the pages, he noticed the symbols swirled off into separate circles and spirals, their alien shapes appearing almost like blossoms. “Whether I find it dull or not doesn’t quite matter if I can’t even read it.”

Zant laughed in response. “No, indeed. Perhaps one of these days, I could teach you our circular script,” he murmured, “though, true mastery takes years…”

“ Or , you could start by translating those strange bits of gibberish you’ve been throwing at me over the past few months,” he purred, leaning down to brush his lips against the Twili’s sharp cheekbone.

Zant hummed, tilting his head at the contact. With his leather coif wrapped so tightly around his neck, giving him access to more places to kiss was a bit of a pointless endeavor. With how frisky they’d been, though, it was likely a reflex at this point. “Mmm… Ghirahim, I must impart upon you my own bout of curiosity in response. Tell me, what’s kept you from picking up a Twilit dictionary all this time? They are on my shelf.”

“I simply think making you blush with embarrassment would be far more amusing, were I to bully you into telling me,” he chuckled alluringly, latching a kiss onto the pink, bumpy texture of his scarred cheek. To his amusement, it turned far redder nigh instantly.

By now having long given up on reading, the both of them relinquished to sitting and chatting in each others’ company. Tucked away in their little corner of shadows, they reclined shoulder to shoulder, sharing a most unfamiliar moment of calm. The bustle of the castle seemed to incite in them a similar chaos, as their conversations, their gestures of affection, were more often than not tumultuous and competitive. So far away from it, the silence of the cave lulled them into tranquility. It was a little funny to find such peace in a place they normally spent eviscerating one another. Perhaps that association was what put Ghirahim so thoroughly at ease. He was meant to dwell in such a place.

Books were not the only things the Twilight King brought on his little private outing. Producing an assortment of knick-knacks from his sleeve, he seemed to find what he was looking for when retrieving his bag of provisions. It nearly bursted at the seams with what could only have been hastily snatched from the palatial kitchen. Zant retrieved one of the bulbous fruits from the satchel and idly rolled it around in his hands, observing it thoughtfully. "Ghirahim, I wonder. I know you have no need for food, for nourishment, but I must ask. Can you eat?”

Eyeing the pink thing tumbling around in his fingers, he hummed into his hand. "Oh, I could. I like it fine.”

“Would you like to?” Zant inquired, scooting slightly closer.

Such a bothersome figure! Ghirahim waved off the question. “Whatever I swallow simply incinerates in my core. It would just be a waste of resources, wouldn’t it? It's better I refrain from it."

"Do not say such foolish things. Anything that brings you joy, could never be truly wasted."

He retorted with a shove to his shoulder, and a shout: "you sap!" When laughter broke past his lips, it came out airy and sharp, like a raven’s caw.

In response, Zant simply dug his thumbs into the thick, crackling skin of the pomegranate atop his lap, and ripped it open in a burst of glowing seeds and juices.

"Share with me," the Twilight King offered, ripping the bejeweled fruit apart like a wolf would the heart of a carrion. Before he could protest, gray fingers cradled one of the seeds and held it before his mouth.

Powerless to his whims, his lips parted, and the little ruby was pressed against his tongue. It burst into a little shower of stars between his teeth, sweet, and slightly tangy, things he hasn't tasted in true millennia.

Picking up on the slight crinkle in his nose, Zant laughed, cocking his head at him. “How is it?”

Small enough to dissolve into his mouth, Ghirahim hardly had to swallow the pomegranate seed down. “Strange, after such a long time, but… Not exactly terrible.”

Such an answer appeared to be good enough. Soon, they sat huddled up in the shade of their training cavern as fledgling lovers, feeding each other crystalline fruits till they grew tired of it.

Amidst their cozy little get-together, Ghirahim’s attention was captured by a building heat inside his chest. Easy to mistake for simple fluster, at first, but he found its timing odd. He could not possibly be so easy as to be swept off his feet so suddenly. That thought was as quickly cast aside as when the heat bloomed, turning soon into a burn. His vision fogged and blurred, his throat turned dry — he struggled to put this odd feeling into place. Was he… Malfunctioning..?

He was pulled back out of his mind by a surprised gasp ringing out from Zant. “Ghirahim,” he blurted out in disbelief, before being beset by a fit of laughter. “There is smoke coming out of your nose!”

What?

“What!?” he responded, a small puff of white smoke leaving his mouth along with his words. This only got Zant to laugh harder.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, “so this is what you meant by incinerate? My! I thought you meant it a joke!”

As surely as Zant said it, his worries were cast aside. How could he have forgotten? He hadn’t felt these sensations in what must have been centuries. An involuntary grin crept on his face. Soon enough, his core burned through the spoonfuls of berries, and the fumes let up. His bashfulness was promptly hip-checked aside in favor of staying on top of the joke.

“Well then… If it’s that obvious, I ought to refrain from joining you in a meal until we’re alone together.”

Whenever they sat side by side like this, it intrigued Ghirahim to no end how well they took to holding conversations. With thousands of years and as many worlds between them, it was far more of a challenge to run out of things to talk about than to think of new ones. Both men had an incurable tendency to yammer on. They teetered on the balance of prying bits of information from each other, and making sincere efforts to make themselves sound interesting. It was a delightful change of pace to dictate his many tales to an animated, fondly listening audience. Though, of course, the exasperated glare of his enemies was a delicacy all on its own. But to meet the gaze of the one next to him and find a vibrant curiosity, was its very own gift.

Zant himself was an infinite fountain of anecdotes, sharing with him anything from the intricacies of the Twilight Realm, to his actions while conquering his own Hyrule. Yet, even with the words they exchanged, Ghirahim could not help but notice a bitterness to Zant's stories. Dressed up in glory and glamor as they might be, they were but superficial tales; a veil cast over an abyssal pool. What Zant told him were but the bubbles that rose to the surface, leaving him to wonder about what lurked beneath. He knew what such obfuscation looked like quite intimately. After all, he found himself doing the very same thing.

As usual, their back-and-forths seemed inexhaustible. But even with Zant's thorough scatterbrain and Ghirahim's infatuation with his own voice, eventually, they lost the strands to grab onto, and they fell into a comfortable silence. Ghirahim found himself growing a touch bored. Before his eyes could drift to the cave ceiling, a hand placing itself on his forearm snapped him back to attention.

Zant spoke, his hand retracting back into his sleeve. “Ghirahim, I have something for you.”

“Oh?” he inquired, his lips puckering in intrigue. He couldn't help but lean over to peek inside that massive sleeve, but Zant wouldn't allow it just yet.

“Such sentimentality should be unbecoming of me, I know, but… I must admit to a spot of weakness, that surfaced in me at the thought of you, Ghirahim," Zant said, producing a small wooden box from his sleeve, and holding it out to him.

The pleasant surprise of receiving a gift was soon replaced by an odd chill in his core. Surely, he wouldn't be so forward, so suddenly..? He almost hesitated to take it, but did so either way, before the dawning worry could travel from his mind to his face.

“Open it.”

Ghirahim blinked. He fixed his eyes on the box, daring not to look upward in fear of meeting Zant's gaze. Zant was an impulsive creature at heart, he knew this, and that knowledge was starting to gnaw at him the longer he held that box in his hands. Dozens of thoughts raced through his mind in seconds, but the longer he waited, the more Zant would grow suspicious of his silence. Shy? A preposterous thought. A fear of commitment? Impossibly juvenile. As it stood, they both swore loyalty to their Master and their service in the war. To stop beating around the bush, most of all, Ghirahim, Lord of the Demon Tribes, wasn't going to be proposed to in a cave! He decided to stop stalling and opened the box.

Had he any breath in him, it would have left him all at once at the sight of what awaited him. Inside the box was a pair of earrings. Its metal body was a polished gold, encasing small, lily-white pearls on its upper dangle, and a set of three, brilliantly cyan gemstones hanging beneath. He stared at them, mouth agape, unable to articulate anything beyond an astonished gasp. When Zant began to speak, all he could do was look at him, dumbstruck.

As he spoke, Zant reached for him, cupping his hands around his. “I realize that such a timeframe is perhaps an odd spot to be celebrating any ‘anniversaries’ if you wish to use such a term. However, with our pinnacle battle so close to the horizon, I found myself cherishing a most childish wish. I wanted to gift you something to remember me by, Ghirahim, should I fall. And if not, I would be most pleased, indeed, for you to bear a reminder of our time together either way.”

Frozen for a moment, Ghirahim looked back down into the box. Rested upon downy, velvet cushions, the two earrings glittered in the weak rays of the sun. An anniversary… What a silly concept. Where was such a line drawn? More importantly, when had Zant started putting names to what they had, and why hadn't he shared them? Oh, but he couldn't disappoint him. Not after he'd been so thoughtful, and gave him his first lavish gift in perhaps decades. Finally, words came to him, and they left him with a smirk. “You truly are a buffoon. A gift, to remember you by? As if I could ever forget all the nonsense you’ve put me through.”

Zant laughed in response, and nodded, casting his eyes downward. Looking upon that face, Ghirahim realized his blunder. Amused Zant was, indeed, but it was the amusement of someone who realized they’d been made fun of and made peace with the fact.

He cleared his throat, and in an instant, Zant raised his face again to look at him. So obedient and eager to please. He was truly more of his dog than his King. Instead of a feeling of mockery, that very thought struck him with affection, instead. He laughed, his face angled down to look at the box, but his eyes looked upward, peeking at Zant through his lashes. “What I mean to say is… Oh, I find myself at an uncharacteristic loss of words. They’re beautiful, Zant, I…”

He slipped the hand that held the lid of the box out from Zant’s grip, grasping those lanky gray fingers instead. “Will you help me put it on?”

Of course, he was more than capable of putting his own earrings in. It simply brought him that much more amusement, and a distraction from the strange rushing in his core, to have Zant fiddle clumsily with them instead. He sat there with his head tipped to the side to allow Zant access, his diamond pendant now dismissed. Deep, black eyes glued themselves to the man sitting across from him, who himself occasionally flitted his pale pupils to look at him. All that work to buy him a gift, to set up a moment, and now he was nervous? Oh, how funny this lunatic was. Had he truly wooed him so? Zant’s hands were shaking. He restrained a chuckle; moving would only make him poke into his earlobe more.

Hands retracted from him, stroking past his cheek as they left. Zant smiled at him, watching him turn his head to feel the weight of this new accessory dangling from his ear. “Perhaps I should have brought a mirror,” Zant murmured.

Ghirahim laughed in response. “Oh, not to worry. I love them, and they’re my color. I can’t look anything less than stunning, I needn’t look to confirm it.”

A spark of mischief lit in Zant’s expression. “Very well. I will trust you to admire your reflection after we return to the Palace, then.”

“Oh, you’re terrible,” he batted at him with a click of his tongue, But not entirely wrong. In his amusement, he couldn’t help but look back down into the box, where the other piece of the pair was looking awfully lonely.

Zant appeared to notice this. “I was worried you would take issue with there being two of them. I’m aware you only wear your jewelry on the one ear, but they would only sell it in pairs…”

“Don’t worry yourself, silly. That simply means I’ll have a spare.”

Looking down into the box, he was struck by his fondness. How he had to have bewitched the man that looked at him so expectantly, for him to want to adorn him, leave his mark for all to see. Almost regretfully, he placed the cover over the little box and lifted his face to look at him properly. “Zant, thank you,” he said, pulling him into an embrace with a smile. “I mean it.” His eyes widened a bit now that he was tucked hidden in the nape of his neck. Those words left him almost like a question, like he was surprised at having said them.

So oddly thoughtful, the organic beings were. Just like that, Zant had put him in a tight spot. He wasn’t going to be outdone in the realm of romance… A gift of his own was to be arranged, and he had just the work-in-progress lying about to fulfill that plan.

——

Water trickled into the tub on the edge of his desk, dripping from the cloth he wrung out between his gloveless fingers. Some very enlightening conversations with the Gerudo merchants out in the town showed him leather was that much easier to engrave when wet. And so, there he sat, sanding down the edges of a black leather strap, scrutinously peering at the concepts he’d sketched out that morning. He sniffed thoughtfully, gliding his stitching groover across the belt’s surface.

Getting the measurements was the hardest part — there was no sneaky way of having someone stand still for tailoring, so he’d settled for taking the dimensions of his strange, form-fitting leather armor. Which was a chore in and of itself, given that lanky fool hardly ever let it out of his sight. Even so, this project was all buckles and lacing anyhow, so he was confident in taking a few liberties. He was far more practiced with woven fabric, so this project required far more of his attention than usual.

Candlelight flickered on the surface of his desk. The dancing of the little flames shone almost rhythmically on his working hands, and he found himself swept along by their steady quivering.

At least, until a new shadow appeared over his working space. Thick, black sleeves draped over his shoulders, and his intruder announced himself with a coo. Such a gentle gesture, that so violently, frustratingly, shattered his focus to smithereens. Any attempt of clawing himself back into that entranced state of focus was plucked deftly from him by spindly fingers that found their way across his chest.

“I’m busy,” he growled. Truly, he should have some fondness for the man, given what he was working on. But if there was anything that ruined his mood, it was being interrupted!

“Oho? With what?” Zant giggled, leaning over to nuzzle the slits of his mouth against his cheek.

The gesture that normally endeared him just irritated him more. His hand slid over to shield his sketches from prying eyes. “Zant, I’m serious. If you can’t leave me be, I’ll be more than happy to show you the door myself.”

The Twili responded with an intrigued hum, now only growing more curious. Oh, how annoying. He was taking this as a cue for play! If words alone wouldn’t suffice, he had plenty of other ideas.

Promptly, he balled his fist and reared it back to bump him right upside the chin.

A squeal escaped Zant's lips as the fist clacked his teeth together. By no means was it a particularly forceful punch; but with sharp teeth and a solid metal hand bumping into his weak jaw, it was more than enough pain to send the message across. Playful stubbornness turned to rage and Zant snarled, the hands rested cozily on Ghirahim’s chest now wrapping clawed fingers around his throat. "Wicked thing," he growled, "I shower you in affection, and this is how you treat me?"

Ghirahim laughed, craning his head up to meet his gaze daringly. The muscles of his neck flexed against his grip. "So what? You're going to kill me?"

Fingers tightened. His false skin was pressed firmly against his metal interior as Zant squeezed his throat fiercely. Breathing was never an issue for him. The lanky fool could clench his hands around his throat as hard as he liked. And yet, when held so tightly that his skin threatened to give out, and scowled down at so intimately, there was something suffocating about it.

Zant laughed, a nasty smile cracking his lips. "No. But it would make a lovely end for you, would it not? To be embraced, until Death whisks you out from my hands," he crooned, squeezing heartily once more before relinquishing his grip. Ghirahim slumped down, gasping on reflex, and rubbed at his throat. Though he didn't expect to bruise, oddly enough, he'd likely grow sore.

“Your romanticism truly knows no bounds, Twili,” he panted, righting himself in his seat. “Fine. If you so wish to monopolize my attention, then you shall have it!”

With a sudden shriek of wood against varnish, he jumped from his seat and threw himself at the man behind him. His hands balled into fists as he bunched the fabric of Zant’s collar into them. The taller man was yanked off balance and dragged along in the demon’s fierce momentum, until gravity no longer applied to either of them at all. With a glitter, they disappeared into the space between spaces, and popped right out the other end, landing in Ghirahim’s pristinely made bed. Still clutching the fabric of his robes, Ghirahim leaned over him, lip curled into a playful snarl.

“Is this what you had in mind?”

The Twili looked up at him in surprise at first, but that illusion quickly shattered into a sultry grin. “Not quite, but I’m not exactly complaining.”

Oh, such smugness truly did look hideous on him. Ghirahim quickly decided he needed to wipe that look off his face, and then some.

One or two tussles later, Zant sat on the edge of the bed, hair tousled and quite a few marks on his neck richer. He laid on his stomach next to him, watching the Twili’s futile attempts to make himself look presentable again.

“So,” Ghirahim drawled, wiping the stray smudge of lipstick away from the corner of his mouth, “now that you’ve thoroughly ripped me out of my focus. What did you come to me for, if not this?”

Straightening the bows on his ceremonial apron, Zant looked over his shoulder with a smirk. “I was hoping to discuss the progress of my research before we got thoroughly sidetracked.”

Ghirahim sighed, rising now to sit next to him. His legs tucked under him, he leaned on Zant’s bare shoulder, the robe having sagged halfway down his arm to bare him. “Am I truly the best person to approach about all the little critters you stuff in your vials and bottles?”

Zant shook his head. “No. I am certain this will interest you, as well.”

He scooted closer now, sitting on the edge of the bed beside him. “Well, go on then. Interest me.”

Now finally free from his clutches, Zant took it upon himself to finally readjust his disheveled clothing. “As you know, I have been spending quite some time in the library.”

“When aren’t you, really?”

Zant hummed with a bit of a frown, pinning his robe back together under his apron. “The truth is, Ghirahim, since arriving in this realm, the daze of time-jump has only begun to jumble my mind more. I thought that perhaps, were I to at least determine where, or rather, when we had landed, I might feel less stranded. And yet…”

He paused, for a moment just gazing at the ground in silence, before turning to him, an indecipherable look in his eyes. “Have you not felt isolated, Ghirahim? In this familiar yet unfamiliar world?”

Ghirahim looked at him somewhat peculiarly. Isolated… What a strange notion. One could say he took pride in the expanse the Hylians called the Surface. How swiftly the Demon Tribes conquered it and held its people under their thumb! But with his death on its very soil and the defeat of Demise, somewhere, he’d already cast aside the fondness he held. Everything he may have loved there, he could find in this new time. But to a mortal, such things could only hold a very different weight. Almost startled by how much care he was placing in considering his answer, he poised himself upright again with the utmost nonchalance.

“I don’t mean to immediately worsen your plight, but I have to admit, I’m plenty used to time travel. Not quite as extreme of a jump as I can only assume this to be, but nevertheless.” He mulled it over again, swishing the words around like one would tasting wine. “Besides, I never did have a true home to begin with. Being Lord of the nomadic Demon Tribes, I was sleeping in a different bed practically every day.”

Zant’s strange expression from before did not sway. Instead, he averted his eyes again, looking down at his hands folded in his lap. “… I see. Then perhaps it may be more fruitful to show you what I mean.”

This was not at all how Ghirahim had imagined his evening. First, he’d anticipated spending it in peace, and mere moments before, he’d swerved that expectation into more carnal waters. What he hadn’t expected was being dragged to a dusty expanse of books, and held hostage at a monomaniac’s desk. Stacks of books and a haphazard scatter of paper were left here untouched, yet none long enough to catch dust. He could only assume Zant toiled away here every night, intensely enough for any librarian or guest to note he’d claimed that space for himself, and banished the thought of even going near it. He perused the view before him, the madman’s work displaying itself like a diary, scrawled in a jumble of languages.

Zant hastily sifted through his many stacks. He snatched a few seemingly random books, but he'd most likely memorized their contents. Finally, he thumped them before Ghirahim and showed him the opening to a chapter from one of them.

“Allow me to start simple. I was rifling through various historical records, hoping to find anything familiar. Surely enough, the legacy of the Hero of Time,” he nigh spat the words, “was easy enough to find. Which led me down a path to an era not too far away from it,” he prattled on, tapping at the page, “my very own.”

Ghirahim took the liberty to thumb through a few pages. With a subtle narrowing of his eyes, something clicked in the back of his head. Words swirled in his mind, intensely enough to drown out the sound of Zant’s incessant rambling for a mere moment.

The Twilight Era. He’d heard plenty from Zant and teased out shreds of memory from his Master, but he remained curious how other chroniclers would recount those events. The Banishment of the Interlopers. An event not long after the Gerudo King’s execution at the hands of the Royal Family. Like everyone before them, this clan fell to the thrall of the Triforce. How those people had disappeared outside the fabric of reality, connected only by a mirror, until an army burst through its ethereal volcanic glass, and plunged the world into darkness. And finally, how a young man clad in green struck down the intruders and their puppeteers, returning all to their former glory.

How such a volume ended up in the Master’s library was curious, but it was a fascinating perspective nonetheless. He would have to peruse the details later.

Ghirahim returned the book to its former place on the table, and hummed, looking to where Zant had begun to jot down notes on empty parchment. “So we are in the future. Not all too difficult to guess, no? Given our Master heard enough tell of us to recruit us.”

“Ah, indeed, indeed, but that is not what’s interesting,” Zant nearly giggled, his quill coming to an abrupt halt to tap at the open page. “For example, even in your idle browse, I’m certain it didn’t escape your notice that the volume you just held made not a single mention of a date.”

Ghirahim frowned. “So it doesn’t.”

Zant opened another volume. “And this Era, one of Master’s favorites, where he sheds his human form… Supposedly, it is Yuga’s origin and must have taken place before my own. Yet where was this ever-open gateway to Lorule in my time?”

Hastily, he ripped another book from his stack and slammed it open before them. “Where was this ‘Great Flood’ mentioned here!?”

Ghirahim brought his fingertips to his lips, eyes widening. Sure enough, he wasn’t certain what to think of it either. “That… You’re quite certain you’re not just mixing up the events? Or perhaps you’re taking mere myths as fact..?”

It became clear very quickly that that had been the wrong answer. Zant’s quill came to a screeching halt, splitting the metal nib into an incorrigible bend. The line he’d deftly drawn between bubbles of notes and sigils splattered out like a bloodstain.

“The proof of those ‘myths’, Ghirahim, is staring you in the face,” he growled, looking over his shoulder. Glowing, vicious, and vermillion, that glare instinctively froze him into silence.

“Yet, your suspicions are not entirely unfounded. I, too, have my doubts in my own observations. My current hypothesis,” he started, drawing yet more lines between those scrawled bubbles with his now mangled quill. “Is that several of these tales, these recollections, are indeed either fictive,” he carried on, drawing a final bubble, “or take place in an entirely different reality, all splitting off from some point in time, only to reconcile…”

His finger tapped at that final bubble. “Right here.”

Squinting, Ghirahim peered past his manic handwriting to deduce the words. The War Across the Ages.

“… A fascinating theory, but you leave me wondering what your goal is here. Surely it can’t be as simple as easing your mind about petty confusions?” He remembered his Master’s words, months ago now. The morale of his prized lieutenants was to be nourished, yet he certainly couldn’t have meant these kinds of academic indulgences.

Zant scoffed a laugh, smiling down at his notes. “Partly, yes. But you must know as well as anyone, Ghirahim, that one cannot rule a land without knowing all of its secrets. Master Ganondorf, too, was sealed away for centuries until Cia summoned his power once more. He does not oft express it, but this land has grown unfamiliar to him, too, during his absence. Do you not think he would appreciate such intel?”

As Zant turned to look at him, he cocked his brow, averting his gaze to his notes instead. The Usurper had a point, as he tended to do. He recalled, then, his own time prowling the Surface for such little clues, knowledge old enough to remain as little more than whispers in the landscape. He’d been more short-term goal-oriented, but perhaps that was why he was forged to be a blade and not a royal advisor. That role was being fulfilled just fine, less than a foot next to him.

His spark of jealousy, for coming up with a plan before he could, turned to vigor. “What do you intend to do, then? Show your scribbles to His Majesty?”

“One day, I shall,” he started, before putting his hand on his shoulder. His grey hand felt clammy against his false skin. “But for now, I have a proposition, Ghirahim.”

“Go on.”

“I want you to join me in the Faron Woods once more, to pick away at these traces of history, and compare our knowledge.”

He hummed, tilting his hip and leaning away from him with a smirk. “Another one of your field trips?”

“Not just that,” he grinned. “An expedition. It will be quite a bit more intensive.”

He squinted at him in return. “And what will I get in return, exactly?”

Zant hummed, turning to begin rearranging his desk space to be decidedly less messy. “Academic recognition from our Master, to start,” parchment rolled back around their rods, “a stronger sense of belonging,” books went back in their shelves, “a chance to spend more time in the great outdoors,” a box with ink pads clapped shut. Zant suddenly turned and leaned in. “Oh, and perhaps this will suffice, for now.”

Lips nearly grazed his ears as he whispered.

“… Yime Zeeoitneit , it means, ‘My Nightshade’.”

Instinctively, Ghirahim clapped a hand over his ear. Not only out of startle from the sudden puff of humid air against it, but maybe, subconsciously, to trap the words just spoken inside, leaving them to bounce around his head. He whipped around when Zant trotted merrily on past him, snickering to himself.

“Was that… One of your infernal nicknames? Oh! How insulting. How juvenile! You think me so easily seduced!?”

Irritation and embarrassment flushed over him when his shouting made Zant turn to look back. He couldn’t stand the grin that spread across the Twili’s face. Most of all, he couldn’t stand how that smile and those flushed cheeks matched his own.

Chapter Text

Ghirahim was stirred from his daydreaming by the Twili beside him, rising earlier than usual. Lanky arms withdrew from him and Zant greeted him with a hum, as if carefully rousing him from sleep in his stead. The time for their little expedition had come. Zant advised him to wear something old, or something he could afford getting dirty. Of course, a man his standing had nothing that fit either category. Instead, he’d scoffed and grumbled his way to his closet, and returned to him tall leather boots, with elbow-length leather gloves to match. If pristine wasn’t an option, he ought to at least put on something sturdy. To his delight, he returned to Zant standing uncharacteristically scantily clad. He was wearing little over his usual skin-tight suit than loose fabric pants and a chest plate. Of course, with such behavior, the Twili had to practically wrestle him off of him while trying to fasten his cloak. Zant insisted that the shapeless, concealing garment protected him from the sun, leaving Ghirahim with no choice but to allow him his baffling wardrobe choices. Fastening his red cape, he too was now ready for their outing. The two gathered their weapons and provisions, and with hands joined, disappeared from Zant’s chambers, and into the woods.

Occasionally, a gust of wind swept through the treeline above them. Various nuts and seeds fell from their branches, plummeting down to pelt into the padded dirt. Or, fortunately quite rarely, bounced off of something metallic. One of these targets would pay it no heed, the other hissed in annoyance. In the desert, seasons were of almost minimal importance. Nothing changed but a few degrees of heat and a rainstorm or two less. Walking through these woods, with the first leaves withering and dying in no less vibrancy, the approach of winter could not be denied. Ghirahim was more than familiar with this process, having seen it thousands of times over, but to Zant, this may as well have been his first autumn.

They had to tread carefully. A beaten path could mean the common trek of animals, or foot traffic from people they’d prefer not to alert. Still, looking around, nature had long reclaimed this place, if anyone had ever dwelled within at all. His boot stomping down on a hard, stone surface, told Ghirahim that perhaps there had. Every few paces now, the grass would be interrupted by the remnants of an old paved road. Had he not been so distracted by what lay at his feet, he might have noticed the man stop before him. As it was, he didn’t. He bumped into Zant, who was unflinched by the man walking face-first into his back.

“Augh, what now?” Ghirahim groaned. “You’re not eyeing more botanical samples, are you?”

Zant shook his head in response and pointed through the trees next to their narrow pathway, where a clearing lay in waiting. “Our first ruin of the day,” he proclaimed and set off toward it. Now himself curious, Ghirahim followed.

Looking at it, it seemed not much more than a pile of rubble arranged in the vague approximation of a circle. Yet, when he looked closer, he could not mistake the several feet deep hole inside it, and the puddles that formed at its bottom.

"We’ve found ourselves a well,” Ghirahim hummed, nudging one of the loose cobbles with his foot. “That settles our earlier suspicions. A settlement must be nearby.”

Zant peered over the edge of the mossy walls, and down into it. “Whatever town depended on this well now surely lies in ruin.”

They continued their way down their earlier path. The forest grew thinner and thinner. The longer they walked, their surroundings were moreso spotted with bushes and sprigs than shielded by the ancient trees around the Skyview Temple’s ruins. This corner of the forest could only be in its infancy compared to the age-old family surrounding it.

The ground turned more and more solid now. Worn stone tiles led them to a clearing. Little was left of it now than rubble gathered around an old plaza, but unmistakably, a town once stood here. The forest had thoroughly reclaimed it, roots leaching into the gaps between brick walls like parasites. Perhaps the only structure still somewhat passing as a building was a temple to the east, unmistakable in its sturdy, arched windows. Leaves crunched beneath their boots as they passed through the town in perfect silence. Looking up at the treeline, Ghirahim noted that, unlike the green that stubbornly prevailed deeper into the forest, nearly all the trees here bore their fall time coats, if they had any at all.

The two split off wordlessly, each wandering the trail of their own curiosities. Save for the occasional knee-height wall, there was not much to look at, frankly.

Zant called from across what was once a street, his hand resting on the crumbling remnants of a pillar. “Was there anything like this here in your time, Ghirahim?”

Ghirahim placed his hands in his sides, disdainfully taking in the sight of the ruined settlement. Nothing but cobble and moss, stripped of all its worth ages ago. Dead leaves turned to mulch below their very feet — even the forest itself wasn’t keen on staying longer than necessary in this dull place. “No, likely not. And if there was, I would hardly have bothered committing such a small town to memory.”

They parted again. Opposite of the larger ruins, Ghirahim now spied a lake. He’d hardly noticed it. As overgrown as it was with dead leaves and algae, he could have mistaken it for solid ground, had he not noticed its surface ripple gently in the roaring wind.

As he got closer to it, an odd scent caught his attention. Something like… Rust. Not far from the lake, he noticed one last building that looked of more solid make. He stepped past the threshold of the old walls, dusting off a brick surface with his leather glove. He smirked as the old ashes caked to its side showed no intention of letting itself be cleaned up. No, indeed, it was not the sour stench of spoiling. It was sulfur. The Sword had found a smithy.

Zant, earlier fascinated by the temple building, now stood by the lake nearby, gazing out into it. As soon as he noticed him, he beckoned him over, standing at the orange-rimmed shore of the rotting lake.

"Look closely, Ghirahim. Do you see?” he asked him, parting the curtain of his cloak to gesture coolly at the water’s surface. “Nothing stirs beneath those waters. We didn't even have to reach these lands to destroy them,” he chuckled. “The Hylians did that all on their own."

The path winded on even beyond this forsaken little time capsule, heading ever deeper into the forest. Their trek led them past river crossings, cliffs that once bore bridges, and more useless bits of rubble. After stumbling upon the manieth-pile of mossy old stones, they decided it would be much more fruitful to return to more familiar grounds. Zant was looking for commonalities, visible pieces of memories they could recognize, and thus far, they’d found none. These lands had a history of their own, and though they both spanned millennia, neither of them had been part of it. And so, the swirling paths took them right back to that very first day, before the crumbled skeleton of the Skyview Temple. Just like they did then, they stood before the collapsed corridor at the end of the clearing. Only this time, they smothered their apprehension and stepped past its threshold.

Corridors of green engulfed them. At the temple ruins, the sun still broke past the trees into the clearing, but deeper into the forest, not a ray of light could breach inside. The forest expanded into a labyrinth around them, splitting and joining again in twisting corridors. The pathways meandered as if cleaved into the very soil, their walls smoothened into stacked layers and held together by webbing tree roots. Curiously, he stroked his fingers past one of its walls as they kept pace. Its odd, sanded-down texture fascinated him. If he didn’t know any better, he thought here and there he saw the spiky indents of a fish’s skeleton embedded in these very walls.

Zant was thoroughly fascinated with those shapes when he noticed him fall behind, though. His silly thought may have been correct. Once, this sprawling path seemed to have been a river, if not much more.

The forest was as full of life as it was of death, and that became clear the deeper they delved. Hollowed corpses of colossal fallen trees covered the paths like tunnels, the trees on the edge of the pathway looming over them like mourners at a graveyard. At first, Ghirahim thought there was simply a coincidentally massive amount of these barkless husks scattered around, until…

“That just about confirms it,” Ghirahim declared, hands slotting onto his hips with an exasperated sag of his shoulders. “We’ve been here before! Your sense of direction is sending us in circles, Zant.”

Zant halted and turned back to look at him. “I noticed, but wanted to confirm it. What makes you so certain?”

Something about the man’s all-too-casual response irked him. He wondered if it meant that he’d been knowingly dragging the both of them along so pointlessly, just for the fun of it all. Surely, he was capricious enough for such a thing. Not wanting to argue just yet, he let it slide with a sniff and gestured to a tree behind them with his thumb. “I carved an arrow into the bark a while ago. So, at some point, we’ve gotten turned around.”

“I see,” he hummed, and with the tightening of his cape around his shoulders, turned back around. “A fine idea in concept, though I would be a bit more careful sticking knives in the living territory of the fairies.”

Ghirahim groaned in response, dragging a hand down his cheek in annoyance. “Forget the wrath of winged little insects! We’ve gotten hopelessly lost.”

“Rather than getting lost, we’re being made lost,” Zant corrected him, a finger raised as if listening intently for something. “Don’t you hear that? The music. Some odd magic is preventing our advance.”

Once again, Ghirahim strained his ears. How oddly familiar to their first trip to these very woods! But just like back then, he could pick up nothing but the swaying of branches, the skittering of the odd creature, and distant birdsong. “No,” he sighed. Perhaps Zant wasn’t just imagining things; rather, he could have been more keen on this kind of magic than him all along. There wasn’t a chance in Hell that he would admit that, though. Sensitivity to ancient magic or not, the truth of the matter was, that they were stuck in the middle of some strange forest. The twisting expanse of vegetation wasn’t intending to let them pass through in the least.

Just when he was about to suggest they headed back for the day, Zant turned to look at him again. “We are not alone here. I will try to get a vantage point. Do wait here.”

Before he could respond, Zant braced himself with a kneel and promptly launched himself upwards through the canopy. His head craned upwards as he tracked the Twili in his ascent. Zant, armor-clad, pierced through branches and clumps of leaves like an arrow. Despite the rain of leaves that fluttered down behind him, the green ceiling seemed completely undisturbed. With a rustle, it appeared he’d simply been swallowed by the foliage above. Such a veritable, verdant veil would surely drown out any sound trying to pass between them, so he saw no point in calling out. Sighing, he folded his arms and resigned to waiting.

Yet, Zant did not return. First, he tells him that they’re being watched, and then he just leaves him by himself? If he wasn’t so confident in his abilities, he would have cursed the man for abandoning him. Still, he found himself staring at the canopy, unsettled by gnawing thoughts at the back of his mind. Zant taking his time up above the trees was a reckless decision, even for him. He drowned out the creeping sting of worry with his annoyance, finding it far easier to blame this entire situation on simple stupidity than an actual threat to their safety. No, whatever was out there, he did not fear the inhabitants of the forest.

The fog that crept in around him, though, seemed keen on changing his mind.

Had he not noticed the woods growing paler around him? Was he that caught up in his own moping? Milky white wisps rolled in like the long dead crawling forth from their graves, licking at the grass at his feet. Soon, even the large, tunnel-like hollowed tree trunks that enshrined the paths around him were reduced to nothing but faint stains in the cloudy walls. The natural sounds of the forest dimmed. It was like every little critter suddenly held its breath, and gathered ‘round to be audience to what could only be an ambush. His hand crept under his cloak, grasping the hilt of his sword. Whatever was about to jump out through the fog would have to force its way through four feet of steel, first.

Something rattled. Something giggled.

“About time! Are the two of you always this difficult to separate?”

He knew that voice. The memory of that shrill voice, squeaky enough to feel in one’s teeth, tingled in the back of his mind. Slowly, he padded around the parameters of the intersection, squinting to try and make out the shape of whoever stalked him in the fog. He teased at the edge of his memory, following the thread he plucked loose past long untrodden trails of thought, like the frayed edge of a piece of fabric. Slowly, vague images pieced themselves together. All until with a single, unexpected tug, the whole curtain came undone, falling to the floor in rags. The image behind it was unveiled. He knew exactly who this was.

His grip tightened on the grip of his sword. “Show yourself!”

Nothing but silence responded. Not a shade was in sight. He snuck to where one of the tree trunks once stood to determine it empty, before turning to his right, glove sticking to the leather of his hilt.

Hovering right before him were two bulging, orange eyes, painted on a vibrantly painted mask. With a shake and shiver, the creature stuck to it shrieked with laughter as he staggered back.

“How very interesting it is, to see you like this, Blade. You look different,” the being tittered, while Ghirahim drew his sword with a hiss. Unperturbed, it continued to speak. “Try as you may, Her stench continues to follow you!”

It came at him with an insult. Sword outstretched, Ghirahim lunged forward, only to find himself stabbing nothing but air. The masked imp swept through the air behind him, delivering a swift kick to his back. Unharmed by mere fisticuffs, the sword spirit whipped back around, and snapped his fingers to summon his daggers to his aid.

Nothing happened. He tried again. Instead of where his magic should be, there was now a strange feeling of disconnect.

“Your powers will not work here. Be at ease, I only wish to talk.”

Ghirahim glared at the being. It seemed both of them carried a different form since they’d last spoken. It was clear which of them struck the better deal, though. He then scoffed, straightened his posture, and tucked his blade back under his cloak, but not back in its scabbard.

“What business could the Great Gluttony of Majora, possibly have with a simple viscount? ” he drawled, bowing with such extravagance it might as well have been an insult.

Gloved hands clasped together with a dry clap. “Ah! Excellent, you remember me, even after all this time.”

“Such a face is hard to forget,” he murmured, allowing his eyes to wander. Despite his words, Majora, Arch-Demon of the Timeless Lands, looked vastly different than it did when he last encountered it. A far cry from the mighty armored dragon, or even the towering humanoid, composed of prismatic, bulging tendons, muscles, and spiked bone. This Majora looked… Almost pathetic. The only semblance this thing bore to the original was the colorful, albeit snake-bit-looking mask, that clung to the face of a child-sized living puppet. He did not want to risk making assumptions just yet, but such an appearance led him to the tantalizing belief that it had been weakened.

He let this belief soothe him somewhat, granting him the confidence to meet this ancient being at eye level, bearing a smirk. “If it’s mere conversation you’re after, then allow me to break the ice. I take it you’re responsible for Zant’s sudden disappearance, too?”

Still hovering, the mini-Majora put its hands in its sides and craned its body back with an almost comical caricature of human motions, looking up at the canopy Zant had disappeared into moments earlier. It hummed thoughtfully in exaggeration. “Only partially!”

“Partially,” he ragged, now again raising his sword to point the tip at the impish creature. “Spare me the cajolery. What have you done with him?” Ghirahim inquired, sneering his words.

Arms folded, Majora reared back, and with a gloved finger nudged the blade to the side. “Relax. That strange figure darted off into the edges of the forest’s magic all by himself, I didn’t do anything!” it declared childishly, kicking back to lounge in mid-air. “Besides, it only warped him someplace else in the forest. Give or take a couple of days, you’re bound to run back into each other eventually.”

“A couple days!? ” he spat. Letting his guard down would be a mistake. If the ever-bloodthirsty Majora was going to hit him upside the head and rip him to shreds, though, it would have done so by now. With a groan, he simply turned and headed in whichever direction he deemed fit. “We don’t have that kind of time. I will simply have to find a way out of this wretched maze myself, then.”

The masked imp (or imped mask?) followed him with its wooden eyes, only to zip right after him when he showed no signs of slowing down. “Aw! Is that a way to treat an old ally? So many years it’s been, and you abandon me so soon?”

“I seem to have missed the part where we were anything even close to allies, Lord Majora,” Ghirahim sighed, folding his arms as he continued wading into the mist. “And even if we once were, you are part of a piece of history that I am more than happy to leave behind. Respectfully.”

Majora hovered next to him and folded its hands curiously behind its back. Two little fairies wordlessly joined it, though it seemed to pay them no mind. Ghirahim took its unbroken stare as a cue to continue, as much as he was trying to ignore it.

“You’re really going to make me say it, aren’t you? And here I am, trying my best to stay polite,” he sighed, waving the demon and its cohorts off like one would a fly.

“Let me just say… Master Demise and his forces weren’t particularly grieving the loss of a Demon who managed to get banished by mere human hands. ”

Oh, if only he could have seen the look on its true face at such a comment! Majora’s snarl should have been an ample warning, but the greater demon was just much too quick, and in his attempt to sidestep its blows, a scratch tore through his cape instead.

An otherworldly rumble came from the mask, and the imp’s fairies cowered. “ Such insolence! You brat, I outrank you!”

Ghirahim stepped aside, examining the damage to his shoulder. Only light magic could truly harm him outside his core, but his false skin had scratched, and his poor cape… Curses! He’d have to mend that.

Rubbing his sore shoulder, Ghirahim scoffed. “Outrank me, perhaps, but you should be very aware by now that I answer to the command of only one man. You can’t force my tongue if you tried.”

Almost immediately, the imp was upon him again. A black claw peeked through Majora’s glove as it wagged his finger at him. “Ah! Ah! Is that truly so?”

Ghirahim looked the creature up and down with a frown once, before brushing the last bits of straw off his cape and continuing to walk. “Whatever is that supposed to mean?”

Majora giggled. “Well… Surely you didn’t come to these woods to goof around at the orders of your precious Master,” it hovered after him, close behind him enough to hear the buzzing of its fairies.

Ghirahim’s hand found its way unsubtly back to the grip of his sword. “The Master allows us our own free time to do as we wish.”

“Aha! That is your second lie,” Majora burst out gleefully, launching forward to float right next to his face. Ghirahim would have startled if he wasn’t so used to that horrid mask by now, and with his hand flat on its false face, pushed it out of the way. Shoving it around was almost too easy, so he could only assume it took amusement out of the gesture.

“I am most pleased to announce that your attempts at annoying me are working splendidly. Your allegiance does not lie with us, Majora. If it is intel you intend to rip from me, you will have to try a lot harder.”

Majora faded into a cloud of black one second, and appeared at his other side in the next, shrugging its shoulders. “It’s not any serious intel I’m after. I’m just trying to figure out a way to land myself a spot in this silly little war of yours.”

“Oh, how lovely. Unfortunately, I do not intend to satisfy your request whatsoever,” he scowled, continuing to stride through the endless mist.

Much to his chagrin, Majora continued to hover after him, teasing eyes boring into his back. Every pause to consider a junction, or every frustrated scoff when he noticed he circled back around again, was punished with a soft giggle right behind him. He knew this thing’s game — it was going to whittle away at his patience until words came bubbling forth. The lack of violence made him uneasy, though. Majora needed him for something, that much was clear. It went without saying that he wasn’t fond of the idea of getting caught up in an ancient demon’s plottings. Especially not an old enemy of Master Demise’s.

Just when he thought the Arch-Demon was going to chase him nice and quietly, it hummed again, nonchalantly reclining in mid-air. “You’re going the wrong way, you know.”

Oh, he was aware. He didn’t want Majora to have even a shred of leverage, though. “For all I know, you could be simply saying that to throw me off.”

“Well, then. Only one way to find out, right?”

The next moments, Ghirahim spent completely ignoring the capricious imp that hovered after him, picking routes based only on whatever his completely scrambled inner compass told him. He triumphantly stomped on. It appeared to be going well for him, until from the corner of his eye, he could swear he spotted a familiar, freshly carved marking in a trunk alongside the path. His nose crinkled. Every little tone and whistle that came from the blasted ocarina hovering about his ears irked him. Such cheerful music now only served to tick him off.

“Ready to give up yet?”

Ghirahim sighed, baring his teeth as he threw his hands in the air in indignation. “I am not making an exchange with an arch-demon!”

“An exchange! Such an official term. How about instead… Oh, something very unorthodox, really. A favor for a favor?”

His hands dropped back at his sides and he groaned. “I hesitate to even let you speak.”

“Don’t care. Let’s say… I tell you what paths to take, while you hear me out?” Majora asked, floating back in front of him to prod him in the chest.

“Hear you out… That is far too unbalanced a trade,” he responded and pinched the fabric of Majora’s glove warily between his fingers to move its hand away from him.

His tormentor wiggled out from his grip and dusted its gloves off, only to put them in its side boastfully. “Not at all! Navigating these woods is child’s play to me. It’d take me juuuust as much effort as it would take you to listen.”

“The problem is, I can’t fathom what there is for you to gain from this war.” Ghirahim pondered aloud, dodging out of the way of Majora’s incessant pestering. “There isn’t even a sliver of a chance Master Ganondorf will let you in on the Triforce’s power. If that’s what you were after, you’d have no business trying to act friendly with me.”

But Majora would not relent and continued to buzz around him. “It’s quite simple, Ghirahim. I feed off of misery, of pain. This war alone could, theoretically, give me enough sustenance to last a lineage’s lifetime. But! Do remind me of my title. Don’t sigh at me like that!”

The words left his mouth with great exasperation. “The Great Gluttony.”

“Exactly. Tell me. What are you intending to achieve with this war?”

What an odd question. What did he intend? He intended nothing. Long ago, he was forged to be a blade, a weapon to slaughter whatever it was pointed at. Majora ought to have known the answer through and through.

Well, despite his best efforts to avoid it, Majora succeeded in herding him around like common livestock either way. It wasn’t coincidental, how it’d made him swerve around into different pathways for the past Demise-knows-how-long. Even though he didn’t want to be indebted to this abomination, he reckoned he should at least throw it a bone before it got truly angry with him.

And so, he dictated his usual response, just as he’d rehearsed it a thousand times. “I seek to fulfill the will of my Master. If he wishes to conquer Hyrule, then I’ll join him in that very desire.”

“Ha! Sure, you tell yourself that. Come on, Ghirahim. We are both demons. You know just as well as I that every sentient being has selfish desires,” Majora mocked him instantly. It had plucked one of its fairies out of the air and petted its purple outline with unsettling affection.

“Sure, on the surface, you may chase your Master’s goals like a loyal bloodhound, but you, Ganondorf, and even that prim little Princess, all have your own selfish goals,” it hissed, now squeezing the fairy in its little fist, releasing it when it began to tingle alarmingly. “Oh, especially the Princess.”

Were this any other person, he would have jumped at the opportunity to tear such riveting information from their lips. As it stood, he had to play on the defensive. “My loyalty won’t be so easily swayed. You insult me.”

Cheerfully, it danced through the air, beckoning him to follow it. The forest mist seemed to lift around it, as if the vapor itself was scared to touch it. Through just that brief outline, the true forest was visible. Finally, begrudgingly, Ghirahim was forced to admit it was indeed guiding him through. There was a reason it skimmed past the pathways that showed up as nothing but pitch black beyond the illusion.

“Those desires fuel us just as they do those mortals. And there is nothing that brings suffering like ripping one’s goals, one’s hopes, from their very hands, and reduce them to ashes before their eyes,” Majora swooned, hands clasped dreamily at its cheek.

In the middle of one of those deadwood arcs, it blocked his path and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Hear me. It isn’t simply that I’m doing you a favor to set you up. It’s… Oh, an investment, shall we say?” It hummed thoughtfully, floating away from him to fiddle with its instrument. “If I give you a little nudge, then for me, that means I’ll get the best yield of mortal tears. Or, well, that’s my educated guess, anyhow. And I tend not to be wrong.”

Ghirahim squinted. After being mocked and ranted to, he wasn’t feeling particularly cooperative. “Oh, sure. I’m just positively convinced that the being trapped in a piece of wood has never whiffed a bet in its whole life.”

Majora snarled in response, the ocarina creaking under the clench of its fist. Yet, it seemed to come up with a better way to get back at him. “You know, that little… Friend, of yours, hides some very interesting selfish desires of his own.”

Zant. So it did manage to go poking around in his head? This conversation was getting dicier by the minute. “Prying into my personal life again? You ought to keep his name out of your mouth if you want me to assist you even a sliver more.”

Majora shrugged. “Who you waste your time macking on is none of my concern. I’m merely interested in the repercussions of this particular one. That strange being is an interesting case, indeed, and all of it is happening right under your nose!”

Growing steadily more annoyed, Ghirahim strode on, only to be obstructed by Majora and its incessant babbling at every other turn. It was doing what it did best — sow suspicion and break spirits, an infernal impulse he himself knew all too well. Locking someone in an eternally looping forest, picking away at their composure, until they either broke or fell dead on the floor. Really, it’d picked a masterful spot for an interrogation. Interrogation…

He smirked. “I see now why Cia was so intent on summoning you to her ranks. Unfortunately, you’ll have to do a whole lot worse to get me to spill any secrets worth tattling to her.”

An instant, shrieking laughter rang from Majora behind him. “Cia! You insult me, Sword,” it giggled, kicking its feet in the air. “That woman has been doing nothing but wearing herself thin. All the Sorceress did was bring me here. She didn’t have a shred of control over me for even a second!”

Cia or not, that didn’t mean Majora couldn’t pose a significant threat to their forces. It continued to subtly prod and coax him through the forest corridors, though he was getting less certain of its directions with every turn. “Then why try to drive a wedge between the Demon King’s lieutenants like this? Surely not because you’re bored.”

“I’m simply pointing out the truth. If that ‘drives a wedge’ between you two, then that says more about you than about me.”

He rolled his eyes with an airy laugh. “Ah, yes. Arch-Demons, known peddlers of the truth.”

If Majora had any eyelids, surely he would now have seen it squint at him. Nevertheless, it seemed insistent on having the upper hand. After all, he continued to depend on it for directions, even if hesitantly so. With the testing of its patience, came punishment. An odd hum and a heaviness in the air radiated from behind him, enough to make the hairs in his scruff stand on end.

“Sure, you can think I’m lying all you want. Doesn’t make a difference. It won’t be that easy for me, anyway,” it pondered, and in its boldest move yet, moved in to lean on his head. Messing up his hair would normally be punished swiftly, but if he didn’t tolerate this, it would find some worse way to get under his skin. So instead, he just narrowed his eyes and continued down the path. “Like I said, Lord Ghirahim, lately, your loyalties are starting to wander. I’m thinking it’s leading you by the nose someplace you rather wouldn’t be.”

More of this yapping. Such words were better left ignored, and yet, he felt anxious. He had no idea what this current Majora was capable of, and for all he knew, it was omnipotent in this forest and subjecting Zant to the very same bothering. He could never know with the Twili; either he’d somehow managed to scare even Majora off with his eccentricities, or he’d buckled within the minute, and spilled everything forth from loose lips. His expression stiffened, and he knew his aggressor could tell.

“I’ve been watching you two scamper around for quite some time now. You don’t even notice it yourself, do you? I’ve only seen you look at someone like that once before.”

Only when it started tugging at strands of his hair did he think to shake it off of him, fussily running his fingers through his bangs to salvage them. He detested where this conversation was going, which was all the more of a sign for Majora to persist. “He plucks at your strings and you’ll sing to him like a lyre would. I think he knows that better than you do, at this point.”

“I would be very careful with your next words, Majora,” Ghirahim hissed, avoiding the demon’s gaze. That power was thrumming terribly now, and he knew all he had to defend himself were empty threats. “You are prying into matters you know nothing about.”

Majora cocked its head. “Yeah, let’s say that. I’ll ask you a question, then. Considering I know so little! What do you know of him?”

An eerily familiar sensation tingled in his mind. It lapped at him hesitantly, like the ebb and flow of water on the shore, and he knew then that he was being compelled. Hyrule’s most skilled mason would be astounded by the speed with which he built up his mental walls, frantic to leave not a single crack unattended. That fiend was not crawling into his mind without him knowing.

But what could he let slip? In his efforts to close himself off from his mental intruder, he subconsciously raised every mental bridge for his own trail of thought. It left him a bit stupefied. He pictured violence; ink and blood dripping equally freely from withered gray fingers. Zant was a jumbled mess of contradictions, held together by tense strings thin as spider’s silk. But what was the constant? What called to him most, reflected clear as day in those shining amber eyes?

He startled himself out of his own head. In wandering through his thoughts, Majora found a loose brick in his walls and had slipped in behind him. He promptly slammed the gate onward shut for the both of them.

So, he presented it with the last conclusion he’d drawn. “I know that he trusts me, and that’s enough to get through this war.”

Majora hummed inquisitively, satisfied with itself. “Oh, sure, sure. I don’t think you really trust him, though. Doesn’t that bring back memories?”

A mocking chortle rang out inches from his ear, puppet hands digging their grubby mitts into his shoulders. “Poor little Ghirahim! His heart’s run away with him again.”

In an instant, Ghirahim whipped around, and for the first time, he managed to hit something. Severed strands of grass rustled and floated away from the garment they were severed from. Shadows whispered, the puppet creaking its head to find itself missing an arm. The hair at Ghirahim’s scruff stood on end. All it did was just curiously observe its stump, like it didn’t comprehend the concept of an injury. It rattled its mask, and within the blink of an eye, the fallen arm glued itself back into place.

Ghirahim grit his teeth, fully intending to follow up on his threat now that it worked against his expectations. “Enough of this! I refuse to humor even another second of your inane babbling.”

It raised its hands defensively, but really, more as a playful gesture than an actual expression of fear. “No fun! Well, whatever. You won’t have to for much longer, anyhow.”

The woods turned lighter around them, almost as if the fog was thinning. The ghostly, cold powder blue of the labyrinth slowly regained its lively colors, as if the forest was taking its first breath in decades. Still, the split paths persisted, so there was still some way to go. Behind him, Majora was oddly silent, save for the gentle rattling of its mask and the ominous hum that kept it floating. Whether it was instinct steering him, or a strange compelling force, he couldn’t tell. Either way, his feet kept moving at increasing speeds. He heard it now, again, the birdsong, the whistling of the wind. The feeling of sun on his skin was so close now, and he only had to—

Majora appeared before him, circling his head and giggling. “I’ll ask you for one last service, Ghirahim.”

The rush that guided him just seconds earlier faded like snow before the sun. Right when he was happy to leave these accursed woods, his tormentor just had to ruin the moment. He curled his lip in frustration and waded past it, passing under the last hollowed log in his path. “Why do I feel like you’ll tell me whether I agree or not?”

Majora giggled and zipped up above him, bending forward with hands clasped childishly behind its back. “Let me be quick since you’re in such a hurry,” it tittered, raising a finger at him. “I’m permitting you to call for my aid exactly once. I intend for you to use it wisely, for when the tides of war turn irreversibly against your favor. Which is to say, I’m pledging my allegiance to you, Ghirahim. Not your Master, not that gangly creature you hang around, but you. ”

Ghirahim simply shook his head and ducked, passing under Majora’s spread-stanced legs. “Not a chance.”

“Oh, but there is,” it spoke, bending backwards to watch him leave. “Very interesting things are in store for you all, Blade, very interesting indeed. And when the Hylians fall, when everything goes awry beyond their wildest expectations, I’m gonna want a slice of that pie. Really, it’s a debt that pays itself!”

“You’ll forgive me for declining,” Ghirahim stated coldly with a dismissive wave, not caring to look back at it.

“No need to answer straight away. Just keep my offer in mind, and, well… Call upon me when the time comes,” it purred, again appearing right in his face. It reached out for him, just about to cup his cheeks with those ratty little claws it had, rancid energies blaring from its fingertips. Suddenly, it retracted, and the buzzing stopped altogether. “Or don’t! Just know that it’ll be your misery I’ll devour if you refuse.”

One last time, he dodged out of the way of that wretched little thing, only to find that it suddenly, completely willingly, stepped aside. Where the eyesore once floated before him was now a brightly lit clearing. He was out.

A cheerful wave caught his attention in the corner of his eye. “It’s been fun catching up. Bye-bye, Demon Lord!”

When the little imp finally disappeared, he could barely restrain a shudder running down his back. Majora had always been an interesting figure. But to find that infernal colossus, that being of pure chaos, housed in the body of a child, not to mention act the part… It had led him out of the woods, that’s for certain, but even then he couldn’t help the gnawing feeling that he’d let far more slip than he should have. Or rather, had gotten caught in something he had yet to see the full picture of. A demon’s debt was a dangerous thing to be left unpaid, and he wasn’t fond of being on the receiving end of it for once. Even after the Arch-demon’s supposed departure, he still felt eyes burning in his back no matter where he turned. No doubt it was watching him even now, eager to see him nervously pace and mull on their encounter. He cursed himself for giving it that very satisfaction. Halting in his tracks, he squared his shoulders. If the whims of that accursed creature were to haunt him someday, he’d simply have to cross that bridge when he got to it. Instead, he turned his attention to the area behind the exit of the forest. Much like where they’d started, the clearing here housed the overgrown remnants of a temple, though this place was far more intact than the ransacked ruins they’d found. Tall, ivory walls cast their shade right by his feet. He had a nagging feeling he knew what this place was. He would have to wait for Zant to—

… Zant.

At once, his conversation, or rather, attempts at interrogation from Majora crashed back into the forefront of his mind. The matter of Zant yet stood. Many fond memories he now shared with him. Moments of affection, of standing by each others’ sides in the heat of battle, and of the many ridiculous trysts he’d gotten him into. But even with all the intimacy the two had shared, how they’d molded this strange world into a constellation of their own little corners, a sudden realization struck him like a shock of lightning. All those nights he’d lay by his side, and he had not a single clue what went on in the man’s head.

Just those few questions had wormed their way so thoroughly under his skin, that it pulled into question every minute he’d spent with his co-lieutenant. A being with that kind of affinity for treachery and despair, there was no telling what kind of influence he’d been under. Had it put him under a spell? Poked a hole in every carefully propped-up defense, and seen fully into his mind? This latter option was the much more frightening option of the two. If it did, how much had it seen?

He shook his head. If there was one thing Majora spoke the truth about, it was its incessant hunger for despair. The past conversation was nothing more than that; an attempt to befuddle him. He couldn’t trust a word that fiend said.

But could he trust Zant’s?

His head swam, stirring the inside of his core like a maelstrom. He slumped against a nearby tree and sank until he sat in the grass. The more he thought about it, the more he felt that chilling whisper of doubt tell him that he didn’t know. Ever since their first escapade to these woods, Zant had been amicable to him. The Usurper had shown himself to be capable of more warmth and kindness than Ghirahim thought possible for a man whose hands were soiled with the blood of so many. More than once now, he’d let the man cradle his very life in those hands. Knowing very well now that he could have shattered him to pieces with a single squeeze, those memories now filled him with biting horror. So vulnerable he’d been, then, and now he couldn’t even decide whether he trusted him or not. He’d let him lead him back and forth in this dance of suspicion, of embracing one another with daggers held behind each others’ backs, and never thought to consider just what he’d held in his hands. They kept secrets from each other in broad daylight like it was a game, and he’d simply let that childish game of cat-and-mouse go by unconfronted. He’d grown too comfortable being this playful with little boys with swords. Now, he failed to recognize the gargantuan threat that was cracking his fingers underneath his doting grip.

“Ghirahim! It is a relief to see you.”

He shot up at the voice that appeared so close to him. The last man he wanted to see, at least for another few minutes, surfaced from the woods and wandered his way over to stand by his side. When his eyes shot to look at him, he could only guess the expression he must have carried. For a moment, Zant seemed startled. Where there was enthusiasm to see him just seconds earlier, he now only showed hesitation. The doubts from before still dug their claws into his mind, stunning him into silence. Ghirahim could do nothing but stare.

The man before him stepped closer, carefully, as if the ground might give way under him. His gangly gray hand parted the curtain of his cloak and reached out to him, palm turned to the sky. His voice croaked out almost timidly. “Are you alright?”

Ghirahim did not respond, instead turning his gaze to the ground. From the corner of his eye, he saw Zant curl his fingers somewhat apprehensively, his hand retracting back behind his cape. What would he tell him? That he’d met with Majora? A man as learned as he would know the exact implications of such an encounter. He would know what dire consequences would come with being bound to an oath with such a creature. More dangerously so, he’d know that his co-lieutenant had a sore enough spot in his willpower to be deceived. One of them was lying to him. Whether Zant or Majora, he wasn’t sure which option stung his pride more.

For the time being, he couldn’t risk Zant knowing that he doubted him. He groaned and brought a hand to his forehead. “I got through in one piece, certainly, but that’s about where the positives end. There’s something wrong with that forest, Zant. Magic that wild and ancient doesn’t sit right with me.”

Zant paused. His eyes still shielded by his hand, he chose not to remove it, thinking it best not to let him look at him too carefully. Right next to him now, the fabric of Zant’s cloak fluttered, and he crouched down to sit beside him. How fantastic. To have that wretched helmet loom closer to him was the opposite of what he needed. His nerves increased when a clammy hand rested itself on his shoulder. Instead of the usual gentle comfort, it felt almost like a pinprick. Something snagged on him, like the corner of a spider’s web, and he flinched. How many more threads had he been caught on?

“You were frightened, Ghirahim?” Zant murmured, the visor of his helmet retracting to reveal the bottom half of his face. “How very unlike you… It is fortunate, then, that you managed to escape that labyrinth that much quicker.”

Frightened. Such a strong word, one that awakened the fury of his ego past the veil of that muddling fear. Yet, perhaps he was. The question only remained of what.

The longer he avoided looking at him, the more he felt the tension in the back of his mind grow taut. He couldn’t curl up here with his head in his hands forever. He sat up and sighed deeply, his back pressing against the damp bark of the tree behind him. When he turned to look at Zant, he found his lips drawn tight with worry. But when his eyes trailed higher…

“… There is dirt on your helmet.”

Reflexively, Zant reached a hand up to pat his helmet’s metal surface. Surely enough, as he approached the tip of it, his fingers came back smudged and muddy. His pout turned slowly to a grin as he examined them, a blush coating his cheeks.

He giggled. “Oh, if you must know… When I flew toward the treetops, it appeared the forest had some very different ideas. Instead of surfacing from the treeline as expected, it instead flipped me topsy-turvy, and in my momentum, I, well…” he laughed, wiping his hands clean on the grass. “I’m most fortunate you weren’t there, really. You would have found it incredibly amusing, at my expense.”

He furrowed his brows, for a moment puzzled by the yarn he was spinning, until he let its implications sink in. An involuntary grin tightened his face. The image of him, plummeting head-first into the forest floor, and struggling clumsily to pull that big, stupid helmet out from the soil like a panicked ostrich… What a pointless thing to tell him! To cast his dignity aside, just to freely deliver him this foolish bit of slapstick. And for what reason? To-

… To cheer him up?

He shook his head. Of all the things to snap him out of his brooding… A persistent little voice, a squeaky mockery of the Arch-Demon, insisted that this, too, could be part of an elaborate foil. He could be fooling him into complacency, clouding his mind with distractions to lower his guard. And perhaps it was. But for the time being…

“I could have told you something like that would happen, you oaf!” he laughed, piercing enough for Zant to clatter his visor back down in embarrassment. “But you never listen to me, now, do you?”

The smile on his face gradually drew warmer. His laughter shook him somewhat, jingling his earring. Soothing like a windchime, yet he felt the need to silence it and rubbed its dangling gems between his fingers. Perhaps this gift too, had been a bribe, but now, he could only relish in its comfort.

Zant sat there giggling to himself, holding still to the best of his ability while Ghirahim reached over to brush the tip of his helmet clean. “Either way, Ghirahim,” he said after clearing his throat, “you are right about the forest. Fortunately, there is only one more thing I wish to look at. We needn’t linger much longer.”

The two of them stood up, one assisting the other in rising, and made their way over to the stone building before them. Scaling the stairway, Zant addressed him again.

“I was wondering. How did you manage to leave the forest so quickly? You told me yourself you didn’t hear the music.”

Ghirahim fell quiet. He had the nagging feeling Zant could tell when he lied; his silence and that piercing stare were all too familiar to the way he carried himself at the war table. He resigned himself to half-truths, instead. “I’m not sure about it myself. At one point I was thrown from turn to turn, and before I knew it, I was in front of this gateway.”

Zant hummed, continuing his ascent. “What a fortunate coincidence.”

Footsteps bounced between the stone pillars of the staircase, and the wind swayed the overgrown vines above them. It was eerily quiet in this part of the forest. Where one would expect keese hiding between the shrubbery, or deku babas bursting from the ground, there was only silence. No conscious creature dared dwell here, almost as if any soul, living or dead, was banished from this very clearing. As if…

Ghirahim froze on the steps. He could pinpoint it if you’d asked him, the very second he’d stepped through that threshold. A droning hum, a whistling wind through columns, and an unmistakable heaviness in the air. He knew exactly where they were.

“Zant, we need to leave.”

The man in question showed no signs of slowing. “Nonsense, Ghirahim.”

He would chase him up the stairs, but he didn’t dare to. Any closer to what was at the summit of those steps… “I’m serious. This is a terrible idea.”

With a thunk of his boot on the steps, Zant turned to face him. “You think I don’t know what this place is? I’ve wanted to come here from the start.”

Ghirahim scoffed. “To think you were lecturing me about fairies earlier!”

Zant merely hummed in response and continued his climb. Ghirahim stood and gawked, each thumping footfall sending shivers down his spine. He was no stranger to such divine places, much less defiling them, but even he knew that they should only be approached with a thorough goal in mind. Whatever Zant thought—

… Well, that was the question, wasn’t it?

So quickly he had forgotten his lessons from moments earlier. The Twili was always adept at kicking his feet out from under him. If he was planning on doing it again, he decided he’d at least want to be able to see that kick coming. Begrudgingly, thus, he hurried up the stairs after him.

By the time he made it up there, Zant was already making it to the center of the platform with frustrating nonchalance. He shuddered to see it. All around them, the forest trees loomed over them in a cyan haze, the edges of the cursed fog leering at its escaped hostages. Each of them cursing the pair’s very presence in this sacred space, where something so precious once lay asleep. Grass and weeds long overtook the weathered tiles of this sanctuary, though the stone never lost its shine. Even past all its cracks, the coarse surfaces glittered in the faded sun, illuminating the path to their central stage. At the center of it all, with Zant standing right next to it, was the pedestal of the Master Sword.

“Be patient, Ghirahim. I only need to record the runes on the edge of the stone.”

He kneeled beside the pedestal, his helmet now retracted. He could thoughtfully scribble away all he wanted, he wasn’t getting any closer to that thing.

Even with his back turned, it seemed Zant could pick up on his stiff apprehension. Scratching away into his notebook, he spoke. “The Master Sword left this place, and along with her, went its barriers and the Demon King’s presence within them. What is left, and I’m certain you felt it, is the mere exhaust of ancient magic. No trouble shall befall us here.”

Ghirahim leaned against a nearby pillar, his arms folded tightly to his chest. That was all well and good, but he didn’t intend on lingering here a second longer than he had to. Zant simply sat there, shuffling from edge to edge, a troubled expression tightening his lips. It wasn’t that many runes, why was he taking so long?

He groaned in frustration, and against his every reasonable sense, blitzed his way to the pedestal. “Of course you’re going to struggle with a scripture you can’t even read. Give me that notebook, I’ll do it.”

Somewhat sheepishly, Zant held out the leather-bound booklet to him, which he snatched out of his hands with great annoyance. It was better to get it over with as quickly as possible. He hardly even had to think on it. The words melted onto the paper almost of their own accord, until—

… That was strange. It wasn’t like this when…

“… This is a different language.”

A smirk formed on Zant’s lips. “Oh?”

He clicked his tongue. Of course that damn Twili had figured out that much already. “The first few words I recognize as ancient Hylian, but the rest…” The longer he kept reading, the more oddities he noticed. Every other word, the text on the pedestal seemed to switch to a different script. “It’s almost as if it’s —“

“Converged?”

He looked down at the man squatted next to him, who soon rose to his full height, grinning even more triumphantly than he had before. Ghirahim quickly shook off this moment of stunned silence and returned to jotting down the inscriptions on the pedestal. “It wasn’t like this in my time.”

Fascination crossed Zant’s face. “You have seen the pedestal before?”

Wettening the tip of his pencil with his tongue, he laughed bitterly, carrying not a shred of mirth. “I was there when it was hewn.”

With the last words on the pedestal jotted down, Ghirahim urged their departure soon after. He shoved the notebook back into Zant’s hands and clasped his shoulder, waiting for him to warp them back to the Palace. Zant did not deliberate, much to his relief. Every second spent near that pedestal added another to a range of foul memories, the old threads of which he wasn’t eager to weave in with the new.

Through the rustle of the Twilight King’s magic, before they were ripped across time and space, he could swear he heard a familiar giggle echoing from the woods.

Dusk was setting in the desert now, cloudless skies turning the once searing blue into a prism of colors. Zant had transported the both of them in the middle of a hallway, which he was now making his way through like they hadn’t been gone for even a minute. Ghirahim, meanwhile, found himself stopped at this window, looking out over the sandy expanse that stretched out before him. After being trapped in the same, foggy, dull green all day, the tepid air of the desert felt almost welcoming. He stood there for a bit, simply letting himself absorb the view, until suddenly, something jolted in him, and prompted him to keep going. Staring at a bright, orange orb, surrounded by rainbow gradients of reds, pinks, and purples... It simply started to unsettle him in its familiarity.

Depending on which of the two you’d ask, that day had either been wisely spent or an utter slag. Either which way, neither man would be tempted to elaborate on why. They sat side by side at Zant’s desk, struggling their way through translations and scripts. Ghirahim preferred his evening to be spent much like this. Despite it all, Zant was the fondest company he had, still, and after the chaos of that day, the last thing he wanted to be was alone with his thoughts. To wreck his head over academia was a much-preferred alternative to their usual sweet little nothings. Those empty conversations, they each peppered with pins and needles, hoping that the other would prick himself on letting just a bit more slip than he’d intended.

Zant’s quill halted. The feathered tip fell onto the desk, falling from his fingers as he brought his hands to grasp and drag down his face. Ghirahim perked up from his concentration when the monomaniac began to giggle incredulously.

With a shake of his head, Zant stared down at their notes and began his revelation. “All along, the title of the ‘Triforce Cycle’ has involved far more than simple reincarnations of the three Chosen. How foolish I have been to overlook this!”

In an instant, he turned to him, forcing his attention to blazing, golden eyes. Ghirahim froze as he spoke. “Don’t you see it, Ghirahim? It was never just the returning of souls to different bodies. All of us, we are stuck in a loop. ”

Dictionaries ravaged and diagrams defaced, they turned simultaneously when a hasty knock pounded on the door. A flustered bokoblin was permitted entry, visibly panting from the haste with which he had barreled his way to Zant’s quarters. Before either of them could authorize him to speak, the words tumbled with him through the door.

“Cia has fallen.”

Chapter Text

The announcement of Cia’s demise and the subsequent establishment of Sorceress Lana as the Guardian of Time brought immediate chaos to the palace. Their path was cleared, their forces supplied — all there was left to do was take the Valley of Seers, and with it, return the Triforce of Power to its rightful pedestal on the Demon King’s hand. All tension that had been building up among Ganondorf’s forces over the past few weeks burst apart into shrapnels. That very night, troops took to their saddles and set out to march for the Eldin Border, to join their compatriots in the vast sea of tents.

With Cia’s defeat also came the potential of new allies… Not that Ghirahim was particularly enthused about those arrivals. Volga and Wizzro, his previous co-lieutenants when still under the Sorceress’ command. He had only followed her through the thrall she’d placed on him, though her promise of the revival of his True Master… It was fascinating enough, at the time. But those two, they’d had no motives but their own corruption, or the simple desire to serve the strongest. With her out of the picture, all that was left was to find whatever scraps were left of the disgraced commanders and beat them into submission. 

It was easy enough to find Wizzro. He had lingered in the witch’s library, idly combing through her literature like there wasn’t a war raging mere miles away. All Master Ganondorf had to do was step into the threshold, and the wretched creature had all but thrown himself at his feet, begging to be worn. It was a despicable sight, despite its parallels. At least Ghirahim’d had the dignity to put up a fight.

Volga, in the meantime, was posing more of a challenge. Whatever happened during the Hyruleans’ siege on the Valley, it had not done its favors for Volga’s composure. They encountered him skulking in Eldin, cornered and snarling like a wounded animal. He’d rejected their Master fiercely, vehemently, until the rule of beasts decreed he submit. Ghirahim had marveled at the sight, how the Demon King seized the dragon by his horns and threw him to the ground. The crunching of bone and carapace was only barely drowned out by the beast’s yowls and roars; Master was beating him until he turned man again. Once he did, he’d been pinned to the dirt with his neck between the twines of Ganondorf’s trident. The loyalty he swore then was stained with the blood that poured between his gritted teeth, but it was one, nonetheless. What other choice did he have? It shouldn’t have taken that much violence for the oaf to clear his head. The Princess certainly wouldn’t grant him forgiveness, and he ought to have realized by the second strike to his boney jaw that Ganondorf was no enemy to make light of.

Ghirahim wondered idly, with them all standing at the sidelines and forbidden from interfering, why Ganondorf had taken his lieutenants along for these recruitments. Perhaps to set an example, of what they would expect were they to betray him? Curious, but intriguing. Or perhaps, to grant them an excuse to voyeur? Well, even if it were the former, Ghirahim found him taking all that much more fulfillment in the latter. At least, he was treating it as such.

Now, the six of them stood at the forefront of the war table. The innermost layer of the congregation, directly circling the table, was occupied by them, the highest commanders. Around them, nearly huffing down their necks, were the others: Gerudo captains, darknuts, moblins, and lizalfos, flanked by the stallords and bulblins they had recruited from rogue bands. With the events of the past days still splaying out fresh wounds on the lands of Hyrule, it was perhaps their most chaotic meeting yet. The death of a warlord, and the subsequent disbanding of her entire army, meant far too much territory was suddenly up for grabs. Nigh every minute, some panting messenger would burst through the tent flaps to relay the status of a camp either relinquished to Master Ganondorf’s forces or annexed by opportunistic Hyruleans.

That was the problem with monsters, Ghirahim thought to himself with a disdainful grimace tainting his features. Without a powerful overlord to tell them what to do, the undead were just that — aimless souls, seeking a way to unleash their vengeance. For all the trouble the Hyruleans put them through, at least they had pride, and wouldn’t simply lose all sense of self to mere disorganization. 

Zant stood at Ganondorf’s side, croupier stick in hand. With contemplative silence, he moved pawns on their map to their rightful places, scattering its ink-blotted landscape with blues and reds. The commander tended to the war table as one would prune a garden; through all the bustle in the room, filled with the murmur of men and hurried scuffle of feet, the rake in the hands of that lunatic provided the sole bit of meditative tranquility in the middle of war. With the fate of Hyrule resting on its yellowed surface, this table was the eye of the storm.

Even as the frequency of messengers diminished, in the short term of their plans, very little had changed their plans. From the Gerudo Desert to the Valley, their path was clear. They could march unimpeded, and the siege of the Triforce of Power was within reach. One problem remained: in the time that their rivaling force had fallen, they hadn’t yet dealt with their… Pest problem. Goron City still threatened their flanks, and such a powerful enemy could not be left unattended to. Their forces would have to split.

“Master, if I may volunteer myself,” Volga stated, hands folded behind his back. “My people took Death Mountain as our home, millennia ago. Not only am I well-adapted to the mountain’s harsh conditions, but reclaiming it would restore our hatching grounds. Dragonkind would be indebted to you.” 

Ghirahim found himself somewhat unsettled by how quickly Volga regained his stoic coldness. Something about a mortal man acting like a blade unnerved him.

Ganondorf narrowed his eyes at the man before he glanced back at the table with a chuckle and a shake of his head. “Dragonkind would bend to my will one way or the other, Volga. You are among their paragons, and yet, here you stand at my table.”

Volga’s shoulders stiffened, subtly but easy to spot from the side. 

Gold-tipped claws tapped on the map, and Ganondorf continued. “Nevertheless, your assessment is fair. Having you as a commander in the siege of Death would greatly improve our chances. I have already considered stationing you there for this very reason.”

Lightly, that massive hand dragged across the map as he walked from his spot. Ghirahim’s eyes trailed it hungrily. “Yet, you have other motives, do you not?” the Demon King said as he made his way to him, his cape brushing by the ankles of the commanders he passed along the way. “If I recall correctly, a relative of yours was slain on that very mountain.”

Volga fell silent. Something pulled at the sharp folds of his nose, darkening his expression. He nodded, lowering his head. “Indeed, Your Grace.”

Ganondorf grinned, moving a single pawn on the map to the base of the Eldin volcano. “I do not mind personal stakes, Volga. I need passionate, driven warriors on my side, that will lay their lives on the line to conquer our territory. But do not use our siege as an excuse for a mere revenge plot. It clouds the judgment of my warriors, and risks far too much carelessness than I will tolerate.”

“Of course, King Dragmire,” Volga answered curtly, instantly raising his chin with newfound confidence.

Ganondorf fell silent, staring thoughtfully at the map, his smile at once fading. “Ghirahim, Zant,” he called to their attention. 

They faced him at once. 

“You will join Volga in the siege of Death Mountain. The Gorons are at an advantageous position at the Mountain’s summit, thus I propose we split our efforts in half. Zant is most familiar with our plans for the siege, and I trust your synergy to carry you both to victory.”

Where Zant nodded curtly and continued moving his little pawns, Ghirahim clawed together every shred of composure he had to stop his expression from falling. What?

The words that followed only chipped away at him further. “Yuga and Wizzro, you will accompany me to reclaim the Triforce. Your recent involvements with the Sorceress will give us an advantage in navigating the Valley.”

The rest of that briefing may as well have been a blur.

Stations assigned and resources allocated, gradually the crowd inside the tent began to thin. The lower-ranking officers were the first to leave. Beast after beast passed after him, leaving only those who sought counsel with their superiors, until finally, only their handful of lieutenants remained. All that time, Ghirahim merely stood waiting, eyes glued to the map. Even on this miniature, the distance between Death Mountain and the Valley seemed insurmountable, agonizingly great. Standing across the table from the Demon King, those gauntlets mere golden smudges in his peripheral… Ghirahim refused to let it be an omen. He wasn’t forged for such loneliness. At least, not again.

Ganondorf was presently engaged, but he didn’t care. With a clear of his throat, he captured the attention of the men standing at the other side of the table. "I cannot help but express my displeasure, Milord,” he stated with a bow of his head. “The past months we have fought tirelessly to ensure your advance. I do hope you can forgive me for my desire to see you conquer the valley in all your glory, my Master."

The Demon King chuckled. Arms folded behind his back, he strode his way around the table. Warmth and buzzing arcane power radiated from the massive presence now next to him, almost enough to make his knees buckle and cling to the man's furred breeches. Almost.

"Lord Ghirahim," Ganondorf rumbled. "Your fluency in the realm of flattery assures me of your loyalty, your enthusiasm."

In an instant, he was aflutter. Craning his head up to look at him, he felt pierced by the gaze of those golden eyes. "It is not flattery, Milord. It is my most genuine praise and admiration of your strength." He needed Ganondorf to know he would give him anything. Void deep eyes pleaded. Put your trust in me. 

Suddenly, warm, calloused fingers found their way to his chin, tipping his head gently upward to keep him in place. Oh, look at me more! See how I adore you!  

"I see," Ganondorf said, a smile creasing his bronze cheeks. "... Nevertheless, I must remind you of your place. You are here to be my warrior, not to lick at my heels. I entrust to you this duty, to guard our most sensitive mission, and I will accept no insubordination to this decision."

Ghirahim sucked in a breath but suppressed the sigh that would follow. He could never disobey him, never truly, but his stubbornness certainly got him close. That Ganondorf refused to wield him as intended was the first jagged nail that drove into him. Heart bleeding, he decided then that simply being by his side and following his command would sate him. But now, to be denied even that simple shred of proximity, to be miles away when he should be fighting alongside him… He lived to serve, but first and foremost he was a weapon. To be sent out as any other lieutenant would be to rid himself of what had kept him so close to Demise for all those eons.

What made him special. What made him His.

His instinct prevailed over the meek cry of his soul. “Of course, Master,” he responded, though his face could only have conveyed the contrary. Ganondorf grunted, averting his gaze first, and retracting his hand after.
Behind the curtain of his pearlescent hair, the slightest token of the Demon King’s affection remained hidden, a secret between them both. Before he could fully withdraw himself, swiping right under the diamond scar upon his cheek, the pad of Ganondorf’s thumb gently caressed his cheek. It was a tenderness that could only ever be known to the two of them. An apologetic gesture, to lay there shattered, only for Ganondorf to pick up one of his shards and kiss it.

Ghirahim’s eyes followed him all the way through the tent until he could no longer be seen.

A bony hand found its way around his arm, tugging him closer to enter a half embrace. Whatever rosy, yet downtrodden trance he was in promptly snapped and vanished from sight. 

Yuga’s voice crooned mawkishly, tutting at him ever so slightly. “You really are a bit of a spoiled boy, aren’t you, Ghirahim?”

Ghirahim hissed and spat in response. “Spoiled! You will know to watch your tone, Yuga. Your familiarity with our feudal system should tell you that I outrank you.”

Yuga cackled flightily at his snapping. To his dismay, his attempts to shake the Lorian off only made him cling to him harder, jingling his various jewelry in their motion. “Perhaps so! Yet, you’ll forgive me for being so amused by your pouting face. To speak against our Master’s wishes!” he murmured, clawed fingers finding his chin. “Well, it can’t be helped now, can it?”

“No, it cannot,” he groaned, head drooping away from the man with a sigh. “Of course, I will carry out any task our King gives me, but I just can’t help but feel duped. To be miles away, during such a paramount battle..! What an unprecedented tizzy to find myself in.”

Yuga hummed piteously. “I do so know your adoration for him,” he said, emphasized by an empathetic pat on his shoulder. “You needn’t worry, Ghirahim. I will ensure no harm befalls our precious Master in your absence.”

That was precisely the problem! His fondness for Yuga was a mere speck in comparison to his dedication to his Master, and it similarly could not outweigh the jealousy he felt. Envy gnawed at him, like stripping flesh away from ribs with snarling teeth, laying bare the bleeding heart that lay beneath. He’d outmatched Yuga in battle multiple times now, and had at least several months more to prove his loyalty than the sorcerer had. Every siege he’d won, he’d dropped into the Demon King’s lap, bloodstained and with love. What sleepless nights he’d accompanied him through, and how he’d managed to crack through his shell and win his smile! His gentle affections! Such gestures that Demise would grant him as scarce rewards, rare but precious all the same. They came just so tantalizingly easily when he pushed the right buttons on this mighty man. Could Yuga have attained the same, in such little time? He doubted it, and yet! There would that wicked sorcerer be, joining his side in his moment of glory! The urge to rip his cloak to shreds with his teeth was only tempered by his sense of decorum, and the cold, gentle hand, that despite his bubbling rage for the man, continued to pet him affectionately. 

He brushed him off with a dejected sigh and made his leave without looking back.

—

A loud clang, a screech. The impact of blade on blade sent a shock of vibration from Ghirahim’s hands to his shoulders, snapping him out of a train of thought he now couldn’t remember. Bright orange eyes called to his attention.

“I cannot believe I am the one saying this, Ghirahim, but you are distracted.”

“So I am,” Ghirahim bit back coldly, lunging forward with a thrust that could only be responded to by a sidestep, and a slice to his armpit. The way Zant read his mind was starting to perturb him, but not so much as his annoyance. He would now have to mend his suit there.

Zant stepped back, sword back at the ready. “It is unlike you to be nervous before battle.”

He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “I am not nervous, ” he grimaced, before coming at him again with an overhead strike. Zant parried it, catching sharp edges together, but Ghirahim was quicker. One bit too much force and he caught him off balance, slipping his blade past his arms and heading straight for his helmet. Its tip stabbed right into the chameleon’s facsimile tongue before he stepped back out of range again. “I’m merely peeved.”

Zant similarly stepped back, nodding quietly. “You are upset with our stationing.”

“By Demise, yes!” he spat sonorously, relinquishing one hand from the grip of his sword to throw it in the air in exasperation. “Millennia I have spent, working tirelessly to fight by my Master’s side! Not to speak of this past campaign. I’ve done nothing but prove my worth to Lord Ganondorf, and now that the battle that we had been working towards has finally arrived, he casts me aside for newcomers? It’s humiliating!”

Zant hummed. Having stood at ease during his soliloquy, he now readied his stance again. “It does not particularly please me either, but Death Mountain is an important siege. Master needs capable lieutenants to carry it, lieutenants who can hold their own without his presence.”

Ghirahim sighed but didn’t have enough time to dramatize before Zant lunged at him again. Steel clashed together, but false edge slipped on, and the Twili had broken past and into his shoulder. But not without Ghirahim’s blade tearing through the tough fabric of his sleeve, and jabbing into his forearm. 

“I know, I simply,” Ghirahim muttered, but then paused. How long had it been since he’d last confided in the man, and genuinely so? He supposed this languid tale was harmless enough; his dedication to the Demon King was no secret. Still, since his talk with the Arch-Demon, he’d been constantly vigilant of sharing even the slightest sliver of truth with Zant. It disturbed him to know that the Twili had an acute sense of when he was lying, but despite all this time, he hadn’t been able to spot the slightest tells on him. 

He’d been silent enough. Zant had stepped away, uncrossing their blades. So Ghirahim continued. “I wanted to be there with him. I so wished to share the glory I’ve worked this hard towards.”

Zant nodded again, before lowering his blade to inspect his arm. The tip of Ghirahim’s sword had jabbed right above where his leather armor stopped, but not broken it. It would bruise, not bleed. 

“I understand, Ghirahim. Yet, you must understand its practicality. Our very sparring sessions here have given us far greater synergy than with our other lieutenants,” he began, raising his blade again. His stance was wide and immaculate. “We simply work best when we are in the same field. The same, I’ve observed, goes for the Master and Yuga.”

Ghirahim pondered his words, before a smirk cut through his face, and he came at him with an underhand strike. “I’d wager there is far more going on between them than mere synergy.”

Fearing for his sore elbow, Zant locked their blades and stepped in, sliding forward until their crossguards kissed. “You say that as if the very same does not count for us, Demon Lord,” he murmured, a smile audible in his voice as he leaned in.

But before Ghirahim could open his mouth in retort, the ground shook. Death Mountain was making itself known, causing dust and gravel to rain down from the ceiling of their training cave. 

The two paused, standing there shoulder to shoulder in silence, before each lowering their swords, leaving this match unfinished. 

“I believe the Mountain tires of our presence at her feet, Zant,” Ghirahim remarked with an hollow chuckle.

“We will see her again soon enough. I am quite content with our session today, either way.”

The rumbling of the mountain loosened yet more of the cave, its stalactites shivering ominously. A mosaic of crackles formed against the ceiling, bit by bit flaking away. It chipped, rumbled, and clattered, before losing its hold altogether. Pebbles fell and scattered on empty soil.

—

The climb to Goron City had begun. Wind soared through the mountain path as their troops marched ever higher. Without the shelter of trees or rock outcroppings, every step was dangerous even with a flat path to tread. Soles braced into the coursing sands and cloaks billowed in the gust, but nature alone could not deter them. They had been trekking for several hours now, and had long passed the signs of struggle beaten into the rock surface by Zant’s fake-out siege from mere weeks earlier. In the valley to the south, they could still see the battalions in the south moving to the Eldin border. The Demon King’s forces split off from their own at almost equal numbers, but would soon join the expanse of monsters that stood at ease just at the horizon’s edge. From this height, the battle camp's brown and red tents were like a bloodstain on the scorched and barren sands in the distance. Oh, how Ghirahim longed to have witnessed that very camp come to life at their arrival, to hear the rallying cries of infernal forces that lusted for nothing but slaughter and victory. So far away now, the marching of his troops drowned out the distant beating drums and pounding feet of those chasing after the Demon King. It brought him as much misery as it grounded him. He had to focus. 

Focus so much, in fact, that it started to irk him how eerily silent the mountains were. For their entire trek up, not so much as a single Goron had reared their head, much less attempted to stop their advance. Such were the troubles of leading an advance to highly guarded territory on even higher grounds — they could only be walking right into an ambush. The tension was palpable among the pair of familiar lieutenants, yet somehow, marching upfront and shoulders squared, Volga did not seem deterred. Either he truly had confidence in his own abilities, or he was plainly a fearless idiot. Ghirahim was betting on both. 

The mountain path split in two here, a tall rock outcropping forming the partition of the two roads. To the east, there was what appeared to be a now-empty mine, though their true objective branched north. Not wanting to risk getting flanked by an ambush from those treacherous caves, Zant appointed a platoon to keep watch there and set up a makeshift base in the event they had to fall back. He was being cautious; perhaps the only one of the three. 

They could only march onward for their first units to pass the intersection until the sounds of explosions and panicked yelps of Lizalfos echoed from that back-up platoon. 

Ghirahim whipped around back east, only to find a massive shape eclipsing the sun. Something was cutting through the skies above, and making their way straight to them. 

Whistling as it came down, a shadow dropped and hit the ground with an explosion. Rock and dust flew into the air, sending shrapnel carving through armor like paper to the forces that managed to stay outside of its blast range. Those that were not so lucky were either dead upon impact or would find their end soon, dragging themselves away from the crater with whatever limbs they retained.

The claw-like blades of Zant’s swords drove through the skull of one such unfortunate fallen, putting the whimpering barbarian out of his gut-spilled misery. 

“Cease your sniveling,” he boomed, claiming his sword back from his mercy-kill with a sickening squelch. “Archers to the front! Shoot this eyesore down!”

Only now did the backlighting of the sun let up, and the true appearance of the baffling object became clear. Hovering above them all was what could only be described as a giant balloon, clad in red and green stripes, and forced into a round shape by a woven net. Dangling below it was what appeared to be a small wooden boat, steered by propeller in the hands of a small, stocky man who fearfully peered over the edge of his craft. Said man began hastily cutting down bags of sand dangling at the edge of his craft and pulling at the cords above him at the soonest mention of ‘archers’. Just like that, the balloon flew out of reach. The coward! Drawstrings creaked around him as Ghirahim rallied his central archers, but found them too late. The volley of arrows, save for a few stray ones that stuck to the bottom of the boat with a thunk, soared past and into the mountain walls.

The balloon continued moving above them, casting an ominous shadow at Ghirahim’s fifth and last battalion, the one between himself and Zant’s brigade. A sudden realization made him bark the command to clear the way below, breaking up that last formation as they scrambled to get out of the way of yet another dropping bomb. 

The path was too tight, too narrow, and their formations packed together too much to make way for all of the fleeing men. They panicked, they pushed, they tumbled and skidded off the edges, if they managed to get out of the way at all. Ghirahim gritted his teeth, shoving the crowd out of the way if only to keep his eyes on that balloon. A second assault fell soon after, but instead of a single bomb, the miscreant had thrown a whole bag’s worth down.

A deluge of rubble, dust, and boulders cascaded down the mountain, burying those that failed to get out the way of the previous assault. The sand plume was blinding, but the impact couldn’t knock him off his feet. The tremors alone threw most of the smaller monsters to the ground. So quickly, their careful formation had fallen into chaos! They braced themselves, hoping that the unseen rocks that rumbled past them like a stampede would spare them, and waited for the dust to clear.

When the ground finally settled, and the wind whipped the dust away, Ghirahim winced at the sight behind him. Cutting through their path and separating his brigade from Zant’s troops altogether was a massive fan of rubble, spotted with the mangled bodies crushed by the debris.

The balloon continued to soar. Another bomb dropped, one after the other. Once again the archers attempted to intercept, but still they could not reach. They were being decimated!

Pushing through the crowd, Ghirahim came across Volga, who had ordered his men to continue their march as fast as they could manage. The man himself stood there snarling, embers pouring from his lips with every snarling breath.

“This is a waste of time,” Volga growled, his fists flexing into claws. “I’ll handle this.”

Ghirahim looked to his side in shock. Steel and bone on the man beside him began to crackle and groan under the beginnings of his transformation, and he knew what would follow. He quickly struck him in the chest with the flat of his palm, startling him out of his focus. “No, you buffoon! That waste of skin has laced himself with explosives. You’ll set them off and bury us all!”

Yet, the lack of interference was proving itself to be quite adept at burying the lot of them, too. The aeronaut above them hauled another bomb bag over the edge of his basket and sent it plummeting down, blowing another hole in the side of the mountain. The rubble that broke free rushed toward them in a mighty cloud, but Ghirahim was quicker. With a raise of his hand and a snap of his fingers, a great wall of diamonds formed itself at the edge of the path. He winced as the tons upon tons of rock pressed against his magic, the very extension of himself, but it held. Even so, he could not block all of it, and the mountain path by far didn’t have enough space for the troops to flee to safety. Squeals and cries from panicked bokoblins rang out behind him as the landslide claimed them. Those that weren’t doomed to an untimely grave were dragged down the edge of the path with the dust and stones, and met their end falling down. 

Not another minute of this would do. He realized it just as well as the half-morphed, bulging heap of plating and muscle beside him, but Volga couldn’t be the one to fix it. Ghirahim’s eyes narrowed to a squint, his core chiming painfully under the crushing weight pressed against his magic and the ringing in his ears. 

They couldn’t dedicate all of their forces to this floating buffoon alone. They had to make progress! “Leave the bomber to me,” he yelled. “You have to clear our path up ahead!”

Volga’s flaming gaze turned northward, to find his rogue troops organizing themselves into formation. The nature of this ambush became clear; either blast them off the mountain or funnel them onward to walk into another trap. A shower of arrows up ahead had already taken the dragon’s frontlines, and his lower commanders were trying their damndest to prevent them from losing any more. 

Sulfuric bile dripping from between his fangs, Volga snarled in affirmation and promptly doubled over. He crawled, stomped, and hissed his way through the troops before them, all the while growing in size. Armor turned to scales, fingers turned to claws, and his helmet lengthened into a snout. With the unfolding of his wings and the climactic beating of his wings, Volga’s transformation was complete. Whoever was laying in ambush further up the mountain had better hope to be fire-proof.

With their biggest flying asset now occupied, Ghirahim was left with a conundrum nonetheless. Their archers couldn’t reach, and his knives were dragged down by their own weight before they could even make it halfway. A smirk crept up on his face as he realized that, once again, he had to take matters into his own hands. And how deliciously he could crush it between his fingers…

He snapped his fingers once and blinked from existence in a diamond shroud. Swift like a javelin, he darted into the air through the space between spaces. How long it has been since he’d flown like this! Yes, he could see now, in that split second of lingering — he would fit up here with this bumbling idiot just fine. Whether he wanted to be up close and personal with such a tasteless little man…

He had to set his gripes aside. Lounging on the edge of the great balloon’s basket, he poofed back into existence, prompting a startled shriek from the tubby cretin that tugged at the cords that presumably piloted the strange vehicle.

Laughter shook his shoulders as he watched the green-and-red-clad fashion disaster scramble away from him, pressing himself against the edge of his vehicle with a heartbeat pounding hard enough to taste it. “What’s the matter,” Ghirahim purred. “Didn’t expect the sword to get within close range?”

“Don’t come any closer!” shrieked the figure. “The whole balloon is riddled with explosives. One wrong step and we both blow sky-high!”

Ghirahim’s eyes darted to the floor of the craft, and found, indeed, bags upon bags of bombs propped up against its edges. Luckily for the both of them, the Demon Lord wasn’t known for misstepping. His lips split into a grin, tongue darting out between them treacherously, and he lurched forward. 

At least, until he stared down the barrel end of some kind of steel crossbow. 

“Hands off your sword,” the little man barked, pointing his little pocket-sized blunderbuss at him far more insistently, and clicking some switch or other at its top. 

Ghirahim raised his hands, fingers wiggling in a deft motion as he held them above his head. He wasn’t particularly afraid of this glorified stableboy, but he could not be fully certain what manner of weapon he held in his hands, nor did he like the way it pointed straight at his chest. 

The corners of the lips on the man across him began to tug. In realizing he had just, in some measure, pacified a demon, it seemed like his confidence began to swell to sickening levels. “Well, Lord Ghirahim. Tingle must say, when he got the orders to separate you and your fellow commander, Tingle didn’t expect it to work quite so well!” 

This ‘Tingle’ figure lapped at his chapped lips after the stretch of his idiotic grin had cracked them. “Word between the fairies travels quick, oh, yes! And Tingle hears it all!”

Ghirahim frowned at his nonsensical babbling, until realization dropped into his gut like a lead ball. Fairies! There had been two accompanying Majora! Whatever he’d told the Arch-Demon, then, must also have leached its way into whatever network of sparkly little bugs roamed these lands. Then somehow, those words must have reached this airborne court jester, and possibly landed in the hands of… Oh, this wouldn’t stand. Quickly, he broke eye contact with his makeshift hostage-keeper just long enough for him to notice and eyed the cords that he saw him pilot this ship with lustre. “Now, then. In that case, I suppose I ought to make sure the gossip ring ends with you.”

“No!” he shouted, grasping the grip of the weapon in both hands to stop himself from shaking. “You stay right where you are.”

“… You know, ‘Tingle’,” he chuckled, rolling the name in his mouth as if tasting it. “I think you’re not fully certain if that little toy of yours is going to actually hurt me, or if it’s just going to piss me off. ” 

The gun nearly rattled in the fairy-man’s hands as he shook . The crinkle in his brow, his mousey whimpers, the sweat that beaded down his cheek… His fear was delectable! 

Ghirahim had called his bluff. A wicked, skin-crawling laugh escaped his lips. “Well, I have some news for you. It already has!”

In an instant, he lunged for the cords that piloted this gaudy monstrosity. Some seemed to activate the burner above them, causing it to cough and sputter with bright blue flames until it sighed its last breath. The man panicked and finally pulled the trigger on his silly little device. The bullet that bounced off his shoulder did, in fact, hurt him, leaving an ugly scrape that peeled away the layers of his false skin in a small groove. But it wasn’t enough to deter him. 

The balloon jerked left and right at the mercy of its new puppeteer, all the while it gradually sunk. The ominous jingling and clanking of the explosives around them made the man next to him whimper and shiver in his boots, but Ghirahim only howled laughter at his plight. Finally, he’d found the right cord, and hung from it with all his weight. 

In an instant, the captain went against all maritime rules and abandoned ship. Well, he supposed they were in the air, after all. The balloon veered south, its cargo spilling from their bags, but before the first of them could blow apart, Ghirahim had snapped his fingers and disappeared from the deck.

Perched upon a rock, hands proudly propped in his waist, he looked on as the balloon caught aflame. The burning fabric was whipped along with the wind, now far off-course and plummeting down the side of the mountain. His hard work reached its beautiful climax when finally, the cargo inside the airship had been jostled enough and engulfed it all in a shower of explosions. Burning tatters whipped around in the wind like flower petals in the spring, but before he could fully come to appreciate the sight, another explosion to the north caught his attention.

An indignant, shocked groan burst out from him when up in the sky, once again, there was that leather-clad idiot, suspended high in the air by a balloon coming up from his rucksack. Somehow, in his escape, he’d not only survived to keep himself floating, but armed himself with a final bag of bombs, and gleefully continued pelting their forces with them. 

But before Ghirahim could give the command to fire, a second rumble came from down the path, behind the fan of stone. A second shadow now blotted out the skies, growing ever more prominent. The conical chameleon helmet of Twilit King Zant, now ten times his original size, rose above their forces like a colossus. Raising his knee, he planted his draconic shoe atop the rubble. The sound alone was enough to bounce every man that stood on the path an inch upward, rattling bones and teeth and sending a hollow reverberation through their chests. At once, all on the mountain was quiet.

“You dare mock us?” Zant’s voice boomed forth from his helmet, bringing the defaced rock wall to further ruin. “This is funny to you? Very well. I will give you something to giggle about!”

Zant raised his hand, his sleeve nearly long enough to bridge the gap between himself and the floating bomber. The man adrift yelped, audible even from that high up, and yanked frantically at the cords on his backpack. Yet, to no avail. A ball of crackling energy shot from the Twili’s outstretched hand, and tore a devastating hole into the side of the balloon. No amount of aerial skill could prevent the bomber’s literal downfall. The last bit of wind that kept him in the skies veered him southwards, until the whole thing sank, and plummeted down the side of the mountain. 

Normally, such a sight would reduce the Twili to a fit of laughter, but now, there was only fury. The massive shape of Zant bent down, digging his fingers into the fan of debris like it were all mere pebbles. An uproar of men dove away from the wreckage as they all realized just what he was doing. With a roar and a tense sweep of his arms, he pushed, and sent a rain of rocks and boulders cascading down the mountain beside them. 

All Ghirahim, much less their troops could do, was stare in awe and perturbation at the massive man striding his way past them, his brigade behind him. A wicked snarl from the echoing helmet prompted a rallying cry as they all followed him, trailing the shielding of trunk-sized legs. 

The path turned to a funnel before them. Any other time, with any other lieutenants, this stretch would have likely proven fatal, but the Hyruleans would not be so fortunate. Volga had already scorched the place, burning most catapults to a crisp and chasing off their archers. Still, Gorons were as crafty as they were strong, and before long, the first boulders came sailing through the sky and rolling down the incline that led to the upper mountain. Zant hissed, staggering back as one hit him square in the chest, threatening to flatten their front row under his massive heels. Such injuries only appeared to enrage him further — the very next rock that came rolling down the hill was promptly punted back with an accompanied shriek, shattering it to dust and pebbles. 

Zant broke into a sprint to the top of the rock tunnel, but the Gorons held fast, refusing to leave their post unless ripped away from it. Thundering footsteps threatened another landslide, and their men hurried down the corridor behind him in droves. Yet, the Gorons continued sending down their boulders, flattening battalions left and right where Zant didn’t crush them under his soles. 

Courage morphed more and more into stupidity when, despite the gargantuan threat drawing ever closer, the Gorons continued loading their catapults. As if their contraptions could shield them from Zant’s wrath, they ducked behind their makeshift barriers when the massive man was mere steps away. Those that didn’t turn tail sailed into the air along with their siege weaponry. With one two-footed stomp, like a child jumping into a puddle, Zant leaped forward and landed in a shockwave of dark magic, launching every last obstacle that still stood in their way out of sight.

“I will take the Western pathway,” Zant growled, his voice alone resonant enough to crack the walls. “We meet again at the city borders.”

And so, with just a few paces down the forked pathway with his brigade behind him, Zant shrunk back down to his original size, shrieking and cackling all the while. Still, the stumble in his gait, and the rasp of his voice… Ghirahim couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d exerted far too much of himself at the first beat.

Ghirahim stood at the intersection of upper Death Mountain, the scorching volcano air clinging to him like maternal fires of the forge. To the west, Zant was marching onward, flattening everything that dared cross him. Soaring high above was Volga, undeterred by any projectile the Gorons would throw at him. Blades in hand, Ghirahim strode onward. His troops had long run ahead of him, swarming the Goron keeps like rats. Still, he couldn’t let his co-lieutenants have all the fun. Behind him, now, Volga swooped down, tearing through a squad of Gorons that tried to slither into their flanks. Almost longingly, Ghirahim gazed at the scorch marks, the deep gashes those claws left in the stone floors. How he yearned to leave such hickeys on enemy territory! No, for the time being, he had to focus. While the small fry was taking care of the chores, he had his eyes set on the prize. He was heading straight for the City, and whoever he’d carve down on his way there, was a mere bonus.

The rumbling and roaring of rolling boulders that launched down the central corridor were of no concern to him. He’d dodged every single one that attempted to impede his advance to the city, and by now, he’d outran every catapult and funnel that was to spit them out down the slope. All he had to do was make it to the city and get his pot-shots in at their sad excuse of a King. 

Yet, something was amiss. The last time Zant arrived here, he’d reported the city gates to be firmly shut, but this time, they were wide open, and not a soul lingered inside. What’s more, the rumbling behind him was persistent. He had seen no more funnels up ahead, and yet, it seemed the Gorons continued trying to squish him with their endless supply of rocks. 

A second too late, he pinpointed just what irked him so about this particular sound.

It was coming uphill!

Before he could fully turn, a terrifying force had rammed him straight in the back. Clothing tore under the friction, false skin cracked under the impact, and all air that once found its way inside him was forced out in one ragged groan. He was launched forward, rolling and tumbling. Fingers dug into the stone floor of the city plaza as he anchored himself down, and forcefully came to a skidding halt. Gloves worn down shamefully, but the carved tile floors suffering far worse damage, he righted himself, glaring at the source of this humiliation. 

One of the stone-skin Gorons, and a particularly massive one at that, sped towards him curled up in a ball, and unrolled himself at the gate. A wide grin on his bearded face, King Darunia strode toward him, rolling his shoulder with athletic nonchalance. 

“Demon Lord Ghirahim! Thought I’d give you a warm welcome. Oho!”

Oh, so the lout wanted to play coy? Two could play at that game. His scowl melted into a bright smile, though his glare never lost its venom. “Salutations, King Darunia, Chief of the Goron Tribes. Truly, your hospitality is rivaled by none,” Ghirahim sang canorously, bowing with a flourish. “Allow me to procure my own visitation gift.”

Rapier extended, he launched himself forward. His sword carved through the bristles of the Goron’s straw-like beard, but could only leave a small nick on his chest before a large, meaty hand shoved him out of his trajectory. Had he any bones and joints to crack, Darunia would have shattered them all with that strike alone. He landed on his feet, shook off his stumble, and instantly twirled back around, blade at the ready. The Lord Ghirahim, exemplary of demonkind, swatted from the air like a mere fly! 

He had to be more careful. Darunia was far quicker than he looked, and this had been his one and only warning. Eyes narrowed, he braced himself for a follow-up attack as Darunia grinned at him, as playful as he was vicious. A pillar of fire gathered in the man’s dust-yellow palm, twisting like serpents as they grew into shape. He then clenched his fist around it, and in an instant, the melting flames solidified. Now before him, Darunia stood armed, a giant, smoldering warhammer slung over his shoulder.

Even with the chaos boiling outside the city gates, Ghirahim heard nothing but the sounds of their combat. His sword carved through the air with a nearly imperceptible whistle, contrasted drastically by the crackling and roaring of Darunia’s warhammer as he swung it to and fro.

The massive chunk of leaded steel twirled in Goron hands like it weighed nothing at all, though the blackened craters it left on the ground said otherwise. The very thought stung his pride, but Ghirahim had the creeping suspicion that he was in a spot of trouble. Strikes that should have severed tendons and rendered him immobile didn’t deter the hulking figure whatsoever. Darunia was too quick, his weapon too large, and his arm span too long for him to win this battle with anything but well-placed nicks that would otherwise topple giants. The goron bled, sending red droplets splattering around him in arcs with each wild swing, but he didn’t so much as wince. Ghirahim couldn’t stand around and wait for this goliath to bleed out; there had to be an opening.

And if he couldn’t find one, he would make one. 

He snapped his fingers. Daggers appeared around his head in a spinning, whistling line, thirsting for the heated blood of their to-be target. With a second snap, they sped towards his opponent.

As he’d expected, a single strike with the warhammer knocked most of his projectiles out of the air, but fortunately for him, Darunia lacked the precision to deter them all. One struck him clean in the face, carving through his cheek and nicking his ear, and sent him staggering. The sight alone was enough to send an arduous shiver down his spine. Once again, he had defaced a king in the honor of his own. Oh, but the distance between the pair simply agonized him. He had to get closer, witness the wounds he’d left up close, and preferably leave a few more.

Ghirahim seized the opportunity with a laugh. He once again lunged for him, both blades outstretched, and carved a taunting cross into his chest. Flesh tore like paper; even such a leathery hide didn’t stand a chance against his perfectly sharpened swords. A second longer within this range, and he would have dug the tips of his blades into him, tongue lolling madly from his mouth to savor that rare, mortal blood. But much to his displeasure, Darunia thrust the pole of his hammer forward, slamming it into his chest and launching him backward. He only barely regained his balance before Darunia attempted to whack him into the wall for good measure. Wind whipped through his hair as the hammer swung mere inches away from his face, which surely would have knocked his head clean off had he not thrown himself out of the way. 

Darunia’s once so confident grin now faded, as if his newfound glare had been cut into him by the dagger just at his face. Adding insult to injury, Ghirahim decided to lap his blades clean, now that he’d so thoroughly captured his attention. To taint that brutish king’s pride was a victory in and of itself. 

Blood trickled into the Goron Chief’s mouth from the wound on his cheek. He spat the red-stained spit out onto the floor at his feet. “Can’t win the fair-and-square way, I see. If you want to play tricks, I’ve got a couple!”

Darunia reared back, and Ghirahim braced himself. Whatever he was about to throw at him, he had to think quickly — every spell he knew flitted through his mind, but before he could fully finish his index, a new presence alerted him.

Stood at the gate, spear at the ready, was Volga. Clearly, he was as healthily enraged by the presence of the man who’d slain his ancestor, as he was agitated by Ghirahim beating him to his kill.

Ghirahim could think of many strategic excuses for his next actions, but truly, they would have been afterthoughts. It could be his concern for Volga fighting with a clear head when faced against a vengeful foil, or the dragon’s greater capability for mass destruction. But really, he simply wanted to be the one to report the slaying of the Goron King. After all, he remained the beast’s superior. He could do as he wished.

And so, he took to barking commands. “Volga! They’re thinning out our troops. Go, take to the skies! Lay waste to their rock keeps!”

Darunia, holding his hammer out like a shield, burst into hearty laughter. “Lay waste? Bahaha! I’d like to see him try! Goron steel can withstand the fires of Death Mountain herself — Woah!”

Ghirahim didn’t let him finish that sentence before lunging at him again, this time driving his sword right into his inner elbow, piercing into his rock-hard bicep like a syringe needle. This had to at least slow those fearsome swings!

“And here I was, thinking you were more of a talker,” the Goron King murmured in reply, now steeling himself.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Volga yet linger. A nasty expression pulled at the corners of his lips, but as he watched the pair again lock in combat, he turned and ran. The guttural roar that followed soon after confirmed that he took quite well to following orders.

That was about as many distractions as Ghirahim could afford. A smudge of burning grey flew toward him and he leapt back. Darunia’s weapon was enchanted, and he wasn’t going to risk to see if it could crack him. The massive warhammer struck the ground next to him, but his missed shot seemed to bother the Goron none. Wrenching the hammer from the ground, he brought it back down in the very same crater. Nigh instantly, the ground fissured before him, forcing him once again to jump to safety. The searing heat of molten stone smoldered from the yawning crack now splitting the ground, its embers burning pin-prick holes in his tights. Whether up close or at a distance, Darunia had a few too many tricks up his sleeve. Ghirahim realized soon enough that his greater speed was not enough to knock this brute off his feet. He was outclassed, not in skill, but in size. 

In this form, at least, he realized with a grin. It was time to level the playing field a bit.

With a grin, he vanished inside a shroud of diamonds and reappeared behind the Goron enshrined in even more. A barrier formed around him as he cloaked himself in magic, and once again reverted to his true form. 

Diamonds whipped around him like a sand devil, swirling and trailing around his feet as they slowly dissipated the higher up they went. He embraced himself behind its tantalizing veil, basking in the weight that lifted from him as he shed his skin. All pretense of appearances, of theatrics, and his masquerade among mortals was lifted, though he loved to flirt with them so. His custom shell was dear to him still, but like this, he fulfilled his purpose. Like this, he knew all he had to do was kill. Following that raising shroud of magic, his fingers trailed up from his hips to his waist, to finally grasp his chest, head tossed back with a reveling sigh. The illusion faded, disrobed of his tunic. With it, the crystalline bits of arcane at once surged towards his now exposed core and began to glow at its facets. 

He plunged his hands inside, took hold of what he sheltered within, and pulled.

To his dismay, it didn’t seem to faze Darunia whatsoever. Now, the King of Death Mountain was showcasing just how strong he was. The claw of the warhammer pointed forward, he began beating at the translucent barrier with nearly frightful strength. After a mere three strikes, his magic was already starting to crack.

Well, not that it mattered much. The grip of his trump card was already in his hand. 

The last few inches of his colossal greatsword surfaced just barely from his chest when the barrier gave way, shattering into a shower of magic shards that dissipated the second they hit the ground. Darunia stepped into its radius and past the rain of them, hammer proudly slung over his shoulder. 

Before him, Ghirahim stood a full head taller than he was before, his metal skin a glittering black, and in his hands, a sword as tall and broad as himself.

Darunia let out a low whistle at the massive blade. “More of a heap of steel than a sword, isn’t it?”

The nerve! Ghirahim clicked his tongue with a frown, the grip of his sword creaking in his tightening grip. “Your own weapon isn’t much more elegant.”

His catty remarks are met with only another bellowing laugh, before once again, Darunia throws himself at him. Sword raised like a shield, he caught Darunia’s hammer on the flat of his blade. It was dizzying – the impact resonated from his sword to his arms, and conducted down into the ground as it shuddered through his body, pushing him backward with his soles digging into the stone. 

But he could withstand it. Once again, the battlefield would be his playground. Now mere inches away from the giant man, who now looked at him with a single sting of worry, he broke into laughter and drove his heel into his gut.

Darunia stumbled backward but brought his hammer back up to shield himself just in time to block the sword spirit from slicing him clean in half. Ghirahim’s tongue drooped from his mouth as if hoping to catch the groans of exertion and savor them. Gone was that happy-go-lucky, confident bolstering of that oversized pebble. Darunia was getting scared. 

They hacked, pounded, and jabbed at each other. Darunia’s wheat-golden skin only barely managed to peek past the blood that he’d coated him in, and a vile carve through his knee left him with a limp. But these injuries did not go unpunished. The flat of that blasted hammer struck Ghirahim twice: once in his shoulder, and once square on the top of his head. He did not dent, by Demise, did not crack, but the foreboding ringing in his chest told him he preferred not to be struck a third time.

Ghirahim wouldn’t tire; after all, a sword could only ever be rejuvenated in fulfilling its purpose, but his one-on-one with Darunia went on far too long undisturbed. Either Volga had cleared his side of the field, or he’d neglected the Eastern front in favor of his kill, but at least he’d shown his face. Zant, however, had yet to break through. Something was distracting him.

The worry that bubbled up in him was swiftly smothered. Were he to break away from this crucial goal just to babysit his co-lieutenant, that softness could cost them far more than their victory. 

After having frowned and groaned for however long they’d been at each other, Darunia seemed to find his wit again, though that thought had been charitable. Even past his exhaustion, he managed a chuckle. “What’s wrong, peeling knife? Missing one of your allies, huh?”

His expression shattered like glass, his aloof and mocking grimace cracking into a teeth-baring snarl. Almost, the fury of being insulted, much less being predicted, distracted him. The massive hammer soared at him from the side, but not fast enough to catch him off guard. Ghirahim stepped in and caught its shaft on his blade, locking the two together. “Speak, you rock-hide buffoon, before I find a more creative way to get the words out of you.”

Darunia’s smirk only widened. “Hit the tink in your armor, did I?”

Ghirahim hissed in response, once again driving his heel into the Goron’s iron gut to send him off balance. Darunia stumbled, fell through his bad knee, and Ghirahim lunged for that second of weakness sword-first. Against all reason, his opponent still found the will to toy with him and smacked his blade off course. His only solace in the frustrating affair was that it prompted Darunia to continue babbling. 

The Goron Chief once again swung his hammer, using its heavy momentum to throw himself back up on his feet. “I didn’t even have to worry about him none. The young lady took off after ‘em right when the lot of you split up. From the look of it, she’s holding her ground mighty well!”

A laugh rolled forth from bleeding lips. Ghirahim ought to have known better, but he felt taunted and swung his blade down with one decisive strike. Darunia caught it on the pole of his hammer, held above his head. Close enough to feel the earthy breath fog on his metallic skin, Ghirahim pushed down, but the wretch’s mirth would not cease. 

Instead, with one decisive heave, Darunia managed to push him off. “Now all I have to worry about is you — and that dragon!” 

Darunia had only just uttered the words before the entire city shook. Death Mountain was no stranger to quakes, but this was no mere explosion, nor an eruption. This impact was almost soundless, save for a deep droning sound that left Ghirahim’s core buzzing with vile dread. The world around them turned just a little bleaker, for what could only have been seconds. Risking it all, he glanced over his shoulder, only to find a massive cloud of muted amber twilight overtaking the mountain in the west as if the fabric of reality itself had torn. 

The thrum felt different. This wasn’t Zant’s doing.

Midna.

Steel struck steel harshly when he turned back to his opponent, nearly smacking his greatsword out of his hands. With that one, resounding clang, Ghirahim was shaken out of the thrill of his private battle. It wasn’t just that Zant and his entire brigade appeared to be held up in the west. His troops, too, had failed to break past the blockades. The sounds of battle, of catapults and explosives continued, even with the dragon at their side tirelessly attempting to tear it all down. With each swing, Darunia was driving Ghirahim back out the city gate, and into the chaos. 

With the boulders, arrows, and burning embers flying over his head, Ghirahim came to the haunting realization of just what dire straits they were in. Even now, the Gorons retained the high ground, and with it, had perfect control over far too many distractions than they could keep up with. They were fighting a losing battle; they’d been led into a death trap. 

The Gorons were planning on eliminating them one by one, starting with their most fearsome commander. If he didn’t hurry to his aid, Zant might breathe his last that very day. In an instant, the hairline cracks and tears that crumbled their bond seemed to glaze over. 

One shining beacon stood out among it all. Perhaps they couldn’t win, but they could ruin these worms beyond repair. He saw it already in the spirit of the Goron Chief — he remained vigilant, proud, and radiated power, but even he was gradually wearing thin. Whatever strength reserve he was relying on to bite through those injuries was going to wear out sooner or later. Ghirahim could only hope it was soon.

To his surprise, the sounds of boulders to the south had ceased. A massive shadow soared above them, and Ghirahim disappeared as soon as it passed by.

He appeared spot between the shoulders of the red dragon, forgoing his trademark refined lounge. “I’ve no time for bickering. Listen.”

As startled as he was enraged by the sudden presence on his back, Volga snarled but was soon silenced by a sobering punch to the plating of his neck. “Make it worth my while, Demon.”

Ghirahim sighed frustratedly, fingers clutching the edge of the plating below him. The idea alone injured his pride, but he saw no other way than to swallow its broken shards. “It brings me no joy to say this, but this battle is doomed for failure,” he sneered, gesturing with wide arms to the chaos below. “Just look around you!”

volga snarled as soon as he registered his words, but beyond their glow, he saw bright green pupils survey the battlefield. Their numbers were now halved, if not far worse, and the Gorons appeared to be sending out more and more traps faster than they could tear them down. 

Volga grunted bitterly, prompting him to continue. “I leave Darunia to you. Cause as much destruction as you can, and I will join Zant in taking down their remaining commander. Once I’ve recovered him, we flee.”

A displeased growl sounded from gnarled maw, but not in protest. Volga didn’t linger on his thoughts too long. Perhaps that was one of his only virtues. “Very well. I promise you carnage, Demon Lord. Now get off of me, so I can tear that stone-hide menace limb from limb.”

He didn’t have to ask twice. Ghirahim happily removed himself from the ashen, blood, and grease-stained scales of the dragon’s back, and reappeared with both feet safely on the ground. 

His soles pounded into the desecrated stone paths of Death Mountain, barreling his way down West as fast as the wind would carry him. He cursed himself for how easily the thought alone of the Twili had swayed him, distracted him so thoroughly from what he’d been appointed to do. With every step, his core grew heavier, buckling under the two outcomes that were disturbingly equal in weight. Either he displeased his Master’s orders, or Zant could very well end up dead. As broken as his trust may have been, the sharp edges on those shards only seemed to dig the Twili’s presence into him deeper. Instead of simple contentment, playful affection, and guilty pleasures, there were now questions . Burning ones, that left his already sleepless mind far more restless, and would haunt him till the day he shattered were they left unanswered. His shame would enrage him far before it could make him falter. And so, eyes on the gurgling and chiming haze of Twilight before him, he ran onward.

What he saw on the other end of that veil stopped him in his tracks. Stood facing Zant was not the child-sized imp he remembered blemishing so carefully mere months before. Rather, a tall, graceful woman, radiating the power of a monarch, stanced fiercely in the middle of the haze. A sheer black cloak shrouded the armor around her hips and torso, billowing outward with outstanding familiarity. The second he surfaced into her realm, she whipped her head around to scowl at her intruder — though he could only guess it was a scowl. Obscuring her face was a great, mirror-polished mask, that shamefully covered the features he would so have loved to see. 

The distraction he delivered alone almost proved fatal to her. Zant lunged for her in an instant but was warded off by the massive stone slab she wielded.

As before, Ghirahim bowed, baring his teeth with a grin. “I see you have recovered, in more ways than one, Princess Midna,” he taunted. “Though, I do so wish you’d let me see that little mark I left on you.”

“Not a chance, Demon,” she growled, her voice much more ripened and deep in this form. “You will not gang up on me again!”

With a swirl of her hand, the Mirror of Twilight spun around her as if suspended from a string like a flail. Zant jumped back, forced out of her range in an instant, but not fully deterred. Tassels floated from the ends of his sleeves, fluttering from a festering current that could only be described as pure malice. He stood in wait and needed only an opening to let himself truly boil over.

Midna turned to the demon behind her, in that split second he was distracted. And what a sight she was! A familiar handprint had been left on her chest-plate, right where her heart would sit. The mark scorched, ate into the metal like acid, with a sickly bloom and crackle in tyrian purple. How kind of the Twilight King, to give him such an easy opening. Like a moth to a flame, the spot of weakness intoxicated him, drew him closer. Greatsword clutched in his hands, he ran for her. 

But within mere paces, she had already raised her other arm, and with it, brought upon a deep feeling of dread. It was a flash, a mere blink of light, if light could be pitch black at all. Liquid shadow formed like a puddle at her feet, rising from the ground in a spontaneous tar pit. Sparks crackled forth, pulsing through the shadows once, twice, rippling its inky surface, until it all burst from her like a tidal wave.

Pure discombobulation, that’s what it was. The second the ancient magic reached him, it felt like chains had been tied to his ankles, dragging him down with weights that could pull the very mountain through the ground. Only by the time the shadows rose to his knees did he fully register just what surged through him. He was being electrocuted, restrained, and dismantled, all at once. 

Yet, she was so close. He refused to fall so quickly to this wretched woman’s hands! The tide rose ever further, now weakening the grip he held on its sword, but he grit his teeth and bore it. The momentum he’d built before had to make up for the trudge he’d been reduced to, he decided, dragging the tip of his blade across the ground. 

A breath reflexively sucked in through his teeth. Midna’s magic was all-encompassing now, drowning the miniature realm in what may have been the night sky itself. It smelled of ozone, rang in his ears, and made his gem rattle in his chest. But even as the foreboding amber runes of Twilight climbed up his legs, his arms, and crackling forth from the corners of his eyes and reducing him to stone, he wouldn’t stop. Instead, he reared back his sword and swung. 

Midna clicked her tongue, catching the blade’s edge on the ever-whirling Mirror. Even in this state, he mustered a laugh. No, perhaps he couldn’t overpower her, though the rattling and groaning of metal against stone came close. But he could distract her.

Zant found his opening. He soared towards her in an instant, his mere approach sparking a primal thrill that should only be known to the likes of prey. Twilight enveloped his blades like a flame as he swung their razor edge right for the back of her tantalizingly unguarded neck, but Midna was quicker. The Mirror swung back around, ripping Ghirahim’s sword from his shivering hands along with it, and rammed into the Usurper with blinding speeds. 

Something cracked, and Zant was thrown to the ground with a painful yelp.

A sight that would normally fill Ghirahim with wicked glee now only alarmed him, not just in piteous disdain but more akin to fury. Even without the weight of his sword in his hands, his arms felt unbearably heavy, but he refused to stand down. 

It was juvenile, and with his current waning strength by all means pathetic, but he still balled his fist. Summoning every inch of strength he could, from every link and every fiber, he tensed what he could of his body and threw a punch.

His fist didn’t connect. Midna’s did.

Instead of thwacking him with the Mirror itself as she did for his compatriot, she brought it up before his face, and from it, launched a teal-runed fist directly into him. He was launched, back skidding against the floor, and felt his control over his limbs leave him with each dizzying second. Were it not for the burning will of duty that shoveled the coals onto him, perhaps even he would have given up. As it stood, both men had fallen to but one pompous young girl and the thought infuriated him far too much to let it go untested. Ghirahim squinted his eyes shut, forcing his will to move one static-filled, necrotic finger, before the other, until stubbornness alone made him for a split second unaware of his encumbering and threw him to his feet.

She didn’t even look at him and clicked her tongue nonetheless. “You’re far too persistent for your own good,” Midna sneered. With the curl of a single rune-spotted finger, a crushing force pulled at every inch of his body. Ghirahim cried out as each of his limbs suddenly seemed to close their gates from him completely, and denied him his command.

He took one agonizing, wobbly step towards her before the crushing pressure of twilight magic brought right back him to his knees. Every rune on him glowed violently, he noticed now with his head drooped down. He couldn’t even claw together enough strength to clench his hands in rage.

A little whimper caught him off guard. With how long Zant had been laying there unmoving, he would have thought him unconscious. Instead, as Midna made her way to deliver the killing blow, he twisted himself in violent convulsion. A gasp; a crack; a dribbling, euphoric little giggle. Of course, only a man like Zant could try to pop his shoulder back into its socket in the midst of battle and succeed. The Twili rose, bit by bit like a long-dead corpse rising from its grave, and threw himself at her with a shrill cry.

The rest of that battle was a haze. Twin stone hands, one glowing blue and one bright red flew above the pair of rivals like dueling birds. Each attempted to swipe the other’s master clean off the mountain but was swiftly halted by its counterpart swooping in to shield their puppeteer. Below them was a vicious scene that could hardly be perceived, blurred out by bursts of dark magic and the lightning-fast movement of swinging weapons. 

Ghirahim clenched his jaw as he realized just who was winning. Only he could recognize the smell of that blood so intimately.

He cried out when that red-runed hand was just a split second too late. Within an instant, Zant was trapped between stoned fingers, and thrown harshly to the ground.

Midna laughed, sniffed, shook her hair free from her hood, as she delivered a spiteful kick to the legs that stuck out from under the death grip of her automaton. She tossed the Mirror in her hand almost playfully, toying with inspirations of suitable punishment. 

It was nothing but coyness. Midna had decided what to do with him the second she set foot on this mountain. “I ought to send you back to where you came from, wretch! ”

Horror dawned on Ghirahim. With the Mirror of Twilight now under Midna’s command, if Zant crossed over now, she would never permit him to return. Their King would lose one of their most powerful commanders.

Ghirahim would lose him. 

Zant was pinned to the floor, joints creaking and popping under the squeezing force of giant stone hands. He couldn’t move, there wasn’t a way in Hell, struggle as he may. The mirror floated over him, its gates whirling open in gentle white light, and projected on the floor below him. The droning hum in the air announced their eleventh hour — it was opening, and ready to drag him in. 

And yet, Ghirahim couldn’t move. Any attempt to move as much as a finger was met with numbness and a painful crackle, as the muted amber of pure, twilight magic consumed more and more of him. Yet he shuffled forward, knee before knee. 

It gained him mere inches before he fell to the ground.

Another dooming sound rang. The edge of his field of vision glowed blindingly, halving his sight entirely. Ghirahim felt himself shake, though he couldn’t tell if it was with fear or rage when feeble sounds of protest babbled out before him. Those whimpers reached their crescendo with a bloodcurdling scream, and the glow grew brighter. Ghirahim clenched his eyes shut as if it would somehow prevent him from hearing it. Those were the last sounds he’d hear from the man, and he’d refused them. 

Or so he thought.

Zant’s scream turned throat-rending, ear-splitting, and the pale white glow was replaced with something else. Something vaguely golden.  Ghirahim heard a strained yelp come from Midna, before out came a resounding crack. 

A magnificent, yet horrifyingly powerful force suddenly sent him rolling across the floor like a tumbleweed, and it sent a frightened Midna flying back in the other direction. Dust and volcanic ash shrouded him, but even through it, he could see a brilliant light. He came to a sudden halt when he bounced against the rock wall, and to his fortune, landed on his side. Paralyzed he may still have been, but blinded he was not. Past his daze, he saw him; upright, hovering above the ground, and shrouded in a menacing, purple force, that in itself radiated the faintest golden aura. 

Midna had risen to her feet some distance away and weighed her options. A violent crack formed itself on the Mirror in her hands, and her grip on her magic was fading. Were the situation not so dire for him, Ghirahim would almost have smiled. Arrogant girl, he thought, you let him get any closer to you, and he’ll stop at nothing to tear you limb from limb. 

Then, his eye fell on a curious sight before him. The little pebbles right before his eyes were vibrating on the ground. Not long after, a powerful explosion shook the ground. Volga had surely fulfilled his promise of carnage. Pity he wasn’t there to help.

Midna looked at the both of them. Ghirahim still lay prone, though he felt slowly the grip of her magic lose its grip through the tingle and twitching of his fingers. Zant, on the other hand, had not ceased his advance. Stumbling, yet steadfast, liquid shadows nearly dripped from him as he set his sights on Midna. All intent of decorum, of an honorable vengeance, had left him. All that was left in the cold, empty eyes of his helmet was the ravenous desire to rip her to shreds.

And so, she fled, off to where the Goron Chief presumably just breathed his last.

Zant did not pursue her. Rather, his malicious aura faded in an instant, and he fell to his knees.

That left just the two of them on the side of the mountain, each beaten and prone. And despite his dwindling strength and the blood trail he left behind, there was a King on his knees, crawling his way on all fours towards him. Like a dog. 

Zant’s visor raised, and Ghirahim had to take a second to confirm he wasn’t going blind. Where there usually was a faint orange and teal glow coming from his eyes and markings, there was now none at all. 

Zant paused, hands outstretched yet hesitant to touch him. “Ghirahim, can you stand?”

Stand? What a joke. He could barely raise his head to look at him. “Not quite yet.”

He huffed once through his nose, gray hands hovering over him as if assessing him, but he felt no force intrude. “I could use the last of my powers to return your strength, somewhat, but… It pains me to say this, Ghirahim, I find it better spent taking us back to the Eldin keep. We are in no state to keep fighting.”

Ghirahim sighed, unenthused to relay such a shameful plan a second time. Still, with his limbs refusing the slightest action, and Zant trapping him in his gaze even with his eyes shielded, he hardly had a choice. “I’d long planned for our retreat, unfortunately. I told Volga to leave our calling card so we can turn tail with slightly more dignity, and, ah,” he nodded his head north, drawing his attention to what could only be a scene of total chaos. “I believe he’s taken care of it already.”

Zant craned his head to Goron City, the dented edges of his helmet groaning with the movement. He grinned weakly and let out a scoffing laugh. “A creative solution, indeed. The Gorons will need quite some time repairing the damages, victory or not.”

His response was painfully typical. Whatever bounced so erratically in the Shadow King’s mind once again landed in a thoroughly practical corner and nestled there. Yet, how disturbingly quickly he shook off his frustrations, much less the burning rage the true face of his nemesis must have brought him… There was something off about him. Really, there had been something off ever since they set foot on this mountain. Where he would normally fall to his own volatility, kicking and screaming to tear down every witness to his dishonor, there was now only icy cold.

And so, he prodded at the sore spot. “What about Midna? She’s managed to slip away from you yet again.”

Zant’s expression stiffened, yet his composure held. “We will meet again. For the time being, I will have to be content with giving her second thoughts about attempting to banish me to my own home.” Those last words were spoken with their expected bitterness, like a smoldering fire persisting under a buried campfire.

Its embers were quickly snuffed with a handful of sand. Finally, a gray hand reached to lay upon his shoulder. “What of you, Ghirahim? You are not the kind of man to leave unfinished business at the battlefield.” 

So he refused to answer. That made two of them. “Zant,” he hissed, interrupting the Twili and his own screaming thoughts all the same. “Just get me out of here before I get second thoughts.”

Lips that once stiffened in solemnity now parted gently, revealing the tips of sheathed teeth. Zant nodded and extended his hand, suspending it just between the two of them. Ghirahim glanced at the sickly gray thing, tainted as it was with dried blood and the grime of battle, and then back up at the Twili’s face. Instinctively he reached to take his hand, or at least drove himself to do so, as his body would not yet listen to his mind’s commands. The burnt golden circuitry that had sunk into his form was retracting, slowly but surely, yet it still glowed softly. That very glow persistently sapped him of every bit of strength he put into his arm. He couldn’t falter now, he had to pour every bit of focus and dedication into this so-simple act. It could not have been more straightforward. Reach out. Take his hand. Flee.

Flee? Did the illustrious Lord Ghirahim flee? Lower himself to the realm of vermin? 

He would have to. Reach out. Take his hand.

There was no time. Reach out. No space in his mind left to contemplate his pride, or the distrust he still felt for his co-lieutenant. Reach out. Every little spark in his core that managed to slip away from Midna’s draining magic was dedicated to his quivering hand, to keep it from falling into the dirt. He had made up his mind, he couldn’t do anything else. Reach out. He couldn’t think about how he’d abandoned his objective with the risk of rejection from his Master. All just to make sure the very man that was trying to save him hadn’t been slaughtered. How he prepared to witness him gored on the side of the mountain, blood seeping into the soil to nourish it with something other than volcanic ash, for a change. How, now that he’d found him, the Twili was just sitting there, face and hand unmoving, and watching him as he shook so desperately to touch him. 

Reach out.

Their fingertips nearly brushed when his strength faltered. Take his hand!

Before his palm could fall to the ground, Zant swooped in and caught his hand in his. Within an instant, the world winked out of sight.

They appeared again, and Ghirahim found himself cradled in dusty black sleeves. His head lay in the nook of Zant’s elbow, facing the skies. Even outside of the clutches of twilight, the daylit skies did not blind him. Pillars of smoke rose from the volcano and billowed into veritable clouds, blotting out the light of the sun with their foreboding gray. Zant panted above him, chest rising and caving with each heaving breath. Spot in the middle of the dirt, a few empty tents around them. Their teleportation appeared to have missed its mark but brought them to safety nonetheless. 

It worried him. Even with Zant’s chaotic penchant for casting, his omnipotence had never failed him before. Just how much had he exhausted himself? For his sake, supposedly, he’d once again stooped to cowardice. Why did he, time and time again, throw himself down the pits of such humiliation? Why insist he drag him down with him? What moved a mortal man so, to rip him from his purpose, and set him beside him as if he, too, were made of flesh, and not killing steel? It made not a lick of sense. That impulsive fool infuriated him as much as he enthralled him.

Ghirahim wanted to inquire, to reach out for that pallid face, but found himself too paralyzed. His limbs remained unfathomably heavy and crackled painfully with every twitch. As he laid there, staring up at him, he found he didn’t quite care enough to force himself. Once again, Zant had in his sentimentality removed him from the battlefield, this time in a definitive retreat. He’d hurt his pride, his sense of duty, but most of all, swayed his loyalty right under his nose. How many more times was he going to tolerate this?

Even as he laid there, held in those warm, shaking arms though he weighed far more than any man could carry, he could only meet the unavoidable pounding it brought to his core with resentment.

In that moment, they shared nothing but silence. Ghirahim avoided his gaze, his head instead dropping to look to the north. Another battle was being fought there, keeping them safe yet separate from the King that started it all. The demon despised this safety. Had he the strength, he would have ripped himself from the Twili’s arms and ran the whole way there to meet his Master. Even if it meant admitting to his defeat, even if it meant disobeying orders. Even if it meant he would be shattered by his hand. He was prepared to face it all. 

A laugh tore through him when he realized he needn’t wait long. Smoke was no longer the only haze that shielded Hyrule from its sun. With a ground-shaking, droning hum, a purple, smoking beam shot into the sky where the Valley should be, shaking every god and dragon that resided there out of their seat. Such power, such a display of earth-splitting darkness could only mean one thing. Master Ganondorf had won, and the Triforce of Power was in his hands.

A pulse of malicious energy washed over everything in sight, but where it would buckle anyone else with dread, it only filled Ghirahim with zealous elation. As soon as the shockwave that tore through the lands brushed into them, Zant clutched him just a little tighter.

Chapter Text

Their gathering was grim. Sounds of celebration rang from the tents outside, but in the war room, there was nothing but silence. Two co-lieutenants stood at the center of it all, the eyes of their generals upon them. Anxiety, dread, and ultimatum. The Demon King had summoned them for a reason.

“For one so eager to win my praise, you certainly are adamant to disappoint me. It seems I must set an example for you.”

Ghirahim stood stock-still as Ganondorf stepped towards him, his massive frame towering over him like the very Mountain he’d failed him on. He flinched but did not step away as he snatched his wrist and wrenched it above his head. A groan escaped him when he was lifted off his feet, all of his weight dangling from this one arm. He hung mere inches from his face. The Demon King’s eyes were blazing with rage, his tusks bared with the snarling curl of his lip. He was frozen yet scorched by those burning yellow irises, drawn into the gold that swirled within.

“Such sickening submission. You wish to be a blade? Very well. Let me show you where the mercy of my hands will take you.”

The hand at his wrist squeezed firmly, hard enough to crack his false skin, but he didn’t have long enough to dwell on the feeling. From that very gauntlet, a searing pain burst out and soon spread throughout his entire body. Shocks of electrocution ricocheted inside him, persistent and thorough in their surging quest to tear him to pieces. Every joint he had tightened. His fingers contorted into claws and his head threw back, mouth agape in a soundless scream — though, if he had screamed, he never would have heard it. It was an untold pain, of being struck with a thousand whips that would not cease. His skin shed, or rather, burst apart before his very eyes. Soon after, his vision went white, whether from pain alone or complete system failure. Something cracked ominously in his chest. Like it was trying to jump out and abandon him, leaving nothing but a husk to be beaten. He was shattering, he knew it, not in his core but in the shell forged around it. One last zap, one crackle, and a deafening drone, and he came undone. 

At once, he folded in on himself, and the world went black.

—

When Ghirahim awoke, he was limbless. Even if he could not so much as crane his head or twitch his fingers, the feeling comforted him more than it shocked him. Indeed, he had gotten his wish, but not in the way he’d wanted it. Master Ganondorf had reverted him to his sword. Not pulled him free from his chest, as his predecessor had always done, but tore apart the scabbard around him and forced it inside. 

His gem blinked weakly, chimed inquiringly. Where was he? It was pitch dark around him, but his confinement couldn’t be all too large. He found himself in what he concluded could only be some kind of storage box, locked away in some secluded room who-knows-where. It was dead silent — wherever he lay hidden away, with his steel tucked in straw and creaky wood, not even servants lingered.

But before he could sink himself into gloom, a spark of panic lit up in him. Soon, it billowed out enough to rattle him in his hilt. Had he been retired? Discarded from his position, or worse, sold to whoever would take a cursed blade off his hands? 

Were he to leave this coffin, would he find himself buried six feet deep?

His false skin materialized back around his blade before he realized it, and began frantically kicking at the lid of this accursed box. Wood groaned, nails wrenched free, and soon, he could press his palms to the ceiling and throw it out his way.

He shot up and took in his surroundings. Circling his container were various other crates, of which none fortunately barred his exit. Perhaps his awakening and subsequent escape were accounted for and his way was left clear for that very reason. 

Only then did he notice himself panting. Knees pressed to his chest, he stared down into his casket. His hands found the center of his chest. He hadn’t been shattered, nor did he feel like anything impaired him. By all means, he could count his blessings. Despite disobeying orders, despite failing at their mission, Master Ganondorf had permitted him to continue his duty. All he’d done was set an example, as he promised.

But then, what was it that shook his hands so? What filled him with such hollow melancholy?

Tiring of this drab, dust-covered storage room, he swung one leg over the edge of the crate and clambered his way down. Now that he’d awakened, he at least had to find out where the transport had carried him. He stumbled toward the door — to find it unlocked — and promptly left that storage hole behind him.

His feet landed on a checkered floor, its tiles cracked in various locations but caulked back in place. The walls were in a similar state; opulent in their make, but damaged throughout various sieges. Various, indeed. It didn’t take much to find out where he was. He has walked these halls as both ally and foe. As he padded on through them once again, he took some time to note the differences since his last visit. Here and there, signs of scuffle were cracked into the stone, and dust-free rectangles upon the walls hinted that paintings once hung here. The dreary, yet tastefully ominous dark purple light of the place was all too iconic, as were the rogue rose branches that persisted through the windows. They had taken him to the Temple of Souls, better known as Cia’s private home and former base of operations.

Yes, he remembered dwelling here. With some luck, his old room was still in place as he’d left it. Back then, Cia had bribed him with all sorts of knick-knacks and luxuries in the hope of appeasing him, and it had worked. He wondered if the vices of his materialism would still appeal to him now. 

He continued onward, making his way through the puzzling architecture. There wasn’t a particular goal in mind as to where he was heading. Some manner of purpose, a duty to attend to, or an idea as to how long he’d been slumbering in that box at the least. A heavy wooden door opened to a porch outside, clung to a tower with a spiral staircase down. He idly pondered the oddity of the lack of servants he’d encountered as he made his way down. Had the Master sent him there in solitude? Such abandonment was an unbearable thought. No matter if he’d left him the world in silks and marbles, he wouldn’t be left alone. Wouldn’t be left without purpose. He continued down the path, trudging its petal-strewn floors. The air was pink with sundown and roses, rich and floral with scented dew, but he paid it no mind.

Out chimed a familiar, lilting voice, coming from outside the colonnade. “Ghirahim!”

Shaken from a daze, he looked to his left, eyes still hooded over. There stood Yuga, decked in corset and frills with a bonnet covering his curls, a watering can in hand. “You’ve awoken at last! Oh, how relieved I am to see you.”

Ghirahim simply stared back, mind empty of any response. What was he supposed to say? There stood a man who had witnessed him at his weakest, who had seen how easily he’d shattered to pieces. It astounded Ghirahim that after all that, he still hailed him, expecting mere smalltalk. At least he wasn’t alone. Ganondorf wouldn’t retire Yuga after a successful campaign. He took momentary solace in the possibility of a simple relocation. Yet, the fondness he once felt for that foppish sorcerer remained abstract in his mind and passed right through him like an arrow through fog.

When it dawned on Yuga that he had no intention of approaching him, a stiff, worried frown tightened his brows, sucked in his lips. 

What was that look for? 

Front of his skirt bunched in his sheer gloved hand, Yuga trotted on towards him. Up the stairs, and into the colonnade, he hooked his arm around his. Ghirahim looked down at the contact he’d pulled him in, a touch puzzled, but he didn’t find the need to shove him off. Yuga tugged on him a bit, as if trying to shake him out of a dream, and began to babble of sorts. “We’ve been worried sick, you know. We tried to look for you, but… The servants wouldn’t tell us where they’d hidden you. If it weren’t for the annoyance it would bring to our Ganondorf, we’d have turned the entire Temple upside-down. He’s already peeved enough with Zant as is. You understand.”

He didn’t. He didn’t understand the search, the risk, the worry. What he could only assume Yuga alluded to, though, he did understand. If there was any proof out there of the consequences of Ganondorf’s wrath, it was daintily being clutched by the man beside him.

At the continued lack of response, Yuga’s expression darkened further. Ghirahim came to the infuriating realization that he was being pitied. The Lorian’s eyes darted out into the sights before them. “Come on,” he quickly posited. “Let’s take a walk, shall we? Stretching your legs will do you good.”

Before he could give even an inch of a vocal response, Yuga already tugged him along. Arm in arm, they left the dark and murky sheltering of the temple and stepped out into the garden. Ghirahim gave a bit of a sigh as they waded into the overgrown labyrinth, crushing petals under their soles as they went. At this time of year, there were more roses scattered on the paths than still hung blooming on the bushes. Even so, this didn’t seem to deter Yuga from pampering the entire floral expanse as he saw fit. The beauty-obsessed sorcerer was stretching out the lives of this garden, basking in its scarlets, pinks, whites, and oranges until the wind would finally scatter all of its flowers and wither it into a maze of thorns. It was an empty husk already, robbed of its owner. All her precious statues, except where every few corners one remained, had been removed from their pedestals. Knowing what stood in their places once, he couldn’t exactly say he minded. 

In one ear, out the other, Yuga had been yammering on for some time now. Frankly, he’d have had more luck talking to the statues in passing, for they would have given him more ear than he could muster. An odd feeling, right on the thin thread between interest and irritation, emerged in him when he realized just what all this fussing was for. Yuga must have thought to try and comfort him. The last they saw each other, after all, was when he was in the hands of…

“Yuga.”

The sorcerer in question perked up immediately at the first sounds of his voice, a bright smile barely masking his concern. “Yes?”

Ghirahim saw Yuga trying to meet his eye, but he refused it, keeping his gaze out in front of him. “What brings us to Cia’s dwelling?” 

Yuga exclaimed softly at the query. “Master Ganondorf thought it impudent to seek an outpost worthy of housing both Himself and his lieutenants. One closer to Hyrule Castle, you see. You’ve… Missed, the briefings, but in due time we will prepare a siege on Hyrule Field to claim the remaining pieces of the Triforce. The Temple was closest, is all.”

Ghirahim hummed. As he’d feared, his importance was being undermined. “And how long have I been sleeping through my duties?”

“Oh, it’s not so drastic, we,” Yuga started, but was soon forced into reconsidering his words by a dark scowl burning into his peripheral vision. “… A little over a week, Milord.”

A week… Heaving a sigh, his head dropped. In all that time, no one had thought to wake him. Their army had held up just fine without him, fine enough for their commanders to play dress-up and trot about in the greenery. A bitterness he couldn’t place nestled in him, for this feeling was entirely unknown to him. He had been rejected, he had been left behind, but never before had he not been needed. 

A gust of wind coursed through the garden, knocking the petals off some of the roses behind them. In the nook of his elbow, Yuga shuddered just a bit but knew better than to tuck himself closer to the cold frame of his companion. For the first time since awakening, Ghirahim craned his head up, ever-so-gently lifting himself from the downtrodden drone-like solemnity that kept his eyes on the ground before him. The pinks and oranges of the sky were gradually turning to purple. East of them, framing the Temple like a lifted bridal veil, the first stars speckled the darkening sky. It must have been getting chilly for such a frail man. 

They continued walking. He didn’t want to drag this little get-together out longer than he had to. If Yuga was going out of his way to put himself in a state of discomfort, it was better spent on someone capable of actually appreciating such an effort. The pink-speckled path swirled on and on; though he wasn’t as familiar with its layout anymore, he knew it wouldn’t be long until they came out the other end, and he could finally retreat to a better spending of his time.

A stone-hewn shape to his left completely stopped him in his tracks. It ripped his eyelids fully open and yanked Yuga nearly out of balance with how harshly he came to a halt. 

There he stood. Serene yet with stubborn mischief hidden behind the subtlest crinkle of his eyes, marble fingers caressing the false golden strings of a harp. Ghirahim knew that face anywhere. He couldn’t believe Yuga would have been able to see into him so deeply as to copy that smile with such clarity when it had taken him months to do as much as evoke it. Before him stood not just any carnation of the Hero, it was the one he’d known.

Yuga let out a bit of an embarrassed laugh as he noticed him staring at the statue. “It’s quite dreadful, isn’t it? To have depictions of one’s arch nemesis in their dwelling. I can’t stand the boy myself, but… They’re still my work, you know?” He began to babble, a hand brought to his cheek. “No matter if it depicts such a distasteful subject, there are other aspects one can admire, I would say. It took quite a bit of begging to get Master Ganondorf to let me keep at least a few… No doubt he’ll put me to work to fill in the empty pedestals, though. If I don’t do so of my own accord, that is!”

It was a masterful depiction, one that parted his lips in a painful, smothered awe. Past the marble, he could almost see that russet-blond hair and the deep, ocean-blue eyes. As if any second its exterior could chip, and the boy within would break free. And how he’d seize that brat with his own hands, tear the blood-soaked thread that bound them in his lifetime to shreds with nothing but his teeth. Link had been one of the first smudges on his soul, one that tainted his resolve and made him so disgustingly frivolous. Every last star in the skies above would have to snuff out before he’d forgive him for it.

Yes, he’d had guilty pleasures before. He’d toyed, he’d teased, and he’d indulged in what he shouldn’t have. They had all been shaken off easily with no room for tears to shed. Each and every one of them had gotten in the way of his goal, and every time he’d drawn close to that great life’s light, petty distractions had to be done away with. See now, how clinging to such a selfish desire had strayed him so far from his purpose, far enough to be punished. It was below him to allow such foolishness to continue for this long. He’d cut those ties before, burned bridges till their ashes shaped back into objects of rivalrous disdain.

This one would be just as easy to sever.

He narrowed his eyes, clarity at once clearing the fog of his judgment. What lay behind it was frustration. Knives that didn’t belong there drove into his core with every pulse. It smothered him, tightening his chest and hitching his voice. “… You mentioned Zant. Is he also here?”

“He is, indeed,” Yuga nodded, looking instantly a little brighter. There was no point in shattering that little glimmer, at least not right then. “He’s been holed up in that library since… Well, since we arrived here, really. You ought to go see him now that you’re awake. Surely he’ll be glad to see you.”

Ghirahim fought against a bitter laugh building up in his throat but decided to let it slip. “Surely.”

—

The library was tricky to find, but easy enough for a demon. The hallways winded on and on, the nonsensical architecture of the Temple of Souls making navigation difficult for any regular man, but second nature to a being of darkness. Besides, the pitiful meeting with their second-newest recruit was a bit too fresh in his mind to forget the steps he’d traced. Corridors overlapped with each other as if clipped in at different angles, and if you’d asked him, he may have walked onto a separate plane of gravity about three times now. Within good time, though, he stood before tall, twin ornate doors. Gold filigree swirled into purple paneling, jutting out into claw-like doorknobs at shoulder height. Ghirahim seized both in his hands and pushed, stepping into the shadowy room beyond.

It was as if a horde of wild animals had ravaged it. Books lay strewn across the floor, sheets of paper tying them all together like a makeshift map. Not a single candle lit the library. Were it not for the cold beams of dusk light that entered through the tall windows above, it would have been pitch dark. Entire shelves had been emptied, either onto the floor or stacked into wobbly towers on the reading desks, sending centuries upon centuries of dust flying in the air above them like gnats in a swamp. In the center of it all, hunched over a spread of books with shoulders shaking and his back heaving with his breath, stood Zant. 

At the sound of the doors creaking open, he whipped around, a ravenous look contorted his face into a snarl. Something so desperate and territorial he’d only ever seen before in the eyes of beasts, standing over the carcass of fresh kill and daring anything that surrounded it to try and take its rightful meal. The glare that aimed at him, glowing and orange in the shadow-consumed room, zoned in on him like a grave keeper’s lantern.

Yet, when a spark of recognition lit in those burning orbs, in an instant, that crazed expression was gone. Instead, something of a solemn relief softened his face. His voice shook a little as he spoke, just barely above a whisper.

“Oh, Ghirahim…”

At once, he took to the air. Feather-light he bounded over the carpet of books that covered the floor, seemingly uncaring of how many pages turned, or how many sheets of paper he whisked away in his advance. His robes fluttered behind him, before he came to a halt before him, only the slightest sigh of wind puffing out below him in his landing. 

“You’ve returned to us.”

Were there any apprehension in Zant from the distance he’d wedged between them, not a shred of it was visible. Those lanky fingers — cold, even through the gloves — reached out for him instantly to take his hands. His head cocked, eyes wide-set and overshadowed by a worried frown, as he tried to lean into his eye contact. Ghirahim could see it in his periphery as he scowled down at the ground, that insistence to meet his eye. Yet it wasn’t the suffocating, pulse-quickening gaze he was so used to being snared into. Those eyes only looked at him with concern, with heartsickness. Even as he stood there, exuding nothing but coldness and avoidance, Zant kept making those odd little squeaks and hums as if they were sitting cheek to cheek at their bedside.

… How was he making this so difficult?

He hadn’t even shaken off those hands, that now started gently rubbing their thumbs over his knuckles. Every little stroke of his withered thumbs sent sparks beneath his skin. They snaked his way in tingles down his arms, before they swelled into his chest with apprehension. What was intended as a comforting gesture only made him anxious. One more nudge and he would be past that threshold again, tumbling into his arms and robbing him of all clarity. Such weakness was unbecoming of him; rather, it went against his entire being, to be so easily swayed into being charmed by a man he couldn’t trust. He had to chase those questions that swarmed in his mind before he could once again be distracted from them. 

Ghirahim flicked his hands off, folding his arms to prevent Zant from stealing him away again. “You owe me an explanation. Several, in fact.”

Zant withdrew his hands, hovering in their sleeves before his chest. The mournful worry that spread its gray hues across his face soon shattered. His eyes widened, lacing themselves with the resigned fear of a cornered animal. “What do you wish to know?”

He wondered where to begin. Any other time he would prefer to be subtle, to tease out what he wanted and kick his adversary while they’re down for good measure. Zant owed him his secrecy for having strung him along with such anxiety, but he didn’t feel the mood to collect his dues. He simply wanted his questions answered, and the door shut behind him. 

So he did away with all his filters, and let it all bubble forth. “Your behavior during our siege… It defied everything I’ve known of you. You are tense with some sort of burden you won’t divulge, and it’s made you erratic in ways you’ve never been before. But perhaps you have been this cryptic, and it simply took me too long to realize.”

Dourness quickly boiled over to fury. Ghirahim paced as he talked, gesturing wildly as he let himself get sucked into his venting anger. “To ask you of- of any sense, in that labyrinthine head of yours may be as impossible to you as it is to me, but Zant, as it stands, I cannot have faith in any of our cooperation if you remain so,” he paused, his hands clawing in his hair with building frustration. “So… Impossible! Perplexing and intangible!”

He whipped around at once, sweeping his arm in emphasis. “So I demand you now to explain yourself, before…”

Silence fell. He couldn’t think of a way to finish that question. Before, what, exactly? Before he’d lose trust in him? There wasn’t much more of that which he could lose. Before he’d leave him? He was already planning on cutting those amicable ties, but as tied together by their duty as they were, he could never flee from him fully. There was simply no point in making promises he couldn’t keep. So he stayed silent.

It appeared to have been enough to convey his point. Zant’s expression had fallen further.

Zant sighed through his nose, tightening his mouth to a thin line. “You are right in your assessment, Ghirahim. I was careless,” he responded, fidgeting with one of his tassels as his eyes darted wildly for some safe place to rest his gaze. Ghirahim’s furious magnetism won the battle over his avoidance, he noted in petty self-satisfaction, as soon that lanky fool couldn’t help but look at him.

Ghirahim stood firm, chin tipped as he glared up at him, even when Zant so meekly stepped forward to loom closer to him. His voice was more hushed now. Ghirahim couldn’t recall any other time he sounded so timid. “I tell you this in confidence, now, Ghirahim, for I do not wish to give the impression that I distrust our Master’s actions, much less let such a rumor spread through our forces.” 

His brow bones furrowed and his expression turned grave. “Truthfully, I had known from the start that any attack on Death Mountain could only lead to an ambush. Yet, I could not sway our Master into reconsidering our approach. I could not keep those frustrations from leaking into my performance in battle, for truly, I was convinced that day would be my last.”

“Not to mention, I,” he started, but there was regret in his eyes for having turned his mind to the page he now was to dictate. His hands fidgeted uneasily in his sleeves, reaching for him just the slightest bit before retreating into their fabric shells. “I have felt a certain… Distance — between us, ever since our latest trek to the Faron Woods. I am uncertain what has come to pass since then, but the lack of our shared company agonized me.”

A gradual blush crept on his cheeks, ever-more prominent over the thin, whitened scars of his face. “Yet, in my desperation when waiting for the sounding of my death knell, wishing for you so, my actions only endangered you. Never did I wish to cast you in Ganondorf’s ire, and I can only feel responsible for the punishment he chose to give you.”

Zant huffed weakly. All his strength then seemed to gather in his eyes, peering at him in pleading and guilt. Though Ghirahim had shaken him off and tucked his hands beyond his reach, somehow Zant had slipped them free and insistently clasped them in his own. “I do not expect you to forgive me, but my remorse is true.”

Ghirahim looked up at him, for a moment at a loss for words. Once again, Zant had struck an incomprehensible chord, leaving him tongue-tied. If he didn’t so stubbornly cling to it, the anger he’d entered this room with almost would have faded. And even if it had, a new source of annoyance quickly took its place. Such frivolous sentimentality! At least the previous times, Zant had the decency to keep it concealed.

He couldn’t believe that such simple fears had been what cracked Zant’s composure. In fact, he didn’t believe it. The man he’d shared nights with, cradling his shivering body in his arms as night terrors consumed him, dreaded far more than such simple matters. No matter how erratically he behaved on the battlefield, he was far beyond the lowly realm of beasts. Mortal he may have been, but Ghirahim knew all too well that his Master wouldn’t waste energy on someone so dispensable.

Perhaps they had been the actions of a man with nothing to lose, after all. Nothing he’d said, however, shed even a single light on that secretive, elusive string he’d always keep him on.

But he didn’t want to upset him any further, not when he’d gotten him a semblance of loose-lipped. Were he to shut him down now, he might never get the opportunity again. 

Zant was still holding his hands. Ghirahim sucked in a breath when he realized he’d stopped noticing it, how used he’d grown to being touched by him. He gave the man one last look, before casting his eyes down with a sigh. Slipping his hands out of his grip got him a little whimper in response, and Zant’s eyes trailed him wetly and sadly as he walked past him. 

He scanned the room again. Books. Always with the books. The Twili was completely addicted to gathering knowledge of this realm, to the point he may as well derive sustenance from it. It was this ceaseless digging into this alternate world’s past that had sparked his first bout of madness, of conspiracy. Maybe the answers to his questions were hidden there.

And so, he looked over his shoulder, addressing him in their usual banter. “This place was not so ravaged last I saw it.”

Zant perked up, hesitantly so. He seemed to be taking the extension of their conversation as a sign of forgiveness. He would be wrong, but Ghirahim was planning on tolerating his company, for the time being. Zant trailed after him, looming in a shadow at his back. “Indeed. I have let my enthusiasm get the better of me, it seems.”

“It seems, he says…” Ghirahim clicked his tongue, browsing the sea of paper before him. “Even you wouldn’t be this chaotic without good reason. What are you obsessing over this time?”

A far less uncertain smile split Zant’s lips, his pointed teeth glittering in the dim light. “I think it better to show you. Come.”

Zant extended his hand, palm raised. He was testing his luck, certainly, but Ghirahim would let him, if only for the sake of his curiosity. So, he shot the man a warning glance and accepted. Instead of their usual warp, Zant instead grabbed on tightly and tugged the both of them backward. He jumped, pulling Ghirahim — suddenly a hundred pounds lighter and kicking his feet with a yelp — into the air with him. They floated past the trail of books that scattered across the library floor, only to land right at an empty space at its very center. The second they landed, Ghirahim yanked his hand free and sourly dusted himself off. Oh, yes. He really was testing his patience.

Face still soft and pink, Zant’s anxiety took a turn for his more zealous side. He quickly turned his attention to the fruits of his labor. “I have taken the liberty of combing through the Sorceress’ magical tomes in search for something we ourselves could master, and found something truly promising.”

Sleeves spread out, he continued his sermon. “The grimoire she carries is outside of my reach, but a grimoire, too, is nothing more than a summary of knowledge. I believe I have found the pathway to unlocking her arcane secrets, Ghirahim,” he began to giggle, at once hunching down to arrange his spread of paper and leather. “Does this look familiar?”

Ghirahim squinted. In this dark, finding familiarity in anything at all was a chore, but one he would have to commit to. With great determination, Zant continued to arrange the books and papers. It was all just scribbles to him. Before he could comment on the irony of the bookish girl’s scrawly handwriting, his disdain for the texts revealed something new. Rather than the texts themselves, something was hidden behind them — a circular print, in light, grey dye, joining one page to the next. And within those prints, one symbol was scrawled on each opened book. 

Ghirahim frowned, now turning his gaze to the creature squatted on the floor. “That is… Those are the runes to..?”

Zant rose, more papers tightly clutched to his chest, and nodded with scheming satisfaction. “Indeed. These very pages hold the secrets to her time gates. With some study… I may yet figure them out for our own use.”

Finally, the pieces clicked. Ghirahim had come to him seeking sense and he’d found it, wrapped in layers upon layers of pipe dreams. Their field trips, his toiling studies, his obsession with finding context clues in the landscape… It had to all have been building to this. As true to his character as it could ever be, the Twilight King came here searching for a way to claim the power of Gods for himself and had now found it. If he couldn’t have it in one world, he would have it in the next. The prospect of what Zant would use such power for, continued to worry him… But just this knowledge would suffice, for now. At last, he felt like he had an idea of just what went on in that enigmatic chaos that called itself a ‘mind’. He could follow that wavelength.

For the first time since arriving at the library, he smiled. He laughed, even, his hand brought to his face. “You truly are a madman.”

The sight of Ghirahim’s smile visibly delighted Zant. Then it emboldened him, bursting into a cackle. “I would not be the first to admit that the boundary between madmen and scholars is, and shall forever remain, very thin.”

And so, Ghirahim found himself once again at the Twilight King’s side, perusing the various notes and books he’d ripped through. Perhaps he’d curse himself give or take a few days, but being on Zant’s trail for a change invigorated him. He’d managed to somewhat level the playing field. Whether he would win this duel remained to be seen, but now at least he had an idea of where the man hid his spare daggers. Standing across the field of honor, his hands itched to lunge for him and pluck them out himself. 

Zant, too, appeared contented. His fingers glided past the papers he’d accumulated, rambling on and on about his discoveries, and the potentials of summoning more and more obscure beasts from beyond time. 

At last, their company appeared to return to old fondness, until Zant’s words faded. His tone turned grave as he turned to him. “… Ghirahim.”

Ghirahim sighed, combing his hair to the left side of his face with his fingers. “What is it this time?”

Zant blinked, mulling over his words blank-faced. “Are you afraid of me?”

The words shot into him like a burning arrow, igniting his temper in an instant. “Afraid..?” he scoffed. “What a ridiculous notion. You would do better to watch your tongue.”

Zant’s eyes narrowed. Ghirahim couldn’t place the intent of his question. It could only have been a taunt, an insult, but he spied none of the playful sadism that should accompany such bullying. “I have given you my answers without riddles. I wish for you to extend me that same grace,” Zant demanded.

And so, Ghirahim considered it, even if every instinct blared with annoyance and a desire to throw the notion straight in his mental garbage bin. Did he fear Zant? One would think he didn’t, for the man was impulsive, childish, and frightfully easy to wrap around his finger. Yet, that very same fool had coaxed him into vulnerability and, at the end of the day, could very well mangle him to shards if he so desired. The thought frightened, embarrassed, and disgusted him all the same. He stood, arms folded, avoiding his gaze but knowing it wouldn’t avoid him until he answered. His annoyance won over his ego. 

He cleared his throat and chose the practical path. “… It’s only expected to hold some fear for those more powerful than you, no? Do you not fear our Master?”

That same look Zant had worn on his face when he first met his eyes today, returned. The initial shock of his answer faded, soon turning glum. It wasn’t piteous like the way Yuga looked at him. In those glossy amber eyes, he saw nothing but grief and recognition. Slowly, Zant began to shake his head and soon drew him into a wordless embrace. 

Ghirahim froze. Had he answered wrong? There was no such thing. Strength meant to control those lacking that power. How else did one demand respect, but through the competing of abilities? To outmatch, to terrorize? To break down every lesser being at the knee, so all they could do was to look upon you in awe and worship? That was how he’d functioned, on either side of the spectrum. It was the simple order of life, and he’d relished in it. Demise had forged him for it, after all, and he would sooner shatter than deny himself this privileged terror.

Then, Ghirahim came to the baffling conclusion that Zant did not want him to fear him. He couldn’t begin to fathom why. Neither did he understand why his body grew slack, and why his arms shakily found their way loosely around Zant’s waist.

The Twili let out more of those little hums, nuzzling his face into his hair. Lanky arms pulled him in closer as the first subtle drops of tears trickled onto the crown of his head. “Truly, you have kept me from you for too long…”

It was all entirely alien. Both Zant’s reactions and the pounding they stirred inside his core. But, by Demise, he didn’t want to let go.

“You vex me, vile and dark thing,” Ghirahim murmured finally, burying his face in the pillowing of deep black robes. “Fork-tongued, baleful, infuriating wretch ,” he hissed, though the venom in his voice thinned, till at long last it dripped with philter. A hand with uneven digits found his cheek and before he knew he leaned into it. Whatever protests, pleas for self-control, and shunning his mind cried out, his body ignored completely. His head tipped back to a sigh, baring his face to the mercy of his kisses. “You must have cursed me, to draw me to you like this. I find no other reason to time and time again return to your arms.”

With those lips so close to his ear, Zant laughed, its smoky tones sending an involuntary shiver down his neck. “Forgive me, for such magic could only ever be a blessing in my eyes.”

They embraced there for what seemed like ages. Stubborn cries in his mind called him a coward, spineless for his inability to push him away. Those, too, faded with the deafening buzz of this affectionate comfort. Cotton filled his head until it may as well have been coming out of his ears. Whatever thoughts would come to haunt him could dig their claws back into him some other time. He was too mystified by this odd creature that cooed and whispered and kissed, to make space for anything else. 

Soon, Zant broke that precious silence with more of his perplexing words. “… I cannot help but notice, Ghirahim. Even after your slumber, you remain ill.” He leaned back, once again fiddling with his hair with those spindly fingers. “If you will let me, I can be of assistance to you again.”

A chill ran down his back the instant he realized just where his curiosity had led him. Instantly, Ghirahim jerked back, a hand protectively over his chest. He had given the Twili an inch, and already, he was seeking to pry him open and-

Zant picked up on his shock and quickly attempted to calm him. “Ah- No, I will not force you into such an intimate act, especially not given our earlier talk. But I may have an idea.”

Still apprehensive, but no longer as tightly wound, Ghirahim frowned at him. “… Go on.”

Once again Zant grew a touch shy. He chewed on his lip as he sought for words. “Your magic is channeled through dance, is it not? As with your counterpart, you cast your spells most effectively through somatic channeling. I could assist you and combine our energies, so you could dispel the curse on your own.”

Ghirahim stood perplexed. At first, his frustratingly verbose wording confused him, until he realized what he meant. His smile returned to him against his will, but he took the liberty of adding a snarky spin. “… Twilight King… Once again, your attempts at courtship are laughable. Are you asking me for a dance?”

A grin spread across Zant’s face, finally casting that bothersome gloom aside. “Only if you will have me, Demon Lord.”

Deciding he’d already agreed to enough unbecoming nonsense for the night, Ghirahim didn’t see the harm in one more. He accepted and watched curiously as Zant gleefully trotted off someplace else.

“Just a moment,” he echoed into some cabinet, “I’ve found quite the intriguing little implement earlier. If only I could- Ah!”

Ghirahim tilted his head to look over his shoulder. He sneered a laugh when he saw just what Zant had fetched and held up so proudly. “A music box? You think me some sniveling babe, in need of a lullaby?”

But the Twili refused even a shred of embarrassment, standing firm in his choice. “Perhaps it is a touch juvenile, but I found it carries a fine tune. Besides, would you rather our privacy be interrupted by an orchestra?”

Ghirahim shrugged, admitting defeat. “No, I suppose not.”

Finally, Zant reached for his hand. Upon taking it, he was dragged into his magic by surprise, and the pair promptly appeared on the upper floor of the library. The doors to the balcony stood open, the evening breeze brushing through the heavy drapes. They swayed and beckoned, inviting the pair outside like ghostly chaperones. Bronze slippers clacked on stone as Zant led them out, setting their musical implements on the balcony balusters. 

Ghirahim shook his head in amusement, watching with his hands at his sides as Zant giddily began winding up the little box until the spring simply wouldn’t give any more. The sword spirit chewed his lip with a smile. He wondered if this inelegant being even knew how to dance, despite his invitation. Much less how it would look. 

A pleasant surprise reared its head but did not quite escape its hiding when Zant approached him in a straight posture. He confidently took his hand in his and placed the other at his hip. “Might I request to lead? It’s how I’ve been trained, after all.”

The mere suggestion made Ghirahim laugh. “Oh, so you were trained? Such interesting things you try to sell me on.”

Zant’s lips pursed into a smug, defiant smile, his hand not moving from his waist. “Will I get an answer before that box runs out of spins, I wonder.”

Ghirahim rolled his eyes with a laugh, finally conceding, and reaching up to place his hand on his shoulder. “Sweep me away, Twilight King. See if you keep my toes intact.”

Pleasant surprise turned to astonishment when it turned out Zant was, indeed, a halfway-decent dancer. It took the both of them a few clumsy bumps, affronted toes, and curses but mostly laughs, to get used to each others’ rhythms and lengths of strides. Before long, though, Zant took up on his challenge and swept the both of them through the balcony in a waltz. 

Yet, one thing still irked him. Doubtlessly, Zant’s mop of hair was no glorious sight to behold, but Ghirahim certainly preferred it over that hideous leather coif. So, he clicked his tongue, breaking their hold to reach for his face. “Must you be wearing that old thing as we dance?”

“Ah,” Zant exclaimed, flinching away from the fingers that slipped beneath his coif. “I would prefer to, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Ghirahim frowned a little but decided to let it slide. The fading scars on Zant’s cheeks reminded him enough about his tendency to hide himself. For the time being, he supposed he could shrug it off. Whatever he kept concealed there could only be a minor secret compared to the ones he’d wrenched from him just earlier. He’d let these fade with the sun, which sank ever further away with each step of their feet. Pink turned to blue, turned to pitch black, finally shedding them in the chandelier light of the starry veil above. Ghirahim’s blooming magic, leaving glowing white footprints behind them, poured from him as easily as he could sigh a breath. Once again, that nosy Twilight busy-body had found a way to intertwine the two of them. All he had to do was dance.

—

The plucky chiming of the music box had long ceased, but neither of them paid it any mind. Their feet rhythmically continued gliding past the stone floors. Zant’s metal clogs left their characteristic clink-clink-clink, and Ghirahim’s soles trailed with glittering diamonds, leaving a sound like wind passing through a grand chandelier. Those specks of magic rang and jingled, themselves producing a tune, casting the pair in fracturing light as if they’d been dancing miles below the sea. 

Fog of exhaustion began to drain from him, sapped from his fingertips — he clutched Zant just a little tighter, — his feet — his dance stepped just a little lighter, — and the back of his mind — the stars in his eyes shone just a little brighter, — until he could hardly feel its influence anymore. It gathered at his core, before being shed from it in yet more gentle puffs of diamond magic. Those very gems were infused, or rather, tainted with something else, something living and dark. Yet, now, as the little cloud of them swirled into the sky like a snake wading through the desert sands, it could harm him no longer.

The point of his ear glowed softly red when amidst the gentle sounds of their dance, Zant’s persistent giggling had turned into a hum. Soon, Ghirahim found himself laughing along. There the pair swayed singing across the balcony, dancing into the night in mutual serenade. Rewinding that old toy would have been too much of a bother, either way. With every step, he felt lighter, more whole, and with the arms that led him through their steps, he couldn’t help but feel like Zant had his hand in reforming him. Even when simply being by his side while he reforged himself, their intimacy alone molded him into such a whimsical being. 

He did not have enough lead in his steel to be this weak and malleable. But oh, damn it all. Those eyes adored him so.

But how could they? Ghirahim could treat him coldly, he could avoid him, he could waltz into this very room with the intent to berate and abandon him, and still he welcomed him with open arms. So tragically he beheld him and so desperately he’d pleaded for him to consider forgiveness. They were tearing each other to the ground, he knew it, and he was certain now that Zant knew it, too. Yet, somehow, when it kept his sleepless mind buzzing with a hive’s worth of conflict, that strange man chased after it like his life knew no greater purpose. 

He couldn’t hope to sway him from that obsession, nor from attempting to drag him down with him. But he could try. 

“You’re certain you wish to spend your time with such frivolous things, Twilight King?” he said, coaxing glowing amber into his own vast black. “Even if I continue to doubt you so?”

Zant chuckled, some puzzling silence in his face. “Even now, you question me? For months now, we have laid together in both passion and slumber. I’ve allowed you to hold me, to comfort me when my mind would reject me, until we have spent more nights together than apart.” He spoke, keeping the pair moving and shrouded in glitter. “Were those hours we’ve spent together in leisure, in discourse and intrigue, not meaningful to you? Had you not the slightest inkling of the way I look at you, how the world pales in importance when we occupy the same space?”

There was the first true crack, picking at a wall he didn’t know he had. He expected, no, demanded to be admired. Desirability was as true to his nature as his cruelty and by all means, he had to be used to it. He couldn’t fathom why this would feel different, and why against all logic, it did.

Zant spun him, holding him closer as he pulled him back in. “Ghirahim, truly, could I have made myself any clearer? Flippant feelings alone can not keep me from you, for they are what make us alive. With all that we’ve shared, how could I come to feel anything for you, but my deepest, truest affections?”

Another hair fracture, zig-zagging and weaving together like a web. With every turn of their waltz, the stars spun around them. Bright specks swirled around till all blended together in a glowing spiral. It was like the little pixies had seen their swaying below, and promptly broke into their own dance, having unanimously decided it looked fun. His core pulsed, thrummed, widening his eyes and sending roaring fire to his chest. Below him, his magic spoke for him, and welcomed the starry sky above to join their not-so-private ball. Scattering into the sky in sparks, or really, more like bubbles in a boiling kettle, diamonds rose from the pool of pure white magic that gathered at his feet.

Something in him pounded at the wall, and the fracture cleaved ever deeper. The hand holding his’ slipped out from their loose joining, trailing its way down his arm and toward his cheek. “Surely, some of it must have registered, for even after our time apart, you continue to bear my gift to you,” Zant said, his eyes now glued to his earring.

Zant sucked in a gasp, for just a moment tripping over his words. Their eyes met again, and the Twili fell silent. He stared at him as if he had committed to counting every star that reflected in the black of his pupils, and would still be there to count them when new ones were born. He brought the two of them to a halt, looking as infatuated as he was troubled. Ghirahim grew cold with anticipation, all while Zant kept him trapped and entranced. “The truth is, Ghirahim, I…”

Rushing forth from some corner of himself, this geode he once thought hollow, a battering ram whacked at his crumbling line of defenses. Desperately it slammed against the wall to meet whatever had called it, to see what nighttide lover was knocking at its balcony window and sweep it off its feet. So desperate it was, starving for a feeling it had never dared to dream be reciprocated, that it tore a gaping hole in him at first strike. 

That little hidden shard of his now flew free, gazing out into the world he’d hidden it from with awe and splendor. For just one second, the stars around them seemed to glow, the hand on his cheek felt warmer, and his core felt infinitely lighter. Little dagger, so eagerly it flung around the shoulders of the one waiting for it outside its imprisonment, that it hadn’t even noticed that every other inch of Ghirahim had kept its thousands of hands firmly at its hilt. They ripped it back inside. It went back with them cheering and giggling, a little tatter of the object of its affection clutched firmly in its hands. 

He could not sever this. Not if he let it continue.

And so, he ran. He broke himself away from the golden eyes that looked at him so longingly by clenching his own shut. By the time he opened them again, his hands were empty and cold, and his back was pressed against one of the columns that left this very library standing. The room was dark.

He was hoping that tearing himself from him would bring him a measure of relief, of closure. To avoid the words about to be spoken was to avoid opening a door he had only dared to peep through and hold it ajar, lured in by the tranquilizing sweetness of his curiosity. It was a world not meant for him, not with this man. He’d slam the stop-gap keeping it open to splinters if he had to.

Yet, as he stood there, drowning in the deathly silence of the library, he couldn’t bring himself to. There was not a shred of relief to be found in the ache that buckled his knees. That door to what-could-be remained open. After he’d shattered it, it could never close again. In the paralysis that kept him clinging to that pillar like a lifeline, he heard a shred from that great unknown. Above him, from the balcony, a wet, ragged breath ripped itself through the Twili’s throat in a heaving sob.

A crash, a shatter, the sound of little gears and mechanisms scattering across the stone floor assaulted his ears. Though he fled from them, the ringing and clattering haunted Ghirahim in echoes as he made his solemn stride to his chambers.

Chapter Text

It was a fool’s errand, but one only he could dare to run. Ghirahim made his way through the Temple as if mounted on tracks, heading right for his Master’s offices. He knew he’d be angry. That he wouldn’t care for his company and, by all means, could put him right back in the crate where he came from. Yet, at that moment, that kind of absolution was all that could bring him peace. After the buzzing that haunted his mind the past few days, he felt the wrath of his Master would at least set him straight.

A knock at the door, a grumble allowing him entry. Ganondorf was working documents at a great, dark oak desk, framed by the reds of a roaring granite fireplace behind him. The same gold filigree that seemed to spontaneously grow throughout the Temple sprawled here, too, fanning out across the furniture like twisting vegetation. Ghirahim’s entry was not acknowledged any further, leading him to the nerve-wracking decision to approach him on his own accord. He padded across marble, across tapestry, until at long last he stood beside the Gerudo. His dark bronze skin was lined with fatigue, though it was an indulgent one. Ghirahim didn’t need to touch him to confirm the divine power that now surged through his veins. Shreds of mortality were stripped from him that fateful battle upon claiming the Triforce of Power; now, simple concepts like ‘hunger’ and ‘exhaustion’ only held their truest value in nostalgia, lingering to commit to a humble memory until he needed them no longer. All that power and Ghirahim had disappointed — no, enraged him. Somehow, remorse had to be conveyed, lest his loyalty be questioned. But before he could speak, his knees buckled. He fell forward, grasping at the fabric of his clothing to keep himself from collapsing to the ground. It was pathetic. And pitiful. And somewhere, he was thankful for it. To faint into him was a far more succinct way to beg for forgiveness than any words could have conveyed. The Demon King looked down at him and let him stay.

For a while, they remained silent. Ghirahim kneeled beside his Master’s seat, his cheek and folded arms resting on his thigh. Perhaps this was the mere quiet before the storm, simply lying in wait while Ganondorf thought of a suitable punishment, but he didn’t care. The fireplace cast him in an amber light, warming his skin but incomparable to the heat Ganondorf sent through him. 

His eyes fluttered shut and he let his force surge through him. Like a cyclical breath, golden power entered his body, sparked in his core, and flowed back out. Lights danced behind his eyelids, deep magenta Malice joining hands with shining stars and weaving together into one single glorious aura. It was so, so familiar, but so far from him he could cry. The vague impression this embrace gave him was nothing compared to the tidal wave he felt when Demon hands clasped around his hilt and encouraged him to kill.

His eyes lazily creaked back open when Ganondorf began to speak, still not looking up from his desk. “I trust that this warning will have sufficed, Lord Ghirahim. My patience is running thin.”

The scratching of the quill halted. Ganondorf was considering his words enough to pull his concentration from his work. “I have tolerated petty distractions and selfish ambitions. I have allowed you your whims, yes, for I find nothing as distasteful as keeping reputable men on a leash.”

“It is your duty to understand that I did not hire you for you to act as my disobedient pet. What I will not allow, is for your reckless behavior to lead to failure. ”

Ghirahim winced at the resumed sounds of quill scratching on paper. The sharp noise and his scolding combined enough for it to feel like the words were being scratched into his skin.

“I will not let you down again, My Master. I only hope that you understand my plight. Disobey you, I would never, but I cannot help what I was forged for.”

“You are crossing a line, Demon Lord,” Ganondorf growled, lip curling as he tapped his nib irritably against the parchment. “I will not repeat myself. Your failure to set your ambitions aside poses threats to my army. Threats which I will suffer no longer.”

Ghirahim stiffened. Indeed, Ganondorf could not have made himself any clearer and should not have had to. He clutched him, pressed himself against him fearfully as if he were not the source of that fear. 

Something warm placed itself on his head. His Master was stroking his hair. A sigh puffed out of Ganondorf. The contact and the almost wistful noise were enough to make Ghirahim melt to the touch. “Perhaps… When this war is over and the throne is in my hands, I may consider returning you to my scabbard.”

A perhaps, a maybe, a promise not to let him defend him in the glory of war, but to be strapped at his hip as an emergency measure. It was humiliating, teeth-grittingly so, yet to his frustrations, he felt a fluttering feeling in his gut. In the end, knowing he would be wielded made him happy, no matter the circumstance. Ganondorf was a deliberate man, organizing him carefully among his now many commanders, whereas Demise would have seized him long ago. Ghirahim huddled himself tighter to his leg, closing his eyes again under the comfort of fingers stroking through his locks.

No, he wasn’t Him. But he was Demise’s promise. So long as that Kingdom stood firm, there would be those who opposed it. To Hyrule, it was a curse, but to Ghirahim, it was his grounding beacon. If he could not serve his true Master, then he could join those who shared His Hatred and inherited His power as the torchbearer. It was all a weapon could do — what a weapon should do.

He had a purpose and he lived to fulfill it. There simply wasn’t room for anything more, nor did he have the right to wish for it. 

Face digging into the fabric of his breeches, he swallowed down the lump that formed in his throat.

A rapping at the door interrupted them. Someone outside cleared their throat briskly, and from that sound alone Ghirahim recognized who it was. He had to restrain a sigh.

“Milord, you have received correspondence from the Deku Lordship in the north,” announced Yuga from outside the room. “Shall we review it together?”

Ganondorf craned his head to face the door, then glanced back down at Ghirahim from the corner of his eye. “You are dismissed. I trust you to see to the trainees for today.”

His body was sluggish and hesitant to pull away from the warm comfort of Ganondorf’s lap, but his spirit was firm in its obedience. Ghirahim rose his head with a nod, gazing up at him one last time. Before Ganondorf could bid the sorcerer beyond the door to enter, the sword spirit had already blinked away.

—

Of course, he didn’t have to attend to his duties for long. His relentless drilling of the Demon King’s lower-ranking commanders had made fine warriors out of many of them. The training fields beyond the Temple’s vast gardens were occupied by hundreds, be they demon, Gerudo, undead, or aberration, all equally eager to show off their skills before their esteemed lieutenant. Pride surged through him as he walked through the sparring masses. He was far too busy enjoying the fruits of his labor to notice all the distasteful displays of footwork and clumsy swings among the common soldiery. His commanders were immaculate: elegant and deadly; quick to punish. There was hardly any need for him to intervene in their training. If he did, it was only ever for his amusement. Yes, every single one of these small-fries, he’d left them in good hands. 

They were holding up just fine without him. 

That realization was subtle at first, budding as a comfort and as proof that he had instructed them well. Watching from the sidelines, his foot began to tap onto the trampled dirt with a nervous tic the more he saw the commanders swoop in to correct their pawns. Had they done this the entire time, with such efficiency, in his absence? He felt branches grow, tendrils, bearing thorns and pointed edges that dug into his pride the longer he stood and watched. He couldn’t stomach it. A being made for combat should not merely watch as others have all the fun. The Demon Lord was many things, but redundant, he was not. 

Before he knew it, he’d pulled one of his commanders aside, and barked the command to clear a path for them. Eyes were on him again, feeding a ravenous desire to be marveled at, as he pulled his sword on living armor almost twice his size. 

Demonstrating footwork and simple strikes would have been wasted on such an opponent. He went straight for the jugular. Before long, the monster's parrying grew more and more frantic, and he drove the two-ton menace back with each slash and jab of his obsidian blade. He could feel the training sword chip and scratch with every strike, screeching and groaning under the force of his jabs. No longer could the Darknut keep up. Ghirahim was hitting armor, leaving scratches and dents, kicking at joints, and piercing through gaps. Piercing, piercing, carving, something soft, something-

An ethereal cry came from an otherwise empty helmet, and with a puff of smoke, the commander’s arm fell to the ground with a hollow thud and rattle.

Ghirahim paused. His sword faded from his hand in diamonds. The whole training field was silent, then, for a moment, until some began to cheer in morbid delight, others whispered among one another. His defeated opponent merely held his arm in his remaining hand, somewhat dejectedly trying to reattach it but failing to do so. 

An example was set, he supposed. His place in the hierarchy was justified and reinforced. Yet, he couldn’t find any satisfaction in it. How strange. Wanton violence never failed to invigorate him, yet this time, he just felt more bored than he did before. So, he turned, offhandedly gesturing for a Poe on the sidelines to tend to the duelist’s injury, though he didn’t bother to look behind him to check if they did. With his departure, their little arena quickly dispersed, and the training field was back in formation like he’d never disrupted it.

Once again he returned to the halls, staring out the ceiling-length windows to keep an eye on the little specks of soldiers from afar. How dreadful it was, to have nothing to occupy oneself with! Ghirahim sighed, seating himself on the windowsill. He gazed out over the mansion’s property, though he registered very little of what he saw. It was simply staring for the sake of staring, passing images through a blank mind. The outside world began to tire him as the first drops of rain tapped on the window before him, gently ushering him out of a self-inflicted trance. He perked up and instead turned his attention back to the hallway, where his eyes landed on a painting he could swear wasn’t there a day or two earlier. It bore a purple frame, matte and dark as if absorbing every bit of light and obliterating it for the crime of taking away from the figure depicted inside. Surrounded by a haze of swirling violets was a young woman, perhaps sixteen-to-nineteen years of age (though, mortal lifespans always puzzled him). She looked eerily familiar, now that he paid attention to it. In some ways, she reminded him of the Spirit Maiden and every incarnation before her, but some things were drastically different. Her hair was dark and wavy, and her eyes held fatigue and sorrow no frightfully optimistic Zelda he’d known could ever carry. Whoever she was, her painter held a fondness for her. Having been at the other end of the easel, he knew how the Lorian Sorcerer could fuss over her models, how she’d preen their hair and scold any slouch. The tired yet endeared smile Ghirahim had carried then, was reflected on this girl, too, and it had been immortalized affectionately on the canvas.

Yuga. Perhaps she was up for company today. With some luck, he’d get another portrait or two out of it. The atelier wasn’t far. He hopped down from his seat and winked out of view, leaving that strange, purple girl in her own company.

Ghirahim arrived at the painter’s workshop to find it unoccupied. He supposed with a sigh that the Demon King must have been keeping her busy. That left him with more time to waste than he’d care for. Well, there wasn’t any harm in looking around. He’d known Yuga’s atelier back at Gerudo Palace, but he hadn’t yet displayed himself lavishly in this one, surprisingly enough. Much to his amusement, he found it laid out as a near-carbon copy of her other atelier. There was a wooden cabinet, though a touch smaller, with little labeled drawers that held her countless pigments. The place was a mess of props, curtains, and sketches, though most were covered to protect them from the sun, should it peek into the room. For this atelier was a bright place. Whereas the atelier at Gerudo Palace was more shrouded in darkness, keeping out the merciless desert heat, this room faced the West with tall, floor-to-ceiling windows, fashioned with rose mosaics at their pinnacles. It was certainly lived in — right at her little balcony, Yuga put up a chair, where a piece of parchment and a handful of oil pastels left behind the hints of an idyllic spare time picture. This must have been where she’d sit to paint the sunset, Ghirahim figured.

All very fascinating, to poke around somebody’s business while they’re not present, but he’d much rather speak with the person than consult with images he’d conjure of her in his mind. He turned back to the center of the room, where bright, red-and-gold curtains hid away an easel that stood before a podium. Making his way over, he found a canvas, perhaps an arm’s length, covered by a white sheet. His eye fell on the podium first, finding it set up with a luxurious embroidered curtain for a backdrop, and a small still-life next to a similarly concealed piece of furniture. 

Someone had been posing there. An initial spark of annoyance lit in him when he realized there were only a few candidates for her to paint, and that it hadn’t been him. Before he could decide which option ticked him off more, his eye fell on a collection of sketches that had been pinned to the wall beside him. The sight of a sharp, aquiline nose, and a well-groomed beard instantly made him whip around and grip the edge of the sheet. Something in him fumed and thrummed. Whether it was with rage, jealousy, or fear, he could hardly distinguish, but it drowned out any polite hesitation that kept him from peeping and forced his hand to rip the covering clean off.

White fabric shook, billowed, and fluttered in the air as if frozen there, before it flopped lifelessly to the ground, dropping from an enraged fist that lost its strength. Ghirahim’s core sank at what he saw on that canvas.

The room was silent, save for the insistent pattering of rain on the windows, but Ghirahim was deaf to it all. Captured in paint was an image of his Master. Ganondorf was splayed comfortably on the scene on the podium, boots casually kicked off on the ground, but his powerful form still inspired grandeur. Yet, there was an intimacy to it. His provocative smirk and the subtle spread of his legs were inviting. The way his undershirt flared open at the chest suggested that the invitation had been accepted more than once. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the subtle scarring between calloused fingers, and the shimmer of his jewelry… Such details would have been lost by any who hadn’t been able to see him up close — to touch him — yet here they were, depicted flawlessly. 

What shattered within him wasn’t mere childish jealousy. The whole foundation of his being began to crack and wobble. He’d wasted too much time. Nights he spent in the arms of a stranger should have been spent where he belonged. An ungrateful, frivolous wretch he’d been for dancing around his purpose. His habit, his curse, to repeat the same mistakes had cost him dearly. Now, the one he’d devoted himself to… No, who owned him, had chosen the company of someone else. 

Listlessly, Ghirahim hung the sheet back over the painting, not caring if it was affixed properly or not. He could bear to look at it no longer, and so he turned from it. 

His feet dragged him back to the window, drawn by the trails of raindrops racing down the glass. Their little rivers split and joined endlessly, rearranging themselves at the mercy of the deluge. Such a horrid little reminder of how his fate had been toyed with! One little droplet had gotten in his way, and now he’d veered off course. Dropping himself into whatever seat found itself below him, he peered out into the distance, drowning his sorrows in the roaring sounds of the rain. The vines and thorns that crept their way up to the window were beaten in the downpour, removing them from their last shreds of vibrant life. How gray that garden looked without its petals.

When Yuga returned she encountered him lying on the couch across his easel. It was covered by a sheet, presumably to protect it from dust, but Ghirahim knew it was the very same one from the painting. It smelled just like their King. He’d even found one of his hairs caught on the thin white fabric. He draped himself on there, sleek white and glittering, yet desolate as a discarded bridal veil, face tucked into the nook of his elbow. Peering past his lashes, he found Yuga looking quite peeved. He could only guess the painter saw how the cloth covering her painting had been moved, and now knew her secret was out.

“I see you’ve taken the liberty of letting yourselves into my private affairs,” Yuga said with a tilt of her hips and her arms crossed.

Ghirahim narrowed his eyes. “Private affairs,” he mocked. “I am his Blade, Yuga. An extension of his being. There is nothing ‘private’ you can have with him, without my involvement.”

Yuga scoffed as if it was a bluff. Ghirahim’s eye twitched subtly behind the curtain of his bangs. It never should have been a bluff; yet in this world, it was. The Lorian spoke. “Is that so,” she sneered, hands at her sides. “Then what’s that sulking on my set for? Surely you didn’t discover anything new.”

Such a despicably smug attitude! He supposed that when walking into the lion’s den, he needed some way to get the upper hand. Oh, yes; he could think of a thing or two that could sweep her feet out from under her. “What is he to you? You glue yourself to him as if you have any right to belong there. If you think Master is taking applications for pets, you’d be sorely mistaken.”

Her lip twitched in annoyance, but her poise remained firm. “Ganondorf is my Muse. That is all you are entitled to know.”

A non-answer, but he’d gotten under her skin. To the sorcerer, just about anybody with a pretty enough face around these parts was a Muse. The Demon King’s army just so happened to be a lush garden of supernatural and powerful beauty, ripe for the picking. At least, that was the picture he’d gotten of her. To be at the receiving end of her curt, blunt responses meant he was getting close to snapping her flimsy patience.

After glaring him down for another few seconds, her fiery gaze fizzled out into bitter ash. She had the clear intent of making some jabs of her own. “Zant. What did you do to him?”

Ghirahim jerked his head up with a scowl. With just the uttering of his name, Yuga just had to remind him of what he managed to stave off the past few days. He’d banished any thought of the Twili, locked them away, and swallowed the key. Now, with scorched brown eyes squinting so fiercely at him, he could feel that blasted key crawling its way back up his throat. “To him?” he hissed. “How presumptuous of you. I’ll have you know I long decided to let that distraction slide. I’ve nothing to do with whatever he’s moaning about.”

Yuga bit back instantly. “Don’t feign ignorance on me now, boy! I send you to go talk with him, and all of a sudden, we don't see hide or hair of him for days on end? You did something,” she spat, accusing a manicured finger at him and staring him down. When he refused to answer, she clicked her tongue. “… Go on! You’ve already pried into my business, so in turn, I shall pry into yours. Tell me!”

He shifted uneasily in his seat in response. Chin propped on his hand, he turned his gaze out the window. “I fail to see how his fickle mental state is my problem.”

His deflection was met with shrill, bird-like laughter. “That’s rich!” Yuga exclaimed. “For months, you’re all over each other, and suddenly, he’s no longer your problem?”

The gray outside world was doing absolutely nothing to distract him. Again he shifted, pulling his knee in to tuck himself closer to the armrest. Such a reminder was unwelcome, and he took it as more of an accusation of his negligence to his duty, than any perceived slights to the Twili. He squinted his eyes and furrowed his brow, hiding himself from her gaze with his hair. 

Wood creaked, the sound of feet walking up on the podium. Yuga’s voice mellowed some, but behind that restrained softness, anger still lurked. “… Is that what this is? Did you break up?”

“There was nothing to break up,” Ghirahim snapped back through gritted teeth.

Yuga groaned, tapping her foot on the floorboards before making her way over to him. For just a moment, he peeped at her through the gaps in his hair, but the unrelenting, gargoyle-esque snarl quickly made him reconsider. She ran her hand down her face in exasperation, dramatically yet with great care not to smudge her make-up. “I may be the last person in the world to be saying this, but… Ghirahim, you can’t simply up and walk away. You know how he is!”

He wanted to struggle, to object to her accusations, but he found no words coming out. And even if he had any, they’d have no room to squeeze between her ravings. She dropped down on the couch next to him and sneered her plummy little ultimatum. “There are two options here. Either you reel him in, or you let him swim. All this leading him on is just cruel.”

“Cruel!?” To think he cared about such a thing! It was laughable. He couldn’t decide whether the hilarity lied in the accusation with him as its receiver, or for the accusant to be Yuga, of all people. Nevertheless, he felt eager to shed himself of blame. It sloughed around him like shedding skin, and he wanted rid of it. He turned to her with a frown. “I’ve made myself perfectly clear to him. We are high-ranking commanders. That Zant wishes to fall apart over juvenile pass-time has nothing to do with my decision to-“

“You are a commander in this army, indeed. You are also an adult ,” Yuga hissed with a jab at his collarbone. “Now how about you act the part, and go on over to him to settle this? Without Zant, our forces will suffer. His feebleness gets him killed, and it would be your fault.”

Such insults he would not take! Ghirahim smacked the hand at his chest away from him with the air of dismissing an insect. Blame still stuck to him, sewn back on by bony hands with something almost unprecedented. Guilt. 

The quarreling pair stayed locked in an exchanged scowl, and though it hurt his pride, he was the first to break away. To argue with her was a pointless affair, especially when their points of view came from such different worlds. He swept his cape around his shoulder and rose from the couch, offering Yuga nothing more than a curt nod to announce his departure.

Nevertheless, she had one more sneer to give before he left. “The nerve you have to stick your nose in my business when your own affairs are in such a state… Out of my workshop! I’m fed up with you, Demon Lord.”

She didn’t even have to ask. For once, he opted to leave a room through the door, if only for the chance to slam it behind him.

—

Once again, he found himself passing through the hallways of the Temple. Normally, he was perfectly capable of keeping petty ponderings at bay. Those times, though, he’d at least had a distraction. With nothing but the foggy, looping interiors of Cia’s mansion to occupy him, his mind circled as much as the tiles below him. 

Yuga was right in that the mansion had seen very little of the Lord of Shadows since that day. From his lingering in the hallways, Ghirahim hadn’t seen Zant leave even once. The only sign of life coming from that decrepit room was an occasional servant that either came to deliver or retrieve a stack of documents, exchanged with a pallid hand slipping through a crack in the door. 

It was puzzling. Ghirahim expected him to sulk, certainly, after his unspoken rejection. But alongside Zant’s habits of holing himself up, he’d also expected his token sounds of wailing, in torment of the ghosts of nightly visitors. Yet, there had been nothing but silence. He couldn’t imagine him dreaming quietly in a state of tantrum. Perhaps he hadn’t slept at all. 

The thought alone made him grit his teeth. Zant hadn’t eaten — certainly, the man’s reptilian appetite wouldn’t kill him with a few days’ break — Zant hadn’t slept. He was wasting away in that room, interrupting his self-pitying only to pour over his duties. And anyone aware of it had the gall to blame him for it. Undoubtedly including Zant himself. It was infuriating. It was sickening. It left a lump in his throat he couldn’t swallow and an icy pit in his core that wouldn’t thaw, no matter how much he paced there in an effort to summon enough burning rage to melt it all away. 

Of course he wasn’t responsible for this. All this time, Zant had ignored the realities of the one he’d gotten so charmed with, forgotten that it could only ever be temporary. Ghirahim wasn’t his to take, for he belonged to another. Certainly, the Twili had tried. He’d coaxed him into unfamiliar waters, luring him to plunge into the depths with him until their affection alone could warm that strange, cold abyss. But no matter how he’d toyed with such distractions, and how he’d snagged him, the leash of destiny kept tugging firmly at his throat. And he adored that leash, he’d worship it and let it drag him back to kingly hands even if it wore down to a single thread. He’d made a promise to Demise, then, an oath older than the lands themselves. 

Yet his feet took him elsewhere. While dwelling in his mind, he’d kept walking and ended up at the end of the hallway leading straight to the lieutenants’ chambers.

He had almost forgotten. His collar was fitted with two leads.

With separate ends tugging at him at once, Ghirahim was forced to weigh his options.  His instinct drew him to the obvious and forced him paces back. He knew who was meant to hold him, who was Demise’s worthy successor. Ganondorf had, in his own words, ‘spoiled’ him. The shreds of affection he’d given him were precious, unprecedented in their fondness. This Demon King was kind, in his own way, but no matter how much he indulged those needs for closeness, he’d denied his greatest need of all. He would not wield him. Perhaps when that incarnation had split his power off for his servant, that with it went the part that wanted him. 

Ghirahim could deny it no longer. It was all too meager compared to what Zant had showered him with. For every minute Ganondorf spent with him, the Twili had given him hours. Zant threw himself at him with blind trust time and time again. Doing so once would have been stupidity, but to repeat it could only mean a desperate cry for affection. Where one man had cast him aside in a wooden box, the other grabbed hold of him fiercely and eagerly, only to let go if all his fingers were amputated. With all sensibilities, Zant could have been a simple, power-hungry lunatic, eager to get his hands on a legendary blade. Yet, somewhere, he indulged in the thought that Din had smiled upon him for once, and Destiny had meant for him to be wielded by hands that loved him just as rambunctiously as he would love them.

They were mere fantasies, wishful thinking, and he felt thunder rumbling in him for the blasphemy of it all. But, oh, Hell’s Realms. Zant was a mortal man, after all. Ghirahim decided he could afford to pretend a little longer.

Yet, as he stood before the doors, he couldn’t think of how to proceed. Was he to knock? Call out for him and await his response? It wasn’t that he was afraid, but he was in haste. Every second he’d spend dawdling at this door made the risk he’d turn and run greater. Childishly, shamefully, he was clutching the feeling that raced in his core, of how he desired to see him and test what mortal affection meant. He didn’t know how long he could stave off the sense of duty he barred away, for it already started growling in the back of his mind. Were he to announce his arrival, he saw a baffling chance that Zant would reject him. If there was anything he would not do, it was beg. 

He fell into old habits as a result. He snipped his fingers and appeared at the other side of the door.

Frankly, the door should have been a hint. Unlike the other lieutenants’ chambers, this one had been bare, lacking in the personal touch Cia had given to each of her underlings. It suddenly struck Ghirahim that before this, Zant had never been to Cia’s dwelling. She’d revived him, certainly, but had let him reign his terror in the Twilight Realm only. There hadn’t been a need for him here, and thus, no chambers. The Usurper King was staying in a spare.

The inside was pitch dark. Thick curtains were nailed to the walls where windows must have hidden behind. Not a speck of light entered from the outside — Rather, the only light seemed to come from Zant himself. A dim glow of burned gold shed light on the little furnishing he had, their contents spilled on the floors. Darkness ruled so thoroughly here, it was almost thick enough to taste, bitter and dry like a furnace fire. 

It was the sound that alerted him to the shape draped on the bed. A droning hum blared from it, but through the noise, he could hear breathing, raspy and soft. The room was as viciously rejecting him as he rejected it, kept only at bay by the wafts of teeming Twilight radiating out from him. He did not belong here. The Temple was making it known.

Ghirahim’s presence hadn’t been noticed yet. How could he have been? So quiet and small was he amid this brewing storm of shadow. He bit through the vertigo and spoke. “Zant.”

The breathing stopped with a gasp. Zant’s figure stirred, shifted, and rolled over to push himself upright. Slowly, and heavily, as if rising from water, he uncurled his spine bit by bit to sit with a hunch. Glowing eyes turned to him, surfacing from a pure black silhouette. “Entering without my permission,” Zant replied, his voice an eerie calm. “Have you come to berate me again?”

If he had prepared any words in his mind prior to facing him, he couldn’t recall them now. But what he could remember was confusion, a feeling that drifted in him like a passing ship every minute they spent together. An idle curiosity about Zant’s infatuation with him became all the more troubling when he realized it became mutual. He knew attraction, he knew lust, he knew devotion. The intricacies of mortal attachment were entertaining to him from afar, how the Twili could amuse and comfort himself with something more fleeting than the beat of a wing. But he was never prepared for it to be infectious. Berate him, no. Perhaps it would be cathartic in the heat of the moment, but it would get him no further. He wanted answers, so perhaps he could know what to do with the guilt that ate at him. If he could do anything at all. 

“What do you want from me?”

It was a laughably simple question. A stupid one — not in its simplicity, but in how it laid him bare. It bared every card he had, boldly displaying his insecurity. He knew what Zant wanted. He simply wanted to hear him say it, so in the meantime, he could think whether he could squeeze his way out of what reciprocation would ask of him. 

Zant saw through him at first glance. A sullen laugh shivered its way out of him. “You have left me here to rot this long, and this is how you come to greet me?” 

He froze where he stood. Thinking back on the times he’d clicked his tongue, curled his lip, or frowned at him, he wondered where his past self had summoned all that nerve from. Looking at the gaunt, shadowy shape, drowning amidst the expanse of his flowing robes, he couldn’t think of a single contort. 

His silence was met with a softening gaze. “… It’s strange, Ghirahim. I’ve mulled over it for days, growing bitter ever still. I thought I would be angry with you, should you come knocking at my door, but…” Zant’s voice hitched and shook, tripping its way past a lump that matched his own. “Now that you’re here, I can only feel glad to see you again.”

Just like that, he was moving again. He expected to feel the leash acutely, but something else pushed him forward. Whatever force propelled him forward was an indulgent one. Drawing ever closer, the Twilight parted for him, lifting the dark on the silhouette of his Twili. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks. He noticed it when first entering, but thought it only a trick of the light. Zant reached out for him, taking his hand to stroke his palm with his thumb, but no amount of cooing and fondling could distract him from what froze him in cold horror. 

An unfamiliar asymmetry drew his gaze. At the second fin from the tip, his right ear had been cropped down.

Eyes pried wide open, and mouth slightly agape, Ghirahim sat next to him. Not merely as a plea for intimacy, but because his legs wouldn’t hold him any longer. In an instant, he remembered. The blade to his ear, the pain of shame far greater than that of steel carving through false cartilage. How a hand big enough to engulf his entire head then reached out, and rubbed at the fresh, bleeding injury almost affectionately, as if the pads of His massive fingers might cauterize the wound. He remembered hoping that they never would, that he could keep bleeding ichor into His hands forever and stain Him deep enough to rival midnight’s black. 

But most of all, he remembered the fear.

Zant, too, would have had to conquer that alone. He couldn’t explain the pit that thought left in his core.

The runes on his forehead glowed softly, blinking with the rhythm of the circles Zant rubbed into his gloves. Zant didn’t meet the eyes that stared at him with such cold desperation but spoke nonetheless, his voice deep and dusty like one that would haunt a crypt. “You have been darkening my doors for days, Ghirahim. Do not look surprised. No shadow can be cast near me without me knowing about it. Yet, all this time, you avoided entering. What changed?”

Now, Zant’s eyes flitted up to look at him and they wouldn’t release him. Ghirahim steeled his nerves against the sorrow that shook him just earlier. “What changed is that I’ve figured out the source of my confusion. You haven’t answered my question.”

It was bold to demand things from him, bold enough to offend him. Zant released him from his gaze again, and the hold on his hand loosened. “Neither have you mine, not directly. We are talking in circles. I don’t care to be the first to listen.”

He fought against the weight on his shoulders, tried to convince himself it wasn’t guilt, and lost. Once again, he left a debt unpaid, an imbalance in their dynamic. He’d forgotten too quickly about how Zant offered to right his own wrongs mere days before. The least he could do was acknowledge it. “… I’ve hurt you.”

“You have,” Zant stated gravely before he could even fully finish speaking. “You’ve toyed with me, led me to great heights only to push me off of them . But you were not the first, and to hope for you to be the last would be wishful thinking.”

It was Ghirahim’s turn to grasp his hands. Were he to let Zant retreat further, he would lose the thin threads he had left to hold on to. If anything, he wanted to chase his curiosity, though he didn’t dare to think of where it would lead him. “I know, and I have hurt you, which is exactly what vexes me so. Everything we’ve done and said is against my nature as a sword, and you know this as well as I do.” He paused for a moment, trying to gauge Zant’s reaction, but found his face hollow of intent. “Yet, you continue to pester me, even if it hurts you so, and I can no longer trust your intentions. I’ve come to you today because I need answers.”

Zant let out a short laugh, teetering on the edge of scornful and intrigued. “Answers, hm… And this is your way of getting them? To barge into my room, pout with confession, and ask for forgiveness?” He shook his head, lowering their hands into his lap. “I don’t think you know how. Not from mortal men like me.”

Ghirahim narrowed his lips into a thin line. If he could not appeal to him in this way, in the closest approximation of a grovel he could manage, he had nothing. He was at a loss for words. 

Zant took advantage of his silence. “I’m sure you think I want an apology. I do not. Frankly, apologies often serve much more to ease the conscience of the guilty, than to soothe the one who’d been wronged. I’m led to believe that you are such a person too, Ghirahim.” He smiled at him, but not from kindness. It was a dreary smile much like the one Ganondorf had shown him, of fondness against one’s best judgment. “I will not give you that relief just yet. You have not earned it. What I want, is the truth.” 

Again Zant dominated the clasping of their hands, cradling his fingers in his before raising them to his chest. Zant’s brows furrowed, his face leaned closer to his, and he felt compelled to follow. “Ghirahim, what are we?”

His question was almost timid, like he feared whatever the outcome might have been. Ghirahim found himself in the exact same spot. What were they? Was Zant not the one to have asked him for their first kiss? Was it not Zant who came knocking on his door to drag him off to whatever corner of Hyrule he desired to see? Did he not propose an ‘anniversary’, mark him with a gift, and attempt to court him mere days before? 

Ghirahim had humoured him for all but one. He couldn’t fathom why he had to be the one to put words to them. “What do you think?”

Zant frowned, squeezing his hands insistently. “No. You will not appease me so easily. I ask you for your idea of this relationship. I want to know how you view us, without my words to shape your thoughts.”

Ghirahim blinked up at him. The thoughts Zant was asking for were hardly in a presentable state. Frankly, he hadn’t the faintest idea. It wasn’t that he was inexperienced; such a conclusion was silly. He’d known many flings and a handful of trusted companions, but neither bond approached what Zant had dragged him into. The bond most natural to him had been that of Master and Servant, and it was the only one near the intimacy they shared. At least, near the intimacy he yearned for in such a role. For this, there had been no equal, not once in his millennia of being. Few had dared to come close to him, and nothing had dared to do so unscathed. Zant, similarly, had not escaped unharmed, but he was the first to come crawling back. He wondered what word he could borrow. “… We are lovers, no?”

It was an innocent enough word, but Zant latched onto it like it’d been wreathed in gold. “Lovers?” He teased with it, but beyond that playful surprise, something of far greater gravity reared its head. “Do you love me, then?”

It was idiotic how the question almost startled him. Despite placing the bait himself, he was cornered by it nonetheless. The only love he knew now was the one for his Master, that lulled him into comforting subservience, yet drove him to strive for greatness. The love he knew could reduce the world to ashes. It was dedication, it was relinquishing his every will to the hands of the one who wielded him, even if he shattered in His palm.

Zant sought something else. Something without fear, without dominion. He had to, for he had rejected every attempt at such a dynamic. For mortals, love was an illogical force, at least in his eyes. It was a fragile, temporary thing, that made the flesh-born impulsive and complacent. A sensation so fickle, with no goal but to claim a person for one’s own in such a brief lifetime, seemed enough to risk one’s life for. As he sat there, his hands cradled to a beating heart, the thought of it felt oddly charming, as pathetic as it sounded. Perhaps the stupidity Zant forced him into, the desire for attention he’d awakened in him, came close. “I… I suppose I do.”

Big, amber eyes blinked at him. Zant swallowed, his voice low and hoarse as he pleaded. “Then say it.”

Ghirahim paused. “Zant, I…” 

I don’t know if I can, said the voice in his mind, but his lips did not move to say the words. Instead, something else surged forward, bursting free from whatever fissure he’d locked it in after it’d gnawed itself free from its chains. So forcefully it had wedged loose from him, yet the words came out so quietly, so softly, like a peck on the cheek. “I love you.”

Zant reacted to the words as if he’d been branded by hot iron. He forced a shaky breath into his chest, one that stiffened his body and straightened his back. That once pallid face turned red. “Again,” he stammered. “Please.”

The piercing look in Zant’s eyes, how his pulse hammered in his chest and his ears twitched and fluttered, told Ghirahim he made a promise he didn’t know he could keep. But whatever his mind could not comprehend, a little dagger within him took to with joy. Zant loved him, it was a fact as true as the sky was blue, yet he understood nothing of how to reciprocate. It was an alien concept to him, the damning implications of it dangling above his head, but shrouded in the dark as he was, he could not see its shadow. He couldn’t put into words what he felt if he tried. He didn’t know, he didn’t know, but perhaps he could learn. He was struck by how he wanted to learn, how simply saying the words bloomed so warmly in his chest. “…I… I love you,” he obliged, spoken almost like a question.

His Twili loomed closer now, enough for the feverish heat from his cheeks to hover over his cool skin. Timid hands found his face, ghosting their fingertips over his jaw. Zant laughed shakily, blinking away the dampness of his eyes. Tears speckled with orange and blue as they ran down his face. Whatever composure the Twili had mustered was now shattering. Such vulnerability normally would make Ghirahim see red, but now, all he wanted was to cradle it in his hands. Zant’s voice escaped him, as if he’d trapped it but decided to let it slip through the bars. 

“Again,” he whispered, quivering and squeezing his hands, eyes filled with hunger. “I beg of you,” cracked free under hushed breath.

Whoever steered his body now, Ghirahim did not know him. He was a stranger in his own skin. His hands sought out the other man, one laying on his shoulder and the other arriving to stroke his face. The pads of his gloves ran past the faded grooves of his scarring, testing the waters of the strange bits of tenderness Zant had shown him many times before. 

“I lo-“

He was interrupted by the sudden presence of lips against his own. Though he could not finish uttering the words, their meaning still carried into the breath passing between them. Before he knew it, he’d thrown his arms around his neck and tumbled the pair backward into the flowing mass of robes and blankets. Pressed so firmly against him, he could feel every bone that jutted from his skin and taste the blood that dribbled from chapped lips. By Demise, he’d ruined him. The eager lust that had motivated him before faded in an instant, instead overtaken by the urge to apologetically kiss the tears off his cheek.

Grey, withered hands found their way around him, digging their digits into the fabric of his cloak. Zant took his distraction as an opportunity to speak, a bittersweet smile gracing his face. “My answer to you, Ghirahim? I return to you, time and time again because I adore you. To rip you from me now would be to tear out the blade wedged into me, and spill out everything that keeps me breathing.”

A whimper got stuck in his throat, but his hand found his face before it found his ear, stroking a finger past his earring. “You’ve hurt me, antagonized me… I wish to be close to you, and if doing so burns me, then I will wear those blisters with pride. By the Gods, Ghirahim — those words, I’ve wanted someone to say them to me in my entire life, more than anything. I could not be happier that it’s you.”

Ghirahim sought the words to respond, but he buckled before he could find them, instead falling back into their embrace. It was desperate. Pitiful, almost. And he was thankful for it, for falling back into their lip-lock conveyed his affection far better than any words could. Any more thinking, and he might have come to the conclusion that he’d been wrong, that entangling himself further with this man was a mistake. The second he left this room, there was a real possibility he could. But for now, he fluttered his eyes shut, and let the heat this lunatic sparked in him take over.

The rest of that day was spent in timid togetherness, in prodding at the edge of boundaries to see what stuck. Neither was certain now how to proceed, having said words they could not return but feeling mutually strange after the distance they’d been forced into. No measure of distance could prevent Ghirahim from preening his newly-found ‘lover’ to a more presentable state, though. Greasy hair, dirty nails, and an unwashed face were distasteful enough for a King, but completely unacceptable for anyone wishing to associate with the Demon Lord. Ghirahim had been no stranger to taking care of him the past months, but now, every little touch felt much more deliberate. Slowly, but surely, the pale creature perked up, even if short-lived. A lack of sleep pulled him away from the dining table before the fussiest of their co-lieutenants could even think to inquire about the events that’d taken place, and they were back in the hall to their chambers. 

As they arrived at the doorway, Ghirahim froze. The second that door closed, the illusion could fade. So he grabbed his wrist and prevented him from entry. 

“Zant,” he whispered, meeting the eyes that warmly looked down at him. “Won’t you let me stick around?”

——

Days, weeks passed, with the Demon King in hiding while he experimented with his new Power. The other King, in his own right, similarly had not sat still. With the improvement of his health came Zant’s return to the library, and Ghirahim had skillfully ignored whatever squeaky little voice in the back of his mind told him to mind his business. The first aftermath of such nosiness showed itself that very day when Zant came to him wearing far more layers than usual and coaxed him into yet another ‘expedition’.

Hands joined, shadows whispered, and Ghirahim quickly squinted from the blinding white that overtook his senses. The pair found themselves at the top of a hill in the Lanayru region, overlooking an expanse of ice and snow. 

Ghirahim tucked his arms to his chest, hiding them from the cold under his cloak. “I must say, Zant. It did not take you very long to drag me into your nonsense again.”

Zant laughed, the sound muffled by his thick, woolen scarf. “I have a feeling you will have very few complaints about this particular outing.”

“Will I now?” He chuckled, looking down into the valley below. A vast, frozen lake lay at its very bottom, once fed by waterfalls from the cliffsides all around them. In the winter, it had to make do with the occasional icy trickle. They’d been here before, but Zant had been the last one to see it frozen. He’d taken them to Lake Hylia. “The choice of location already puzzles me. Sending us directly into enemy territory is a bold choice.”

“On the contrary,” Zant said, taking a crunchy step forward into the snow. “Most of the Zora migrate upstream to a seasonal town in Eldin this time of year, or so I’ve heard.”

“Right,” Ghirahim hummed, stepping after him. “Something tells me that whatever you’ve got planned, anyone that’s still lingering will want to give the place a wide berth either way.”

A mischievous little giggle escaped the Twili, then, and he turned to look at him. “So you’re going to humour me?”

“Have I any other choice?”

“There are always choices, Ghirahim-ili. I’m merely glad mine has landed in your favor today.”

Ghirahim shook his head in a fondly feigned annoyance, before joining by his side and patting his arm. “Go ahead and show me your devious little plans, then, Twilight King.”

“Very well,” Zant smiled, reaching into his sleeve to retrieve a grimoire… Or, well, a leather-bound mess of bookmarks and notes that served as one, at least. “I’ve narrowed down the summoning circle for a beast I expect to be quite useful in guarding the Desert Palace. I was hoping you could assist me in the ritual.”

Ghirahim hummed, eyes darting between the book and the valley. “I see. And we’re doing this at Lake Hylia… Why, exactly?”

“Well, the ice, I reckon, will make for a good canvas to scratch the sigils into. Furthermore, it is a sand-dwelling creature, so the cold will save us the trouble of pacifying it ourselves.”

Ghirahim pursed his lips in thought.“… Won’t the cold kill it, then?”

A little hoot escaped him. “Not if we transport it to the Desert post-haste, it won’t,” Zant turned to him, wearing a toothy smile.

Ghirahim blinked at him. Realization hit, and his face twisted into a grimacing grin. “So that’s why you brought me along, hmm,” he inquired, digging his nails into his arm in emphasis. “To be your packing mule?”

“Your words, not mine, Yima Dinifen. Let me show you the sigils. We ought to finish up before noon,” he chimed, hiding his smirk behind his scarf while his clammy fingers flipped through the pages. Ghirahim merely growled, begrudgingly looking past his shoulder to peer at the pages. Clearly, it took the mad scholar a few tries to get the sigil down perfectly, as the ink smudges and wobbly scratches from the previous pages bled into the one he showed him… But on a technical field, it was a flawless circle.

Ghirahim hummed, peering intently at the image to burn it into his mind. “Down to the coordinates, I take it?”

“Verily,” Zant nodded stately.

The sigil now memorized, Ghirahim withdrew from him, playfully patting his shoulder. “Then what’s keeping us?” 

With a head start, Ghirahim took off from the top of the hill and leaped down. His heels dug into the snow, kicking up sprays of suddy snow behind him as he slid his way down the incline. His cape noisily whipped and billowed in the wind in his descent, soon joined by the fluttering sounds of Zant’s array of robes beside him. The Twili caught up to him quickly, soaring a ways above the ground but leaving a powdery trail below him nonetheless. It seemed the so-masterful mage did not feel confident enough in the physics of winter to dare to plant his feet in the snow just yet, Ghirahim noted to himself in amusement.

When the hill’s incline got less and less steep, so too did Ghirahim’s descent lose momentum, and he wasn’t fond of losing any ‘race’, even if in this case, he was the only participant aware of it. And so, with a bracing of his knees and flitting his eyes to his companion to gauge his distance, he jumped for him. Grasping his sleeve tightly and ignoring the cry of alarm, he snapped his fingers, and in a flurry of diamonds, sent the both of them to the center of the lake.

Ghirahim dug his heels firmly in the ice upon reappearing, sending both of them spinning in place with a cackle. Zant’s flying speed only then began to peter out. Now slowing steadily, Zant’s hand slipped out his sleeve to grasp onto his, joining him in mischievous laughter as his feet landed on the ice, and his wild spins slacked to an idle twirl around him.

“Very funny, Ghirahim,” Zant teased while he gained his footing. “I take it you will treat the rest of this duty with the same utmost gravity? ”

Ghirahim clicked his tongue. “Oh, nonsense. Look,” he gestured to the ice, where the edges of Zant’s brass slippers scratched into the surface. “There’s your central circle. The first component is complete!”

Zant looked down, letting out an astonished huff as he saw what he’d done. “Why! Indeed, there’s the scope. I’d like it to be a little neater, but… I can give it a once-over.”

Another surprised hoot rang from the sorcerer as Ghirahim hopped up where he stood, only for black blades to manifest under his soles and land him in the trajectory of the circles. “What say you,” the sword spirit hummed as he traced over the ‘scope’, as Zant called it, and tightened its contour, “I take care of the broader lines, and you get to scratching the runes, hmm?”

Zant quickly stepped out of the way to let Ghirahim continue his round, looking down at the circles he traced in silent wonder. “… You truly are more magically inclined than you let show, aren’t you?”

Ghirahim simply hummed, shrugged, and blinked away from his finished circle, only to reappear a dozen yards over to trace in the next.

Metal and ice hissed and sang together under the force of his blades. Tight trails carved into the ice, circles, lines, ovals, and outlines, dusted with sparkling snow and freshly shaved bits of frost that scattered under his makeshift skates. The sigil was rather complex, not to mention having to scale it up quite a bit from the pocket-sized preview he was shown. He’d done the math — it was a beast of 65 meters long, and approximately fourteen meters in width, should Zant’s bestiary be believed — with some wiggle room, taking into account the mass of the creature — think, think, at that size… Yes, the outer circle would have to be 47.12 meters in circumference, at the very least. A grin stretched across his face. How long it’d been since he last indulged in such arcane puzzles! Wind soared past his false skin, tousling his hair and cracking the cosmetics on his lips with their frosty cold. He lowered himself, his fingers brushing past the ice as he took a harsh turn. The blades on his feet carved yet another circle for him, painting the frozen lake around it in freshly shaved frost. He slid to a halt, skates lodged in old tracks, and gauged his progress. Right there, another small circle was needed. He could jump there if he wanted to! If he tried! 

He smiled enough to make his nose crinkle. Moving across the ice like a heron taking off in flight, he pushed himself forward, gliding past the grooves in the ice, and leaped —

Skates slammed back into the ice, carving harsh lines, but he stuck the landing. He would have retained his balance with perfect elegance, did not a harsh voice interrupt his whimsy.

“Quit showing off and focus ,” Zant barked, pointedly focusing harder on his little grimoire as the tip of his sword scratched runes into his tracks. “I’m not even looking!”

“Oh, but you are looking, and you love it,” Ghirahim chimed in response, before with a jerk of his arms righting himself in his course again. Before he knew it, he’d rounded yet another circle and came back around to playfully poke Zant on the back. “You said it yourself, you grouch. You adore me. So humour my little tricks, lest I grow bored with you!”

“Fine! I need to see how the circle is coming along, either way,” Zant growled, carving the last strokes of his rune. Knees bent in his bracing and straightened back out to launch him into a jump. Several feet in the air, he came to a hovering halt, shivering momentarily in the cold of the open winter breeze. Certainly, the fool could pretend to be all business, but Ghirahim knew that the eyes behind that helmet trailed him before they watched his pattern. And so, he soared, he jumped, and he spun, laughing if only for the joy of moving his body with such grace. His hands trailed up his arms as he slid across the ice, dismissing his cape into a diamond trail after him. Now unimpeded, his harmonious movements seemed infectious. Wherever he’d finish his sketches, Zant would swoop down behind him, painting the finishing touches onto the ice. They worked in tandem, in secret joy. Glances were playfully stolen across the ice, quick but never fleeting. He’d thoroughly captured the Twili’s attention, forcing him into his company one way or the other. If it weren’t for the sight of his graceful form sliding past him, it would be his laugh or the sounds of his skates, or the occasional brush of his hand past his robes. And every time Zant’s front would break, splitting his stern, grey lips into a fond smile. 

Taken to the skies again, an astonished grunt sounded from above. “Unbelievable,” Zant grumbled, purposely twice as loud as usual as to be heard complaining properly above the sounds of wind and ice. “Despite your tomfoolery, the Circle is as good as perfect, still!”

Ghirahim twirled one last time, lowered and his leg outstretched to make another small circle, his arms raised in counter-balance. Once he’d carved it out enough, he rose with a cheeky smile, turning in place to face him. “I never settle for anything less!”

“You make it look fun,” Zant teased, lowering himself on the ice to stand beside him. How the lanky thing hadn’t slipped yet was beyond him.

Ghirahim cocked an eyebrow at him, pursing his lips with a self-satisfied smile. “Is Magic not fun to you, then?”

“Of course it is,” he chuckled in response, dodging the puffs of frost Ghirahim dusted off his shoulder. “It’s simply… Well, it’s becoming on you, Ghirahim-ili. You truly take somatic conduction to a different level.”

Ghirahim rolled his eyes, coming to a halt beside him, finally. “Oh, just say you like my dancing, you dolt.”

A giggle erupted beside him. “There is very little I don’t like about you,” Zant cooed.

“That’s lip service and you know it,” Ghirahim groaned, sticking his hands in his sides as he dismissed the blades at his feet. “Well, that should be all of it. Go ahead and say your little magic words. I’m eager to get this over with and leave this cold behind us, already. You’re shivering.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Zant laughed, before once again paging through his grimoire.  “Alright, then. We’ll have to take some distance from the Circle…”

Each took their own side of the circle, one making his way across the ice more smoothly than the other. Ghirahim wrapped himself in his cloak, arms folded while he watched Zant test the waters with this new magic. Just the sight of him flipping pages back and forth, muttering to himself in lack of certainty, made that comforting, familiar urge to bully him surface. He soon found himself grateful for having kept his mouth shut, because the sight of Zant seconds later would have fed whatever mockery he uttered directly back to him. Within the first two syllables, the markings on Zant’s forehead began glowing vibrantly. The same teal glow faintly, but surely, bled into the grooves of the sigil on the lake, slowly spreading over to Ghirahim’s side. 

His voice was like the wind, icy and ubiquitous, a whisper that carried into every crack and groove in the valley and would haunt the deepest bottom of the lake. Ghirahim shuddered.

The final words were spoken, echoing through the valley until they last faded with the wind. For a little while, it was perfectly silent on the lake. Zant’s ominous presence lingered for a moment, causing even the lungless sword spirit to hold a breath. Their summoning circle glowed, albeit weakly. It took a minute, perhaps two, before the pair exchanged a frown from each side of the sigil, making the first timid steps forward to inspect their work for any mistakes.

A deep, resonant rumble stopped them both in their tracks. The inner lines of the sigil turned cyan blue, then a dull, sandy yellow, before blurring out altogether when the whole magic circle filled with a swirling light. Each man instinctively shielded his eyes but did not dare look away fully. Below the ice, a shadow slowly faded into view. It wobbled, it grew, it twisted, until Ghirahim realized it was a mere trick of the light. That shadow didn’t come from underwater but from the circle. 

Light burst from the circle, followed by a sudden wave of sand. The summoned inhabitant was climbing into the skies. Tawny brown scales shone on a massive, fish-like head, trailed by the bristling black spikes down its serpentine body, Its maw split open into two floppy, pink, and bulbous halves, unleashing a bubbling roar from a toothless gullet. At its first few feet of surfacing, the beast sounded confused and enraged, yet as more and more of it twisted into the freezing air of the lake, it began to screech and contort with pain. As Ghirahim thought, the cold was growing fatal to the creature now blotting out the skies very quickly. More alarmingly, the frost clinging to its body seemed to be impeding its ability to fly. Slowly but surely, it writhed, it shuddered, and it sank in the air, right above the madly cackling Twilight King, whose hands were raised in triumph.

Before Ghirahim could utter even a single word of warning, the shadowy man disappeared, and mere seconds later, the beast crashed into the ice with a high-pitched screech, its whining echoing through the valley. The ice could hold the two men with no problem, but whatever this sandworm was, it weighed several tons. The lake broke apart. One second, the surface was cracking into a web, and the next, each little island jutted its edges upward around their new monster with a resounding shatter. Pillars of water shot into the sky, spewing out between the cracks in the ice. Their peaks whipped away into mist from the wind, though a non-zero, pesky amount found its way to Ghirahim’s feet. As did some of the cracks in the ice, he noted. The roaring deluge crashed back down onto the surface. Wind from the impact whipped through Ghirahim’s hair, while the waves coursed across the ice to lap at his ankles. 

Right as he raised his hand to snap his fingers, a shadow loomed over him.

“Now would be a good time to retrieve our new asset, before either of you sinks to the bottom,” hummed a cold and deep voice beside him.

Oh, what impatience! Ghirahim had half a mind to let it sink, but it would be an awful waste of their combined efforts. Still, he winced at the thought of having to touch a cold, wet, sandy creature, who-knows-where the Twili ripped it from. Well, he’d put up with worse, certainly. The ice below him cracked alarmingly, shrieking from the weight of solid metal pushing down. He swiftly decided against a new gig as an anchor and snapped his fingers, yanking the madman hovering gleefully beside him into the aether with him.

Four hands planted themselves on a beast now too weakened to protest. Scales bristled, eyes rolled, and squeaks rang out, but the Molgera could struggle no longer. Perhaps if it’d known where it was headed, it would have struggled a little less. 

With a single snap of the fingers, diamond magic and specks of twilight combined. Seconds later, Lake Hylia was silent, a yawning crater left in its ice.

Chapter Text

It was a monster of such volume that the air whistled and soared as it moved. Trapped in the dungeons of Gerudo Palace, the newest asset to their already venerable menagerie of monsters was adjusting to its new home. Poorly, that is. The Molgera whined, contorted, and pressed its massive, fleshy face to each corner, as if enough rooting around would magically create an opening in solid stone. Spikes rattled against the metal cage as the heaving beast slithered in its confinement. Cacophonous, like a hundred prisoners banging their cups against the bars in begging. Ghirahim stood hands at his sides before the bars of this colossal cage, fighting back the urge to poke at the beast and agitate it some more. From the tension building behind him, though, it’d seem the most amusement was to be found on this side of the prison.

“Cooked up something nasty again, didn’t you, Zant?” Wizzro wheezed. His laughter was like that of a pneumonic man on his deathbed. 

The necessary arrangements now logged into the massive volume hovering before him, the living heap of cloth and malice patted a decrepit, clawed hand far too affectionately on the end of one of the creature’s spikes. It recoiled nearly instantly. “I want partial credit for this one, you hear?” Wizzro sneered. The glowing eye at the center of his face squinted shut to morph into a grinning mouth. “If it weren't for me showing you through the Lady’s volumes, you’d still be nose-deep in the books by now!”

Zant stood aside, watching the wicked sorcerer’s machinations with his usual cold patience. “You will be duly acknowledged for your secretary duties, Wizzro, but the arcane achievements were my own.”

Wizzro clicked his tongue, shooting a nasty glare at his casual defiance. He seemed only mildly distracted by the gaping mouth now hovering wide open at the other end of the cage. A tendrilous tongue, one long bulb at its end, stuck out towards him. “Pah. Whatever. I’ll make sure this thing is appointed to the right trainer,” Wizzro dismissed with a wave of his hand, turning instead to the strange shape poking and prodding at him.

As if all sense abandoned him at once, the ring spirit seized the decoy organ with both his clawed hands with great interest. The Molgera let out another wicked screech, sending spittle to drizzle (almost) all three men from its maw, as it lunged forward. Its gummy jaws slammed against the bars, prompting nothing but a cackle from Wizzro. “It’s an interesting one, to say the least!”

Ghirahim opted to watch these events from a healthy twenty feet away, while Zant simply grumbled, wiping his helmet clean. “That it is. I’d advise you to keep it intact before we strike Hyrule Castle.”

The dejected Molgera, curling up listlessly in its cage, seemingly accepted its fate as its arrangements were scribbled down in their finality. Each temper fickle in their own way, the pair of dark wizards settled the last logistics of their monstrous stocks before their patience mutually wore thin. 

It was Zant who attempted to draw their conversation to a close, but not without drawing a last bit of ire. “We will meet again at the siege, then. Our forces arrive from the north, and you-”

Wizzro snapped at him instantly, cutting past him with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Yeah, yeah, we’re coming from the South, anticipating their backup, and whatnot. You needn’t drill me on this, Warlock,” he gestured wildly as he spoke, slapping the massive logbook shut and dismissing it in a puff of smoke. “We got the correspondence! We had the briefing! It’s all in order. Other than delivering this beast to us, you have no business sticking your nose in our plans!”

Ghirahim felt a sudden boring of a bright red eye in his back. He’d been perfectly content before to linger at the sidelines, amusing himself with the bickering of the other men, but could not help a coy flourish when a jagged nail was pointed at him. Wizzro gestured at him with a mild frown. “Also. Why is he here?”

Zant’s helmet covered his face, but his smile carried in his voice. His helmet creaked a little as he turned to face his compatriot. “Any good King needs a chaperone, wouldn't you say?”

“Hiya-hah-hah!” Wizzro shrieked in laughter. “Again with the shticks! What I’d say is that the ‘King’ part is already doubtful, but ‘good’ is entirely off the table, you maniac!”

Clearly, this amusement was not mutual. The Twili had tolerated Wizzro’s ceaseless nonsense up until that point, but no longer. As if a candle had been snuffed, his temper snapped, and an enraged squeak echoed past his visor. He whipped back towards Wizzro, looming over him and balling his fists in his sleeves. “You wouldn't know a King if one’s fingers were shoved knuckle deep into your-”

“Gentlemen! I feel like we all have business to attend to,” Ghirahim interjected, blinking himself between the two men with a hand each, grazing their faces. “As much as you ripping each other to tatters would amuse me, Master Ganondorf would put me back in my box and throw me to the dragonets for letting any such shenanigans happen.”

Both of the robe-clad adversaries growled at the interruption as much as they did at each other, and so childishly exchanged a scowl in the line of sight that passed over Ghirahim’s head. 

Zant dusted off the apron at his chest in an uncharacteristically pompous gesture. “Business we have, indeed. Let us depart at once, Ghirahim. Our time is better spent that way.”

Just as Ghirahim was about to turn and glare at him for yet another inciting remark, Wizzro made his immediate disinterest quite clear with a loud, hacking, drawn-out clear of the throat, and the turning of his back on his fellow commanders.

The pair of them chuffed out a simultaneous laugh at the display, before in equal coincidence reaching out for the other’s hand. Fingers bumped, ears tinged the slightest red, and their hands clasped. With a chime and rustling echo, Ghirahim and Zant disappeared together, leaving behind Wizzro to dark devices they’d prefer not to witness.

A nearly-collapsed outpost was to be their haven. Mere days before, this very fort had been raided by their forces. Their efforts tore down two of its three watchtowers and fashioned its gray brick walls with gaping holes. It would shelter their supplies and some of their men, but by far not all of them. Such a shoddy hideout was a statement; they had not a single intention of pulling back. Hyrule would fall at their feet today, and the Triforce was theirs for the taking.

Their formation gathered at the base of a nearby cliff, the platform itself elevated above Hylia River to the east. For the time being, they were sheltered from sight, but their advance had surely been sighted. Ghirahim could smell the pungent fear that lingered in the air. This quiet would not last long.

Ghirahim stood at the center of the formation, with Zant at the west-most end, and Yuga and his Master at his flanks. Though focused on the path ahead, he could not help an occasional glance to his left. He hadn’t yet seen Yuga on the battlefield proper and certainly wasn’t used to the sight of her in armor. Her curls spilled out from underneath a horned, brass helmet. Her armor was, in general, rather minimal, covering not more than her shoulders, her head, and her torso in a golden luster. Such was the outfitting of a spellcaster, he supposed. 

His eyes then strayed to the right, lingering in momentary awe on the mighty form of his Master, before an unexpectedly bared face stared at him from further away. Zant had lifted the front of his helmet and waited for him to meet his gaze.

He looked at him with the same eyes he cast at him that morning. Small, squinted, and affectionate, peeking at him just past the thick fluff of his comforter. 

“You stayed.”

Ghirahim, equally buried under the heap of blankets, blearily turned to him. Some distance had been put between them in all their tossing and turning, and he found something shifting under the covers. Zant’s hand was seeking to grasp onto him. He laid his hand in his trajectory, and thought his smile contagious when the Twili indeed found him, squeezing firmly.

Yet, Ghirahim teased him with a frown. “Of course I did. I’ve been staying over, watching you sleep those wasteful hours away, much before.”

Zant blinked. “Yes, but you were distant until recently,” he reasoned with a bit of a fluster, before burying his face further into the comforter and mumbling his next words. “I don't know. Perhaps it's silly.”

“It is,” Ghirahim replied, meeting his hesitant, embarrassed face with a fond smile.

And how infectious that fondness was! Zant giggled softly, scooting just a bit forward to have him within arm’s reach. Those ghostly fingers glided over his arms, to his face, and caressed him there. Zant touched him carefully, yet purposely, as if his very hands would gild him. Peering at him with such infatuation, something sadistically giddy lit up behind those amber eyes. Zant laced their fingers as he spoke, his smile cracking open the slits at the corners of his mouth. “... Watch me today, Ghirahim-ili.”

The warmth of their bed that morning may have been taken from them in the wind’s chill, but their connection did not falter for even a second. Zant turned away, folding his helmet back in place, but demanding he looked at him, either way. He’d entered the field empty-handed and announced that unarmed state’s end with the flexing of his fingers. When he brandished his weapon, he did not carelessly whip the two scimitars from his sleeves as he usually did. This time, he balled his fists before his chest, a crackling, fizzling orb of magenta light pouring from between his fingers. Its grip clutched in his hands, the Scimitar of Twilight appeared, glowing fiercely in red. Zant at once swung it over his shoulder, metal clanking heavily on metal. 

Before the sight of him could make Ghirahim swell with pride all too much, the raising of King Ganondorf’s hand snapped him back to focus. A shudder down his back straightened his spine, squared his shoulders, and guided his hand to his hip, where his sword sat sheathed. 

Ganondorf marched to the front of his formation, bronze boots pounding on stone. He turned, his vibrant red hair whipping in the wind. A stern glare graced his features as he looked out over the troops, but standing so close to him, Ghirahim saw the corners of his lips tugging into a smirk behind his tusks. Master was confident – so he would be, too.

“Gerudo, Demons, Monstrous Tribes, and those that joined us from beyond the Veil of Death, hear me,” he shouted, his booming voice rattling through their skulls. “Across the Ages, my past lives have waged war against Hyrule, and all but once, we failed. We have been humiliated, banished, and eradicated from history, but no longer. Time is on our side now, my brethren. With the Triforce within our grasp, the Age of Demons is upon us.”

Ganondorf grinned, baring his tusks and wrinkling his fiery eyes. Sword raised to the sky, he thundered forth his promise. “Hyrule will fall!”

With this final rallying call, their forces pulled out. Cavalry scouts burst past their frontlines, hooting and hollering atop hogs and horses. Oh, how Ghirahim yearned to set out in the same way! Still, no longer could he chase simple carnage. Not only had he a reputation to uphold, but their formation had to be perfectly tight for this initial stretch. His battalion trailed tightly behind him, each unit led by demons and living armor – ever his favorite. Those that didn’t simply win his favor in skill just reminded him of home.

Zant, too, led his troops with remarkable poise. His soldiers rushed past him, but his towering height and flashy garbs continued to catch the eye. The soldiers rushing past him may as well have been see-through, for Ghirahim saw him clear as day, framed in zoetropic image. 

He could see it all. His hands were firm on the hilt, his swings were smooth. He slid across the floor like that massive blade weighed nothing, with a stance no mere Hylian could topple. Each move was more calculated than the next, gliding from pose to pose almost mechanically. Zant was… Perfect, almost, theoretically. Such swordsmanship was a cold one, devoid of character beyond what could be conveyed in a manual. Zant was a puppet to his own knowledge, stern in what he’d learned. He showed nothing at all of the fierce, impassioned recklessness he unleashed when it was just the two of them.

This, too, was a message. Ghirahim hardly had time to think of its meaning when he himself was engaged in combat and drowned his fluster in bloodlust.

Bloodlust was not kept to him alone. As more and more Hyruleans forced past their frontlines, Zant grew overwhelmed. Bit by bit, that discipline chipped away. 

The poor sods. They had no idea the Twilight King fought his best when unshackled.

Now content with his display, Zant ramped up his ferocity. With a single stomp, a deep black shock wave sent the four soldiers around him staggering, allowing him to pierce through the first of them unimpeded. His shoe planted on the standing corpse’s chest, he ripped the blade free and used its blood-streaked momentum to dismember the next in line. Projectiles from his sleeves, pulses from his feet, and the shadowy rays from his sword pieced together in a complex web of arcane and martial arts – not so different from how he’d fought before, but adding an elegance that was so sorely missed.

His lover wasn’t half bad, he grinned to himself, watching the man’s battalion split off and head up into the Rockface Hills to claim whatever awaited them there. 

Three battalions remained in their cluster. Soon it would be two. 

A whistling in his ear and an uncanny instinct of foreboding dread alerted him to something awry in the east. Before the first moblin behind him could cry out in alarm, Ghirahim had already identified the source of his concern, his core chiming and blinking on pure instinct. 

For the first split second, it could have been mistaken as a flaming cloud, tearing through the air with the glare of the sun obscuring its flight. A volley of burning arrows nearly went unnoticed, had he not shouted for shields, and raised a barrier around himself and the captains at either of his sides.

The only commander he could see, and he hoped he’d heard his warning, was Yuga. A panicked wave of his scepter betrayed that he’d turned to the source of the noise just a touch too late. With a yelp, Yuga raised one of his portraits to shield himself, but his startle made him careless. The bolts thwacked into the ground at his feet, each missing its mark until a single one didn’t, and buried itself into his lower leg. 

The earlier gasp of panic forced itself out of him with a horrid shriek, and a wobble of his stance. Kept upright only by the desperate support of his staff, he composed himself, but in body only. In an instant, Lorule’s finest sorcerer turned rotten in temper and was eager to let the world know.

“I would say you’d rue the day you crossed me, but when I’ve finished, you will be naught but ashes in the wind! ” Yuga hissed. Yuga spat. His normally so dainty hands grasped the arrow in his leg firmly, before snapping off its length, leaving only a splintered stump lodged by his ankle. 

It took one stumble for him to realize he could not walk with such an injury, but he refused to back down. Purple swirls of malice radiated off of him as Yuga began to hover above the floor, bracing his staff in a knuckle-whitening grip. Gnashing his teeth, he glared down the troops beyond the cliff and screeched his curses in all their brutality. “Foul wretches! Maggots beneath my boot! Return to the rotten flesh you crawled from, hideous things!” 

His feet now off the ground, Yuga launched himself forward at breakneck speeds, his curls nearly uncoiling themselves in his haste. One swing of his staff and the portraits that circled him spun around him like a whirlwind, each spewing a hellfire of lightning into the swarm of men he forced himself through. That draconic trail scorched itself into the grass as he soared by, cleaving through whatever once stood in his way. The sorcerer disappeared into the crowd, the sounds of carnage overpowered only by the throat-rending cackle that roared free from the banshee of this battlefield. 

Not a moment was wasted. Soon, red and scaled hides filled in the cracks weaving through the Hyrulean frontlines, as bokoblin and lizalfos alike rushed to seize this vital opening. 

Distractions now out of the way, Ghirahim felt oddly relieved. Being the sole commander now at Ganondorf’s side caused the thrum of his pulse to soar. The Eastern Keep was drawing nearer, and conquering it would break them all into the wider Hyrule Field. 

A blue-clad soldier closed in on him but was swiftly kicked out of the way for the crime of disrupting his thought process. With the onset of enemy soldiers pouring in through the gates, his once so-perfect formation was refusing its emulsion. Frontmen skewered each other on their pikes at both sides, a battle of endurance to see who could wrestle the clutches of death the longest. Their collapse meant the line of soldiers behind them breaking through, blending gold and silver in their raging strife. A wicked force tore through the minds and bodies of the warriors, and her name was Furore; a mass, blinding anger, of knowing that if either force failed, they would fail for good. Yet in her mantle she carried glee, the joy of battle, to motivate them with more than fear. For it was this fear that, were it to overpower their minds, would make them not more than beasts! 

Ghirahim was no mere recipient of this force. He seized it, made it his own, and knowing that mayhem would soon reign, lit the embers within. His eyes flit to the side, burning pupils catching on a beloved target. Ganondorf, too, was entangled in battle, cutting down the few soldiers that dared to approach him. Such foolishness made for a fine warm-up, perhaps, but the smallfry was by far not worth the Gerudo King’s effort. They ought to breach into more challenging grounds!

Launching himself forward, Ghirahim bounded for the keep. A devastatingly easy prospect: break in; clear it out; take out their commander. It was an easier task than usual. Being the only entryway to the northern Hyrule Field, the Keep’s gates were swung wide open, spewing out platoon after platoon. He just had to worm his way through.

In such an enclosed space, controlling the crowd was child's play. Frankly, most thinking went into just what was the most amusing way to take care of this little problem. He stood perched atop the drawbridge, pondering his approach as the soldiers surged below him like a tidal wave. Stuffing a cork in that seemed like a prime first choice. 

With a snap of his fingers, a barrier burst into view, putting an immediate stop to the Hyruleans’ advance. He hardly had to do a thing after, Ghirahim noted with amusement. Not expecting a sudden wall, the frontmost soldiers slammed face-first into the diamond-spangled forcefield. With some luck, some would have been stabbed or crushed purely on accident in the jostle… But he’d see that when he got there. Padding leisurely across the upper footbridge, he made his way to the keep’s balusters, where about a dozen archers waited for him.

Bolts plinked uselessly off his skin. With a leap, he bridged the distance between them, and let them taste the bloody merits of a melee fighter firsthand.

He’d hardly finished with the lot of them before the first of the soldiers he’d trapped down there came running up the stairs. Ghirahim grinned, relinquishing his grip on the larynx he’d just crushed and dropping the poor wretch to the ground. The Hyruleans funneled straight for him, barreling in a line as neat as angry men could manage. Ghirahim could taste their blood already.

Soon, he did. He drove his blade down the collar of the frontmost soldier, piercing the gap in her gorget, and kicked her down the stairs before she’d even finished dying. For a moment, the crowd stumbled, balance lost under the deadweight piled on top of them, but their haste won over their supposed respect for their deceased. The corpse was callously tossed to the side, plummeting into the crates and barrels below. 

Such was how Ghirahim held the stream of warriors at bay. Even though the piles of bodies and half-alive things grew ever greater, every new batch of soldiers seemed to reach higher and higher steps near him. It wasn’t until one of them bore down on him, pushing to force him back, that he noticed just how many of them were teeming in the lower levels. Peeking past the railing, the keep seemed to be more crowded than it was when he’d started. Ghirahim shook himself free with a shout, stabbing through the offending soldier’s gut to throw him off the stairs, but found three more of them surrounding him. 

He’d bitten off a little more than he could chew. Reinforcements were in order. Hand raised, he braced ready to snap his fingers and rid the entrance of its barrier…

… Until a sudden presence materialized in the center of the fort. A massive shockwave followed, deep dark and full of hatred, sending every single soldier that set foot in the Keep either out the gates or into the wall. 

Zant, scimitar on his shoulder, stuck out his arm, pointing a pallid finger at a flashy-looking soldier that lay hunched over and dazed in the far corner.

“Found you.”

Suddenly forgetting all about the soldiers surrounding him, Ghirahim vaulted off his high ground and joined the Twili’s side.

“You don’t intend to steal my thunder, do you?” Ghirahim prodded, nudging his co-lieutenant on his bloodied sleeve.

Zant chuckled in response. “You looked like you could use some assistance. I’ll leave the final strike to you, but do not dawdle. More of them are coming.”

How dishonorable, to have to deliver the mercy strike on a dying man! He approached the opulent knight – a Caster himself, whose aura tied to the southern gates. The man panted, twilit runes festering on the bare skin of his palms as he reached for the Demon before him. Whether he pleaded for mercy or sought to ready some sort of spell, Ghirahim couldn’t quite tell. Nor did he really care.

Blood trickled down pearlescent armor as Ghirahim’s sword skewered through his throat. A last gasp sucked through the gaps around the blade, bubbling the blood that spurted free in an obscene rattle. The tip of his blade scraped past bone, picked at the cartilage. Such sounds alone, that carried from his sword into his core and truly made his body and weapon one, were almost enough to make him forget the outside world.

But it didn’t, for with the life of the Keep Captain, so too was the golden barrier extinguished. Finally, they could move for greener pastures, and he would see his Master truly in action.

Flanked by his two remaining commanders, the Demon King strode on, mocking the shining ostentation of the distant Hyrule Castle with his glory. Where any other royal would shelter behind the might of his army, Ganondorf broke past it, crowning his frontlines with his presence. Even with the oceanic vastness of the troops behind him, all eyes, all dread, were focused on the sight of him alone. 

Truly, what a sight he was! The very air itself howled in pain as he swung those massive blades. Just one strike of darksteel sliced common armor to ribbons, its sheer size taking out a dozen men in the blink of an eye. Where Zant prevailed in wild strength, and Ghirahim mastered bloody precision, their King encapsulated these martial styles into one deadly whole.

The trampled grass of Central Hyrule Field now under their feet, the three men looked onward, their eyes on the nearest gate to Hyrule Castle grounds. With its gates firmly locked, spiked barricades littering the paths, and wooden shelterings strewn to hide soldiers unknown, this Keep would prove to be a tough nut to crack. Neither of his companions commented on it, but the occasional sheen of metal between the battlements clued Ghirahim in on archers at the ready, too.

“It seems their efforts are focused on guarding this keep, Master,” Zant proclaimed, bounding his way next to the Gerudo King’s side with a slither in his gait. “They can only guard the palace from so many angles. Surely, their Northern bridges are less fortified… It may cost us some time to travel ‘round, but it would give us better chances at overwhelming their defenses.”

Ganondorf grunted and furrowed his brow. “And do you volunteer to such a plan?”

Eagerly clutching the grip of his scimitar with both hands, Zant giggled, nodding strongly enough to bob his helmet. “Yes, Sire. My squadron and I can force such a measly gate in no time flat.”

With that answer, Ganondorf turned from him again, eyeing his surroundings carefully. Ever defiantly, his gaze fixed upon the fortified keep before them again. He never did take well to being told what to do, and that obstacle beckoned him with a challenge. “Then go. We will stay and secure more territory.”

The East Field Keep proved to be a challenge, indeed. There was no forcing those doors, they would have had to go around. 

Nigh yanking a field scout off his horse, he hissed an order into the creature’s droopy ears to summon their raid captains there at once. Going up and around was going to require ladders, but with all that rubbish in the way, they’d never even reach the base of the wall. Whatever was hiding behind the barricades would have to be done away with. 

Lizalfos attempting to clamber over the wooden barricades were run through by the soldiers hiding behind them, while those trying to skirt around them met the same fate. It was going to take a lot more heavy-handed work to clear the way, and Ghirahim delightfully volunteered. To serve as a meat-shield was far below him, but little pinpricks bothered him none. So long as he could sprint past just one gap and shake those fools up, their forces would soon follow. 

A rain of splinters left in his wake. He made quick work of the barriers, bursting through them with his fists alone, and ripped whatever unfortunate soul he could get a grip on back through the opening with him. Soldiers bearing their own massive shields followed suit, with his very own Darknuts taking inspiration from his infernal technique. Bounding in rapidly from the North, the first of the raid captains arrived. Oil-drenched torches sailed through the air, setting the barricades aflame, and soon, the field was riddled with charcoal and ash. Their siege towers soon followed, tall, wooden things, sawed like the necks of dragons, and slammed nearly uncontested against the Keep walls. Shrieking and screeching bokoblins clambered their way up, and sowed chaos on their stronghold from above.

Ganondorf did not wait for the path to be fully cleared, and joined in on the carnage with great amusement. Taking advantage of the archers’ panic, he hacked and slashed his way through the remaining eyesores to run right for the looming gate. One sword sheathed at his hip, he balled his fist, his eyes clouding over with something truly malicious. Just a spark of that ancient terror was summoned, then, and for a moment, the tether that bound Ghirahim to his Master tightened, digging into him as if wreathed in thorns. 

With a roar of a battle-cry, he reared back his fist, before his form disappeared behind a swirling black mist. The gargantuan shape of something terrible, an earth-shaking manifestation of Vengeance itself, shrouded the Demon King and braced to attack in the very same way. 

Giant knuckles pounded into the gate like a battering ram. The impact was thunderous, clattering teeth and eardrums for miles to come. Wood charred and smoldered where Ganon’s fist struck it, and though the gate had, by some miracle, not flown open, it’d been knocked nigh entirely off its hinges. Screws and chains kept it standing in a flimsy wobble, like stringy tendons refusing to relinquish a limb. There wasn’t a point in it any longer – the first demonic forces were pouring into the Keep from above, and the gap their King had forced in the doors would fit their footsoldiers just fine.

Just as Ganondorf unleashed his victorious laugh, a series of explosions caught their attention. 

Ghirahim turned to the source of the noise, only to find tall plumes of smoke rising from the Northwest Checkpoint. Pulling his sword from a fallen soldier’s chest, he gestured to the distance. “Master! To the North, Zant has broken through!”

Unsheathing his second sword again, Ganondorf growled. The bulking shadow that loomed over him slowly fizzled away and shrunk down to a mere wisp that slithered down into the folds of his cape. “Then I shall join him. You stay here and retain our frontline.”

Ghirahim nodded and turned. Just as he was searching for an allied banner to join forces with, his attention turned again to his Master who, a few paces further, had turned back around, his gaze fixed on the field across him. 

Courage had been sorely missed on the battlefield up until that point. Now, a shining example of it, with sword drawn and eyes fierce, tore his way through Hyrule Field. Ghirahim scowled at the approaching Reincarnated Hero, but his attention soon split to his Master instead, who stood grinning. He decided to keep any mocking comments about their little foe to himself, for now.

Stepping up to stand beside him, he called to Ganondorf’s attention. “A simple distraction to keep us from moving north, without a doubt.”

“That matters not. I have a score to settle with the boy,” the Gerudo King replied, tusks still bared with his cruel smile. “It seems the Hyruleans seek to entertain me… If they wish to lose their greatest asset so early in the battle, then I will gladly oblige.”

Ghirahim knew better than to disturb an ancient rivalry, for he was there when it first came into being. Still, he gave one uneasy look back at the pillars of smoke. “What of Zant, Master? Shall I join him? Having him lead such a siege on his own would be a death sentence.”

Ganondorf scoffed, giving his concern not a moment’s notice. His sights were set on the Hero, and nothing else. “Is Wizzro not approaching from the south, still? The creature has always been drawn to his dark proclivities. If Zant wishes to be a King in his own right, that much assistance must suffice.”

The King’s dismissal pooled with strange dread in his gut, but Ghirahim banished anything that stood in the way of his loyalty. Sword over his chest, he bowed, baptizing himself again in the cold clarity of servitude. “As you wish, Master. Not a soul will intrude upon your duel, that I promise!”

Fending off anyone that went near, Ghirahim circled the duel in his lethal dance. He was quick, he was efficient – he drowned every instinct to flourish and impress, for if he were to distract his Master from this crucial battle, he’d sooner shatter than forgive himself. With the Keep nearby in shambles, he was almost fighting too leisurely. The battle was under control.

At least, until reinforcements came from the East. Marching through the Keep at the other end of the field, another wave of Hyruleans came their way. Ghirahim hissed, surveyed his surroundings, and came to a painful conclusion. There were by far not enough of their forces here to hold back the oncoming onslaught.

Driving his blade into an approaching knight’s shoulder, a sudden burst of inspiration struck him. He retracted his sword, indulgently lapping off its trail of blood, and shot a playful look at his defeated opponent. Sated by the piercing scowl of fear, Ghirahim pushed him over, leaving the man to bleed out on the floor. He knew just how to handle this.

Picking out a target was almost too easy. The Commander at the front of the crowd stuck out like a sore thumb, bearing a gilded shield nearly as tall as himself and a bright plume on his helmet. Kicking up sods of grass, he broke into a sprint to head straight for this flashy figure. With pleasantly surprising dauntlessness, the commander did not flinch. Faced with an ancient demon barreling towards him, all he did was brace his shield and brandish his longsword, ready to strike.

The fool could raise his shield all he liked! All he had to do was make contact! 

Ghirahim raced across the ground with the speed of Zephyr, his every step taunting the man to show him just a shred of fear, but to his maddening delight, he continued to find none. Such men were always his favorite. They could still break.

Mere seconds away from the oncoming battalion now, he used his momentum for three long, bounding steps, before bracing his knees and launching himself forward, arms outstretched. Alarmed cries rang out, but he heard them not much longer. The second his palm laid flat on that opulent shield, diamonds surrounded the pair of battlers, and in that shroud of diamonds, they left the scene. 

With most forces sent out elsewhere on the battlefield, the bridge to the North-East felt like a quiet enough spot to conduct his schemes. Using the commander’s disoriented dazzle to his advantage, Ghirahim swiftly kicked his shield out of his hands, sending it clattering across the stone floor. 

The racket seemed to shock the man back into focus, but before he could ready his stance, the demon was upon him, clutching him by the banner on his chest to yank him at eye level.

“Do you think your Princess cares, Captain?” Ghirahim hissed, pushing the man closer to the rockface wall. “A monarch that wants her people to thrive does not send them to battle unprepared. Here you are, facing against the Demon Lord, wielding an ordinary blade. You think you can hurt me with this?” 

Once again swept away, drunk on his own power, Ghirahim pushed himself away from the man, leaving him dazed. The smell of fear was pungent, ambrosiac in the air, and yet, the soldier gripped his sword tighter. Ghirahim met those burning red eyes with a grin, his arms spread in a mocking invitation. When the man charged for him, he didn’t move a muscle – he did not even flinch, merely stood, daring him to strike. 

And strike he did. A wicked slash of his greatsword, aimed at his chest, poised to kill. In the hands of such a towering man, bearing a sword of this caliber, such a blow would rend flesh down to the bone, hack through, and rend the lungs to shreds. Yet, when the edge of the blade reached Ghirahim, it tore nothing but the fabric of his cloak.

In an instant, Ghirahim was back on him, hands clutching the banner at his chest and driving him against the wall, his knee jammed between his armored legs.

“You see?” he whispered, leaning close to press his forehead against the wretch’s helmet, and peer into the whelk that hid inside. “You are powerless against me. Your precious Zelda has forsaken you.”

His victim shook his shoulders in an attempt to wrestle him off, but all it got him was punishment. Ghirahim slammed him back against the wall, helmet hitting stone with a resounding clunk . Leaning down into the dizzied man’s eye contact, the demon tilted his head. “Does it not anger you? All your years of training. They reflect in your strikes, boy. You are not mere cannon fodder. Thou art a warrior. You have your pride, and here you are, reduced to a meat shield for the inflated ego of a rotting royal family.”

Painted lips curled into a smile, Ghirahim crooned his temptation into the ears of a lost man. “History would find you blameless, were you to channel your rage now…”

His words were a poison, seeping from his flicking tongue to probe at the edges of the defenseless man’s psyche. Mortal minds were simply so fragile, so permeable, needing only the stroke of a pointed nail to tear a hole in its tender fabric. And how easily it tore, how quickly the man once struggling turned to putty in his hands. 

“Your will may have been signed the moment you stepped into this battlefield, but destiny still has its branches for you, Captain. You will not find your greatness with Hyrule, but perhaps, were you to join us against it…”

The hands grasping his cloak weakened, a sword clattered to the ground. Ghirahim chuckled. It wouldn’t be long, now. The veil was torn, the soft gray meat of this flesh-born’s brain practically between his fingertips, its every shock and pulse struggling to get past his dark enchantment. And when the man began to gurgle, that tell-tale death rattle of the mind, Ghirahim keened with glee. Ichor poured from the soldier’s tear ducts, his nostrils, and, were they in view, he’d see it dribbling from his ears, too. 

Ghirahim, too, had a little puppet now. Soon, he’d have many more.

“Pick up your blade and run along, human. We have work to do.”

The man stumbled off, his shambling gait slowly righting itself. It was a dirty little trick, for certain, but one he thought would please his Master dearly. The ichor that dripped from the man was a sign of contagion. The second he was to mingle with his fellow men again, his curse would spread, and tempt every man that joined him in this same betrayal. A vice to most, but to a demon, such pride was a delicacy.

Moments later, Ghirahim perched atop the rock outcropping, overseeing his handiwork. To his glee, it appeared that not only had his little trick indeed turned the reinforcements back where they came from, his Master had enjoyed similar success! His blue scarf tainted red, Hyrule’s Hero turned tail and headed back for the castle, leaving King Dragmire to tear down the crowd in pursuit. 

Such a well-oiled plan almost left him a little bored. Still, such a large group managing to somehow sneak past where Yuga was supposedly stationed, worried him. Leaping down from his vantage point, he flagged down whichever raid captains he could find on the way, and headed for the Keep that bridged Hylia River.

Such a small, thoroughfare keep was apparently a low priority in the Hyrulean defenses. Very few soldiers were stationed here, which took mere minutes to be cleared out, whether fled or felled. Dirty little chores like these were unbecoming of a demon lord , Ghirahim bemoaned to himself, perching himself on of the battlements of newly conquered territory. 

He hardly had time to assess the view beyond the Keep before a shrill voice interrupted him from below.

“Lord Ghirahim,” exclaimed Yuga, hovering down by the bridge. He floated up to him soundlessly and sat on the balustrade beside him. Turning to look up at him, he addressed him pleasantly. “A sight for sore eyes. And how sore they are, indeed! Chaos reigns in the East. They’re killing each other out there!”

Ghirahim looked down at the Sorcerer and found him worse for wear. His banners were rendered to tatters, his armor dented and smudged, not to speak of the sweat and grime that tainted his skin. His mortality reared its ugly head, certainly, in the way he sat there hunched and panting. Nevertheless, it felt like a bad idea to tell him of all people that his appearance was anything less than perfect. A bit of small talk seemed like a much better option. “Oh, so you’ve noticed. Some of my finer work, wouldn’t you say?”

“Such mass hysteria was your doing? Why, I’m impressed,” Yuga chimed, looking at the distant crowd with newfound interest. Perhaps his little trick had worked a little too well – it looked like those flies were dropping faster than the contagion could properly spread. Before he could lament this setback any further, Yuga kept him engaged. “I suppose all is well on the central front? Otherwise, I haven’t the faintest idea as to why you’d be busying yourself with my turf.”

Ghirahim laughed, preening his hair. “All is well, indeed. Just before I arrived, I witnessed Master forcing that eyesore of a Hero to go running on back to his little home.”

“Oh, splendid. How I wish I could have seen it,” Yuga languished, resting his chin on his palm with a sigh. “I suppose I should be glad enough for this sorry affair to be over soon. With that worm out of the way, the tides are surely turning in our favor.”

Something about those words jabbed their way into his ire. For a battle that he had yearned for from the moment he’s been summoned, to be dubbed a ‘sorry affair’, picked at the stitches of an old wound the sorcerer inflicted on him. Was this the man his Master favored over him? Perhaps his injuries made Yuga’s whiny side surface, but he hadn’t reconciled with him quite enough yet to give him the benefit of the doubt. Deigning to respond, Ghirahim stood atop the fort looking for a fight to join, but he ended up finding something else.

Hiding in the sun’s glare, a shadow approached and spread its wings. An exasperatingly familiar dragon came into view, the beat of his wings whipping the two men’s luxurious hair in the wind. The membranes of his clawed wings billowed like sails in the catching air, the thin cracks in those black expanses spilling the sun’s radiance between. Volga landed on the bridge with heavy thumps that caused the bridge to whine under his weight. He looked a little more dull than usual – his fiery mane was reduced to a flicker, and his scales lacked their red sheen. 

Volga craned his face up to look at the pair, baring his fangs as he spoke. “The Zora Princess has arrived, riding tides summoned by a noble I do not recognize. They douse my flames too quickly. I alone am no match for them.”

The earlier drab from before faded in an instant, a sparkle igniting in the sorcerer’s eyes where a foggy haze had just been. “Oh, how I’ve longed to meet with that adorable siren princess once more,” Yuga proclaimed, pushing himself off his seat to float gently to the ground. “I shall join you. Gladly!”

Ghirahim raised a brow, his eyes flitting between the two men below. How quickly that prissy figure managed to turn his mood around, all with the promise of a pretty girl! Still, he feared his recklessness, for if there was anything Yuga would risk his hide for, it was the promise of beauty. His eye on the hastily-treated arrow wound on his lower leg, Ghirahim sighed. He could only hope his concern wasn’t taken as an effort of friendly reconciliation.

Quickly masking his uncouth state, Ghirahim hopped from the battlements to stand beside his co-lieutenant and address him with a light scold. “Yuga, you’re injured. I’ll not encourage cowardice in the slightest, but Master will not forgive you if you act rashly.”

“Some nerve you have! You needn’t worry about me, Blade. I’ll see to the eradication of these fools… With the utmost elegance,” he waxed with a voice like a dream, his arms raised in a flourish.

Yet, when Yuga shot forward to head to this promised reunion, his supposed companion did not follow. The sorcerer turned to find Volga hesitating, his head lowered and his scaled back raised. Draconic Warrior Volga was cowering. 

“What ails you, beast?” Yuga questioned, his scowl wrinkling his bloodied brow bone. “One little setback and your claws lose their edge? Join me!”

A growl resonant enough to shake the drawbridge chains vibrated the wood beneath their feet. Volga slinked away, spines bristling and mane sputtering with flame, and hissed as he spoke. “The Demon King cares not! He sends us to our deaths,” he spat. “I will no longer fight as a pawn in his name.”

Ghirahim’s fangs bared involuntarily. Such insolence was unacceptable. Maddening! His fingers curled fiercely around the grip of his sword, and his gaze zoned in on a vague, pink mark behind the dragon’s shoulder, left there once by his Master’s trident. But before he could drive himself into the tender flesh of Volga’s weak spot, Yuga gripped him by the horns and shook him, forcing their eyes to lock.

“Know your place, cave-dwelling reptile!” Shouted Yuga, face contorted into a snarl. “You dare let your loyalty stray now? You turn against our Master, in his greatest hour?”

Volga struggled against him, bearing a strong endeavor to win, but the handle those twiggy arms had on him was unfathomably relentless. Any attempt to shake him off seemed futile – Volga’s muscular neck writhed, its tension tightening his body enough to flare out his plating. Veins bulged on the Lorian’s temples as his rage built. It was fire against fire, bull against fighter. Their scuffle lit a new spark in Volga’s sputtering flames, but before he could use it against his captor, the back of Yuga’s boot slammed his glowing maw back shut. 

That treacherous attack only served to make Yuga angrier. He now fully yanked at his horns, dragging him with him to solid ground. Even after all this berating, Volga still refused, digging his claws into the soil. Yuga looked down at the grooves in the ground and cried out in disgust. “Sickening! Pathetic! Shame upon you, for daring to call yourself a dragon! Have some sense! It seems I must knock it into you.”

Steeling his grip, Yuga lifted himself higher in the air, dragging the dragon’s head with him. His arms raised, his eyes spat fire, hovering fearlessly before the snarling maw mere inches from his feet. With one shrill cry of exertion, he swung his arms downward and threw the Dragon to the ground. 

Volga hit the ground chin-first, hissing in pain and rage as the ground cracked beneath his plating. Before he could gather his bearings, Yuga bore on him again, his uninjured foot stomping down on his snout. “You wish to be respected? You want to be treated as more than a pawn, as you say? Then show us! Show yourself as more worthy than the beating I will unleash upon you, should you refuse!”

For his last sneer, Yuga leaned in close, hissing his venom through clenched teeth. “Now you cough up whatever sickly bile allows you to spray your flame, Lieutenant, and you better do it soon, before I reduce that bulky form of yours to oil pastels!”

At the threat of his staff, Volga bounded away, his tail lashing with a vicious temper. He gave the pair one more skeptical look, before chuffing out an agonized, wretched burst of flame, and turning back to the distant battle. Taking off into a gallop, he climbed the air with beating wings, and announced his return to the masses below with a guttural roar.

Left behind, the Sword Spirit looked up at the wild beast’s ascent with an air of calm, while Yuga stood panting next to him, his flushed face slowly returning to its usual corpsely gray. Such a performance deserved a bit of accolade. 

“My. I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Ghirahim said, bringing a hand to his face in idle amusement.

Yuga paused, swallowing to gather his breath, before chuckling in response. “Spare me the cajolery, Ghirahim. I have a royal visitation to attend.”

Just like that, the Sorcerer lifted himself off the floor once more with a wave of his staff, and along with the breeze, he was off.

This side of the battlefield now thoroughly occupied, Ghirahim skirted along its edges, the rush of the river below carrying him on its roaring winds. As Volga relayed to them, the Zora were advancing rapidly from here, but on his own, he wasn’t keen on drawing their attention. As tempting as the thought of sticking it to the Lorian was by stealing his kills, the Zora often bore enchanted weapons. The Demon Lord wouldn’t risk his pristine state for mere petty gestures!

Racing down the path to the south, Ghirahim had the quiet hope of running into his Master. Something akin to worry tugged at his strings when he saw the gates to Hyrule Castle nearly untouched. A mass of soldiers kept any invading forces at bay – which meant that Ganondorf was being held up by the bridge, for whatever reason. He had to cut through the crowd somehow. 

A remedy (or, a minor poultice at most), to his predicament, appeared in the shape of raid squads by the crags, who stood gathered around a cavalier scout relaying her rapport. 

Desperate for any news at all about the sudden delay of the advance, Ghirahim hurried on over, urging the scout to tell her tale.

The Gerudo woman tightened the reins on her antsy steed and addressed him with a bow of her head. “There was an ambush from the Eastern Central Keep, My Lord. King Dragmire was impeded, and now, Commander Link has fled to the Castle. We are sending reserve troops to clear the path.”

Ghirahim’s eyes narrowed. The disgust in the air around him was palpable, enough to further panic the scout’s horse. “Then I shall go with you.”

The cavalry was fast but not much faster than he. The gaps in the crowd the scout cleared for herself closed up quickly before him, and with every soldier he cut down, his disdain grew. So soft. So weak. What tricks could these ants possibly have gotten up their sleeves to give his Master this much trouble?

With every pace, the mass of soldiers grew ever-denser. The red plume of hair that was once his guide was soon no longer dependable. Overwhelmed by their adversaries, the Gerudo’s horse let out a hellish shriek when run through by steel, and soon, slumped to the ground, its rider perishing with it. 

Yet, he no longer needed her. The bridge was in view, and soon he would reunite to assist his Ruler, his Master, his –

Cyan, bluer than blue, sped back down the bridge like an arrow. Towering stature, white hair, and red eyes that left glowing streaks as she moved. Ghirahim knew now what had delayed them so. To think a General as renowned as her would retreat so soon, hardly even injured! 

Just as he intended to ignore this display of cowardice and let her run her merry way, a sudden force yanked his head to keep his eyes on her.

“She aims for the Temple,” hissed a sudden voice in his mind. “Should the Hyruleans get the Great Fairy’s assistance, we will surely regret it!”

“Zant!” Ghirahim whispered in retort, “you have the nerve to get into my head?”

“ Do not distract yourself with technicalities,” Zant growled. “Go!” 

Biting back his ire, Ghirahim hissed through his teeth. How could he allow for such a vulnerability in his own mind? Had a tether been planted there, without him noticing? If so, then when?

All such questions had to wait for later. A blade like him would only take commands from his master, but he took the liberty of taking Zant’s words as a friendly suggestion. He had been waiting for a proper face-off with the Sheikah general, to test if this one was a more exciting opponent than the previous. His feet took off below him without a second thought.

The thrill of slaughtering hundreds was fair enough a way to sate him, indeed. But nothing fulfilled him, nothing made him feel like he was truly fighting, like an impassioned one-on-one with a worthy warrior who wanted him dead for more reasons than simple victory.

Tracking the scent of her blood alone, Ghirahim burst after her with speed that would strike envy in a lightning bolt. Though the prospect of giving chase for the sport of it was plenty attractive, he knew better than to let his amusement get ahead of him. No, for now, he merely wanted to get a better look at the Temple and see where he could best ambush her. He could afford no distractions, so his path had to be clear. Yanking the raid captains he’d run into earlier with him, he set forth to the temple stairs, and waited for the right moment to rear its head.

Ever-so-politely, the Commander did not keep him waiting long. Ghirahim lavishly draped himself atop one of the few pillars still standing above the Temple’s crumbling staircase, strewn as it was with holes from beast claws and long-gone explosives. Somehow, this barren place still held onto its sanctity. He wondered how much further they would have to ruin it for that persistent, divine itch to stop. 

That idle thought could only ever be that, though. His target burst from the crowd, and in her near-blinded fury, almost completely overlooked his presence. Carelessness was one thing, but plain rude was another! With a scoff, Ghirahim jumped down from his perch and landed himself square in her path. In an instant, she staggered back and drew her blade.

“Again you cross my path, Impa, and how your numbers have dwindled. You were a mighty people once, a veritable threat, ” Ghirahim purred, circling the commander. This alone stopped her advance and drew her weapon, for she was healthily wary of turning her back to him. “And now, you can hardly even be called a tribe. Once you served the Goddess, now merely Her diluted blood, who with each thinning drop tore down your numbers, your dignity… Are you truly content with this?”

If she was ever at the edge of being compelled, Ghirahim certainly didn’t notice it. Impa thrust her greatsword toward him just as he took a step closer. “When the lands we stand on were still called the Surface, there was your kin, mercilessly slaughtering mine. You dare speak of our tribe in solidarity now? Spare me your poisoned words, Demon. I will not be manipulated by the likes of you!”

“Oh, well,” Ghirahim cackled, ducking from the second strike from her blade with his hands childishly clasped behind his back. “It was worth a try, I suppose.”

The giant slab of steel came for him again, slamming into the ground where he once stood with her full weight behind it. Yet the Sheikah was nimble, and thus, frightfully strong, in how she twirled and slid around him and dragged the heaving weapon along with her. He had to take his every step with extreme care.

Her attacks did not go uncontested. Ghirahim drew his sword in retaliation and threw himself upon her in a flurry of blows. There was something familiar about the way she fought – reminiscent of the so-called Hero, perhaps. But in those brazen arms hid decades of discipline and ferocity. What she lacked in holy power, Impa made up for with expert technique. 

In other words, he was in for an incredibly enjoyable battle. 

Though his sword was smaller, more nimble than hers, she managed to deflect nigh every strike and dodge away from others. He was certain he at least nicked her fingers once or twice, but either she simply didn’t care, or some form of enchantment had been cast on her.

This suspicion was confirmed when, with a sudden wince in her expression, she left herself wide open for just a split second, and he thrust for her chest. Though her armor here was bare, the tip of his sword still bounced clean off, a golden flicker rippling where he’d struck. Had Hyrule’s Princess so graciously cast the same protection over a mere servant, that she’d bestowed upon her divine Hero? How delightfully sentimental.

It did not matter. A barrier simply meant he had to hit harder, as he did last time. Lacking the privileges of Zant’s magic from his previous attempt, he just had to make do with his own. With her next strike, he jumped back far further than he needed to and deftly escaped her range. He had to be quick, but the slight limp in the Sheikah’s step assured him he’d have just enough time for his little party trick, if not with ten milliseconds to spare. With no further hesitation, he held his rapier out before him, and with a flick of his wrist, twisted it in his grip, and buried it into his own chest with a decisive thrust.

Shock. He just won another second!

His core ran hot. Burning, searing metal to its melting point, enough to pulse an aura of sickly purple from his chest to his entire body. Grass was charred beneath his feet as the heat coursed through his every inch, but by far stronger was the sheer darkness. Whatever life once carried in the ashes below was promptly snuffed, its soil scorched and poisoned. He gritted his teeth, not in pain but in exertion, as the searing flame in his chest grew ever brighter. His magic was doing its work; his will was next. For every blade forged needed a purpose, a name. And what was this one? Once, it was to be his simple favorite, light and easy to wield. But over the years he had accumulated many more just like it, and its value had diminished to that of mere nostalgia. Such a loyal friend needed something more potent.

What did he want for it? It needed to strike true, to be wicked in every edge yet sharp enough to cut through mountains unharmed. It had not to be graceful, but to simply bring death. 

And when he pulled it from him, glowing bright red from the hellfire he’d retrieved it from, it became a jagged thing. The picture of a grimace, of metal that in itself bore rage and scowled at its foe.

Yes. I shall call you Annihilation.

Impa closed in on him bearing her scabbard as a shield. Her feet ground tracks into the soil as she slid at him with enough speed to knock him off his feet. And it would have, had he not braced himself the last second, meeting the firm wood of the scabbard with a ram of his elbow, cracking its polished blue surface. The impact loosened the greatsword in its hold and she took full advantage of this. Impa kicked the scabbard fiercely, sending it swiveling around to sit at her back, and unsheathed her blade in its momentum, seeking to cut him down in one broad sweep. 

This was his new pet’s time to shine. Instead of the traditional parry, he swung the cursing black blade downward. Sharp edges stuck together until the sharpness of his own prevailed and slid down, dragging an ear-grating screech out of the Sheikah greatsword. A strike so wretched it taught steel to feel pain! Ghirahim chuckled as the two swords buried their tips in the dirt between them, but was smart enough not to linger long. 

Before her heart could finish another beat, Impa swung her blade back up, sharp edge upturned. Glittering specks of hair scattered in the wind as Impa cleaved through the tips of his bangs. In an instant, his vision went red, a crimson hue that pooled from the General’s eyes and washed over all of his vision. Such rage emboldened him as much as it weakened him, for the second he spent gritting his teeth and indulgently spying for a weak spot to torture, Impa punished him. 

Blade outstretched, she dove beneath his arms and swung. A deep line carved into his gut, carving through his false skin and splintering a groove in his surface. 

They were petty injuries to his body and standing, but enough to send him into rage. One hand fiercely gripping her shoulder, he pushed himself forward, driving his knee into her gut. Impa staggered back with a groan, shaken but unharmed, and kept herself standing with her sword as a crutch. With this new distance wedged between them, he once more pulled his cleaver and lunged for her.

She parried him once, twice, that massive eyesore of a blade serving far too well as a shield until it didn’t, and he struck the gap between her arms and armor. 

Annihilation slipped through, obsidian steel hungering for bloodshed, and tore a gaping hole into the magic that protected her. A fountain of golden sparks followed her in an arc as Impa fell to the ground. She hit the floor with a heavy thud, her scabbard cracking further beneath her bulk. 

Ghirahim hopped back with whimsy, tongue darting between his lips and sword at the ready, as she jumped back upright with a swing of her legs. Even without her divine protection, she seemed just as hellbent on striking him down. But no matter. His next strike would not miss.

For just a second, her scarlet eyes parted from their contesting gazes and flitted to the Temple behind her. Impa’s feet braced in the soil, her knees bent, and she shot for her goal. 

Ghirahim didn’t let her set more than even a step. Those signs of her escape were subtle, and anyone even a smidge less analytical than he would have missed them. But Ghirahim drove a dagger into her hip before she could even think of which foot to put where, and nearly sent her tumbling.

Yet Impa kept going, shielding herself with her scabbard as she advanced further up the temple stairs walking backward. If she thought getting the high ground would put her at an advantage, she was dead wrong! Ghirahim hurried after her in pursuit, lunging for her legs as swift and deadly as a viper. Her balance was wobblier now that she’d been injured, but her fury had not depleted even in the slightest bit. He saw it clear as day in her eyes – either she would get to that Temple, or she would die trying. If only all Hyruleans saw the beauty of such dedication. Perhaps, then, some of these battles wouldn’t have been so dull!

To Ghirahim, it was a test of mettle, or rather, the indulgent act of poking a sleeping bear with a stick, while Impa treated his ceaseless meddling as the annoyance that it was. Hoping to finally throw him off her trail, she swung down, the embers in her eyes bursting into wildfires.

Ghirahim raised his blade in defense, edge catching on edge once more.

With a single flick of his wrist, the greatsword slotted into the jagged shapes of his masterpiece and became trapped there. This blade was not a mere extension of his body – it was him, a piece of his very soul, granted physical form. It held onto Impa’s weapon without as much as a shiver, clasped with the same deft ease as he would have pinched it between his fingers. Their eyes locked, dog meeting wolf dangerously outmatched, and Ghirahim flashed a smile.

The muscles of his arms tensed. Impa couldn’t escape, so instead she attempted to push through. Out of pure curiosity, he let her try. He gazed up into the blade, and oh , how beautifully polished, clean of any grime or corruption. Their eyes stayed locked until he met his own in the sword’s reflection, and his lips curled into a grin. He was immaculate still, the assault on his haircut aside, while she stood panting, scowling, and shaking above him, her teeth grinding audibly with every bit of force she pushed into the blade. Falling apart like this was a shame of such a good swordswoman. He wouldn’t bear to look at it, if he didn’t delight so much in being the cause.

So, he put an end to it. With his only warning being a yell of exertion, he used her strength against her, and with a swing ripped the blade clean out of her hands. The greatsword careened down the stairs, cracking the stone bricks beneath it in its rancorous descent. Before she could think to dive after it, Ghirahim reared back again, and hacked her clean in the shoulder.

Impa fell to her knees with a guttural cry, for a moment, finally looking defeated. She glared daggers at him when his heel planted in her chest. With the cadence of a butcher missing the right tendon, he ripped his sword back out, beholding the blood seeping down its sawtooth edge. What a beautiful, loyal thing, yet one even he hesitated to lap clean after witnessing the damage it did. 

In his distraction, the General made her escape, staggering further up the stairs. They were both thinking the same thing: could she make it to the temple, before the gnarly wound on her shoulder sapped her off her strength, and sent her to Death’s door? Her arm dangling uselessly at her side, and her blade buried far beyond where she could escape from him to retrieve it, Impa shot him a foul look. 

His confidence was getting ahead of him! From her upturned palm, a bright blue light surged, its specks of luster dazzling him before they struck him like a thousand darts. Yet this magic did not pierce, it did not scratch. Rather, it stuck to him in droplets, merging in ever greater globs in less than a second. His vision blurred, his hearing grew distorted and whined, and before he knew it, his head was encased in a churning sphere of water. 

The thought that she attempted to drown him amused him. An airless laugh bubbled forth from his lips and echoed through his abyssal scold’s bridle in crystalline chimes. But this amusement did not last long. A kick to his chest sent him tumbling to the ground, and icy daggers pinned his cloak to the ground in an attempt to keep him down. Distraction, after distraction, after distraction, all in the feeble hope to cross that field and plead the Fairy Queen for her aid. 

The poor thing hadn’t the slightest clue he didn’t need to see her to strike her. The dagger in her hip betraying her location, he raised his hand, fingers tense, like drawing taut the string of a bow. A snap. Cold steel flew, whistling through the air as it followed the trail to its brethren, and struck flesh. 

Impa cried out, stumbled, and at last, fell forward onto the steps. 

Ghirahim strutted on over, sword at rest but not yet sheathed, to stand over his once-opponent. A little river of crimson poured free from her, dripping down the stairs and staining its pure white marble in the stench of near death. Yet, listening carefully, it appeared she still breathed. 

He nudged her carelessly with his foot. “Lady Impa, I must say, I’m impressed. You and I make for such an excellent pair of duelists when you don’t insist on making every turn of my life into complete misery.”

With her last shreds of wakefulness, Impa turned to gaze at him. Her complexion withered, but her eyes had not yet glazed over. She was angrier than he’d ever seen her. “You… Vile…” She hissed through blood-stained teeth. “Wretched thing, a traitor, a dishonor to the world, for your own selfish needs, you…” 

The corner of his lip twitched in annoyance at this name-calling. Ever the high-and-mighty, righteous woman, perhaps even more of a bore than her predecessor. He was almost glad that the blood loss seemed to be taking her ability to speak from her, but then a sudden pulse of energy alerted him that some other force was at play. 

Golden specks of light rose from the General. She, too, took notice of them, a sparkle of bitter hope lit in her expression. A weak laugh was all he heard from her, until the light flooded her body, and she was gone.

With the Sheikah Chief defeated, Hyrule’s army devolved into further chaos. If they had been betting on reaching that Fairy to ensure their victory, then the sudden outpour of soldiers could only have been their last-ditch effort. Ghirahim rose, his cape tearing to tatters under the daggers as he shed it. Standing atop the temple stairs, he ran a hand through his hair, shedding the water from his vision to survey the battlefield.

It was a deluge of blue and silver. Were they winning before, then the Hyrulean swarm that broke out from the now-opened gate to Castle intended to change that. All matters of banners, people from every corner of the country, dashed forth from the palace and the foothills. 

The princess was nowhere to be seen. Unmistakable to his analytical eye, however, a corridor, narrow as it was, cleaved through the masses. A certain someone else was making his way through the field again. Mounted on horseback, Link, his palm ablaze with golden light, shot through the field like an arrow.

Zant, Yuga, Wizzro, Volga, his Master, anyone, they were nowhere to be seen. As far as Ghirahim was aware, there was nobody else to stop the Knight that galloped straight for their base. Somewhere, a hunger for that old dynamic between hero and thrall awakened in him again, turning from an urge to a fiery prey drive within a split second. He was no stranger to chasing around little blond holy men. By all means, this was his calling. 

And so, shattering the stone steps beneath his heels, Ghirahim bounded down the Temple stairs and threw himself into the mass of soldiers at the foot of the hill. 

Yet, he could find no opening. The crowd was forcing him back out every step of the way, as if they could sense the string that tied him to the boy, and feared what would come of it, were the two ends of it to meet. 

It was thoroughly amusing. No matter how sheer the numbers, these forces could only ever slow him, not stop him. Though even distraction would prove to be dire, the further those hoofbeats strayed from him. He had to be in pursuit and had to do it fast, but the dense formation barring his way left not a single opening. Such an advantage would have to be gained the old-fashioned way.

Shields raised before him as soldiers pointed their spears at him, rancorously barking commands for him to keep his distance, or to surrender, or to keel over and die already, and other such nonsense. It was starting to get annoying, really. Again, the gleaming metal pointed at him was of a mundane sort. He peered down at the spearheads in disdain. The jumble of sticks and steel wobbled, pointed insistently at him, and swayed all too tantalizingly.

Before the oafs had a sliver of an idea, he swiped a handful of them into his hand, crushing the bouquet to splinters in an instant. Taking advantage of the knuckle guard on his rapier, he twirled the blade around his hand and changed his grip to that of a cutthroat. He was upon them in a flash, breaking through the first line of shields with a single kick, and carved through armor and flesh alike with the full weight of his momentum behind him. 

But the cavity he’d cut into the formation would only hold so long. Hundreds of the shouting sacks of skin seemed hellbent on stopping him all at once, hounding him with everything they had. Shields bashed into him, swords and spears clattered and bounced off his skin but tore his clothing to tatters. It wasn’t long before their desperation made them forfeit their weaponry altogether, settling for trying to kick him over, or yanking at his arms, if only to stall his advance for another second. Eyes darting dangerously, he cut down whoever he could focus on long enough to kill. 

Ghirahim trudged on, heaving, stained in blood, mud, and whatever else. It was slow, it was humiliating, but it was progress, and he could bear this nigh endless assault, if only for the carnal, berserker’s satisfaction the blood on his blades brought him. 

At least, until he heard something unmistakable. One of these dogs had the gall to laugh. 

There stood Ghirahim, his beloved cloak tattered, trampled and abandoned, his clothing hanging from him in ribbons, his skin cracked with glittering black and his hair tousled from far too many gloves yanking at it. They didn’t simply want to impede him, they fully intended to humiliate him.

Enough!

He wasn’t sure if he simply thought it, or shouted it to the heavens, but within an instant, his brute endurance changed to a rush of bloodlust. With a cry, he raised his arms and summoned a glittering red, impenetrable barrier.

The small crowd bunched in there with him seemed to realize that it was merely their own numbers they could trust awfully quick. 

Ghirahim greeted the dawning fear that would soon suffocate his playpen with a cheek-splitting grin, baring every pearly white tooth he had.

Where the density of the crowd was once their greatest strength, it was now the soldiers’ downfall. There simply wasn’t enough space for any of them to join in proper formation, much less extend their sword. It was by design, of course. Ghirahim burst out in laughter, as gleeful as he was sadistic, as he began to tear away at the soldiers around him. Oh, how quickly they donned that veil of valiance again, so desperate to fall in honor after throwing themselves at him like animals! They certainly weren’t holding their fairest warriors as reserves. Even the blood tasted vile on these ones. The crowd thinned rapidly with the fury of his blade, which, to his amusement, made enough space for some of these fools to try and fight him again. It turned to a delightful routine – parry, perhaps a second clash of swords, then a jab at the shoulder, and a stab to the gut. Around them, the barrier had turned from red and gold to a flat crimson, obscuring his private arena from the outside world in a curtain of blood. And what a carnage it had been! Only five of them were left – ah, forgive his enthusiasm. Four, now – Three, tearing limbs out their sockets, crunching their jaws under his fists – two –

And then there were none. 

Ghirahim stood upright, surveying his handiwork with renewed clarity. Cloth, skin, chainmail, plating, and shields alike accumulated on the floor in a scrapyard amalgam, groaning wetly under the force of his footsteps. A rhythmic pounding of pommels against his barrier thrilled like a landslide in the air, but he was confident the masses would not break through. He stroked a hand through his hair, only to notice black talons peeking through his gloves, and begrudgingly smiled. 

His power was getting away from him again. Looking around the death gathered at his feet, he knew just the way to righten this new burst of energy. Unencumbered by his now-deceased assailants, he stretched himself with a laugh, cracking his shoulders to spread his hands to either side. Dancing forward across the heap of bodies he’s left, he swayed his arms in fluid motions, like plucking the strings to a harp. With each twitch of his fingers, he felt the power surge from the fading life beneath his feet, up his legs, and to his core – an eerie feeling, yet unrivaled in its profoundness, that chilled as much as it burned. 

With two snaps of his fingers, spectral servants surrounded him. He’d wasted enough time; he had to catch up with that boy, and fast. Of all the strings that tugged on him, the one tied to the Hero’s Incarnation pulled the hardest. His barrier now dismissed, he sent the specters forward to clear his path, only to find the battlefield had changed in his absence. Drawn to the scent of blood, he’d imagine, Bokoblins had poured into the cracks of the Hyruleans’ defenses to draw ever nearer to the palace. Finally, some more backup than the measly groups he’d summoned! 

He ran, he cut down anyone in his way, and he swerved through any opening he could. His feet pounded across the bridge, wind soaring in his ears. Moreso with kicks and elbows than with his swords, he broke past groups of soldiers, only to find an iconic presence tower above it all, glaring at the setting sun.

“Master,” Ghirahim cried out, and launched himself to his side to run beside him.

Ganondorf looked down at him over his shoulder. Past the blood and grime that others had splattered on him, he was as immaculate as he’d been when he first arrived. “The boy fled before I could engage. The Hyruleans are planning something, and I have no intention to-”

Golden beams of light had the audacity to interrupt his magnificent words and rip their attention to the north. 

“The bridge keep… They have it out for our bases,” Ganondorf growled, stroking a hand across his black steel blade to charge it with wicked thunder. “Keep me no longer, Sword. I must be swift.”

Were it any other time, burdened as he was with the despair of judgment and abandonment of his Master, Ghirahim would have hung his head and accepted his departure. But this grave turn in destiny, where finally, the Demon King would get his hands on the Triforce, invigorated him to boldness never seen before. He lunged for the departing Gerudo and clutched his arm. 

“If he’s going for our bases, Master, there is but one place he can go. I’ll take us there,” he shouted over the noise of battle, never shying from his gaze, even as he scowled at his sudden forwardness.

Yet Ganondorf’s expression softened, if one could ever call such a vicious grin ‘soft’. To Ghirahim, it was the most reassuring sight he could see.

Ganondorf turned to face the golden light once more, and spoke with narrowly restrained eagerness. “Then get on with it.”

Ghirahim gripped his arm with more vigor than he’d ever held anything. Diamond magic gathered at their feet, enveloping the both of them in a maelstrom that rippled the grass and billowed fabric in its intensity. Enveloping the Demon King in his own power sent his core into overdrive. Steam burst from his gritted teeth with a single pant, the sheer exertion threatening to melt him down. The golden light inside that man was simply so grand, so all-encompassing, that to wrap around it with the fickle fibers of his own seemed insurmountable. Yet he, the Demon King’s blade, his servant not only by design but by fierce desire, would not falter. 

When they tore through the fabric of reality and landed at the foot of their base, the sheer vertigo of the transportation was enough to bring Ghirahim to his knees. He clutched the pommel of his Master’s sword, panting, and craned his head to look up at him. Ganondorf looked down at him past his pauldron and nodded at him, a smirk pulling at his features. He’d intrigued him – perhaps even impressed him! 

Invigorated by the urge to have those eyes on him again, he wobbled back on his feet, as if born again, to trail after the Demon King as he marched onward.

Ganondorf turned his attention to a second rain of light pelting from the sky, steeling his grip on his crackling blades. “Hyrule’s Hero intends to drive us out of their turf. How fortunate that we can meet him halfway.”

This corner of the battlefield was still under their command, but their influence was slipping. Anything past Hylia River seemed to have been reclaimed by blue and silver, and their sickening radiance grew ever closer. It was a battle of endurance now, where the Demon forces had to resist being driven back, lest their goal slip through their fingers. 

It was dire, yet it was not. Were he among Volga and Yuga, whose fire and thunder lit up the skies behind him, he might have despaired. Were he still trapped in that humiliating clash he’d ripped free from, he might have faltered. But sheltering the mighty back of his Master, whose shoulders squared exuding nothing but power and confidence, he knew victory was mere inches away. 

That inch was announced with the skidding of hooves and the blowing and snorting of a startled equine. Link forced his horse to a halt, blue eyes shooting a piercing gaze at the two of them as they caught him off guard. 

“Oh, come now,” Ghirahim chimed, collecting himself with a whip of his hair. “Don’t be shy! You’ve come this far, surely you didn’t think we’d let you claim our territory unchallenged?”

Ghirahim laughed, his arms outstretched in invitation as he waltzed his way over to the knight. The young man was worse for wear – his green garb was dirtied from his earlier battle, and though he’d been run through the infirmary, his heaving stance betrayed painful injuries. Yet, that furious, noble glare was unmistakable. He’d dragged himself here with willpower alone, and that very force would carry him ‘till his heart gave out.

Which, frankly, sounded like a fun little exercise.

Another smoky laugh escaped him when Link spurred his horse again, setting out for him with full intent to smack his head clean off his shoulders. Ghirahim looked back, inviting his Master to mock their adversary, and found him permitting his whims with a squint of his eyes. 

Just before the advancing horseman could strike him, he disappeared with a flash and zipped back into view a ways behind. The horse bucked and staggered, aggravated not only by startle but the instinctual ferocity of demonic presence. 

Ghirahim watched on in amusement as Link struggled to pacify his mount, finding it the perfect moment to prod at him some more. “Quit bullying that poor animal and face us properly, boy! You’re not slipping past us again!”

Eyes flitting between his two foes, Link grew antsy atop his panicked steed. He dismounted her with a sweep of his leg, setting her to run free, and once again brandished his sword. Both feet now firmly on the ground, his earlier discombobulation was nowhere to be seen. When Ghirahim prowled toward him, tongue darting between his lips, Link scowled at him with nothing but a righteous sense of duty.

How annoying!

“Ghirahim,” Ganondorf warned him. “Step aside.”

Snapped out of his bloodlust, the sword spirit straightened himself, his free hand before his chest. “As you wish, Master,” he stated, retreating with a bow to let Ganondorf take his place. “Same arrangement as before?”

The Demon King shook the sparks on his swords awake. “Let not a soul through.”

“As you wish.”

And so, Ghirahim braced himself again, darting forth to clear the King a proper arena. Those with seconds to spare would soon be dragged on the periphery with him, riddling the edges with hulking monsters. Two separate worlds were unfolding on this battlefield, that of the raging war of the masses, and the private duel guarded so tightly at its borders. In the natural order of things, those spheres would never have met, not until one of them ended, but a twist of fate broke their edge.

Just behind him, Ghirahim noticed a Dinolfos seize one of the Hyrulean captains in its gauntlet and lift them off the ground, inspecting them with nostrils twitching and teeth bared. With a furious hiss, it tossed the soldier to the ground, sending them skidding into private grounds.

Ghirahim would have torn the wretch apart for disturbing their King’s space, did he not notice just who was thrown to his Master’s attention. With scarlet hair, golden armor, and richly patterned clothing, the identity of this soldier was clear. Even more damning was the blue-and-silver banner hung from her waist.

The distraction allowed Link an opening. Ganondorf grunted as a gash was hacked into his thigh, but his first wound only served to invigorate him. “What is the meaning of this?” He snarled, tusks bared. The strikes he delivered upon Link’s shield caused the boy to buckle through his knees, and be thrown to the ground with the next. “You dare poison my own people against me? To think Hyrule calls me wicked. You would have Sisters slay each other.”

Link and his fairy stayed silent. He threw himself back on his feet and lunged for the Demon King once more.

If the battlefield was in dissonance, then the fatal clash behind him was a symphony. There was no desperation in it – the drive to see each other dead was pure and true, and Ghirahim would give his life to protect it. The bodies he left in his wake were his offerings, gifts for his Master, to keep that music safe and undisturbed. 

Yet, even with this passion, in his strife to keep the raid squads at bay, an ominous glow in the skies distracted him. At once, the familiar comfort of servitude was shattered. Ghirahim kicked the burly Hylian before him to the ground and skewered him in place, if only to allow himself a few seconds unimpeded to keep an eye on that strange sight. The glow was met by a smoldering darkness from below, that formed a murky yellow globe just beyond the fortifications in the East. From that same faux-sunspot, light rained down from the sky, pelting down on the barrier in ground-shaking ferocity. But this attack was different; rather than the golden rays invoked by the descendant Hero, this one was a pure, blinding white, taking the shape of thousands of arrows. Zant had anticipated it! How nostalgic it must have been, for light and darkness to clash once more! 

Then, the unthinkable happened. Not in that it was impossible – really, it was the only logical outcome – but in that he’d never want to imagine it. The Twilit barrier shattered to bits.

Ghirahim froze in place, eyes glued to the shining barrage from the heavens.

Even through the ringing in his ears, Ganondorf’s voice rang through clear as glass. “Princess Zelda is growing desperate. If she’s felled Zant, she will make her way here shortly.” 

Felled?

“Do not let her reunite with her Knight, Blade!”

His feet moved on their own. Were there any soldiers impeding his way, he must have taken them out in sheer automation, for he didn’t notice them. All he had eyes for was the deluge of radiant arrows that turned the condense in the dark clouds above into a glittering expanse of stars. The heavens rejoiced and cheered for their princess as she took away what mattered to him so.

Ghirahim ran, too numbed by shock and steered by command only. What would he do, were he to round that corner and find her there? If he found something else he wouldn’t want to see? Would he be able to look away long enough to take her down? 

The swarm of Hyruleans thickened around him as their demonic forces dwindled. Their keeps were being cleared out and invaded swiftly, leaving their most competent generals struggling to retain their ground. Yet, every one of them that saw his advance, rallied to clear his path. They could not win this war with numbers alone – everything rested on defeating the bearers of the Triforce.

The northern gates were in sight now, their doors blown to scrap and splinters, and the surrounding ground scarred with blight. He sprinted through them, rattling the bridge’s chains with his pounding footfall as he rushed to get to this final stand, only to skid to a halt.

In the distance, he saw a clash between beast and man still unfolding, as if the world had not ended here moments before. Approaching in eerie silence was an armored Bullbo, growling in strain against the many arrows that pierced its hide, but more notably, carrying an unbelievable shape on its back.

Zant slowed his steed with a pull on its reins and sidled up next to Ghirahim. Now witnessing him from the side, a second passenger came into view. A bloodied bronze gauntlet on thin, serene arms, and a curtain of vibrant, straw-blonde hair, draped past The Twilight King’s lap. 

Retracting the visor of his helmet, Zant bared his smile. “Hail, Ghirahim-ili. I see you have stopped General Impa, as I advised. Well done,” he said, looking to the skies to find golden light still raining there. “What of the boy, Link?”

“... I… He’s… Master is, ah…” Ghirahim stammered, his throat suddenly feeling too tight to speak. “Link is weakened, and we stopped his advance. Master… Will prevail. Zant, how-”

“Excellent,” Zant interjected sharply. “Our victory is at hand, Ghirahim, but I am too weakened to escort the Princess on my own. Wizzro can only keep the forces behind me at bay for so long, thus, I must make haste,” Zant seemed to soliloquy for a moment, before looking down upon him from his mount again, grinning his teeth bare. “Will you join me for this grand finale?”

Ghirahim was too paralyzed to refuse or accept. Zant took his silence as confirmation anyway. He took off in a gallop. Feeling the strain at his collar, Ghirahim followed.

Hyrule field was in a greater state of chaos than Ghirahim had left it mere moments before. Enervated by the battle, the remaining demonic forces grew ever fiercer. Were it not for the bounty they carried with them, the sides would have seemed equally matched. Ghirahim wordlessly fluttered around Zant like a moth contemplating the light of a lantern, striking down anyone that came close. And those numbers gained, indeed, as they drew ever deeper into the conflict. Zant had drawn his blade, but from atop his porcine steed could only do so much. 

The sight of the Princess splaying across the saddle eased their burden as much as it increased it. Hyrulean soldiers grew panicked and enraged, bearing down on them in droves, while their monstrous captains saw it as their cue to join their entourage. 

As the eye of the storm formed around them, Zant addressed him. “You saw it. That golden light, decimating all in its wake. A magnificent power, isn’t it, Ghirahim?”

“It is,” Ghirahim replied. And you defeated her, he thought to himself. Against all logic, Zant came out victorious. At this point, asking him ‘how’ would only have resulted in a lackluster answer. Nor would knowing just ‘who’ this figure was sate him. The desire for questions was beginning to wane. 

Ghirahim knew power when he saw it.

Zant chuckled behind his helmet. Tiring of this pace, he sent his mount into a gallop, and forced his way into the crowd. The Bullbo shrieked, tossed its head, and sent men tumbling, and grew ever-fiercer as more and more blades drove into it. With a sweep of his adamantine sword, Zant poked holes into the line of Hyruleans for their own troops to flood into. 

He shrieked with laughter, yet held the princess fast to his saddle with care, as he turned his steed to face his co-lieutenant with masked glee. “All of it will be ours, very soon. Hold fast, Yima gradiegra. Master awaits.”

His Dagger. 

Yes, he could do that.

With the sounds of combat mingling with the thunderous laugh and shouts of the Demon King, Zant deemed them close enough to dismount his beast. Sword sheathed at his back, he hopped down almost leisurely, as if the fate of the world wasn’t perched upon that very saddle. He turned, reached up for her, and let the limp frame of the defeated Princess Zelda collapse into his arms. 

He lifted her carefully. Her head drooped against his shoulder guard and her arms laid over her stomach, as if she were naught but asleep. With her face now visible, Ghirahim could hazard a guess as to how she’d been defeated. The same pale gray of the hands that cradled her spread to her own skin, besmirching her features with runic pestilence. She breathed still, but there was no telling for how long.

As they drew closer to the fated strife that awaited them, Ghirahim felt like every step hollowed him out deeper. It was an odd feeling, acute in its onset, that gnawed at him without apparent cause. The leash that bound him to his duty tugged on him ever stronger, but as he drew to its source, he felt the urge to dig in his heels and resist. 

Something wasn’t right. Wasn’t there more he had to do? More he had wanted? Thousands of years he had dedicated to this goal: deliver the Triforce unto his Master’s hands, so He may claim the Surface as His. It was right before him now, on the cusp of being completed, but it felt wrong. Unfulfilling.

It was just as he’d felt before, but now, he realized just how time had gotten away from him. Never did he expect his wish to dodge out of reach so quickly. With each pace of feet that shouldn’t be, his melancholy grew. His purpose was about to conclude, without him where he belonged. The Demon Blade was firmly in his scabbard and refused by his Master’s hand. In such a crucial moment, he never got to be his sword.

With that pit in his core, he watched on as the masses split by his blade and the duel carried on. Even as war raged on for hours, Ganondorf retained his poise. His stance was like that of a mountain, never to crumble, only to erupt. The flats of his enormous swords acted as shields against the fury of Link’s attacks, while their edges bore down on the boy like a butcher’s knife. His Master wielded those blades forged in the sword spirit’s shape, but empty of him, to strike down the reincarnation of his foil, almost in mockery. Ganondorf realized the picture he was meant to fulfill, certainly. He was the image of Demise, but as proven time and time again, he was his own man. With such pride came its own tools, resigning Ghirahim to symbolics only, to be by his side as an object of veneration.

But looking upon Zant, carrying the Hylian Princess in his bloodied hands, his world went still. Even he had fulfilled that part of their mission, the Twilight Scimitar as his implement. If Ghirahim didn’t know that sword to be empty, he would have taken its twilit glow to be an insult, a triumphant laugh to have stolen the King of Shadows from him. Ghirahim taught those very hands to grace that hilt, and now that they were wrapped around foreign steel, an entirely new feeling chilled him; sharpened his gaze. It was an emerald, serpentine envy. 

All that time he spent training him to wield this very blade, and now, the fruits of his labor went to that wretched thing. As he had once intended, indeed, but now that his goal was attained, he felt not a shred of satisfaction. He felt robbed, instead. The one to feel the maiden’s blood coursing down his blade should have been him. It was only logical - it was just! 

The surrounding armed forces were split into a perfect crowd. Some were frozen in place, looking on in horror as the bloodied dove that was their Princess hung cradled there in her defeat. Others threw themselves at the Twilight King in almost bestial rage, swords outstretched, had they remembered to wield them in their fury, to strike down the wicked foe that carried her. Yet, none could manage to reach him, being bounced off by a shadowed shield, or ran through by the Demon Lord’s blade, who stood to defend him without even thinking to do so. 

In an odd tranquility, Zant padded over to Ganondorf, the bottom half of his face bared and his lips a mirthless smile. 

But even with the approach of his defeated compatriot, Link did not relent. He took one look at Zelda and his face tightened into a wide-eyed snarl, before throwing himself back at Ganondorf with furious abandon. His adversary merely laughed. Whatever respect he had for his foe was no longer visible on his face. Ganondorf braced his swords, turning them in his hands with flowing sweeps like they weighed no more than paper, to deflect the Master Sword’s glowing strikes. Steel sang and thrummed under the relentless flurry of blows, but all was drowned out by the thunderous laughter from beyond the wall of metal.

Link was fierce, unrelenting. Red stains spread under his tunic where the King did not strike, but where old wounds tore open under sheer strain. Sweat coursed down his face, mingling with the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. His stumble betrayed a pain untold. Yet, none of it stopped him, even as Zant drew closer, the Princess in his arms.

Tiring of the boy’s meddling, Ganondorf glared at him past his massive blade, before whacking the holy sword right out from his hand with one mighty strike. 

Ghirahim knew that alarmed chime better than anyone. He taunted her with a cheerful tone of his own.

Now disarmed, Link seemed undeterred. He wasted not a second before diving back for his blade. He could not get far before Ganondorf’s golden gauntlet clasped around his left wrist. Hyrule’s beloved Hero was lifted into the air kicking and screaming, at the horror of every bystander – all but two. The Gerudo King’s metal-clad fist drove into his ribs, shattering through a glimmering golden barrier and striking chainmail with a sickening crunch. Just like that, Link was silenced, gasping for air that would not enter him, and eyes bulging in their sockets.

And so, with his two servants standing before him in adoration, Ganondorf held his foil in his hand like a hunting trophy, and extended his other, palm turned up, to receive his next piece of destiny.

Zant stepped forward once more. He craned his head to the side, looking at Princess Zelda almost wistfully. All was silent, save nothing but the shifting of fabric, the clanking and jingling of bangles and armor, and the Princess’ strained breathing, as Zant held her out to his King in shaking arms.

Ganondorf snatched her from him without a second thought. Hoisted in the air by her wrist, Zelda still did not stir, dangling limply before her fated companion. That green-clad companion now only had eyes for her. Link stared at her pleading as though worrying enough for her might wake her. 

Whatever sentimentality was about to unfold, The Demon King put a swift stop to it. A pulse of energy burst from him with the clench of his fists around their arms. All troops were forced into silence, with two lieutenants brought to a kneel. Something thrummed in the air, like the warning signs of a thunderstorm, carrying a heavy pressure that stoked the breath. Where the sun had once cast the battlefield in a pale gold, darkness now crept in past the hills, summoned from far and wide to swirl at Ganondorf’s feet.

The bearers of Courage and Wisdom recoiled, writhing and contorting in agony as a golden glow was forced from them. Their captor paid their anguished cries no mind. The light poured from them ever stronger, almost blindingly so. Their magic had a mind of its own, knowing that to be parted from their vessels would be an unprecedented act of wrongness, and kept itself lodged firmly where it sat. It shrieked, struggling to keep itself contained, until at last, it could fight against pure power no longer. 

That same golden glow ripped from them in an instant, and Ganondorf seized up, his head craned to the skies. Wide-set eyes pierced the heavens, their gaze alone boring a hole in the dark clouds that gathered there. A resonant thrum caused the debris on the ground to skip about like grasshoppers, an image so playful yet foreboding. 

That humming grew louder, deeper, until it shook the crowd so deeply all were deafened by the shaking of their own bones, and it burst into a climax. More radiant than ever before, a bright red light flared from the Demon King as if the sun itself stood in their midst. Fierce energy whipped around him like a maelstrom before it shot into the sky, lighting the beacon to signal the beginning of the end. Above it all, Ganondorf laughed.

Drained of their worth, two Hylians were relinquished, and dropped to the ground.

Chapter Text

The land of Hyrule had always been an isolated country. Steeped in self-righteous legends, of Creation myths and earth-shaking tyranny. It was the World’s holy ground as much as it was avoided as though plague-ridden and abandoned. For in being blessed by the Goddesses, so too was it cursed. By holding the world’s greatest source of power, conflict drew to it like moths to a flame. The Triforce did corrupt. Under the weight of the responsibility thrust upon it, the Royal Family of Hyrule was no exception to this. Time and time again, they would buckle, either under the weight of their hubris, or torn down when too weak to defend against those seeking its boons. Each time its end threatened to draw near, its Arbiter would be born, together with a Hero to fight them, and the Maiden as their mediator. This was a feud that would never end. One of greed, of cruelty inflicted under Holy name, and a Cycle of retaliation that had spiraled on since the very dawn of time.

In short, Hyrule was the tabletop of the Gods, where virtue and vice were ripped from mortal bodies by the tendon. 

Surrounding countries simply watched, hoping that the next Cycle would be as merciful as the last. Each of them prayed that the fickle Empire would once again uphold the status quo and keep their lands from ruin.

This vapid comfort was no longer. As if all the world had drawn a bated breath, it all bursted out in fraught cries. All ruling creeds, be it kingdoms or counties, scrambled to commune with either side of the war. For the first time in centuries, the Triforce had fallen into the hands of the Demon King. Something as simple as a wish exploded the world into a flurry of letters, laughably spewed forth from every corner, to beg for mercy. Sending a piece of parchment was far easier than crossing into actively hostile territory, certainly. Much less to fall to one’s knees and grovel before the deadliest man currently alive! The cowardice of it all annoyed Ganondorf, but he was glad for it all the same. Such pitiful displays of royal visitation would stop being amusing after mopping up the drool, tears, and blood of, give or take, the fifth diplomat.

The Hyrule Royal Family, and their commanders with them, predictably withdrew into hiding. Given the circumstances, though, surrendering immediately would have been a far more logical approach. With the current state of their army, any struggle was only procrastination of the inevitable execution. After suffering a crushing defeat, their pieces of the world’s most prized artifact were now seized by their fated nemesis. 

Said nemesis, too, sat in his office chair, laying surprisingly low. Hyrule Castle was not yet seized and would not be for some time. Ganondorf looked up from his stacks of correspondence, his gaze straying to his left hand. Ever since completed, the mark of the Triforce had been resting visibly on his palm, glowing persistently. Reclaiming the piece of Power had felt natural, or at least, like something that belonged. Every incarnation before him had possessed it, falling only into the collective hand of Cialana in this era. As for why this injustice had occurred, he couldn’t know. It didn’t matter either way. The magic of his birthright had returned to him all the same.

He’d had no trouble growing accustomed to this. The arcane had no secrets left to keep from him; it’d simply been a matter of adjusting to his greater strengths, honing the claws he’d grown. His success in Hyrule Field was a testament to the importance of this thorough preparation. Now bearing two more shards, each unfamiliar to him, he knew he could not afford to cut corners. With his new powers came new insights, some of which informed, inversely, about their risks. The truth of the matter was that there was much to be done once he established his kingdom amidst the carrion of Hyrule. Should he use the full potential of the Triforce now, he would not be able to predict its effect on him. The ancient, dark forces that dwelled deep within him were well within his control now, but should they be fed any more…

He did not fear it. Caution simply had to be taken. The ghostly whisper, elusive and chiming like a bell, that slipped in between every conscious thought, could not be left unattended. The Triforce yearned to be used, to fulfill his wish, and coaxed and purred for it insistently. It wasn’t meant to dwell in the mind for long – but Ganondorf was no mortal man. He would make it wait.

His other Kingly duties, however, were of a more timely sort. Even domestically, he had his hands full with governesses who demanded the most up-to-date state of affairs that he could divulge. Not to mention the political promises he’d made for his lieutenants, which still needed attending. As loyal as they were to him now, soon, they would come to demand their own fattened seats among the oceans of spoils. Such was the nature of war. But unlike other royals, he had more than mere advisors to depend on. Those scheming lot often had their own selfish goals hidden behind their backs. No, he had a far more dependable source to fall back on. He carried the accumulated knowledge of dozens of Demon Kings before him, deep within his soul.

A knock at the door interrupted his train of thought. It snapped him back to a present reality, where his quill spilled a fat drop of ink on a document he still debated on signing. He bid whoever waited outside to enter, rubbing his brow with budding exasperation.

Slipping his way in through the door, clutching a stack of documents to his chest, was Zant. He waited not a moment to dawdle and went straight to his desk, prattling away. “If I might have just a moment of your time, King Dragmire. Our mail couriers are swamped with work, as you know, and there are quite a few letters I wish to discuss with you.”

Ganondorf raised a brow at his bold, blabbering approach, but allowed him his whims. Placing his quill in its holder, he straightened in his seat to meet the Shadow Lord at near-eye level. “Speak. It must be urgent, for you to disturb me in such haste.”

“Well, Master. To start, the War has been getting quite the attention from overseas,” Zant announced, dropping meticulously re-folded envelopes on the desk with the rest of them. He chose the top-most to review, handing it to him for perusal. “We have received correspondence with the Duke of Tarn. I found it quite a promising offer – enough grain to fill our stocks for months to come, in exchange for peace. Of course, I would make no such drastic diplomatic decisions without your input, Sire.”

Ganondorf took the proffered letter and began skimming it with a nudge of his spectacles. Tarn… From his own few centuries of lingering in this world, such a place left little impression on him. Further down, however, something reflexively growled at the name. The unraveled threads of a past self for a moment braided together, clinging fiber to fiber to once again take to the lectern. What spewed forth was incoherent, but gnashed its teeth, growled with naught but grudge and disdain. Affronted not by a betrayal, but abandonment much more cold and mundane. 

Ganondorf could hazard a guess. Wrapping these threads back around their spool, he banished that building inherited rage, and considered his judgment, “A promising offer indeed,” he proclaimed, his eyes trailing over the curling letters out of meditation. Not to read, per se. Perusing the words was no longer necessary; he’d made up his mind. That state was one of many to have wronged him and those following him in the exact same way. Zant needed not to be lectured, they were similarly motivated men, after all. 

But he could do with a reminder. “I have but one question. Where was this Tarn when the women of my tribe were being slaughtered, mere centuries past? Punished for the mere crime of survival. Did they not stand idle when we required their aid? Yet, now that we pose a military threat, they come to me on their knees, begging to be spared?”

Zant’s expression darkened. Watching it be carelessly flicked back across the desk, he took the envelope, folding it back to its former state. Just like Ganondorf expected, he understood. “... As you say, Master.”

Furrowing his brows, the Gerudo reclined, perusing the map to trail back his fragmented memories. It was difficult not to burn bridges, but Zant ought to walk out the door with at least some positive correspondence. He raised his face again, which Zant met with his own gaze reflexively. “By any chance, have we received correspondence from the Zuna?”

Zant perked up, immediately picking up his stack to sift through the envelopes. Impressively so, he seemed to have memorized the wax seals. He plucked out a single envelope and held it out. “Indeed we have. They offer us an initial deposit of one-hundred tons in milled ore, paired with shared access to their mines, asking for our protection and mercy in return.”

Ganondorf raised his brows again, reviewing the contents of the message himself. The offers were relayed to the letter, along with some other favors that were perhaps less monumental, but still to appeal to him as King. 

He nodded briskly and handed the letter back to him. “The Zuna were most charitable to the Gerudo prior to my banishing in the age of Twilight, as you may recall. Accept their terms.”

A smile returned to Zant’s face, who looked greatly pleased. As if he had any choice but to be. “I will have it signed, Sire… Though, do you not think it would make these new compatriots, shall I say, nervous, to see their neighbors slaughtered?”

“Either that, or it will prove to be a lesson,” Ganondorf growled, but in his ponderings, his eyes strayed back to that letter from Tarn. He slid it back before him and unfolded it, before snatching his quill back out of its holder, and dunking it in the inkwell. Paper nearly bled under the scratch of his nib. “As an alternative, I say we increase the grain offer and demand a sum of their soldiers to fight alongside us as we take over Hyrule. Perhaps we will not attack them outright, but they will not escape this war without loss. Such is the price I demand for their negligence when we required their aid.”

Zant nodded, retreating his hands into his sleeves in his usual fidget of excitement. “An excellent arrangement, indeed.”

The corner of Ganondorf’s lips crooked into a grin at his praise. None of his lieutenants were short on compliments. Frankly, most of it slipped past his notice these days. Yet, sitting across him, filing through these letters, something struck him as peculiar. Ganondorf set his quill back in its rest and leaned back, forcing their gazes to lock so he could pry about. “... I must express my surprise, Zant. I did not expect the man who so swiftly conquered all of Hyrule in cold blood to be so concerned with peaceful negotiations.”

Zant narrowed his eyes, bearing a somewhat wistful, bittersweet expression. He sighed, his once happily twiddling hands now falling limply by his sides. “Such negotiations were commonplace in the Palace of Twilight, Master, and I’ve grown to be proficient in them. Resources were scarce, and to divide them fairly among our people was a sensitive affair. When you are so few, you simply cannot risk war, lest every House tear itself to the ground.” Zant paused for a moment, wrenching himself free from their mutual gaze to glare down at the map. The ferocity with which he eyed down the depiction of Hyrule Castle could have burned holes in the parchment. “I did not deem Hyrule deserving of those mercies, as it was the reason the scarcities existed in the first place.”

Ganondorf grunted in return. So, an odd sense of mercy yet lingered in that broken mind. For all his eccentricities, he made for a fine tactician, indeed. His curiosity now satisfied, he allowed the both of them a slight smile and reached out, palm upturned, for his next letter. Zant took not a moment’s rest and orated every last offer that he held in his hands, for them to scrutinize and entrap in their final verdict.

After falling into a short silence, the cracking of a wax seal shattered Ganondorf’s line of thought with a single pop. His eyes widened, staring down at his desk in perturbed silence. In the almost automated rhythm of their negotiations, as natural as they were like the ebb and flow of the sea, Ganondorf had failed to notice they breezed through the stacks of correspondence Zant brought along. And now, the Twilight King took the liberty of taking their next task from the pile Ganondorf had lain there for himself. 

How long had he been doing that? How many had he already taken, browsed, and picked apart right under his nose? Ganondorf looked up after composing himself, staring up at the one across his desk. The moon that pulled at his waves, but now left them in a sudden harsh standstill, looked back at him curiously, cocking his head. 

Wordlessly, he took the envelope from Zant’s hand, who let it slip through his fingers as if it’d turned to dust before him. Ganondorf eyed him suspiciously, before turning his attention to the piles of correspondence and the freshly opened envelope now in his hands. Losing control over a situation, as harmless as it may have seemed, was unheard of to the Demon King. Let alone in his own office. He cared not for if Zant intended to do so – it was an affront. He knew the man to be careful and explicit in his words, as much as it contrasted with the way he carried himself in battle. As such, he could only come to one troubling conclusion. 

Zant had sensed a moment of weakness and slipped by on purpose. 

Setting down the envelope, Ganondorf leaned back in his chair and beckoned him. “Come hither.”

Zant’s expression did not change. Perfectly on command, he stepped on over to stand by his side, interrupting his stare only to blink. 

When Ganondorf’s hand reached for him, he flinched some, his glazy pupils darting between the approaching palm and his Master’s face. Yet he did not recoil, only squinted his eyes shut with a peep when broad fingers slipped under the edge of his coif. With the leathery fabric gradually tugged down to bundle at the base of his neck, his ears flopped free, sticking out between meticulously cut locks. 

As he remembered, one of those ears was significantly shorter. Ganondorf’s eyes strayed to the pale blue scar tissue that besmirched the Twili’s right ear.

Feeling his stare trying to capture him Ganondorf addressed him, nodding toward his injury. “Does this ail you, still?”

“No, Sire. It has healed splendidly.”

Ganondorf hummed in return, withdrawing his hand from the bunched-up fabric at his neck. “You took my warning seriously. Your efforts at Hyrule Field did not go unnoticed, Zant.”

A brief smile flashed across his face, but Zant’s expression soon turned blank. His ear twitched a moment in his consideration. “I would have been a fool not to, Sire. I believe I am many things, but a fool, I am not.”

Zant spoke with the cadence of telling a joke, but his face showed no tellings of a smile. A sense of unease bristled the hairs on the back of his neck, leading Ganondorf to consider the events of that day again. There was no mistaking it – facing off against Princess Zelda, Zant was at a disadvantage at every front, but still he prevailed.

No matter how reserved he was, Zant never disobeyed a command. Ganondorf simply had to look into his words carefully. Resting his chin on his knuckles, he inquired. “I have been toying with an idle curiosity since that day, Shadow Lord Zant. How did you defeat her? When we saw her magic rain from the sky, we were certain you had perished.”

“I took some inspiration from an old friend, is all,” Zant grinned, lacing his fingers together in a talkative gesture. “Perhaps you would find the method dishonorable, but faced against such a foe, I could not exactly play fair.” 

He was being vague... Ganondorf growled. “Cease your colorful language.”

“A blight, Master,” He blurted out after a beat of silence. “A withering curse. After I infected the Princess with it, I only had to beat her in a battle of endurance. The arrows were her last resort, and I simply dodged out of their way. I struck her down mere seconds after.”

Ganondorf hummed, the skin of his cheek denting under the pressure of his knuckles. With how the Princess looked last he saw her, Zant appeared to be telling the truth. 

“I no longer concern myself with matters of ‘honor’, not since Hyrule has abandoned all of theirs,” the Demon King grumbled, waving his hand dismissively. “You fought well. Nothing more than that is expected from you. Ah… You may fix yourself,” he muttered, gesturing for the coif still bunched around Zant’s neck.

Zant perked up at this command and set off to tend to himself, tucking his hair and ears back into place. His headdress now properly framing his head, the Twili peered at him with what would be expectation, but…

Not a single emotion could be read in those eyes. It was the same empty, invasive stare that bored into him when he gave him the very scar he just hid away. His sword carved through skin and cartilage like paper, and Zant hadn’t so much as flinched. The same man who cried and yelped as freely as he breathed stood dead-silent before him, blood running down his cheek. His golden eyes quietly filled with tears but his gaze was piercing and unrelenting. They only parted from him for a moment to glance at the dismembered piece of flesh as his Master tossed it on the ground beside him.

When Ganondorf dismissed him, he spoke not a word. The Lord of Shadows bowed at the waist, turned, and slipped right out of the tent. Only when he left did the torches in the room stop shuddering, and burned brightly as normal.

There was something deeply wrong with the lieutenant. Not in the way that typically defined a madman, for he wore those telltale signs on his sleeve, plainly for all to see. No, it was in these quiet moments that Zant’s behavior began to unsettle him. His co-lieutenants had a particular spark in their eyes; one of admiration and unwavering loyalty. Zant lacked it thoroughly. Once, that very first day, it glittered with promise in those amber globes, and he did not recall when exactly it disappeared. But his eyes were not empty. On the contrary. When their eyes locked, it felt like there were two sets staring back.

Ganondorf didn’t fear him, no. Since acquiring his new power, not even the passing worry he once had dared to rear its head anymore. Zant simply was not to be trusted. Certainly, he was a fine addition to his army. Among all of them, the Twili was the most cunning. A deeply learned man on all fronts, he bore knowledge rarely rivaled by others not yet in their third decade. Each time they shared a space, he so freely shared his pearls of wisdom with his Master without the slightest complaint. Yet, all the time they spent, sharing tales of justice and diplomacy, made Ganondorf all the more aware of his many flaws. He was fickle, easily distracted, and, hidden behind a gentle smile, deftly manipulative.  

Those vices were contagious to the rest of his men. Ghirahim in particular seemed susceptible to him. The trouble he’d given him at his recruitment turned to blind loyalty nauseatingly quickly. Once, Ganondorf doubted him, thinking that his flattery and devotion were a trick to worm under his skin. But as he’d proven to him, Ghirahim clung to him like a dog would its Master. Dedication so obsessive that it bordered on the selfish, he had long abandoned the thought that the sword spirit was in any way the ringleader of this bout of frivolity. All signs pointed to the one standing by his side, peering outside like it was his first time seeing the sun. So long as those hands were occupied by their present worship, Zant was meek as a kitten, eager for his praise and happy to serve. Ganondorf had no interest in discovering whether his fragile mood would one day shatter and make an enemy of him, instead. 

Running his fingers through his beard, Ganondorf turned back to the matters on his desk. A low grumble escaped him as his eyes wandered to the map. Many preparations were still in order: frontlines to secure; resources to manage; alliances to forge. He wondered what shreds of them he could still thrust into the hands of the man beside him.

Zant watched his machinations in silence for a while, until he realized Ganondorf paid him no mind any longer. Hands clasped behind his back, he retreated, opting instead to linger by the window and gaze out toward the training fields.

There was no denying it. Among the lieutenants, they stuck out like sore thumbs. Zant and Ghirahim were loyal, and even if they hadn’t been, they were no threat to him. But slithering as a viper under the grass, beyond their assigned duties, the party enjoyed one too many ambitions that strayed them from their path. Perhaps they were under the impression they were acting in secrecy, but it was not so. Ganondorf was perfectly aware of their little escapades. Wandering off like squabbling children was one thing, but to do so behind his back, where he knew not where they lingered… Whether it was an attempt at sabotage was irrelevant. Their disobedience was enough to draw his ire, to whittle away his trust. 

Ganondorf’s fingers curled around the armrests of his seat, its wood creaking ever so slightly under his grip. Yes, he was certain of it now. He had no need for these boys any longer. His power was greater than ever, and what he himself could not do, his remaining lieutenants would serve him well. 

One last mission. They were to chip away at the Hyrule’s bastions, before enemy troops would ultimately overwhelm the pair of exiles and release him of their burden. Ganondorf deployed them in such a way before, he recalled. They failed him then, and they would fail him now.

And should they succeed in their defense, he would do away with them himself.

When he looked up from his ponderings to turn back to Zant, he met with golden pupils that had long been staring at him. 

If he had the nerve to suspect his King, enough to be emboldened into such an accusing gaze, he had another thing coming. Zant’s life was in his hands, his to command – he had known this since he first ripped his soul from the Quiet beyond, and had no right to protest it now. 

Ganondorf would punish him as he saw fit. And so, he beckoned him over. “There is one final matter I will discuss with you, Zant.”

Zant’s expression grew ever so slightly colder, but he approached without hesitation nonetheless, joining closely by his side. “Of course.”

Carefully setting his previous commitments aside, Ganondorf cleared the surface of the map on his desk. Zant closely followed his every move as his finger slid across the grid. Now was the right time to ease some of his lingering worries, and take care of some other problems, in one fell swoop. 

“As of now, the war is at a standstill. But soon, Hyrule will come looking for me. Their first target will be our base of operations at Gerudo Palace, and we cannot let them raze it to the ground.” Pausing for a moment, he glanced over his shoulder to see his lieutenant still attentively clinging to his every word. “I intend to send you and Ghirahim to stop their advance. The Desert is our home. Since I enlisted you both to reclaim it, I will trust none other to defend it during our final stand. With Hyrule’s troops then occupied, I will seize their Castle, and all of the lands will be ours.”

Zant paused. His intrigued expression turned blank until he withdrew into silent contemplation. “Understood. We will not disappoint you, Master.”

If there was anything more telling of Zant’s character than his nearly constant shouting, it was his silence. Ganondorf took note of the tone in the Twili’s force. Coldly compliant, hiding something bitter underneath. Something hesitant. For a mission so crucial, he could not use hesitation. At this stage, the urge to struggle bordered on the stubborn. On refusal. This he would not accept. If anything bothered the lieutenant, he would let him stew in it, if only to make it more difficult for him to deny his reluctance. 

Ganondorf sat back in his chair, reclining with his eye on the map, before interrupting the silence with a demand of his attention. “You seem displeased.”

There – Zant swallowed a moment, averted his eyes. It was subtle, but his conflict was there. Zant responded. “There is simply the matter of Ghirahim, Sire. Hearing that he will once again be parted from you in such a climactic moment… It will surely break his heart.”

Now that he did not expect! Ganondorf burst into laughter; a cold and mocking sound, heard only by the last lingering punters at the gallows. “Spare me. Break his heart? He does not have one.”

Zant stood and watched him laugh, grinning softly himself. But it was an empty one. “... Of course not. Nothing more than a figure of speech, Master.”

“You indulge him too much, Zant. I’ll not tolerate any more weakening of his spirit. Or must I discipline him again?”

He responded a little too quickly. “That will not be necessary. Our Blade is sharp and strikes true. He will not fail what he is made for.”

Ganondorf leaned back in his chair, narrowing his eyes as he judged his expression. Again an alarming itch in the back of his mind urged him to put him back in his place. Zant stared back unmovingly but flinched at his next words. “And this is your promise to make?”

Face downcast, the lieutenant pondered for a moment, before answering with a determined clench of his lips. “Perhaps not. But I am confident that he will listen to me.”

“Then you shall be my conduit to him,” Ganondorf said, rising from his chair, it whining in protest under his massive frame. His fingers found the sharp slope of Zant’s chin and tipped his head back, forcing them back into a stare piercing enough to make their ears ring. “I expect nothing but carnage from him. Feed his bloodlust, perhaps then will he abandon his wretched drive to be my lapdog.”

Zant blinked up at him, for a moment frozen in place. Light poured in through the windows just darkened by his towering shadow, catching blushing-pink strands in his rosewood locks. Wide-set eyes soon narrowed, and squinted under the grin that stretched across his face. For the first time that day, Zant smiled at him genuinely, giggling with what could only be bubbling excitement over the death he would soon spread. Still laughing, the pallid creature nigh cuddled up in his robes and raised a hand to lay it over the one cradling his chin. Affectionately, he cupped it, and pressed a kiss to the jewels on his Master’s rings.

“I promise you just that, Your Majesty,” he tittered. His eyes, having closed in his act of worship, fluttered back open. The Triforce on his palm glittered golden in his pupils.

“Then you are dismissed.”

Relinquishing his grip on his left hand, Zant gave him one more broad grin, the slits at the corners of his mouth tugging and fluttering. He bowed at the waist and retrieved what little he had left to sign from the desk, then briskly made his way back over to the door.

Only to then be startled by a sudden knock. Both men perked up, one more caught off guard by the other. Already on his way out, Zant peered through the opening.

“Zant? You’re here,” inquired a feathery voice beyond the door. 

The makeshift doorman seemed equally pleasantly surprised. “Yuga,” he exclaimed. “You have returned to work already? Well, I should not pry.”

Doubtlessly already shooed out of the way by a burning glare, Zant somewhat nervously looked back into the room. Suddenly, the imposing man from earlier vanished entirely, instead making place for the skittish young apprentice that stood waiting for his approval now. 

Ganondorf couldn’t help a chuckle at the sight. He nodded, gesturing for his new guest. One lieutenant made room for the other, and in entered Yuga, his approach announced by one more tap than usual. He bound his way to him on crutches, each painted flashily – no doubt in his spare time. 

“Oh, that boy,” he huffed. “He’s been buzzing about the Temple all day. A smart one, he is, but I swear he’ll be the death of me!”

Ganondorf chuckled warmly, not quite yet meeting eyes with the man across his desk. He knew if he would, he wouldn’t be able to escape his gaze for quite some time. Dipping his quill in its ink, he took one last document in front of him, and signed. 

“Not to worry. He will not.”

Chapter Text

“If there is anything you desire, then I shall desire it, too.”

So spoke the colossal face before him. Zant stood there, frozen in a gaping stare as this massive, golden specter hovered before him. He had run to this balcony to shout his woes to the skies, losing himself in flagellant grief, in the fragile hope enough beatings would keep his anguish at bay. Perhaps if he cried out long enough, something would answer. Either something that would, by some miracle, save him from his predicament…

Or, more likely, grant him the willpower to fling himself off the balusters.

Yet, when he raised his face, the dreary ombre skies were nowhere in sight. Instead, there was a swirling, black orb blotting out the clouds, droning deeply to chatter his teeth in their sockets. It swallowed him whole.

After bidding him that promise, the sea around him shifted. From its depths, a shadowy hand surfaced to part the waves. It reached out to him, claw outstretched. Large, sharp enough to impale him with a single prod, yet Zant felt not a scrap of fear. He knew all it would do was fulfill its words. The tip of its finger touched his forehead. Souls touched, one so, so grand, dwarfing his, and chained together. Through this tether, a bolt of power crossed, and shook him to his core.

It was euphoric, a pure, blinding bliss as this being of pure magic entered him. He was his savior, his guardian angel, watching over him in his darkest moment and deciding He would help. With every breath, foggy ambrosia filled his lungs and leached into his veins. It clouded his thoughts, dulled his every sense, and smothered it all with a warm, tingling numbness. He had never felt more full, yet emptier all the same. His every nerve coiled in on itself – had he any breath to utter it, this ecstasy would have unlodged a whimper, to echo into this space of all spaces. Whatever being he had just communed with, it was in him and snaked its way into his every inch. One finger twitched, then another, until his hand moved on its own. With tenderness he didn’t know rested within his flesh, his thumb stroked past his, their, cheek, and rid it of its tears.

In this single second, he felt more divinity than he’d ever had, in all his years praying to his lesser gods in the palatial temple. How he wandered the wastelands clutching and clacking beads in search of a solution to their plights. What he worshiped then were mere vestiges compared to this all-encompassing force, little pieces of holiness his forebears dragged with them in tatters when they were condemned to this dying world. That world that had gurgled its last breath in its septic lungs before they’d even entered it, and hacked and coughed it out as they made their home there. 

This Being – Ganon – laughed within him, His manic glee spreading through him like a rot. There was no doubt about it; true, pitch-dark malevolence had made him its host, a being of pure vengeance that tangled with his own as if by fated embrace. But even as his mind darkened, a faint glimmer shone, kindled there by his own hand.

Hope.

More hope than he had ever felt in his life. This was no mere ancestral spirit. Far more, even, than a curse. This was a God. 

Just as he adjusted to this new force, convulsing and embracing himself, true darkness shrouded him again. When the haze cleared, he did not find himself on the balcony. Instead, he was hovering in the air, looking down at a most familiar scene. There stood Ganondorf, heaving in pain against the Master Sword lodged in his chest, facing two beings of Light that antsily waited for him to die. Zant knew they needn’t wait much longer.

Zant blinked, tilting his head curiously. The man below him winced, but did not perish. Watching the dreadful stillness at his feet, he spoke. “Why did you bring me here again? Are you truly so fond of dying?”

He spoke off-script. The illusion broke, the curtains of their stage torn, not drawn. Ganondorf growled, gazing at his clenched fist that bore a faintly glowing mark, until it did not. “This is the moment I first wished to seize my power back from you. This time I will not fail.”

Zant smiled as he watched his flesh-made God raise his hand toward him. “Once, I may have said you would have to wrench it from my cold, dead hands, but even then, you did not manage it. It is time that you learn, Demon King, that this power is mine and mine alone. As is this vessel. And they shall forever be!”

The illusion broke when he descended, landing before the towering man and grasping the grip of the burrowed sword in his hand. A wet giggle escaped him as he tested the blade, watching as it dug deeper into the gaping wound in Ganondorf’s chest. Ganondorf growled, cutting his laughter short with a fist clenching around his throat, but only enabling his amusement. Such violence begged for retaliation! Both hands wrapped eagerly around the grip and pushed. The master sword sunk deeper into Ganondorf effortlessly, earning him a wheeze of pain, and a once-king before him on his knees.

Zant kicked him over, straddling his chest with the sword before him. His fingers trailed up the blade — just as sharp as he’d remembered it, slicing through his fingertips and blending their streaks of blood. Just that little bit of unity could be indulged, he supposed. 

“No wonder the Ganondorf who torments me now remembers me so little. The piece of him that knew of my vengeance has rested right here, with me, all this time,” he giggled, sentimentally holding a hand over his chest. “And now, here you are. Does it vex you?”

He could only laugh at the burning hatred that glared up at him. Hands grasped over his, attempting to pull the sword out that he so playfully kept pinned down into him. The grip would break his fingers awfully soon, but Zant didn’t care. He had to make this perfectly clear. 

“You have passed your torch, old man, and will walk the living world no longer. The only one to control this body now, is me!”

Zant wrenched himself free and grinned toothily as Ganondorf frantically pulled at a sword that would not move. Odd-angled fingers ignored, he grasped his head in both hands, cackling in pleasure and pain, and twisted.

A dream… A memory? Oh, only if it were.

He awoke in a bed that was not his own, but at this point, it may as well have been. Still sheltered from the sun, he lay buried under the covers, with merely the crown of his head poking past the cloudy white, duck-feather comforter. So dreadfully cold it was in the North this time of year… And how warm he lay here now, with steel knees tucked against his bottom and an arm draped lazily around his chest. The dark beneath the blankets kept him in that fluffy, hardly-woken daze, leading him to think with instincts first, and rationality second. He grasped the hand that laid across his stomach, and with his eyelids fluttering back shut, ran the pads of his fingertips along his beloved’s. No longer as cool as they were during the day… Ghirahim’s skin always warmed, bit by bit, whenever he’d join him for a night, only growing their old frigid when pursuing some pastime or other while Zant lay sleeping.

His thumb quested further, stroking across his glossy nails, before finding the tops of his fingers. Each was diligently inspected, rubbing from knuckle to knuckle. He could visualize those hands behind his eyelids just from touch, by now. How delicate and elegant they were, not a callus in sight, even if he bore the brunt of much labor, and tore through so many in bloodshed. He could drift away again like this, lacing their fingers together, and inching back to nestle closer to him. How much time until dawn, he wondered? 

Lips that pressed into his shoulder shook him into a wide-eyed stare, his cheeks growing hot. His private little moment of affectionate touches was not so private after all… Not when he remembered Ghirahim did not sleep and was perfectly aware of his fiddling. 

Ghirahim hummed, voice hushed as he spoke. “Another nightmare?”

A tight, joint-popping stretch of his spine and legs forced a groan from him, settling him back in his arms soon after. “Oh, not at all. I found myself in the loveliest dream,” Zant yawned.

Ghirahim huffed behind him, unconvinced. “You’re certain? You sounded tormented.”

His hand laid over his, Zant peered over his shoulder, smiling contentedly. “How could anything come to haunt me, when I am protected like this?”

This answer pleased him. “Come to me, my lover,” Ghirahim purred, tugging him closer into his embrace. His fingers now pressed firmly into the supple skin of his stomach – surely, how fiercely such a term flushed him did not pass his notice, clearly felt in the arteries of his gut. “Haha! You asked me to call you such, and now, you fluster?”

A whine escaped him, prompting him to burrow further into his pillow. “To hear it fills me with such glee, Ghirahim-ili. I cannot help it.”

Yet his escape did not prove fruitful. Wherever he hid himself, the heat at his back pulled him back into their intimate contact. Zant was captivated, then, by how warm his core felt, how each churn of energy sent a buzz up his spine that made his face heat up all the brighter. Ghirahim seemed not aware of this, but that enigmatic gem, his heart, his brain, his soul, it made a sound. Like a knife being sharpened, dragged against whetstone as a bow and violin – a crystalline hum. Zant needed only to listen to gauge his mood these days… That is, if the demon could stop being so enamored with the sound of his own voice, to let him hear that telltale song. 

Through his musings, Ghirahim held him, cheekily grasping at his breast in the hope of evoking a laugh in them both. Hands that wished to hold, that wished to be held, made part of something greater than himself. 

Were he to linger in them any longer, he was sure to never rise. How lovely, how adored! His heart fluttered to and fro like a songbird caught in a cage, and his body reacted all the same. Besieged by a fit of giggles, Zant kicked his feet and wrestled his way out of his embrace. Once he sprung free from that iron grip, he launched himself across the bed, stanced on all fours as if Ghirahim might pounce him any moment. If his heartbeat, sending the blood racing through his ears, was to be believed, he would. 

For a moment too bewildered to speak, Ghirahim stared at the grinning creature across him. He grit his teeth in a smirk of his own, before hunching down to prowl towards him. Zant darted from his advance, leaving the sword spirit to thud face-first into the sheets behind him. Sanding down his skills for the fun of it, surely! Else he would have caught him!

Ghirahim huffed, meeting his panting and snickering with a pout. “How juvenile. Pray tell, how old are you again?”

He clawed himself forward twice in a crawl, again playfully scurrying away, until the question prompted him to think. How long since their advance..? What day did he die? 8496 turns of the Twilit Hourglass, three-hundred-sixty-five turns of the Sun in this odd world. Side-by-side, how many days apart, would be… 

Zant blinked in their little stand-still, pulling free from his absent gaze. “Ah. Twenty-nine, as of two weeks ago.”

A quizzical expression crossed Ghirahim’s face. Did such a number mean anything to him, he wondered? Would he think him young or old? But he had little time to pick apart what he might be thinking. For soon Ghirahim grew bored of internal queries, and was upon him in a flash, tumbling the both of them back into the pillows. 

After the protesting squeaks were over with, Zant relented. Now happy to be huddled up with him again, Ghirahim questioned him. “Is the passing of another year not typically celebrated among Twili?”

Zant groaned in thought, squinting his eyes shut. Idle hands drummed on the back splayed across him. “It is, but what a pointless affair it would be. Who would I celebrate it with?”

“What about me,” Ghirahim cooed, prodding a finger at his hostage’s cheek.

“Tracing the days back, I’m sure on the day itself you were once again in my quarters, sharing my company. This, I am plenty content with.”

Such an explanation seemingly bored the Sword Spirit to no end, with how it made him sigh and sink further into the blankets. Zant supposed he was always more of the lavish type, and would not be sated by an answer so sappy and mundane. Perhaps he could think of a gift of sorts to neg him for, but for now…

“We have lingered enough. I would much prefer to dress myself before the sun rises any further. After all, Master needs us to accompany him to the desert sooner than later,” he sighed, nudging at the heavy form atop him to hopefully shake him into action a bit. Zant was perturbed by the gaze that caught onto his. For once, Ghirahim was called to duty and met it with reluctance.

Their arrival at Gerudo Desert was one of eerie calm. Ganondorf awaited them by the gates, watching bemusedly how his chamberlains fussed over the supplies necessary for what would only be a short stay. In warping together, they would have to combine their powers. One hand for each lieutenant, he reached out for them to accept in open palms. A rustle, a chime, a blaring hum – all overlapped in a striking chord. In an instant, the Temple was out of sight.

Zant reflexively wheezed when the new scenery came upon him. Oppressive heat, smothering him from all sides. The dark shelter of his helmet only offered some respite from the dry, sweltering air that crept in through his visor slots. How he cursed the possibilities of an ambush, forbidding him from dressing lightly! 

Permitted by Ganondorf’s advance, the pair of lieutenants turned, watching the Gerudo traverse the sands that led to the city gates mere paces away. To once again be in the desert, watching him march to his goal in this sea of gold, evoked a memory of not long ago. But when the world around him looked far, far different.

—

Weightlessly he hovered in this void expanse, knowing not how long, remembering not how to even care for such a thing. Beckoning again beyond the veil, stirring him from the deepest of slumbers, a shimmer of gold plucked at the strings of his soul. The Sorceress again? It couldn’t be. This was its own power, dark and primordial, of which a mere echo once lingered within Cia. He recognized it, he…

The golden light raced past him now, enveloped him like curtains had been drawn. With a ragged gasp, dry, warm air filled his lungs once more. The tips of his fingers, his ears, his cheeks, all felt red hot with the newly returned sensation of pumping blood. He was alive again. 

Before him, there he stood, fulfilling his promise of centuries past. 

Ganondorf, King of Thieves, King of Demons. 

Yet, this was a different man. The thrum of past power confirmed it. Somewhere, the beaten and defeated fury of an older Ganondorf still weakly snarled from the very void he was just ripped from. A realization struck them both at the same time, causing one to smile, and the other to recoil. Where his supposed God had failed to revive him, his descendant did so without persuasion. 

Whether from his weakened legs, or the force before him commanding it so, he fell forward into a kneel. Ganondorf approached but Zant could not muster the strength to raise his head and witness more than his boots. He felt his fingers shake in their sleeves. With the shouting in his mind, he couldn’t possibly bear to look at both of them at once.

“Shadow Lord Zant, Demon Lord Ghirahim. I have released you from the bounds the Sorceress has placed upon you, and with it, freed you from your imprisonment. From this moment forth, you will follow my every command. Your life is in my hands as the Demon King, and I will snuff it out when I see fit.”

Ganondorf paused, scanning the pair before him with burning eyes. This descendant was forceful. He did not arrive with bribes and promises, he demanded subordination within seconds. 

Seemingly satisfied with the lack of protest thus far, he continued. “The Triforce of Power was stolen from me by the Sorceress’ former half. I enlist your military prowess to assist me in this campaign to seize it.”

Something was missing… Zant realized it, as did the man clawing at the back of his eyes. Only then did the Twili dare lift his face some, to study for an additional spark of austerity, or some telling that he was to be beaten more thoroughly into submission. 

Nothing. There was none at all. Ganondorf glared them both down equally.

How very interesting… This Ganondorf remembered him in name and power only, but not the feud that tied him and his predecessor together for all eternity. Did the shock of death rid him of the memory of his betrayal? Such ignorance could only work to his advantage. If this reborn Demon King needed a servant, he could certainly play the part. What did he have to lose? Arisen anew, he couldn’t let this opportunity to have Hyrule at his feet slip through his fingers again. This third chance could be his last.

The man beside him was clearly much less amicable to the idea. Ghirahim, as he was introduced, had not moved a muscle since surfacing from the gate beside him, his features tightened into a scowl. Zant looked on curiously as the pristine white being burst into laughter.

“Perhaps Cia will be desperate enough to beg for your alliance, but I will not. How low the Sorceress has sunken!”

A peculiar energy buzzed forth from this man, lashing out angrily as his hair bristled and his fists clenched. “You dare to bear the title of Demon King? You are but a mere human! In what realm do demons bow to mortal men !?”

Hands threw up in the air, massive pupils narrowed to slits and his teeth bared in aggression. Certainly an animated character. “It is an insult… A disgrace to my Master! I’ll have your head for such a transgression!”

With a snap of his fingers, a rapier was summoned in the Demon’s hand, but before his fingers could fully curl around its grip, Ganondorf burst toward him like lightning. A swift strike of his fist sent Ghirahim tumbling, skidding through the dust. He came to a halt by the Demon King’s hand, who had gripped his throat with golden-clawed fingers. Sword lost in the dust a few feet away, Ghirahim was powerless against the mighty hand of the Master slamming him into the ground. A choked groan rang from his throat with each impact, his struggles in vain. He was pounded once more into the sand, and Ganondorf held him pinned there, leaning over him with a growl. Ghirahim kicked his legs in a show of defiance, until suddenly, he went still. Even beyond the kicked-up dust, Zant could see it. From his left hand, a faint golden glow shone through his gauntlet – empty but waiting, matching the deep black aura that wafted from him like licking flames. 

“I have no use for a peon that will not obey me,” Ganondorf snarled, pulling Ghirahim closer to his face before dropping him to the ground. “I will not warn you again, Blade.”

Zant followed him with his gaze as Ganondorf marched back to his former place. Their eyes met briefly, gold stumbling upon gold, and in an instant, that familiar scowl drilled into his consciousness. The same man, but not quite… Yes, with such a display of power, he’d decided. It was in his best interests to have this Ganondorf trust him. And so, he smiled at him in return, bowing his head in respect of his Master. Ganondorf grunted and continued his march, setting out for the tents that stood in the shade at the edge of the desert. 

“My home has been ravaged by vermin in my absence, and I intend to reclaim it. I expect you to join me in my tent for reconnaissance. Should you refuse, I will not hesitate to crush you along with the rest of the intruders.”

After nodding affirmatively, Zant turned again to where his fellow to-be commander was left, and found him sat up, panting and clutching his chest. He stared out in front of him but his mind was someplace else. Curiously, he approached him, cocking his head. He could only guess that Ghirahim had a similar revelation to himself, but was taking it far less in stride. 

Tentatively, he held out his hand, offering to help him rise. Someone ought to snap him out of it. “You recognized it too, didn’t you? That power.”

Ghirahim blinked, a haze clearing from his deep, large pupils. Before fully meeting his eyes, he had already swatted his offered hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

Zant straightened himself, towering above the man sitting before him, and retracted his hand to clasp them behind his back. 

A squint locked Ghirahim in eye contact almost too easily, and somewhat nervously, he stammered again to speak. “I did, but… How..?”

Zant broke the trap of his gaze and looked toward the tent, where Ganondorf had just disappeared into. “The very same curse that brought the Princess and her guard dog back for another round, I assume.”

Ghirahim rose to his feet, joining Zant in staring at the tent. He didn’t speak, still, just glared in deep conflict at the sight before him. It was almost pitiful.

And so, Zant decided to take off and kick his plans into motion. “You can do as you wish, but I am hesitant to make an enemy out of the Demon King. I suppose I will meet you on the battlefield, one way or another.”

Quite a few paces he walked alone, his helmet reassembling itself to spare him from the burning rays of the sun. Now thoroughly concealed, he felt safe grinning when footsteps joined behind him, slowly but surely.

“Zant? What’s keeping you?”

In just that split second, the sword spirit seemed to turn into an entirely different being. The Ghirahim he knew then was all points and edges, eager to drive his endless wit under his skin until he had no choice but to bite back at him. And while this urge to annoy him never left him, he was different, now. There was an undeniable softness to him. Words that once would have left his lips in a sneer now warmly lingered with genuine concern, sweetly sticking to his tongue like honey. 

It was a testament to how blades were not merely used to destroy, but also to mend, to cure. Bit by bit, he’d taught a sword how to care.

When Zant smiled at him in return, picking up after him in a rush, the desert sun sparkled in his deep black pupils. Zant joined his side soon after, relishing how his attention did not leave him even once. 

“The heat must have gotten to my head for a moment there,” he hummed. “We’ve come all the way from the North, after all.”

Counting on being out of earshot of their Master, Ghirahim chuckled, jabbing at the Twili with his elbow. “You can survive martial combat, but the climate gets the better of you? It’s embarrassing to wear your weaknesses on your sleeve like this, Zant.”

Zant scoffed. “Ah, yes. As opposed to wearing them with a target on your chest, of course.”

Were they subtle in their dawdling at any point, Ganondorf surely noticed his servants bickering behind him from that point on. With only a brief pause in his gait, he marched to the Palace. The Demon King was off to settle his final arrangements before bidding his most loyal men farewell, for good.

The evening of Ganondorf’s arrival was as celebratory as it was solemn. The governesses were as pleased to see their King in his full power as they took his arrival as an omen. The final stand was at hand, and the strategy briefing of mere hours earlier conveyed that Gerudo Valley would not come out of this battle unscathed. Any bit of leisure and merrymaking was precious, and as such, the wizened Court was masking themselves with as much cheer as they could muster. Ghirahim and Zant, seated at the end of the table reserved for those of higher military ranking, overlooked the governesses squabbling over opportunities to converse with the man who would change their lives for good. In between filling their cups and chattering amongst one another, on occasion, one of the women would rise, and approach Ganondorf’s seat to give him their blessings. To which the King, of course, took to with great warmth and integrity.

Among them was a woman with an empty stare, who gradually darkened and secluded in her own mind as the night went on. Zant recognized her as the head of foreign trade, who left an impression on him as a boisterous, steadfast woman. None of her usual sparks could be seen as she stood up from her seat and approached Ganondorf, who was caught in conversation with the governess beside him. 

“With the Seven to guide me, this ends today.”

Candlelight reflected off a polished surface not there seconds earlier. Taking shelter behind the backrest of Ganondorf’s chair, the Courtswoman pulled a dagger from her robes and thrust it toward the Demon King. 

It was a mess of bodies. Those who cowered in fear, and those who threw themselves at the assailant to wrestle her off of their King. Among the latter were even elderly women of the Court, whose feeble arms tore like paper under the meticulously sharpened dagger, the King’s retainers, and of course, his very own Ghirahim, who bolted toward her the second he smelled steel.

But before an obsidian blade could run her through, Ganondorf himself clenched his massive hand around the Chancellor’s arm. With a sweep, he flung her over the table, sending her skidding across the floor and into the hall’s central corridor. A streak of blood followed her, the ominous sign of falling upon her own blade. Groaning and heaving, but still fueled by rage, she rose in spite of her injuries. Blade in hand, her fierce drive to kill had not yet ceased.

The commotion all around the mess hall soon tested her resolve. As if melting into a single being, the shrieks and cries of enraged troops dawned upon her like a tidal wave, claws and calloused palms reaching for her in a mob’s desire for violence. 

“Halt,” shouted Ganondorf’s thunderous voice, sharp enough to crack air as if it were a thin sheet of glass. He raised a hand, forcing every single being in that hall to freeze on the spot. “None may approach her. We will hold Chancellor Meherat’s trial right here, and now.”

Those who were injured in the scuffle were promptly escorted from the hall, and a deathly silence befell what was once an infernal atmosphere. Though Ganondorf had forbidden anyone from nearing the accused, there was a shuffled footfall in the servants’ entrance, leading to the courtyard… The preparations for her execution were already underway. 

And what a foolish act it was! With the Triforce under his command, no mortal blade could truly harm Ganondorf. No, not even Zant dared dream of such a hands-on approach, now. The consequences of such a fit of passion were unfolding before him, a lesson of their own.

Those left in the mess hall arranged themselves in cold, courtly fashion. The commanding and governing forces seated in their makeshift magistrate, and the crowd of soldiers, their jury. Ganondorf leered, his eyes scanning the room to command its silence. Gazing at the center of it all, the trial commenced. 

An odd tone of pity stained his rigid voice with mockery. “Now, speak. What has clouded your judgment, Chancellor? Only pure madness could drive a woman of your stature to defy her King.”

“The only madness in this room lies within your own Court, Ganondorf,” the Chancellor snapped, resulting in a scandalized, furious heckling from the crowd behind her. She paid it no mind. “All our people wanted was peace – dignity! And you have befouled the noble name of the Gerudo by aligning yourself with demons. Monsters! Your actions are beyond the retaliation for which we rallied behind you. They are annihilation! There is no salvation in the death you rain upon Hyrule. What use is there to be found in a land we cannot thrive in? Every single one of you is blinded by vengeance! I will stand for it no longer.”

Ganondorf straightened in his seat, solemn, yet unimpressed. His countenance was calm, but the racket from the crowd surely could only stem from their King’s inner rage. “Then I take it there were no conspirators?”

“None that had to persuade me, Demon. My sisters are innocent. But mark my words – With every settlement you scorch, every monster you set free on your homeland, our people’s trust in you wanes. The streets of Gerudo City are ripe with whispers of your cruelty. There will be more like me! If I must die to set this example, then I shall face the Heroines with a smile!”

Meherat was manic, burning with conviction, even as the loss of blood rid her of the strength in her legs. Her eyes desperately sought support, or at least recognition in the eyes of the Court before her. Whether she found any, Zant could not discern from this angle.

Ganondorf sighed, crossing his hands before him on the table. His tusks bared, a flash of aggression amidst his air of grave stoicism. “It is a pity, Chancellor. I hoped to grant you a swift death.”

It was thus – Chancellor Meherat was to be put to death. Her bridges burnt, the love of her sisters lost, and the sound of her name condemned. A rich life suddenly thrown away in an assassination attempt that would never have worked, forged as it was in the blinding darkness of despair and twisted justice. All for the sake of peace. Peace. Peace. Peace! What hideous neglect, what decay, and what fetid blood had been spilled for that wretched word! Oh, how she had almost pinpointed the wrongs in this selfish King’s leadership, but as many before her, concluded so terribly misguidedly. A conclusion once shared by a woman of equal beauty, equal love in her heart, and equally bright, amber hair. 

Zant was snapped out of his train of thought by the splinters that jabbed into the underside of his nails. Fresh grooves tainted the dining table at his hands. His eyes tracing the pale wood he’d uncovered, he decided he refused to sit idle, and took the seat of Magistrate.

“If I may, King Dragmire.”

All eyes vested on him in an instant. He ignored the dark scowl already brooding in the shadow of Ganondorf’s bushy eyebrows. “Why not simply… Send her in exile? If it is peace, or dignity, as she says, that she desires, I gladly invite her to seek it with our enemy. Perhaps then she will fully realize how our brutality serves to shield Gerudo against that which the Hyruleans would happily inflict.”

Ganondorf clicked his tongue, but a smirk crooked the corner of his lips even still. “Your offer is as absurd as it is intriguing. I will not risk sending a traitor that threatens my army for the indulgence of a satisfying punishment.”

“I beseech you to consider,” Zant stated, his fingers interlacing on the table before him. “How many of our commanders have been captured, and when has this ever hampered us? All this crucial information they have doubtlessly forced from their throats, and yet, the Triforce is still secured in your palm, My Liege. There is nothing she can tell them that will harm you now, not when Hyrule Castle is so close to falling at your feet.”

Ganondorf narrowed his eyes. Whether he was genuinely considering it, or merely playing along to placate him, was difficult to tell. It kept him talking either way, so Zant didn’t quite care. The Gerudo continued picking apart his plan, perhaps to catch him in a fumble. “Who is to say she will not become a willing collaborator, rather than their prisoner?”

“We have sent spies before, Master, and nearly every single one of them has had their head mounted on a pike. Hyrule will consider her no different, surely.”

Ganondorf scoffed in laughter, “Very well. Guards! Seize the Chancellor. You are to escort her to the desert and ensure she does not return,” he demanded, his hand outstretched in the final verdict, emphasized with a clenched fist. His attention turned to the court member to his left. “Furthermore. Grand Mistress Kotoji, her name is shunned from this day forth. See to the eradication of her records from administrative documents. We will appoint her successor at dawn.”

The cogs in the machine started turning in an instant. Armed and shrouded Gerudo marched up to drag away the sentenced Chancellor, whose angered cries for the Court to join her cause splattered against the walls of every room she would traverse. The crowd was tense, her claims of more traitors running amok and the possibility that her enervated speech would hatch more of them, doubtlessly sowing suspicion. Surely, Zant’s suggested verdict, and the baffling acceptance of such a bloodless sentence, undoubtedly had a similar discordant effect.

The consequences of which soon beckoned him. As the table returned to a semblance of calm, Ganondorf summoned him with a snag of his eyes and a wave of his hand.

“You are walking a very fine line, Shadow Lord,” Ganondorf growled at him, sheltered by the uproar of the dining hall. “This battlefield is not yours to play games in. High treason, and you set her free? I will send men in her pursuit before sundown.”

“There is no need to worry, Master,” Zant smiled, bowing in submission to have his whispers easily heard. “On her own, without supplies, the desert will claim her before making it even a quarter of the way. Besides, to butcher their once-beloved Sister before their very eyes will give us an ill will from your remaining Court. Certainly, you know this too, My Liege, or you would not have accepted my terms.”

Ganondorf furrowed his brows at him, before leaning back in his seat, contemplating the hall before him in deep scrutiny.

His every breath was a test; Zant knew very well that Ganondorf suspected him. Did he not, he never would have sent the two of them here. Zant was peering into his open grave and awaited the firm-handed push that sent him down there with a grin. Not a shred of his reasoning just now had been a lie, but the plan itself was audacious – essentially an offer to send out a counter-spy scot-free. And yet, Ganondorf agreed with it. What did he have to lose, at this point? Very likely, h e would do no worse. 

This Ganondorf was powerful and charismatic. He tore down keeps with his bare hands, wrapped countless court officials around his finger. His own Ganondorf had been lonely and bound himself to him thus – this One was less stubborn, in that way. But in that strength lay a fatal flaw: he was cocky. In taking them to this damned place, to protect a mission that could only fail, surely he thought he was rid of those thorns in his sides.

It was all too merciful. No, he was not soft, he was naive. Clearly, Ganondorf saw neither of them as a threat big enough to dispose of on short notice. So, before he could depart, what else could he do to burrow himself deeper in his ire? What punishments would they evoke? Reduce the number of his troops? Bait out an ambush? Would he see him poisoned, or cursed? Master, what could I possibly do to you, for you to slay me, right here, and now?

Zant would never get his answer. The adrenaline now worn off, Ganondorf had noticed a minor flesh wound by his upper arm and sought to have it treated. Just in case the blade had been poisoned. Bit by bit, the mess hall drained of people, and at some point, Zant had wandered out with some other crowd of them. The metallic clanking of his soles just barely made it past the ringing in his ears. 

Oh, indeed. Ganondorf needn’t worry. Not about Meherat, at least.

As he’d predicted, there she ran. So far away from the city, the gibbous moon and sea of stars shone vibrantly above, joining hands to light the way of this condemned runaway. Three hours since her banishment, and the sands already took their toll on her. Trudging through silky sands filled one’s legs with lead, he knew this intimately by now. Yet, she was making decently good time. Of course, Ganondorf hadn’t listened to his final call and sent an executioner’s party after her the minute his wound was flushed out. To no avail, however. The Chancellor was clever and well-informed, so much so that she’d swerved out of sight of the Demon King’s outposts that scattered sparsely throughout the deeper sand wastes. 

But not out of his. 

With no more rock outcroppings to hide behind, Zant could only shelter in the skies, a black smudge hovering against prismatic blue. But hours in the dark had made her eye too keen. She looked behind her once, twice, just to check, before opening her mouth in a soundless scream and breaking out in what she hoped to be a sprint.

He would not let his Master’s troops take this from him. Wind soared through his helmet, sand whipped up around him, and before he’d known, that panicked face was mere inches from his own, his fingers wrapped tightly around her throat.

“You are a kind woman, Chancellor Meherat – Too good, to survive in our midst. But that is precisely where our predicament lies. Hyrule would listen to you, for good people like you are exploitable, even if the chances of your rescue are slim…” Zant hissed between the two of them, looming over her while squeezing ever-tighter. “Forgive me, forgive me…”

Under the fierce grip of his hands, the Gerudo struggled, clawing at his arms and kicking at his gut with every ounce of might she still had. Before long, she at last grew limp and dropped to the floor, now free of him.

He recalled another being just like her, whose misplaced kindness in the end spelled doom for her people. And though his goals aligned with this one, he could not afford her getting in his way. So swiftly he struck her, his scimitar driving between her ribs, simultaneous mercy and execution.

“May the sands reclaim you, Chancellor,” he muttered in idle prayer, before kneeling down to hide a piece of parchment among her robes. 

He stood there, watching as the desert winds gently buried her, the light of the stars above brought him clarity. Now that he beheld her beyond the fog of his mind, her hair wasn’t as orange as he thought it to be. It was really more of a carmine.

Zant sat at his triptych mirror, begrudgingly accepting the assistance of the morning sun as he applied the black lines to his lower eyelids. His Dagger lingered about him as if he had any input on the matter, but soon found some way to fuss over him nonetheless. Fingers threaded through his hair, scratching pleasantly past the grown-out fuzz at the back of his head.

“I think we ought to preen you a little before we head to battle again, Zant,” Ghirahim hummed thoughtfully.

Finishing up his one eye, Zant puckered his lips, looking back at him through the mirror with a bit of a frown. “Already? Is it so drastic?”

“Your shave is growing out again. Just a touch-up, is all.”

And yet, he couldn’t help but indulge him. His eyes darted between his reflection and that of Ghirahim’s in the mirror, before he leaned back to resume accessorizing his other eyelid with a smirk. “Hmmm… Without Yuga to safeguard me, will I be alright, I wonder…”

“Hah! You doubt my skills, now? Some nerve you have,” Ghirahim sneered.

A dip of his brush in the bottle of pigment. “I wouldn’t dare. Yuga simply is a bit more amicable to my wishes, is all.”

“Only because he can’t stand the pout you give him when you’re uppity. Is this about those odd bangs you insist on growing out? Never did I know why you keep those,” was the response, emphasized by the grasping of his longer locks, which fell through his parted fingers like flowing water.

“... Well, ah,” Zant hesitated. Was such a subject appropriate? If it was, would it anger him? How forward it would be. In any other circumstance mere ethnographic fact, but with the bond they shared, carrying such implications! But perhaps the truth would settle the matter. 

He placed his brush down and rested his hands in his lap in a reserved gesture, avoiding his gaze. “In my people’s customs, that is where I will receive my braid, if I am to be wed.”

Ghirahim perked up at his words, his face subtly tugging at its sculpted features. He quickly retracted his hands to fold them at his chest. Picking at the edges of his gloves, he seemed conflicted as he considered his next words. “Right. Such matters will be of concern to nobility, once the war settles, of course.”

Zant turned to him now, gauging his expression in full. A worry lingered there, of neither wanting to impose nor be imposed upon. Did Ghirahim assume himself to be excluded from potential marriage candidates? To which degree did this trouble him?

Yet this troubled state joined hands with its twin, leaching into Zant’s mind. Though his own wishes on the matter were not quite aligned, to wed another than him could prove more politically efficient, down the line. He could never bear it, Zant decided, to degrade the first to profess his love for him to the ranks of a mere concubine.

So he banished the thought from both their minds, pulling Ghirahim into his embrace. For a moment, Ghirahim flinched, startled that the action could serve as a confession. These fears were quickly cast away when Zant craned his head up to grin broadly at him.

“How you fret over mortal matters! Ghirahim-ili, the red on your cheeks may fool me into thinking you might be of the same flesh and blood as I,” he teased, resting his chin against his chest.

The flush of his cheeks and ear only grew stronger. “If you so intend to mock me, you would do better to do so after fixing yourself. Your cosmetics are completely asymmetrical!”

Zant laughed, freeing him from his grip and turning back to his mirror to resume his daily grooming. “Alright,” he chimed, holding the brush to his cheek with care. “You ought to make yourself scarce either way, Yima Dinifen. My chamberlain will arrive with my breakfast any moment now.”

With just one knock at the door, a jingling of chimes announced a departure behind him, and the white shade in his mirror erased its presence.

And so, their days resumed. After Ganondorf returned to his post in the Temple, the pair were left to their own devices to prepare for the Hyruleans to take the bait. And take it they did, for mere days after the Demon King visited the Palace, the first scouts were sighted scurrying about the desert. Undoubtedly to catch a glimpse of their developing formations! 

Those glimpses would be allowed. The first days were ones of deception, of placing troops haphazardly in a feint, only to slaughter every last vanguard that would come looking from thenceforth. Zant’s hand trailed the map – they would have to route cages for their beasts to each corner of the field. That way, they could adequately trap their foes in the center of the valley, and whittle away at their composures.

So deep in thought was he, that he had not noticed his co-lieutenant joining him in their strategy room, laying a hand on his elbow. “Off in your own little world again? You mustn’t forget to relay your schemes to me, Zant.”

His mind struggled a moment, forcing itself through the barricade of his focus to direct his attention to the one beside him, instead. Yet when he looked upon him, with a gaze so tender yet hiding tantalizing conflict behind a shroud of yearning, that reluctance faded in an instant.

“All in due time, Ghirahim-ili,” he murmured, laying his hand over his. “What do you require from me, to approach me in such solitude?”

To be addressed suchly took Ghirahim aback for a moment. Ah, he knew this look. These were the characteristic signs of a very specific mood of his; where his mind was troubled, but he hoped to assuage it through physical affection. To correct his course elsewhere, where he needn’t think or discuss his woes. 

With their lives treading on such a fine line, Zant wasn’t interested in such avoidant behavior. Ghirahim was snagged on by the question a little too easily.

“With our Master’s true coronation so close on the horizon, Zant, I’ve been occupied with far more thoughts than are becoming of me. You’ve experienced the same, I'm certain.”

“Oh, when do I ever not sit and worry,” Zant giggled. He was tempted to press a kiss to his cheek but decided not to interrupt him.

“As you say,” Ghirahim laughed at his quip. “Among these thoughts were that of my future, but moreso of our past, and what it will come to mean. It’s childish, but I was reminded of the first words of love I gave to you. I thought then to have deceived you in giving you that promise, but now I know it is not so.”

Taking advantage of the loose occupation of his hands, Ghirahim guided his arm, making room for himself in-between, and stepped into his embrace. 

“This love, as you have described it, long I have assumed it as being entirely alien to me. Yet, with every minute I spend with you, Zant, my doubts about this long-held belief grow ever larger. I cannot ignore them now, because the contrary could not be more clear. The way you love, Zant, aligns with my own with every passing day. As does my love grow to resemble yours,” he began to wax, fondly amused by the red tinge he awakened in the Twili’s face. “And I find it perplexing , for us to be connected this way, for in being made of flesh and blood, you and I could not be more different.”

Ghirahim paused, taking a moment to capture his hand and behold their contact. Observing thoughtfully. “What makes us different, mortals and I, is that I know my purpose. The second I was forged, I knew what my existence meant for me, and I delighted in it. Mortal men- humans, I believe, you are listless,” he emphasized, now lacing their fingers. His expression darkened, losing its shine to a sullen face. “Fickle. Because there simply is no purpose but to live. Your myriad of choices blinds you, burdens you, whereas I have none, and I adore the way I am supposed to be. I thought I would never understand that restless sort of existence. But now I do. Master will not wield me.”

To Zant’s mortification, yet soul-stirring delight, Ghirahim grasped his hand tighter and placed it on his chest. In that moment of silence, where both of them held a breath, there was that song again. It chimed and pulsed so strongly he could feel it in the pads of his fingers. Those saccharine shocks resonated through his arm, pressing kisses to every nerve and sinew it tore past, and in its crescendo delivered its fiercest affection to his heart. It was a call, a plea for a matching pulse, saying far more than Ghirahim could ever dare to. Now, guarded as they were amidst the glittering shards of Zant’s mind, he would never have to.

Ghirahim winced as those fingers indulgently dug deeper into the skin of his chest, but soon grew to relish in it. “I cannot promise you my entire self, Zant. The thought alone could shatter me. A piece, however, I can afford.”

With a flourish of his hand, his velvet cape scattered into a glittering whirlwind of diamonds, warm like embers as they brushed by Zant’s skin. As his garment disappeared, Ghirahim leaned back, resting more and more of his weight in his arms, and baring more and more of his most vulnerable places to him. His lean neck, the underside of his chin, and more prominently so, the diamond keyhole at his chest. 

His breast heaved, taking a breath that never reached any true lungs, then dipped back down in a shudder. Zant felt his own chest tighten, his heart pounding to his ribs, as Ghirahim spoke his offer. 

“Reach within me, Twilight King. Take part of me, as you have taken a part of our Master. It is yours.”

***

Zant swallowed. He felt the pulse of his core behind his chest, concentrating at its center. With a jolt of Ghirahim’s body, that ivory surface cracked, revealing at last that silver gem, his hand curled around its facets. Anticipation tightened their bodies, for this contact alone, as profound as it was, would only grow more intense. To breach inside would require magic.

A deep inhale, wind brushing past a dry throat, expanded Zant’s chest. Such a feat could not be done without hurting him. To plunge his hand within him, even if done with utmost gentleness and intimacy, would not leave him unscathed. Months ago now, he’d picked inside the labyrinth of his core, but only ever with a proxy of himself. No, this was much coarser work. He would have to use his magic to pry him open and force his hand through the jagged crevice. To wrench free whatever he offered him.

Such a violent act… And Ghirahim trusted him to do it. He wanted him to. No, within his eyes, he saw. Ghirahim would be heartbroken if he didn’t. If he declined this offer, he’d bear the gift prepared for him like a lodged arrow until it festered out from him.

Summoning every inch of will in his body into this one hand, he prepared his incision. The magic such an act required made his peripheral vision turn pink and the sight in his heat pits red-hot and useless. Ghirahim winced when that barrier keeping him – him, his essence – safe from the outside world began to crumble. Yet it did not crack, it simply faded beneath his hand. Zant gasped in awe as his hand dipped beneath this permeable edge, and its disappearance bore to him a sight untold.

Crimson. Not sterile silver but a fiery red. What an astute metaphor it was! Beyond that cold, icy surface, to hide something so burning and true! Within him, a gem of cycling colors tucked carefully into a burning, molten cavity. It was black – no, red, or perhaps a golden, changing every second under the candlelight and the lively fire of his own being. A garnet, a ruby, a brilliant red diamond. He could only liken him, for doubtlessly, he was one of a kind.

“Ghirahim. You’re beautiful.” 

He reached inside, and it was warm. His hand sunk in effortlessly, circling his wrist with a bright white light. By the time his senses figured out whether that inside his core was an icy cold or searing hot, Ghirahim had tipped back, only barely caught by the arm hooked around his waist. Warm pinpricks tickled his skin, filling his hand with static at every twitch and curl of his fingers. Any sensible instinct that would tell him to recoil from the heat was smothered in an instant, snuffed out by the soft groans from Ghirahim that teased him for so much more. His fingers bumped into something. Leather-bound, and long, and… It fit in his hand perfectly.

It could only be a sword. How could anything else rest within his heart?

“Ghirahim,” he whimpered, “you must be certain of this. Once I pull this, you cannot take it back.”

The scabbard in his arms laughed almost belligerently as if annoyed for being addressed. Yet the big, black pupils that met his eyes were fond. “I know.”

Gritting his teeth, overtaken simultaneously by feeling and the burning of his skin, Zant pulled. He keened, for despite the blade being offered to him, it would not be unsheathed without a test of mettle. The very sword began to pull at him – not his flesh, but at his soul, draining him of his magic. It was then that Zant realized that Ghirahim did not trap him, or any of the sorts. The weapon was simply not finished. 

He needed his help.

His magic were like antennae, poking and coiling around the abstract shape of the sword. With every drop of energy that poured from him, he felt it sculpt into being beneath his touch. Double-edged, they decided, but with curvature. Corners and edges to hook rival swords and rip them from lesser hands. A weapon that favored brutality over elegance, but would prove to be both in capable hands. Hands that were now worthy of such a blade, molded into a swordsman by the very forge they stuck within.

Both men cried out in exertion with the final pull at the sword. Ghirahim arched as its pommel surfaced from him, followed by the grip, the crossguard. White-hot and glowing, the blade came free from his chest with a single draw. 

But before he could set his eyes upon it, overcome by his intimacy, Zant pulled his limp body closer and pressed a kiss to his jaw. A piece of him, in his hand, freely gifted, and smithed by their joint efforts. Here he now held his most prized possession. A stream of incoherent Twilit and Hylian bubbled forth from him, singing his praises about his beloved, about their bond. It was time to witness what they made together.

Zant held it before him, watching its prismatic white darken into a deep, all-consuming black, So dark was it that its surface hardly shined, save for its sharpened edges, for little light could leave it once touching it. Interrupting this deep dark was a pattern of glowing cyan, bleeding out from a magenta gem that graced its crossguard. A legendary artifact was made today, fit for the palatial treasury.

The Demon Scimitar.

Ghirahim turned his head to look at his shaking grip and let out a faint laugh. “It is a two-handed blade, you oaf.”

Delighted to hear him speak, Zant turned to his weakened lover, but frowned at his suggestion. “I do not want to drop you.”

“I’m right in your hand.”

Yet, he compromised. Leaning him onto his shoulder, he pulled him back upright. Just as when they lay together, Ghirahim was warm when he pressed his back to his chest. His heart was open, bleeding molten metal into itself. Such a precious thing must be handled carefully. Zant reached forward with both hands now to behold his gift, the sword spirit in his embrace holding himself upright by leaning his arms on his. His legs slumped, but his gloved hands laid gently over the ones grasping at the hilt.

Zant blinked, a smothered sob wobbling his lip, unable to take his eyes off their creation. “Ghirahim, it’s…”

“Beautiful? Breathtaking? The most perfect craftsmanship you’ve ever laid your eyes upon? Of course it is. It’s a piece of me, after all,” Ghirahim waxed, his voice tongue-in-cheek where it would normally be completely serious.

“Yes, Ghirahim, but not so simply,” Zant laughed, peering at the blade past the tender slope of Ghirahim’s neck. “It’s beautiful because it’s us. ”

Tears ran down his cheeks. No one had ever done anything like this for him, nor would they ever, for Ghirahim was the only one who could. How he entered this land with vengeance and bitterness in his heart! Now, here he stood, holding the one he never expected to care for. After such years of loneliness, to be then coaxed into comfort, affection, and declarations as mates… How could he do anything but fall in love?

The sounds of his whimpers and the tears dripping on his shoulder drew Ghirahim’s attention. A gloved hand stroked Zant’s jaw, as Ghirahim planted a kiss on his cheek. “As easily moved as ever, aren’t you?”

Zant could only swallow, wheeze out a laugh. Between his hiccups, he took his one hand off the grip. Shaking out this arm, he lowered his sleeve, and bared his wrist.

Ghirahim’s amusement faded instantly. His voice left him in a snap. “What are you doing?”

“Should anyone else be the first to taint this new-forged blade, I would carry my envy for them with me to whatever wretched afterlife awaits me,” Zant spoke coldly, but a maddened spark tugged at his features. “The first blood to feed this sword must be mine.”

Shaking hands were stilled by a perverse drive for this vow, to carve into himself in a clean slice that honored such a blade. Its edge, sharpened so meticulously it shone silver, cut through his skin as if merely lingering in the air. Were it not for the sting of friction, and the dark blood pooling out from him, he almost didn’t notice being cut. A sharp gasp, sucked in through bared teeth, tore through them simultaneously as he stained their masterpiece red. Sated by the cold sweat in his neck, and the comforting, downy feeling that lulled his mind into silence, Zant smiled. Grasping the hilt in both hands again, he held it skyward before them, swelling with pride over the visceral union now proclaimed.

Two pairs of eyes stared at the fresh blood coursing down the sword’s pristine edge, as though the world around it had ceased to exist. There was only them, their embrace, and the pieces of them each had ripped out the other, in their joint hands. Crimson rolled down, staining grey fingers and white gloves alike. Zant sharply inhaled through his nose, but Ghirahim stayed deathly silent. Yet his back grew warmer, hotter, scorching pressed against his chest, and that song from his core returned. By no means a symphony, it screeched in one unanimous tone, his mind set on but one thing. 

In an instant, the blade was dispelled – shared, but Ghirahim’s body, first and foremost – and with it took its gift of blood. Swirling, churning, for as long as it could hold, to leave his trace inside the essence of Ghirahim’s self in near-permanence. It was a memento, a shred to attain immortality, to remain long after his flesh has rotten and his bones turned to dust.

His hands now free of a sword, but within his arms still holding another, Zant was frozen in place. A fierce grip broke him from his self-petrification and yanked him down by the collar. Lips crashed against his, clacking teeth and poking stray strands of hair into his eyes. But for all its aggression, to the Sword Spirit, no show of love could be more earnest. He drew his eyelids to a close and locked him in a reciprocated embrace, only to deprive this dark, stuffy room from any more of their affection. Shadows crept up on them from every corner of the room, hurrying to their master’s command. Shrouded in this black, the rustling of this magic enveloped them, to finally leave the strategy room empty.

Chapter Text

They rose before the sun had even fully set, thieving their love-nest of its purpose hours too early. Any preparations they could do, save donning arms and armor, would have been too late in this final moment before battle, but they had to be ready to defend themselves at any moment. The air was tense, dead-silent so as not to alert any potential enemy scouts. But in that deep silence, every nervous sigh, every jingle of chainmail, grated the ears from miles away. 

So sat Zant in his chambers, eyelids still thick and heavy with sleep, but nonetheless perched at the edge of his bed, gazing out into the night sky. Ghirahim lied where he’d left him, sunken into his pillows and layers of sheets. In this companionable silence, there was as much to be said, as there was a lack of words to convey them. Indecision to what topic could suit the last hours before this all-out battle, they spoke of nothing at all. Yet there was deep understanding in it, a bond between them that only needed a glance of the eye to be conveyed. 

Pacing anxiously was unnecessary. Ghirahim lay comfortable; to him, nothing enriched the soul like battle, and he was ready to rise every minute of the day. No need for armor, for food, for a minute to come to his senses. He could jump up the second the warning horns blared.

Thus, he dozed, his eyes on the tense Twili beside him until they wandered to the portrait above him. When had he moved it above his bed, he wondered? To think a man so reserved could be so vain. The gold of its canvas glittered in the weak light, egging on the stars in the sky beyond with its own splendor. Ghirahim felt a smile creep up on him and his eyes drew to a close.

He didn’t quite keep track of how long he lay there simply sifting through the favorite contents of his core, before that line of thought was interrupted, and a warm static forced itself through his mental imagery. It started deep in his chest, washing over his every extremity in waves. His skin tingled, his breath hitched. A contented sigh dragged out from him and joined the warm air in the room. This feeling, how long ago it was since he last felt it. It could only be…

Sat on the carpet beside the window was Zant, the Demon Scimitar before him. Moonlight could not hope to pierce the deep black of their blade; their masterpiece was a shadow among shadows. A vibrant teal glow pulsed throughout the veins in its fuller, like light beneath the ocean waves. That glow slowly grew richer, occasionally interrupted by the stroke of a cloth across the blade. 

Ghirahim shuddered. There was the source of that odd feeling, that sent shivers up his back and caused his face and stomach to flush an embarrassing red. Soon Zant caught him staring at him past the mound of sheets and met his eyes – glowing, giving him no choice but to witness them – with a smile.

“Pardon me. Did I disturb you?”

“Disturb is a strong word,” Ghirahim said, unable to suppress a shuddering groan. From fingerguard to its point, the cloth rubbed away every speck of dust and smudge of oil.

The sound that escaped him piqued Zant’s interest immediately. Eyes that should pay attention to the razor-sharp edge of their sword widened at him. “You can feel this?”

Taps of powder against the blade. Puff, puff, little clouds of white dissipating in the gentle breeze. “To some degree, yes.”

Bright, amber eyes narrowed. “What is it like?”

Adjusting comfortably, Ghirahim sank back into the sheets, hiding half of his face. He stared him down no lesser, though. “There is hardly any equal to this feeling, Zant,” he hummed, pleased by the sensation of gentle polishing. “But if I had to describe it… Something akin to having my hair brushed, or hands stroking my back, I suppose.”

Zant’s eyes turned to the sword, now carrying a certain spark. He beheld it in a different light. “I see. How fortunate to know.”

Ghirahim shifted, curling himself in the mass of sheets to get a better look at his machinations, but without abandoning the glow of their joint warmth. Their companionable silence returned, the quiet room filled only with the whisper of cloth against metal, and the gentle churning of his core. Warmth buzzed through him in waves, like fingers with long nails tapping and tracing the features deep in his chest. That so-abstract sensation turned ever warmer, more squeezing, when that familiar smell of cloves arose, and Zant turned to oiling the blade. Ghirahim cocked his head, watching intently. “Tending to it again? So soon?”

Zant only glanced at him before returning to his focus. “Our sword is in its infancy, Ghirahim. It has to be nourished in its first year.”

“You’ve done your homework,” Ghirahim smirked.

“You hardly gave me any choice, Ghirahim- hasir,” Zant smirked right back.

Another honorific! He laughed fondly, ever-so-amused by Zant’s habit of slipping into mother tongue. “That one is new! What nonsense are you up to, this time?”

“No more than usual,” Zant hummed, a touch of cheer in his voice. “Now get back under the covers and leave me to do my bidding. We must be in top shape before dawn, you and I,” he crooned, stroking the cloth down their blade in emphasis.

Ghirahim smiled, sighed, and complied.

That morning, Hyrule conquered the southern settlements in a matter of minutes. The market streets the pair had grown so familiar with, committed to memory through the smells of spices, pastries, and smoked meat alone, decimated at once. Not that they’d made it particularly difficult for their adversaries; a minimal amount of monstrous troops were stationed there. This was their bait. A little trick tucked in falsely heightened morale, to fool the Hyruleans into thinking them weaker than they were. Besides, the locals stationed within sight would surely be healthily enraged by the sight of their beloved settlement being torn to the ground. Zant had planned for a bloody start.

The two of them were thoroughly locked away in the North. The Gerudo Temple Complex was a dark and swirling thing, a monumental goliath of sandstone and brick, its dimly lit corridors designed to trap anyone outside the clergy in the bowels. Deep within, it hid the Coliseum. A holy ground to desert peoples, later desecrated by Hyrule and turned into an executioner’s oubliette. Better known as, ‘The Arbiter’s Grounds’. Since its reclamation by the Gerudo (according to Zant, one of the few good things brought on by shattering the Mirror of Twilight), Hyrule was to never touch it again. The labyrinth would guard it for as long as it stood.

In other words, it was the ideal place to watch the battle unfold from afar. Their intel detected signs of three commanders: Link, the Goddess’ favored hero; Lana, still missing her counterpart; and an unfamiliar Sheikah warrior. Knowing the Hyruleans, they likely had more tricks up their sleeves. They needed caution above all. 

Zant was eerily silent for most of their stay, retreating within his helmet. Had Ghirahim not known any better, he would have suspected him of sleeping on the job again. On the contrary, the Twili could not have been more alert. The ace up their sleeve was heaving and buzzing restlessly deep underground below their feet. The Twilit Bloat, Queen Mother of Zant’s favorite pets, spent days spewing forth countless Shadow Insects, which he’d hidden away in every nook and cranny he thought would make a decent vantage point. They were acting as his eyes in the field and to keep track of them all required his utmost concentration. 

Until at long last Zant withdrew from meditation, the segments of his helmet squeaking as he straightened himself and turned toward his co-lieutenant. 

“They are inching closer to the oases. While they busy themselves there, now is the best time to start our preparations,” he said, beckoning him with a wave of his hand as he made his way through the keep.

Ghirahim, glad to finally have something to do, grinned. “You mean to set up the… Shadow puppets, you mentioned, yes?”

“I have told you of my plan,” Zant agreed, scaling the steps to the decrepit altar at the center of the Coliseum. His visor rolled up to reveal a grin. “But not yet of its execution. It should be most familiar to you, however,” he turned, his hand outstretched and palm facing the skies.

Ghirahim smirked and followed, taking his hand to have him lead him further up the steps. An arm curled around his waist, and he rested his on Zant’s shoulder in return. “How courteous of you, Twilight King. Won’t prancing about distract you from your own casting, though?”

Zant smiled in turn. With a small pull at his waist, they quickly sank into a rhythm, waltzing under the sunbeams that peeked through the stone walls. “We must enact our spell in utter synchronicity, Ghirahim-ili. This is the best way.”

A pulse coursed through him. Diamonds rose from their footprints, flickering with signs of their blooming magic. The beating of their feet and chiming of his core accompanied their dance like a dozen tambourines. Through their joined hands, sparks of power crossed into one another, melting together until the pictures in their minds became clear as day, a single being.

“I shall be the source, and you, my conduit. My power is yours to steer, puppeteer of mine,” Zant’s words echoed, but Ghirahim couldn’t be sure if they came from his lips, or snuck into his mind without his notice. How cheeky. 

And soon, that power manifested into being. Rising from the shadows, Ghirahim’s second pair of eyes came into view – or rather, he came into its view. A second Ghirahim took shape, its features growing more defined by the second. Terrible vertigo struck him, causing a temporary lapse in his steps. There was a disconnect, a duplication of his sight, but no identical one. He could see through his own body but through his double’s, too. His core swirled as he looked himself in the eye, standing in the sand with its muted colors and stiff stance.

“It’s easier if you close your eyes,” Zant whispered with a low croon, “try not to think. Let me lead you, my Blade.”

Easier said than done , he’d say, did it not make such a drastic difference. Ridding himself of his second-sight made it all the easier to at least gather his bearings without the spinning surroundings there to distract him. But reaching this double somatically remained a challenge. It was like trying to steer a phantom limb. The tether was weak, but undeniably there, and getting it to move was akin to timidly pressing the keys on an old harpsichord. All the while this buffoon requested him to dance.

But that was the trick, wasn’t it? Channeling their magic? He was no stranger to their bodies becoming one, in many senses of the term. It wasn’t just his own magic he had to focus on, but the force linking its fingers with it, too. 

Synchronicity. The picture through the eyes of his double became vibrant and clear as day.

His double twitched its fingers until they were veritably his , then took a stumbling step. Then another. Then more, stably, rolling its shoulders and bouncing on its heels. The shuffling of dancing feet was soon nothing but background noise, far removed from where his mind settled. Housed in this spectral clone, Ghirahim grinned, braced his fingers, and snapped.

The desert heat felt like room temperature. Or rather, like nothing at all, in this doubly-false skin. Having teleported himself, he stood a ways from the Southern Oasis, surveying his surroundings. Friend nor foe had spotted him yet, concealed as he was by the heat shaking the sights of their surroundings, but they’d have no choice than to witness him soon. He sprinted across the desert, intending to snicker to himself, only to find not a sound passed his lips. 

A gap in their illusion. How embarrassing it would have been! What if he had attempted to taunt their foe, only to be caught missing his voice? He quickly suppressed the urge to scold Zant for failing to inform him of this flaw. To cause dissonance between his two selves would collapse their plans like a house of cards. Which, obviously, he couldn’t afford, as he was already perched on the walls of the Oasis Keep, staring right into fiery red eyes that pierced into him with malice. 

The Sheikah man would be his first opponent.

His perch high up above did nothing to deter this stranger whatsoever. A long dagger whistled through the air just past Ghirahim’s ear, missing him only thanks to his own last-minute dodge. Ghirahim hadn’t yet the chance to righten himself before his adversary took a running start and leapt against the corner wall, kicking himself off to clamber up and meet him at eye level. It hadn’t even taken him five seconds to get to him. 

This was going to be interesting. Ghirahim knew he couldn’t lose his composure so early in the battle, but a warrior so quick and nimble made the stars dance in his core. The Sheikah was upon him in a split second, a long knife in each hand, eyes red and full of death. His strikes were lightning-fast and precise, but not fast enough to break past Ghirahim. This man was an entirely different territory from that white-haired dog. Where Impa combined her tremendous speed with heavy blows, her replacement depended entirely on the fleetness of his feet. And it carried him well. The two of them danced across the walls, locking blades like a pair of cats fighting atop a fence.

But, truthfully, Ghirahim was only humoring him. Against another human, the slashes of the Sheikah’s knives would have been lethal. But to Ghirahim, razor edges struck his sword with gentle taps at most. He had to put this boy in his place. Hilt in both hands, he boldly raised his blade to bait him with an opening – swung down quickly, to bait a crossing of knives, and catch his sword in between. 

The Sheikah were a near-ageless folk, living potentially centuries longer than Hylians, if they so chose. This very moment, the Sheikah proved his youth, his inexperience, despite his prodigal martial skill. He acted exactly as Ghirahim predicted. 

Now locked, Ghirahim shot him a grin, before pushing his bulk into his sword and tossing him sideways. The Sheikah shouted in surprise, stumbled. With the assistance of a showy flip and roll, he dropped off the wall and down into the dirt, quickly righting himself in fear of being ambushed.

Not a second too late! Ghirahim leaped for him, point of his sword aimed for the heart. Or, rather, aimed for the dirt, as the Sheikah darted away quickly. The pair exchanged blows, barraged each other with throwing knives, but their mutual bulk and speed resulted in nothing more than superficial injuries. 

Ghirahim couldn’t outspeed him. So, he’d just have to surprise him, instead. With only a small chime to announce his departure, Ghirahim disappeared into diamonds and landed himself square in the Sheikah’s way. The boy gasped in surprise, only barely managing to stumble out the way of the obsidian sword that flew toward him in a pitch-black streak. Now, all bets were on discombobulating his foe. The Sheikah was forced to face him more carefully, locked in a fierce combat. For every escape, every attempt at sprinting away for another trick, he was punished by the phantom that appeared in his shadow and threatened to rend him to pieces. 

Dark blue Sheikah armor tore to show flashes of skin and bleeding gashes, staining a deeper red every second. But Ghirahim found himself not as unscathed as he’d normally be – this puppet was fragile, meaning even the small enchantments on this warrior’s knives could hurt him. It wasn’t the same pain as he’d feel on his surface when injured. This was a magical, conjured pain, manifesting as a headache and stuttering of his core. But, injuries or not, he was winning. The Sheikah was slowing, growing into an easier target for his thrusts and merciless cleavings with every pace. And there he darted off again, some desperate manner of escaping! Of stalling time! Blood hung in the air, its particles catching delectably on his lolling tongue. He chased its source hungrily, wishing so it was his true self instead who would get to kill this wretched little thing, a mere pup in comparison to his superior. Ghirahim ached to run him through with this blade! Just a few more paces, another leap –

There was a track in the sand. In the corner of his eye, he spotted another. The Sheikah stopped at the joining of lines, readying something curved and golden.

The harp. The harp! His eyes shot to the Sheikah, who grinned at him with a squint, fingers at the ready over his blasted holy implement. Ghirahim looked back to the ground, where he now spotted an outline… And himself spot in the middle of it. An ominous hum, a faded glow, resonant below him as fingertips tensed the strings. Ghirahim turned to flee, but a second too late. With a mockingly cheerful tune, the magic glyph was activated, and a blinding field of light magic launched him out the gates of the Oasis Keep.

He skidded to a halt, clouds of sand trailing his heels as they coursed through. In his concealment, he was fortunate to find his first flaw; a black patch, crackling on the surface of his puppet. Their illusion was falling apart. 

Now is the time to flee. 

They thought it simultaneously, with Ghirahim immediately annoyed by Zant’s meddling. 

Shielded by this cloud of sand, he turned tail and fled. Soon enough, fleeted feet dashed through the sand a little ways behind him.

Just like he wanted! Bloodlust made blind! 

The next phase of their plan was imminent. He had to cross the sands to get to the cliffs, where he could funnel this little songbird into its cage. This seemed easier said and done, because the Sheikah’s tendency to make pot-shots at the enemy made it increasingly more difficult to conceal the black cracks left on his surface. He kicked up as much sand as he could in his sprint to keep himself shielded from prying eyes.

It was a mad chase. In short bursts, his adversary seemed to be faster than him, leading him to blink around to get away from the scatter of needles flying his way. A haphazard, zigzagging trail of metal pins traced their trajectory. Yet, the Sheikah seemed to be letting him escape, at least a little bit. Did he hope he was fleeing to some kind of hideout, and lead him straight there? Oh, if only he knew!

It was a good thing he didn’t. They crossed into the Cliffs Keep, revealing a dead end. Realizing it’d been a trap, before the Sheikah could fully turn, the gates slammed shut behind them.

The enraged eyes of a cornered animal met with a dark grin. The two men flung at one another, daggers in hand. But Ghirahim felt weakened – the magic holding this form together barely persisted through its many cracks, and it was slowing his reflexes. To save himself some power, he dismissed the false cape, at once revealing the web of deep black fractures spreading across his skin. 

This staggered the Sheikah for a moment, but baited him all the same. Daggers crossed, he lunged forward, and drove the tips towards his core. They tangled, tipped over, and landed in the sand, Ghirahim pinned between steel and soil.

For all this man knew, this was how a Sword Spirit died. The daggers sank into his chest, and Ghirahim let the illusion crackle into shards with a pained groan.

But not before leaving his parting gift. The Sheikah choked out a breath, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. Ghirahim had driven a dagger right into his side.

He didn’t have the privilege to see if this caused his opponent to collapse or not, for his eyes caved into dust soon after this deceitful blow. Then followed the rest of his body, leaving only a cackle to fade on the wind.

Deep black turned into an outrageously bright light. With a gasp, Ghirahim came to, finding himself held up by Zant’s arms. Never before had he felt this unsteady on his feet, this jittery like a newborn foal. His shadowy double was gone, which left him to deal with the dizziness of returning to his body. How convenient that this animate coat rack of a man was there to assist him in doing so.

Ghirahim patted Zant on the sleeve, wobbling to righten himself. “Deliciously dramatic timing, Twilight King.” 

“Thanks. I thought so too.”

Zant laughed, patiently assisting Ghirahim through the last seconds of his vertigo. Once Ghirahim collected himself, Zant parted from him, again turning his gaze meditatively to the skies. “We shall let them struggle with this predicament for a little while. Then, I will take your place on the battlefield, Ghirahim-ili.”

The battle unfolded just about how they expected it would. The gates they so merrily left open were breached by opportunistic troops zealously at first, but with the imprisonment of their Sheikah general, anxious caution took the wheel. Nevertheless, critical movement took place: Lana, who had been moving through the desert, succeeded in capturing the Northern Oasis; while Link, having first guarded their home base in the Bazaar, crossed the southern sands to attempt a rescue mission. 

This was their cue. While their demonic troops clashed against Link’s brigade, Zant hopped back on his feet, extending his hands.

“Care to assist me once more?”

Locked again in dance, they watched as a shadowy form knitted into being by their pedestal. The illusory shape of Zant, darker and more muted than usual, readied itself for its host. Much to Ghirahim’s chagrin, Zant was clearly more adept than he at shifting his consciousness, as his double was up and moving in mere seconds.

“You close your eyes too, Ghirahim-ili.”

“Then who will keep watch of where we’re putting our feet? Moron.”

Ghirahim jested, but nonetheless allowed himself a brief respite, and did as he was told. Behind his darkened eyelids, he saw (though subtly) the world through the eyes of Zant’s shadowy double. He briefly worried if Zant had been spying along with him, too. Then, he felt some smug satisfaction in the knowledge, as he thought he’d made for a riveting battle just then.

Not a second longer did Zant let his puppet stick around and promptly sent it away. Just in time for Ghirahim to spin the both of them around and prevent them from tumbling off the altar.

Ghirahim’s impressions of this battle were vague, bestowed upon him in flashes through Zant’s incomprehensible sense of sight. The world was a blur of overly saturated colors in the Twili’s eyes, splitting into sharply defined contours at every moving object. Of course, the rapidly approaching emerald green and blue was then clear as day, as was the glowing blade that cut through the air towards him. 

But Link could not land a single hit on the Usurper’s false shape. Zant blinked himself across the sand and clapped his hands pompously, a playfully mocking tribute to Ghirahim’s favored spellcasting. At once, every gate in the battlefield slammed shut, isolating the three generals in their own death traps.

Wrathful Gerudo, Bulblins, and Stalfos poured from whatever crevice they could force themselves through to descend upon the now-isolated warriors. Whether they would surpass the Hyruleans in martial prowess remained to be seen, but surely, they’d leave not a shred of their morale untouched. 

Yet Zant led the Goddess’ little hero away from the onslaught, seeming to prefer a one-on-one duel, though there’d be nothing honorable about it. This battle was an absolute waste of time, drudging Link along through the scorching desert to chase after his constantly teleporting apparition. Even if his opponent couldn’t hear it, Zant couldn’t help but giggle. With such a jovial mood, one would expect victory, but aside from Zant’s violent retaliations, his health rapidly failed him. Not only was his double on the verge of collapse, but nearly every hack and slash it endured bore down on its host. Dancing with a smile, blood gushed from Zant’s nostrils with every hit he took. Ghirahim doubted whether the desperation on his double’s part was an act –  it contorted, stomped, flailing its arms and hurling wild bolts of magic at whatever blue banner-bearing shape it could see. But Zant seemed at peace, even as his puppet raised its arms to ready a bomb of pure, hexing shadow, only to find itself ran straight through by the Knight’s holy blade.

At once, the tether to their puppet was gone.

“... That’s it… Our first ruse is up,” Zant mumbled, before slumping forward, just barely caught by Ghirahim’s frame. The blood trickling from his nostrils was worrying still, so Ghirahim allowed him to collapse, lowering him carefully to sit at the edge of the pedestal. Yet, Zant declined any fussing over him, preferring instead to retreat into his mind again and survey the damage they’d done. With his ‘death’, every single gate in the battlefield flew back open – save for the Temple complex. Sitting side by side, Zant relayed what he saw through the eyes of his countless insect servants. Among the Hyruleans, there was relief, rallying cries spreading through the battlefield as they once again rushed forth to seize new territory. Their own forces still held fast. The defeat of their Lieutenants sowed seeds of anxiety, which their captains and commanders did not allow to sprout among the common infantry. Though the full plan of today was relayed to very few, every officer of repute knew not to lose hope when all seemed over. 

They’d seen the captured beasts in their chains, after all, and had yet to see them surface in this battle.

One unexpected problem remained. When the gates to the Sheikah commander’s imprisonment were opened, he was already long gone. The trail of blood scaling the cliff wall toward the Temple clued them in where he could have gone. He was trapped in here with them, somewhere. Zant seemed to take nothing but amusement in that thought.

Now, there was nothing to do but wait. Wait for a surge in confidence among the Hyruleans that would raise their might and lower their guard. If this took mere minutes or hours, then the blood spilled to tip the scales would simply have to be an acceptable sacrifice. Time ticked away mostly in silence. On occasion, Zant orated an update from the battlefield with his vacant, manic gaze. Ghirahim stared at the man beside him, bloodstained as he was, and wondered how far the gray blight had crawled up his arms today.

Zant perked up sooner than Ghirahim expected and turned to him. “Their bases are almost settled. They are transporting their goods. Now is the time, Ghirahim. Will you do the honors?”

Ghirahim grinned. “Gladly.”

Within a blink, Ghirahim disappeared from the Arbiter’s Grounds and materialized far below the earth. Deluge streams of sand poured down from above – he found himself in an underground cave, discovered long ago by the Gerudo when digging for water reservoirs. Quicksand pools from above fed this ever-filling chamber with gold, like an hourglass that would never tip. Behind him was a nearly-buried gate leading to the old waterways. In front of him were cages. He didn’t want to keep the beasts inside waiting any longer; he’d kept them unfed a little too long. They frothed at the sight of him, spurred on by Zant’s blood caked into his suit. 

“You’ll find something far tastier on the surface, my dears!”

One, two, three showy snaps of his fingers, and the chains bearing the monsters down disappeared. With a flex of his hands, his fist cloaked itself in glowing, purple magic. He took a running start, heading straight for the back of the cages (where the monsters’ eyes hungrily followed him), and launched himself at the massive lever that stood there. With one solid punch, the old mechanism screeched back to life, and past all its rust, the switch was flicked. A rattling that could only be produced by a machine at the end of its life echoed throughout the room. Tugged upwards by heavy chains, the cage doors were lifted, and out stormed their inhabitants. 

But before they could make for the little creature that stood antagonizing them, a cascade of sand cued them in on the blue skies above. A ring tunnel of diamond magic pried open the quicksand pitfall in the ceiling and allowed these beasts the first glimpse of sunshine they’d seen in weeks. 

Not to mention, the smell of fresh carcasses. 

The Manhandla, a four-headed, man-eating plant; threw itself against the wall and clambered up through its web of roots. The Molduga, the very giant sandworm Ghirahim had stolen away scarce a month earlier; took to the skies and flew through the opening. The Lanmola, a cyclopean centipede; swam up the stream of sand.

But that was merely the first wave. This was the Southern Desert’s treat: the North would get its very own collection of nuisances. His next teleportation took him to the mesas in the northeast, where six pairs of eyes furiously eyed him down from within their cave prison. The caverns in these rocky mountains were straightforward tunnels, opening right into the deserts. After opening the cages, all he had to do was give them an incentive to break free.

So, naturally, he brought the entire cave to a collapse. As soon as the beasts panickedly rushed out of their prisons, Ghirahim snapped his fingers and perched himself on the Mesa’s edge, overlooking the monsters’ exit holes. 

The first to break free were the two Dodongos, bulky, rock-clad lizards; curled up and rolling, shot out like cannonballs. Then came the Helmaroc King, a giant prismatic bird; shrieking wildly and leaving a storm of feathers in its wake as it beat its wings and flew off. Finally, poking out one head after the other, came the Gleeok, the three-headed dragon; with stout little legs and clumsy, serpentine necks, it sauntered to the mouth of the tunnel somewhat timidly. But at the first sight of prey below, it roared viciously and spread its draconic wings, and set off in pursuit of violence.

Ghirahim returned to his post at once, finding Zant just as vacant as he’d left him, but with far greater amusement sketching his face. The Twili didn’t appear to notice him as he sidled up next to him, hands in his sides. 

“Satisfied by my handiwork, Twilight King?”

“More than, Yima Zeeioitneit, ” he responded. Zant had cleaned himself up a bit in his absence, but was looking no less gaunt. “Would you like to see the fruits of your labor?”

“Gladly, I would,” Ghirahim said, keeping his apprehension about Zant’s intrusive, meddling magic to himself. 

Zant shook himself out of his daze, at once standing with his eyes bright and glowing. “Then allow me some time to recuperate. I will share my clairvoyance with you in the meantime, Ghirahim-ili.”

Before Ghirahim could utter a word of questioning or protest, Zant’s shape turned pitch-black, becoming no more than a silhouette with shining eyes. A rustle sounded as the shade before him ducked down and turned into nothing more than a smudge, and, shockingly… Melted into the floor. Just like that, Zant seemed to have crawled into his shadow. There was the alarming presence of magic, certainly, but otherwise, he felt not a thing of it. At least, not until Zant fulfilled his promise. Ghirahim then learned, intimately, just what he meant by ‘clairvoyance’. 

A sudden burst of droning visions took over his sight, shaking him into an unsightly stumble. Each flashed by for mere seconds before Zant flicked him over to the next, all blurring into the same haze. Only after sitting there, hands in his hair and groaning audibly, did he piece together just what he was looking at. It seemed that Zant had planted more of his Shadow Insects on the skulls of their monsters, and thus, allowed the both of them front-row seats to each individual rampage. 

To the north, the Helmaroc crested to dizzying heights, carefully eyeing its companions. Yards below it, the Gleeok was circling the desert, scarcely avoiding flurries of arrows from piercing its wings. It found its point of interest in a line of provision wagons, which already had its many hands full with the giant lizards besieging it from both sides. Claws extended, it swooped down in an instant, plowing through the line of them with its razor-sharp talons. 

Now out of a meal, the twin Dodongos sought their fortune elsewhere. They turned straight to the oasis, where they expected to rake in the biggest rewards, only to find the place heavily guarded. Grimoire in hand, Sorceress Lana nervously eyed down the two approaching beasts. She was a nimble woman, swiftly evading raking claws and blazing fire, but she did not take well to being surrounded. From the eyes of this Dodongo, she swooped in dangerously close. Just as the massive reptile thought to swallow her down in one gulp, a large, translucent cube was lodged in its gullet, and with the touch of the Sorceress’ hand, electrified. It shrieked and convulsed, reflexively clamping its jaws hard enough to crack its teeth, and just like that, collapsed.

This Dodongo was down for the count. But before its Shadow Insect died with it, it captured just a few more seconds. From the sound of blazing fire and the screams of their opponent, the beast’s twin appeared to hold fast.

The southern desert was similarly infested. The Manhandla had dug its roots throughout the sand, sprouting additional heads across the desert to drown it in a poisonous haze. Soon, only the dead could wander here, and the very bold. Those who dared approach the floral menace disappeared quickly past its massive teeth. Monitoring this monster led the pair of lieutenants to begrudgingly note that one of its four heads seemed to have gotten hacked off somewhere along the way. Though, they doubted they minded. If the victory was all too crushing, there would not have been any honor in it. Much less satisfaction. 

This next vision was fully dark, until it burst with sudden light. How the fragile insect managed to cling on to this creature through all the sand was a mystery. From the shrill bellowing, these could only have been the sights of the Molgera, soaring through the skies in pursuit of prey. And what a target it had chosen! Skidding away from the sandworm, bow and arrow boldly drawn but visibly alarmed, was their favorite green-clad menace, his blue scarf long lost in the scuffle. He had felled the Lanmola in record time. From the look in his eyes, that wouldn’t be his only trophy of today. Whether he would fulfill that ambition was another question. The Molgera roared and dove for him, but shrieked when an arrow pierced it someplace unseen, and veered off course. It burrowed beneath the sand once more, plunging their vision in darkness. Through the roaring of sand surging past the giant beast, there was a sound; footsteps, hurrying away. The Molgera homed in on its source and launched for the surface. 

It breached, it opened its maw. A scream was heard, then muffled by the resounding clap of the Molgera’s jaws snapping shut. As the Molgera twisted itself through the air, not a trace of the Hero of Legend remained.

Cackles and shouts of triumph and astonishment echoed through the Arbiter’s Grounds. Had the Twili stood beside him, rather than lie hidden in his shadow, Ghirahim would have embraced him and thrown him around the arena for good measure. What an undignified end for the little Hylian! Ghirahim was ecstatic. Already he swell with pride over the thought of informing their Master of this victory. The pair of them sang praises of this magnificent sandworm. Even after they’d treated it so cruelly, it hadn’t let them down in the slightest. Whether it could hear their words conveyed through the Shadow Insect, wasn’t their concern. 

Amidst their celebration, the Molgera suddenly groaned. Shuddered. Slowed in its flight. It contorted itself, squeaking in pain, until it tore its mouth open in a shriek. The Shadow Insect lost all functionality. Its host could only be dead.

What happened? It was in the air – how had it perished!? 

Zant apparently had the same questions. He frantically browsed through the Insects still alive, until he found a proper view of the events through the eyes of the Manhandla. The Molgera fell from the skies, its spiked belly slit wide open. A rain of blood and guts splattered onto the ground before its multi-ton body hit the sand, sending forth an explosive dust cloud to shroud the battlefield from all.

Surfacing from that shroud, visible through the makeshift sandstorm by a glowing silhouette, was a newcomer to today’s battlefield. Fi, doll-faced as ever, but her blue gemstone surface now tainted with viscera, had surfaced from the Hero’s blade, and freed her ‘Master’. Offering her wing, she stuck herself halfway into the Molgera’s eviscerated stomach to pull Link free, soaked in mucus and blood. The morbidity of it all seemed completely lost on her gentle smile, as she stood watching him gather himself.

Ghirahim grit his teeth. “It seems they’ve taken a page out of our book, Twili… They’re hiding commanders!”

“And where there is one, there may be more. They think they have us for fools.”

With the appearance of Fi, a Hyrulean war horn sounded in the Southern Desert. The troops in the North responded. Surfacing from Lana’s shadow was none other than Midna, who immediately clenched a keratin fist around the head of an ambushing Bulblin commander. A sense of fury bubbled forth from his shadow, and lingered somewhere in Ghirahim, too. But as much as the arrival of the Twilight Princess spelled trouble, something about her appearance soothed Zant’s mood into a bubbly giggle. 

She was an imp again.

The war horn sounded in the North. Two responded; one from the Western mesas, and one from the South. Through the eyes of the Helmaroc King, a far more alarming sight poured into the desert. The troops they had fought so deftly to thin out were filling their numbers again. Vast swathes of Zora and Gorons arrived through glowing portals and raced to assist the overthrown Keeps. Only to then clash against equally large numbers of frothing demon forces, pushing each other back and forth past a faultline of trampled steel. This visceral desperation of gnashing teeth and battered armor only left the frontlines in stasis for so long. The Zora Princess, her arrival announced by a tidal wave sweeping along her own troops in massive schooling, forced an opening through the simple measure of washing away everything in her path. She came out the other end of the first line of infantry clad in silvery armor, spear in hand, looking back at the dizzied and drowning mass of demonic forces behind her. This very measure would carry her to the northern desert, where she quickly joined Lana’s side. 

Lana startled when the Dodongo just in front of her was sucked into a maelstrom and launched across the sands. When she turned to find Ruto, some sort of sentimental conversation was surely being carried out. Watching from the Gleeok still soaring above the keeps, neither Ghirahim nor Zant cared to hear it. Their despairing, confused prattles were far more interesting.

The Gleeok swept in closer, ducking out the way of an impending lightning bolt sent from the Sorceress’ grimoire. 

“I don’t understand, Ruto,” Lana cried. “Ghirahim and Zant were defeated, but their armies haven’t slowed down whatsoever!”

Ruto intercepted an incoming belch of fire with a watery shield, bursting it apart in glittering projectiles as she dismissed it. The Gleeok shrieked when one of its many eyes was pierced. “Desperation, it must be. It takes a pair of cowardly men like them to rig such posthumous traps!”

“Are we sure it was really them Sheik and Link defeated?” Midna cut in, surfacing from Lana’s shadow to glare down the limping Dodongo in the distance. “Like you said. They’re cowards! I’ll bet my entire treasury that the foes we saw were nothing more than illusions!”

A troubled expression dawned on Lana, which soon turned to anger. She burst out in front of the Zora Princess, spellbook at the ready, and sent out another burst of lightning. Though, this one was different. It broke apart like fireworks, each spark lighting its own deadly branch, that darted in zig-zags through the air. The Gleeok, hopeless to dodge such a flurry, lost one of its wings to countless tears and perforations and then crashed to the ground. 

Before the beast could stomp its way inside the keep, Lana blocked its entrance with a crackling barrier and whipped around to look at her companions. “Then- The real Ghirahim and Zant… They must be hiding somewhere, commanding from afar!”

“Oh, they can’t be that far. Those two draw to carrion more than a common fly,” Midna grimaced, squinting to peer out into the scorching desert. “Just so happens, I got just the trick up my sleeve to get to the bottom of this. Ruto! Cover me!”

Ruto nodded, readying her spear to join Lana’s side. Lana’s barrier did not hold much longer. Every passing second, the Gleeok was driven to madness by two voices balking commands into its triplet minds, and could only think to throw itself at the magical wards harder. Finally, it burst through, and wasted not a moment to start snapping at the two warriors in its way. Lana fought grimoire in hand, turning scattered parchment into razor-sharp projectiles, while Ruto threatened every impending bite with a thrust of her spear. 

While the Gleeok was rapidly losing scales to the combined assault, Midna stretched out her hand, readying a spell amidst the chaos. A gap tore itself through the fabric of reality, manifesting as a spreading shadow on the ground, soon thrumming and glowing with runes.

Stepping out of the shadows was a little girl, no older than eleven, who curtsied under the protection of her parasol. “Agitha has waited patiently as you ordered, Miss Kitty! How can she be of assistance?”

Lana was almost as disturbed by the girl’s appearance as Ghirahim and Zant, but clearly for different reasons. “A-Agitha? But… The two of you can’t just go out there alone. There are still giant monsters alive!”

The Zora Princess glanced over her shoulder, the second of distraction nearly costing her a fin to the jaws of the Gleeok. “Sorceress, if you wish to accompany them, We will hold down the Oasis.”

“Ruto, are you sure? In this weather, the Zora-”

“Do not doubt the resilience of Our people,” Ruto interjected, jabbing her spear between the plates on one of the dragon’s jugulars. “We know where their limits lie. Place your trust in Us. Now, go! Waste no precious seconds!”

“ My, what a shame,” a voice echoed from the dragon. “They’ve become aware of our little plan quicker than expected.”

Zant figured to broadcast his mockery through the Shadow Insect still perched on the dethroned creature. Bleeding heavily from one of its throats, its still-living heads contorted their faces into toothy grins, the Gleeok puffed out its chest and stanced imposingly. The spread of its wings blotted out the sun above the keep, casting it in shadow.

Ghirahim found it a fine idea. “Then let them come find us! We’ll finish them off right away!”

Thus, precious seconds were wasted. By some incomprehensible measure of lollygagging, Midna stuck around while Lana and Agitha made for the desert. The pair of girls slipped past the Dodongo only thanks to Midna’s uncouth taunts, who sent wolves yipping and nipping at its front legs. A little of Zant’s own hatred for the Twilight Princess must have leaked into it, then, because the beast took the bait hook, line, and sinker. So focused it was on the hounds and the woman cheering them on behind them, that it failed to notice its remaining surroundings. Its maw opened wide, readying a blazing inferno, and aimed straight for its annoyance. 

Only for said target to dodge out of the way at the very last second, dragging the Zora Princess out of the trajectory along with her. Instead, the hellfire launched across, square into the chest of the already wounded Gleeok and melting everything in its way. A weaving path of coarse glass glittered in the sand, tying the two monsters by a thread of aggression. Their dragon could not resist retaliation and lunged for its treacherous comrade.

Thus, in the Oasis, two of the beasts were tearing each other down. In the sand wastes, one last beast made itself useful. The King Helmaroc, contrary to its name, was an obedient creature, and soared as high or hovered as low as they needed it to. Through its eyes, they saw Midna had joined the pair a little after her charade of chaos. 

From this vantage point, Ghirahim and Zant quietly observed their desert trek. At least, until Zant clicked his tongue, seeming annoyed. “I see now why they brought the girl. I should have expected this.”

“Somehow, even when we share the same thoughts, you manage to puzzle me. Get to the point.”

“Look closely. They have a Goddess Butterfly. It will lead them straight to us, and the labyrinth will not keep them.”

Once again, silence fell between them. Less time wasted in the labyrinth meant fewer opportunities to whittle down their strength. With this many enemy commanders, such a head start was crucial.

Even so, the thought of their plan failing ever so slightly, filled Ghirahim with a strange sense of excitement. “An unfortunate twist, but… Frankly, I was getting bored. I’m itching for a fight.”

Then, as if Zant had taken note of his excitement, he felt the warmth of a smile inside his mind. “Ghirahim-ili… When they arrive here, let us fight our hardest.”

Of course, the Helmaroc understood nothing at all of such banter. It was far more focused on the triad of two-footed creatures zipping through the sand sea. To a bird, this entourage of warriors must have looked awfully like a line of ants. 

It dove down for them, talons outstretched, as if they were. 

The first to react was not the Sorceress, nor was it Midna. Instead, the young girl turned a pouting face to the sky and popped the cork off a glass jar.

In an instant, a massive, emerald beetle appeared from thin air and swung its horn full-force into the Helmaroc’s gullet. Their eyes in the sky shrieked. An explosion of feathers obscured their vision as the panicked bird flailed its wings, knocked entirely off balance by the throttling of this massive bug. Zant’s quiet marvel for the adversary’s familiar was drowned out entirely by Ghirahim’s rage. How preposterous! This massive bird of prey, knocked out of the sky by a mere insect!? He took the reins immediately. 

The beetle now dismissed, the Helmaroc King chased after the girls on foot, pouncing at them with its claws and jabbing with its beak. But just as it started to get the drop on the group, the Temple complex was in sight, and the doorway they slipped through would never fit their bird.

When the Helmaroc was left behind them, squawking and pacing indignantly at the gate, the trio chased the little glowing insect through the Temple’s ever-twisting halls. Following this journey proved to be a pain. Zant had only set up Shadow Insects in so many corridors, and tracking their trajectory was a dizzying flurry of different angles and crowding soldiers. Yet, Zant managed to follow them in glimpses. Hyrulean and Demon soldiers alike had swarmed the place, fighting pointless battles in corridors leading nowhere. Undead gaolers were already scavenging the heaps of dead and injured, either locking those still breathing in chains, or ripping the bones from the freshly deceased to replenish their own limbs. Thus, the pair of women led a child over this carpet of corpses. The girl’s fighting ability mattered very little here – they were under the protection of Midna and her wolves, but even then, little ‘Agitha’, as they’d called her, looked too stunned to do anything but keep running. 

Along the way, found tearing the talons of a Dinolfos to replenish his throwing needles, was the Sheikah warrior. He had forfeited his turban to use it as a makeshift bandage for the wound in his side. The group swiftly urged him along. Striking down whatever station guards stood in their way, they reached the deeper bowels of the temple, where lines of defense grew more and more scarce.

The three eldest of the company grew more skeptical with each step. Midna leaned closer to Agitha, whispering something the Shadow Insect could not perceive.

“The Goddess Butterfly is never wrong, Miss Kitty,” the young girl assured. She seemed to have full confidence in the butterfly’s sense of direction, and faltered not even a second in chasing after it. And that confidence was well within her right, for Ghirahim recognized these corridors. They would reach their location in no time flat.

Soon, the ground beneath the group’s feet turned sandier and sandier, until the stone tiles were completely covered. They reached a dark chamber, lit only through the cracks of ventilation slits above the massive stone door across them. The butterfly fluttered across without a care, landing on the dusty surface of the door, and fanned its wings in rest. Agitha was about to tromp right after it, but the Sheikah stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder. He pushed her back, right into Lana’s protective embrace. 

Painfully slow, annoyingly cautious, the Sheikah inched into the clearing of the room step by step. He could check for traps, he could listen for mechanisms and dowse for curses or enchantments, but he would find none. Instead, something found him.

A stinger, tall enough to almost scrape past the ceiling, shot out from the sand, and jabbed at the intruder. Its menacing needle missed only by the grace of the commander’s reflexes, pushing the tail out of its trajectory with a talon dagger, but failing to crack carapace. Shaking itself out of the sand, the final bastion had revealed itself. The Moldarach, a massive scorpion of centuries old, screeched and chittered a word of warning. Its pincers snipped menacingly, tendons tight and fierce. Yet, under the threat of its lightning-fast stinger, the little girl was least afraid of them all. 

Agitha looked up at the Moldarach in awe and rummaged in her basket, not taking her eyes off the creature once. “Ohh, I’d hate to hurt such a beautiful bug… I’m sorry, li’l one! But I don’t have a big enough bottle to keep you in!”

From it she retrieved an armful of glass jars, brandishing them as if they were explosives. Her entourage backed away hastily, clearly knowing far more about the contents of those jars than the Moldarach could. She tossed the jars with a sweep, racking them on the scorpion’s hard carapace at first impact. Out swarmed dozens of glowing, spectral butterflies, that headed straight for the first sign of soft flesh they could find: the Moldarach’s eyeball. The beast recoiled, pawing at its face in an attempt to shake the pests off, but it was fruitless. It could now only depend on the eyeballs hidden within its pincers, but in doing so, it revealed the soft tendons holding its claws together. Midna and the Sheikah exchanged a look, seemingly sharing an idea. 

Getting up close to this creature proved to be a challenge. Lunging in to take out its claws also meant being subjected to the monster’s lightning-fast reflexes, and Midna found herself trapped in its clutches soon enough. It squeezed, digging the teeth of its claws into her flesh dangerously. They hardly even needed the Shadow Insect for this – they could hear her cries of pain through the door. A little more and it might have killed her, had the Sheikah commander not severed the tender meat in its other claw. Its grip on the imp loosened in its distress and she managed to slip away, evading its gaze long enough for it to lose sight of her. The clash of claw, stinger, and blade continued, though the Moldarach grew more fatigued by the minute. Butterflies continued to eat at its face and attached themselves to whatever nerve opening they could find. Thus the creature slowed, its jabs and lunges losing their accuracy, until at long last it ceased its attacks altogether. They saw no use in waiting until the monster fully died; their little band of foils took this earliest opportunity to flee and push through the door.

The door slid open, grinding down coarse sand of centuries old as it slotted into the wall, and allowed the quartet of Hyruleans into the Coliseum. In the center they saw Ghirahim, lounging atop the Keep’s crumbling walls and examining his nails. 

Midna scowled, her fangs bared. She felt at the wounds on her chest, already scabbed over – so quickly? – and glanced to her side, where the child stood waiting expectantly. “Great work, Agitha. Now get out of here.”

At this command, Agitha looked to the Sheikah man with big, glittering eyes, smiling when he met her gaze with a nod. She curtseyed – if Ghirahim didn’t know any better, he’d think it was at him – and, with a dainty clutch of her frock, hopped down a Twilit portal.

“There you are, Demon! ” Midna turned to foul, biting language the moment less-matured company was out of earshot. “Just you, huh? Go on. Cough it up! Where’s Zant? I don’t believe we got rid of him back in the desert. Not one bit!”

Ghirahim laughed, once again donning his gloves. Now more appropriately dressed, he hopped down from his perch and landed with a feathery flourish. Now that he seemed to be alone, and outnumbered at that, he decided he could afford a bit of taunting. He hummed, tapping thoughtfully at his chin with a wildly exaggerated gesture. “Oh, who can say? You make such a poor host out of me. All these questions, yet I’ve no intent to answer them!” Resting his hand on his cheek, he turned to Midna with a grin. With a puff of diamonds, he vanished, then reappeared before Midna, leaning down to glare at her with one pair of big, buggy eyes to another. “Say, I have one of my own. You look different. New haircut?”

Midna bared her teeth in a snarl, the fist at the end of her ponytail balling tightly until its fibers threatened to give. She lunged for him, the massive orange hand open and clawed. When his defending sword caught on the curved metal of her bangle, she leaned in with a grin. “Real jester you are! I take it this was your idea, then? That gaudy-masked imp told me to send you its regards.”

Majora. Ghirahim winced. It was getting a little too quiet on the Arch Demon’s front, he’d thought. But to rear its head again and mess with the Demon King’s enemies… There was no telling of its little plans. He turned his blade with a flick of his wrist, threatening to sever her hair at the shackle, and forced her back. “If I wanted you to be cursed, I’d ask someone more reliable.”

His eye flicked to the ground. Where he stood now, the low angle of the light stretched his shadow to that of the Keep’s walls… 

Zant emerged from the shadows in an instant, mere inches behind Midna, and swung at her like wings on a windmill. She shielded herself with the hair-clad hand of her ponytail, only to realize within a split second that the Twilight King’s new blade cut right through it. Ducking quickly out of the way, she spun through the air, launching herself to stand closer to her two companions. 

“It is a shame about your plight, Twilight Princess. I would have preferred to fight you in a more dignified form.”

When Midna forfeited a reply to glare him down, he laughed, turning to the altar behind him. “Nostalgic, is it not?” Zant waxed, his arms spread as he spun himself to the center of the coliseum. “The birthplace of our people. And perhaps, where the last of us will meet our end.”

Midna then made the grave mistake of taking his poetics as an opening and launched for him, the hand on her ponytail outstretched. The giant fist clenched around empty air when Zant promptly warped out of her way. Placing himself beside her momentum, he swung his scimitar down like a cleaver.

In an instant, magical wards were shattered. Showered in a foreboding glitter of gold, Midna cried out and smacked to the ground. But before Zant could lift his blade again and cleave her in half properly this time, the Sheikah dashed in to intervene. Only to then, himself, be driven to his knees by the daunting force of the Twilight King’s blade. It was two against one; each time Zant had subdued the one foe, the other would step in to try and take him out through his flanks. But Zant was too quick, his blade too sharp. Screeches rang out when the scimitar coursed past the edges of the Sheikah’s daggers, filling their cutting edges with worrying chips. Then, the first of them shattered to pieces completely.

Amidst it all, Zant cackled maniacally, madness tugging at his sweat-drenched brow with each swing of his sword. “Witness me, Ghirahim! We are unstoppable! ”

But Ghirahim had very little time to witness. Lana had chosen him as her opponent and did everything in her power to keep him from uniting forces with his co-lieutenant. Frankly, he was a little amused that the Sheikah had not dared to face him a second time. But moreso, insulted, that the Demon Lord was not deemed a terrible enough foe to require backup to challenge. Tongue lolling from his lips in mockery and Annihilation in hand, he decided to make the Sorceress severely regret underestimating him.

Scratches tore through his robes and the strikes that hadn’t broken through his leather mail had surely bruised him, but Zant didn’t seem discouraged by injury whatsoever. Instead, he pushed through, seeking risk after risk and tearing through everything that opposed him. Soon, that boldness was awarded. Midna held up her hair-clad fist to defend herself, and Zant carved through two of its fingers as if it were made of wet paper.

Zant screeched with delight. “Your weeks of bedrest have atrophied your skills, Princess! While you lay there rotting in your own misery, I have gotten stronger!”

Midna growled, ducking behind the Sheikah to conceal herself from his bloodthirsty glee. Ghirahim, though, could see everything. Portals appeared in the shadows and from it surfaced a trio of wolves, each raising its hackles before bursting past the Sheikah and charging at the Usurper.

“Such cheap tricks will not work a second time,” Zant clicked his tongue.

Then, with a gust of wind, he launched himself backward and well out of range of the two warriors. With a single twirl, he drew a circle in the sand with his feet, and raised his arms to the skies. When he parted his lips to speak, every shadow stilled at once, slithering beneath the feet of each combatant, turning the air thick and heavy.

The air grew heavy, stopping every warrior in their tracks. A pale blue light shone from above, but none dared take their eyes off him to look for its source.

One by one, limbs limp and gangly in their descent, three creatures fell from the sky. Upon hitting the ground, their bodies contorted as they rose, each more bizarrely and stiffly than the next. They were massive, gray things, fitted with stone masks upon their faces and a mass of wet, slithering tentacles pouring from their faces.

Without even having to command them, the monsters galloped on all fours to throw themselves at the hounds. They entangled in a mess of rune and shadow, tumbling through the dust in a bestial scuffle. Midna looked on with horror.

Her companion had different concerns. Distracted by the sounds of magic, she whipped around. “That spell… How does he know that spell!?”

Just as Lana yelped, beset once more by the Demon Lord’s blade, Zant scoffed. “Did I not say I have gotten stronger!?” he taunted, knocking another brittle dagger out the hands of the Sheikah.

“Stronger!? And yet you rely on them? ” Midna shouted, hurtling herself past her fellow commander to throw herself at Zant in a raging flurry. Where Zant could not parry her, he settled for shooting her from the air at point-blank with his projectiles. “How dare you utter even a word of affection toward our people, when you force their mutilated bodies to fight for your own gain!”

“Make your dogs stop attacking them, then,” Zant said, thoroughly nonplussed. At last, he forced both combatants off of him with a resounding shock wave, rattling even Ghirahim’s core where it rested in his metal.

When the ringing in his mind subsided, a different, familiar sensation took over Ghirahim. A blinking sound deep within him, imperceptible before, now alerted him to the presence of his kin. Fi – and by extension, most likely the green-clad knight tagging along – was fast approaching. “Oh, thank Our Lord, your cavalry is arriving. I was worried it would get a little too easy.”

Lana fell to the ground as Annihilation jabbed into her ribs. Its point bounced off stronger wards than he’d been met with before, and though Ghirahim didn’t exactly break skin, she clutched her chest with a groan either way. All three of their opponents exchanged a worried look, doubtlessly contemplating how to best gang up on them as they were bound to do.

Just as each of the Demon lieutenants took a step forward, deciding whose head to lop off first, new presences made themselves known. Pointing the glowing Goddess Blade forward in dowsing, Link entered through the stone gate, with Fi soon joining by his side. This second of distraction, a spark of hope for Hyrule, was just enough for the lot of them to scramble back to their feet and cluster into tight formation.

“Everyone, watch out,” Lana shouted, grimoire at the ready. “Only those with the Triforce can wield that magic!”

“He still has it?” Midna asked, eyeing Zant with her fangs bared.

Not expecting that reply, Lana turned to Midna, eyes wide with shock. “Still!?”

“Oh, so you remembered,” Zant chimed, making his way to the clustered group without hesitation. “Our Master is quite generous with his gifts. A small piece of that power is all I need to decimate the lot of you, who now have none at all. You would do better not to underestimate us!”

Midna’s eyes darted between her companions. A heaving, determined sigh tore through her. Then, her enraged expression twisted into a malicious grin. Her arms raised, she placed her hands on either side of her helmet. “Doesn’t matter. I could best you then, and I can do it now!”

The Coliseum was bathed in shadow. Midna drew darkness to her like a cyclone. Where Zant’s shadowy magic was warm and suffocating; a pulsing, all-consuming parasitic disease, hers was an eerie chill. From the pitch-black surrounding her feet, three ancient stone artifacts, the Fused Shadows, surfaced and encased her like a tomb.

When the first spidery legs burst forth from the bottom of the Twilight Princess’ stone-hewn armor, Ghirahim found himself beset by his own opponents. Link, drenched almost completely red with monstrous blood, ran for him, aiming right for his chest. Disappointed, almost, that the boy had learned nothing, he took hold of the blade with his bare hand, flicking it aside just in time to be able to step out the way of Fi’s impending kick. They were teaming up against him again, just as their other, more wounded companions were now piling on Zant. Where worry once would have possessed him, Ghirahim was now buzzing with nothing but thrill. The boy was already exhausted. He would get to tug the cords of his life from him strand by strand, and he hardly had to break a sweat to do so.

With that ever-lasting nuance and his dancing blade demanding his every second, Ghirahim couldn’t spare a glance at his battling compatriot. Not even as tendrilous arms, gnarled and glowing like smoldering branches of wicker, scampered around this battlefield, their incessant thumping shaking the rubble off the walls. Dust and pebbles rained down from above, only to be meticulously carved into halves by his sword. Some time ago, the duo of Link and Fi had bested him. 

But back then, he didn’t have this blade. Annihilation soared and carved, striking hard enough to make even the stone-faced Goddess Blade wince as he parried her swinging legs. With this power, enemy numbers didn’t matter – he would win.

A twinge of anxiety simmered in him nonetheless. While he could indeed not spectate the battle behind him directly, he caught impressions from the piece of himself, wielded by his co-lieutenant. A screech of metal, a beast recoiled. Hair-coiled fists he so easily carved through minutes past now felt solid as rock. Midna could not find a way through his defenses, and the ground shook as she struggled away from his offenses. Those that dared to try left a taste of blood upon his blade, however slight. Weapons crashed into each other in such a cacophony he could no longer distinguish the flashes of light in his own battle, from the ones imposed on him by Zant’s hands. To any mortal, such a barrage of violence would render them collapsed in the confusion, but to Ghirahim, it was Paradise.

Yet, this could not last long. Caught in bladelock with Link, he swiftly kicked the boy off of him when an alarming sensation overtook him. The part of him resting within the Demon Scimitar overloaded him with visions. With the uttering of strange words, Lana had bypassed Zant’s wards. Metal groaned eerily, then exploded, shrapnel shooting into the sand. An inky-black fist clutched around an equally black steel javelin, then threw it whistling through the air. But Midna didn’t aim for the now staggered Zant – she aimed at the ceiling. Chunks of stone and wispy sands rained down, blinding all who waited below, until the dust cleared. Zant noticed it before anyone else, and burst out into a shriek when sunlight flooded every corner of the Coliseum. 

They hounded him like a pack of starved wolves. More blinded than ever and his skin blistering, Zant couldn’t defend himself from the Sheikah’s assault, nor Link’s, nor Lana’s, all the while Fi kept Ghirahim across the arena. His guard dog, forced away from its flock. With every second in the sun, Zant was weakening. He simply couldn’t keep up, not while blinded and in agony like this. With desperate flings of their sword, he only barely managed to deflect the blows that would have otherwise sliced his head off. Blood stained the sand around him as strike after strike tore through his armor like it was no more than air. When his weapon finally fell from his hands, Midna took it as a sign, and grappled his battered body with a tendril for each limb. When he lifted his face, his stare was aimless, but full of malice.

“Sheik, now! ”

Lana commanded, desperately eyeing the still-bleeding Sheikah commander. He complied with a nod too serene for such a boyish warrior. A glow gathered in his palms, abstract and foggy at first, until he grasped it, held it before him, and drew the string. Fuzzy sparkles shed from the light-made object, revealing its true form.

A bow. With a single blink, the Sheikah’s eyes turned from red to crystal blue.

It was the Princess! Ghirahim’s body froze over. In Zant’s current state, that single arrow would be fatal. What could stun their Master was deadly poison to his underlings.

An inhibition, once hard-coded into every fiber of his being, now shattered. Annihilation felt feather-light in his hands but crashed into Fi with the force of a stampede. A single facet chipped off her core, and would still be floating in the air when Ghirahim bolted to the center of the arena. Step, after step, after step, pummeling the sand into craters. The arrow nocked and braced, was then released. Ghirahim disappeared. A whistle, fletchings quivered in the air. Ghirahim burst into view in the middle of the Coliseum, arms outstretched. He grabbed Zant by the shoulders, and with a chime of diamond magic, they were gone.

The arrow pierced into the Keep wall. A piece of Fi’s core fell into the sand. Out of the five warriors present, none of them had been able to prevent their escape.

He needed shadows. There was only one place that would suffice. Around them, the world turned monochrome. With the Twili tucked carefully in his arms, he set his sights far beyond the labyrinth and took them both to the Palace. Nowhere would be darker than the quarters of the Twilight King.

Sheets hastily ripped off, bedding drenched in darkening blood. Zant lay stiff and unmoving, gasping like a fish, struggling none as Ghirahim ripped his clothes from him. A decorative fastening pin flew and clattered across the tile floor. Zant’s portrait above them looked on with a smirk.

Hyrulean weapons had gone right through his armor. He was a mess of red-stained wool and torn leather, gaping wounds pulsing fresh blood. Far too much of it. Ghirahim ripped the cork off a potion bottle with his teeth and shoved the glass opening to Zant’s lips, who coughed and sputtered as the thick liquid gushed down his gullet. 

“Just this- Just this, and you will be alright. Stay with me,” Ghirahim hissed, keeping a close eye on the Twili’s battered body. Wounds closed up, but too many remained raw and open. Cursing under his breath, he snipped his fingers, keeping one hand – glove bunched underneath his grip – pressed heavily to a gash on Zant’s thigh. And what a useless measure it was. This wound was just one of many that needed his attention. The sheets he tore from the cupboards, drenched in water from his nightstand washing table and spilled bourbon, soon lost their white cleanliness to deep, deathly red.

Needle and thread summoned themselves with a snip of his fingers. Sewing implements, but Ghirahim had little else in his reach. Zant cried and whined when the makeshift gauze was now pressurized by a knee, Ghirahim’s hands too occupied with the needle. Bent into a rounded angle around his finger, sterilized with a flame. He thread the needle and set to pushing it through flesh.

“I’d say your crying brings me misery, Zant,” he grinned, an expression creeping on him purely from his nerves, “but do not stop. At least then I know you are alive and conscious.”

Pierce, tug, tie, and snip. Rhythmic and perfect, Ghirahim mended wound by wound. He knew how to carve flesh, so too, did he know how to sew it back together. Each wound bled with different severity. His midriff, his legs, his chest. There, he’d been carved down to the rib, surrounded by irritated flesh and glowing veins. The body tormented by these injuries cried and cried, but had not the strength to even writhe. As focused as Ghirahim was, his eyes still strayed and flicked to his right. Zant’s naturally pallid complexion helped him absolutely none in telling how much time he had. But his fading patterns did. Their teal glow almost ceased.
Another potion. This time, he poured some of it directly on the still-opened wounds, hoping their sizzle would burn the veins shut. Zant was awake enough to swallow the rest of it, but not to protest against the drops that snuck into his windpipe. Only when Ghirahim had turned him on his side to tend to his back did the healing liquid’s magical effect rejuvenate him enough to rasp and hack it up. He shrieked immediately when the sudden jolt caused Ghirahim’s needle to stick him.

“Keep whining, please,” Ghirahim muttered. “If you have enough energy to act childish, then…”

Zant hissed, growled, snarled, every tug of the thread now an affront. His toes curled and his fingers dug in the sheets, weakly, but characteristically, either way. When every wound he could see was stitched, Ghirahim took the cords of lacing out the loops at his back and rid Zant of his final layer. Red, white, black; teal slowly returning, if it wasn’t simply the phosphorescent glow of the room around them. In a few days, this body would be a rainbow of bruises. Should he last that long.

Only then did Ghirahim allow himself to draw breath. Not as a necessity, but as a soothing tic, to come back to his senses and for a second empathize with a mortal man. He slumped onto the bed, his head resting on Zant’s chest. It was in this rest that the full gravity of the past minutes reached him. Rather, it jumped full force onto his back, its weight forcing him into immobility and sinking him into the bed. Ghirahim couldn’t recall when he started weeping; he’d been on auto-pilot from the second Zelda nocked her arrow.

Zant’s heartbeat thumped against his forehead, hard and heavy as it would whenever the Twili had a lump in his throat. Its pace quickened when Ghirahim spoke. “I almost lost you.”

Zant’s hand raised, then dropped onto Ghirahim’s back. Cold fingers stroked him softly. “You may still, Oibedelrik, Yima Daegge Esweteli,” Zant whispered hoarsely, forcing his words out with the nigh manual contracting of his rib muscles. “Odowuni kem idzidiy Iya, ee Iya-” he murmured, his eyes rolling to the backs of their sockets. His eyelids fluttered shut, then shot back open, revealing darting pupils as if he’d just remembered where he was. “I am not yet bandaged,” wheeze, “and when my blood returns to me,” wheeze, “I may yet fall to fever.”

“Shut up.” Banish the thought. As if he would be so negligent! A doctor, he was not, but as much as he could bring death, he could also spot its tellings, and he did not intend on letting it rear its head again. Ghirahim closed his eyes, listening intently to his pulse – as if it would slip away if he turned away for even a second – then raised himself to finish the job.

He had to go back to the battlefield. There was no telling whether all their beasts had been defeated or not, or whether they even had a chance to take down Hyrule’s commanders. He would return, alone if he had to, Ghirahim decided as he stroked a warm, wet cloth along the dried blood on Zant’s torso where his stitches did not taint him. But he’d only leave when Zant was stable. 

In his spiraling, Zant’s hand had found its way to his hair, running its fingers through the strands. For once, Ghirahim cared not how bloodstained he would get. Zant’s weak voice muttered, slipping between heaving breaths. “All of them, at once… I foresaw many, but every caste and clade…”

“I know, I know,” Ghirahim responded, wringing the blood from the reddened cloth. “But the more we whittle down today, the less prepared they’ll be when Master strikes.”

“There is no ‘we’, Ghirahim. I cannot fight like this. I was bested once again.”

“I will take care of it,” Ghirahim muttered, a frown on his brow. He thought it ripe time to change the subject. “The Princess, disguising herself as a Sheikah... I’d almost say she exceeded us in trickery today.”

Zant sighed, his arm quickly becoming deadweight in his hand as Ghirahim took it for bandaging. That strange gray on his skin had spread almost no further. “Posing as a substitute for General Impa, I reckon.”

Ghirahim left Zant to his musings and grew oddly giddy with his own. The thrill of battle and clawing his companion away from death’s door scalded him from within, filling him with an inexplicable well of energy. 

“But if the Princess is here… That’s good news, wouldn’t you say?” Ghirahim began to prattle, a manic tug at his brow as he pinned the last few bandages in place. “Fewer commanders are guarding the palace than we expected. If we hurry and inform Master Ganondorf, surely–”

“Ghirahim–”

But Ghirahim did not hear him. Whatever he said then, he could not even recall himself, so thoroughly he was caught up in a whirlwind of plans.

“Ghirahim, stop.”

The pair met eyes in silence, one still wearing a bewildered grin, the other lying grim and pale on what was almost his resting place. “There is no point. Your revelation will fall on deaf ears. We were never meant to leave this desert.”

Ghirahim’s expression dropped, managing only a slight grin in his confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Master sent us here to die.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ghirahim frowned, fighting off a pit of dread in his gut. This was just his usual delirium, he thought. The same madness shaken into him by fear and injury, like it had Volga.

Zant, however, did not take his struggle kindly. He frowned at him indignantly. “You call me ridiculous? You deceive even yourself. Face it, Ghirahim. We are two against seven of Hyrule’s finest commanders. This was a suicide mission from the start, as I suspected Death Mountain must have been, too.”

“... But-” Ghirahim struggled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Zant was a liar, he knew this. But now? To him? About something like this? Neither possibility, not Zant deceiving him so brazenly, nor being abandoned by his Master, computed in his mind. “We were- What could I have done to displease him to this degree? Why would he want to be rid of me? You speak nonsense!”

“You did nothing, Ghirahim. You are perfect. Your sole crime was associating with me. For me, it was only a matter of time until he did away with me. He is unworthy for the throne, and, one way or the other, I would have stopped him from seizing it.”

Ghirahim froze. Pieces fell on the ground before him but he didn’t dare to watch them assemble. Something hot and furious was starting to thaw the ice of his shock from within. “What?”

“Your surprise tells me he did not even bother to confirm his suspicions before abandoning you.” With a huff and groan, he shifted, trying to prop himself upright on his pillow. The grimace he pulled in his pain remained in his face, molded from rage and hatred. “I detest him, Ghirahim, and finally he has noticed it. He must have known I wished for his death, and that I intended to follow through.”

Ghirahim staggered away from the bed as if pushed. An instant revulsion forbade him from staying anywhere near the wounded man before him, and in his disgust, he willingly followed this instinct. He scowled at him, wide-eyed and vicious, tongue lashing and drenched with venom. “So your title was given to you for good reason. I cannot believe my ears. Immature little boy, you are! Our accursed usurper, unable to keep his grubby claws off any throne when he grows the slightest bit displeased. You ungrateful wretch!”

“Ungrateful? You know not what you speak of,” Zant scowled right back, tears of rage welling up in his eyes and his teeth bared. The Lord of Twilight turned to him unflinchingly, hunched like a pouncing beast as if his drive to convince him had filled him with fresh vigor. “In my time, Ganon was to me what Demise was to you. My God, I adored him,” he waxed, hands covering his face in grief. “I did his bidding. I worshiped him, freed us both from our decrepit prison. Yet, when I gave my life for him, he broke his promise to me. Instead of freeing my spirit to rule by his side, he took everything I ever worked for. And then- then-” Zant paused, hands falling limply into his lap. “When defeated by his little foil, when the strings of his soul dared touch upon mine to beg for my assistance, I denied him.”

Zant’s eyes turned to him again. The first hints of a smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “You understand, don’t you? It was no hero, no princess, who slayed the Demon King in the age of Twilight. The one to deliver the final blow, was me. ”

That very second, a little part of Ghirahim’s world shattered. When he realized the consequences of plotting alongside a man so treacherous, the rest shattered with it. Right under his nose, Zant had made an enemy of his Master, and by extension, of Ghirahim. There were questions he wanted to ask, insults to be hurled. He could only think of one question, that bubbled to the surface of his heart like scum in a boiling pot. “How long have you plotted this?”

Zant lowered his gaze, for as far as the stare of a near-blind man mattered. “From the very start,” he admitted, sighing. “After such a betrayal, to awaken to another manifestation of my tormentor, and have him once again demand my services… He may as well have spat in my face. Though, I admit, for a little while, I buckled. Somewhere, I must have loved him still, drawn to his power and our shared hatred for Hyrule as I was. I wanted to see if I could trust this version of him, who seemed so noble. But after your stories, Ghirahim, how his incarnations cast you aside so carelessly… I made up my mind. Ganondorf does not change.”

“So then all of this was just a lie, part of your plans?” Ghirahim asked, his voice quaking. He didn’t care for Zant’s excuses, not when they pulled every minute he spent by his side into question. Not when they sabotaged everything he’s ever stood for. “I, too, just a little scheme for you?”

Zant gasped, inching closer to the edge of the bed to look at him in pleading. “No, Ghirahim. How could I have foreseen this? I came to you seeking an ally, and I found a new reason for my heart to beat. For every lie I have told you, I have spoken to you as many truths tenfold, in how I’ve grown to love you. It is only because of you I have made it this far. You’ve given me peace, soothed my soul when I threatened to bubble over. And, more importantly, Ghirahim-ili, you have made a warrior of me.” Zant urged, attempting a smile, his hand outstretched. “Which is why I ask you to join me.”

Ghirahim was too stupefied by his words to answer. So Zant took advantage of his silence to continue. “You know now of my hatred, my every motivation. Yet you stay loyal to him, even if you must know he will not spare you. He has not spared you, for he resigned someone so loyal to him to the same fate he did a traitor.”

His arms snaked around himself, his nails digging in the false skin of his arms. Ghirahim took another step back; the Twili’s presence alone made it feel like insects were crawling inside his steel, tunneling through him like termites. His mind hit a roadblock, reached a final terminal, and the logic Zant asked from him sat horizons away where his tracks would not reach. “... Then if Master wills it-”

Zant shot up in his seat, snapping at him before he could finish his sentence. “Do you know how it hurts me, Ghirahim? To see someone so precious to me tear himself apart over someone who would shatter him on a mere whim? After all you do for him, he denies you at every turn and punishes you for the barest things. It has taken every shred of composure I had not to tear into him when he threatened to hurt you. If I had not hated him before, the way he treats you would have convinced me to.”

He’d avoided his eyes up until then, but Ghirahim now shot his gaze straight at him. They exchanged a scowl, each gnashing teeth, one from hatred, one from love. Desperation seized him and sharpened his edge. 

Ghirahim made for him and pushed him back into the pillows. “You know not what you ask of me. To think I would care what hurts you now, after what you’ve told me! You speak of whims? You’re asking me to abandon my every purpose for something as small as your mortal love. My purpose is all I have. It is me. To ask me to betray Demise is to doom myself to scrap, Zant.”

Zant had refused a squeak when he was shoved. With tears in his eyes, he simply laid there, glaring at him. He cradled a freshly ruptured suture through its bandages. “You are not yourself when you speak of him! Listen to the words you spew! Scrap!? So highly you think of yourself, you carry yourself as the priceless artifact that you are, yet when around him, you are degraded to the ranks of mere tools.”

Ghirahim gripped his hair in wild frustration. “Because- I am precisely as perfect as I am because of Him! Without Him, without a hand to wield me, I am nothing.”

Zant stared at him, perturbed, before groaning in his agony and sinking into his pillows. For a moment, he wilted again, speaking bitterly as he resigned himself. “Then you have been, and will be nothing, for a very long time.”

In an instant, his vision went red. “How dare you!”

Ghirahim pounced him, hands outstretched and clawed, landing square upon his chest, ignoring the grit of Zant’s teeth, his squirms, his pained squeaks. All he paid attention to were his wide-open eyes and the fear he could milk out of them. He gripped him fiercely by the shoulders and shook him as he spoke. “It’s all your fault, isn’t it!? Why he would not wield me! Why I could not gain his trust!? All because of your greed, he now sees me as a conspirator to your rotten betrayal.”

His hands found Zant’s throat and squeezed. Ghirahim leaned in close, fangs bared. Zant did nothing. Just the sight of those glowing pupils fueled the fire of his rage. “A thousand miserable years I’ve waited, working hard to see him again. Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? Your puny, mortal mind could never comprehend the lengths I’ve gone to!”

He reared back his fist, and still Zant did nothing. “Now I can wait thousands more, and he will never wield me again!!”

Ghirahim panted amidst his accusations, tears streaming down his cheeks the second they beaded in the corners of his eyes. He scanned the Usurper’s eyes for substance, for anything that wasn’t pity . When he didn’t find it, he snapped. Before he knew it, his fist connected to Zant’s cheekbone. Crack. “How could you do this to me? We were going to win!” Crack. “I would finally have been happy, after I’ve been alone for so long, and you RUINED everything for me!”

Crack. Snap. A whimper. There wasn’t an inch of Zant’s face untainted by blood and bruising, and still, that horrible fool did nothing to stop him. “I should kill you!”

He sent Zant’s head twisting left to right, right to left, with each punch. His heart had broken twice over today. First, shattered to pieces from all hope of becoming his Master’s blade. Then, its shards were trampled by the very man below his relentless assault, who had punished him so severely for daring to open himself to that mortal love. What a complete and utter fool he’d been. He should have expected to be punished like this, for entering a world he didn’t belong in.

And still, past the swollen, blood-smeared skin, Zant did not take his gut-wrenching eyes off of him, trying to fool him into loving him again to save his own measly life. It was an outrage! A betrayal this massive, and Zant had the gall to try and garner his sympathy. To assert they were alike in fate. There was only one who had lost everything, whose prospects were null, and who was only living on borrowed time. Only one banished from his home, his every goal snatched from before his nose. Only one whom his Master truly abandoned, to never be forgiven.

… No.

There were two.

Before his fist could crash into him once more, a convulsion tore through Zant’s body below him. Within the blink of an eye, he changed. His skin lost all color, turning a deep, shadowy black, while his patterns dimmed, and his hair bristled into a brittle white, like spider’s silk. 

Zant was dying.

The ties to the Demon Scimitar pulsed in his chest. There lied that rebellious little dagger, the one that thumped against the walls of his core whenever this wretch would look at him in his strange ways. Did it not feel good? Its little voice whispered in his mind. Even if it was such a small piece of you in his hands, did it not fill you with joy? Master will not wield us, and this world has so few who are worthy of us. Is it not better to rest part of you in capable hands, than in nothing at all?

Ghirahim clutched his head, begging for silence. He could not handle even a second of doubt, of weakness. If this man were simply dead, everything would be so much easier. If he were the one to kill him, Master would forgive him. But are you ready for him to die? 

He was. He would have to be. He wanted to be. It would be so simple. He just wanted to be wielded. To be held in someone’s hands, to be part of something greater.

He wanted to be loved.

Please, help him.

Oh, God. What has he done?

He detested the despairing little squeak behind him as he walked away from that deathbed. Even more, he reviled himself, for glancing behind and allowing the teeth of guilt to sink into him at the pitiful sight of that beaten creature. 

What he hated most was how he’d been convinced to return after his brief departure, healing elixirs in hand, and seeing tear-drenched eyes looking at him with a bloody smile. 

Don't look at me like that, you horrible man. You’ve ruined my life.

But that pitiful part of him felt relieved how Zant could smile at the sight of him still. How Zant was glad to see him, even after attempting to take his life mere seconds earlier. A withered hand shook as it reached out for him. Ghirahim took it and squeezed.

The room was silent as Ghirahim nursed Zant back to health. Far, far into the desert outside, chaos was unfolding. The few remaining giant monsters were now surely being slaughtered, and their troops would have to cherish idle hopes of succeeding in their reign of terror, in their commanders’ absence. Deep, deep below the ground, Gerudo and Bulblin who could not fight were taking shelter in the dungeons, waiting for the pounding footfall to fade away and leave them in peace.

Neither side knew they were here. They would sit in this room, disturbed only by the glare of Zant’s portrait, judging this pathetic display. Zant strained to breathe. His complexion had inverted almost to its original colors, while his hair returned to its original, rosewood shade. However, some strands retained that ghostly white from before. Ghirahim hoped it would be permanent. He hoped he would remember this accursed day every time he was confronted with his reflection. 

Never before had shadows bothered him. Now, in the deep darkness of Zant’s bedroom, it suffocated him. Neither of them said a word. There was nothing to say, but in this stifling pit of nothingness, he began to crave the slightest noise. He wished he could go back to a time when this dark was comforting, to be filled with nothing but idle chatter and the grappling of their bodies. Like this, through noise, through touch, Ghirahim could only think to hurt him.

So, Ghirahim seized the bridge of Zant’s nose and cracked what cartilage he hadn't shattered back into place. He took hold of his jaw, counted to three in his head, and popped the crooked thing back in its sockets. If Zant had cried out in pain at any of this, he wouldn't have noticed. The ringing in his ears was just too loud. His handiwork now finished, he trusted the potions to do the rest. 

Then, he waited. For anything, really. For the battle raging outside to dissipate. For their forces to come bursting through the castle gate cheering with glee, or for the enemy to come raid it of every worth and woman inside, and drag the two of them to the gallows, while they were at it. But mostly, he waited for any change in Zant. 

Look at him. He cannot even raise a finger to hurt you. You could end this right here, right now, Ghirahim thought to himself. Yet he sat and did nothing. When his eyes met the ones that stared glossily back up at him, filled with agonized gratitude, that thought snuffed out, and its wicker would burn no longer.

Ghirahim swallowed his apprehension, inhaled sharply, and sighed. “What will you have me do?”

Zant opened his mouth to speak, but the shards of crumbled teeth fell into his throat as he uttered his first syllable. Ghirahim sat and watched as he choked and spat them out on his pillow.

“We are to wait out the right time to strike back for the throne, but today, we cannot. So we will have to fool them with one more ruse. Return to the battlefield, Ghirahim,” he wheezed, swallowing the blood from a dry throat. “Strike at whoever is closest. Be vengeful. Be fierce. You must fight like you never have before.

Zant breathed deeply. With each chug of air, another wound closed up, though their scars and deep black bruises remained. “You are to disappear with me. They must be convinced that I succumbed to my wounds.”

You should have.

“And, to their knowledge, you will take to the grave with me. Come closer,” he said. His hand searched beside his face on the pillow and retrieved a shard of tooth, long and pointy, almost complete. With a tiny crack, he then reached over, and fastened it to Ghirahim’s earring, to an empty link remaining there. “A memento, to convince them of my death.”

Ghirahim rose again in silence. A little piece of bone so small dangled from his ear, but the weight of its burden could tip him over. Zant continued to speak as if this was the simplest matter in the world. “Take our blade. My power rests within it, still, and it is all the help I can afford you.”

Listlessly, mechanically, Ghirahim rose from his seat before Zant even finished his sentence. The sword lay by his bedside, hastily thrown to the side along with Zant’s armor. He picked up that shard of himself and apologetically wiped it of its grime. 

A roar reverberated from outside, echoing past the sands and through the castle walls. Zant called to his attention again with his glowing eyes aimed straight at him. “The Gerudo are innocent in all this. The least we can do is scare this vermin away from their homes. I trust you to have tricks up your sleeve, Yima Mionaida.”

Despite it all, his little nicknames stirred in his chest. Ghirahim clenched his fist harder around the grip of the Demon Scimitar, as if to smother it. His Diamond. The miserable, manipulative cretin that he was. And Ghirahim was doing all his bidding. 

Just before he could turn his back to leave, he was halted one last time. “Ghirahim,” Zant started, but he knew saying his next words would only draw his ire. His face said every letter anyway. I’m sorry.

Ghirahim ran. Within a flash, he was back in the sweltering heat of the desert, bolting from the Temple Complex and kicking up sand trails in his escape. He tore past keeps, the slain corpses of their monsters, and field battles still unfolding between forces too stubborn to believe the war was won. Those who dared bar his way were dealt with swiftly, their heads rolling. He left the perfect trail like this. A pristine white lightning bolt with a sword sharper than the cruel edge of time, such a description could only fit one man. The eyes he sought snared onto him. Enemy commanders, skeptically scouring the desert and leaving not a stone unturned for a trace of Ganondorf’s finest. Now, they found him and were giving chase just like he wanted. 

Blood and plate mail carpeted the vast sands racing below his feet. Rock outcroppings raced past; trampled patches of desert scrub – Safflina and a type of sagebrush. The smell of drying vegetation filling the air was the same as when Zant held sprigs from them up to his nose for inspection – and, finally, the gate to the bazaar, zipped past him. Almost, he, the false deserter, had gotten away with leading the lot of them out into the wider desert, until a familiar rumble ripped him from his concentration. 

Ghirahim swerved to the side, narrowly avoiding a boulder that barreled past him. It skidded to a halt before him and unfolded, though he didn’t have to see that transformation to know what nuisance stood before him. There was, once again, Darunia, Chief of the Goron Tribes.

“Not one step further, Pebble.”

The sight of him was enough to startle even Ghirahim, though he was too jaded to find any delight in it. Darunia’s torso was heavily scarred, and his right arm, gone. In its place was a jumble of machinery, with pistons and gears whirring noisily to heave the weight of a massive hammer at the very end of the prosthetic limb. Beyond a solid steel helmet, the Goron Chief wore a wide grin, though one less eye stared back at Ghirahim than last time.

“Thought to slip by us, did you? All on your lonesome?” said the Goron Chief, brandishing his weapon. “I wasn’t looking forward to facing off against that nutcase anyhow, but a lil’ something tells me my siblings took care of that for me…”

Ghirahim looked back. The peaks of Gerudo Palace were no longer in sight. For whatever chaos he would unleash… This would have to be far enough. All he had to do was stall for time until the rest of the Hyrulean commanders caught up to him.

“You truly wish to keep me? Very well,” Ghirahim replied, holding the Demon Scimitar up to the sun. Sand powdered his bodysuit from top to bottom, crusting gray and gold in every crease. But their blade remained immaculate. Its silvery edge still shone into his pupils, like teeth flashing in a hungry grin. “Make this worth my while.”

Darunia’s hammer pounded into the ground fiercer than ever. The springs on his arm, hefty as it might have been, gave him untold speed and force with each swing. Ghirahim couldn’t stop the speed of that hammer anymore – where there were once bulging veins now sat machinery, forged from a steel he dared not chip the Demon Scimitar on. So, he had to settle for the rest of this massive creature. They clashed like this for what felt like hours, neither showing any signs of tiring. The resounding clanks of the warhammer striking upon resonant steel had surely deafened them both, and everyone daring to come near them. It was thoroughly inelegant. Ghirahim hissed, roared, lunged at him with wild swings wielding a sword leagues to big for his frame. Such wild desperation hampered him as much as it worked in his favor. A grief-stricken foe was always quickly underestimated. Even with his new accessories, Darunia would not leave this battlefield unscathed. A blade made from the heart would know how to find another without effort. As he riddled the Goron’s bulging ribcage with scars, a foreboding chime in his core once again alerted him of his pursuers. They were getting closer. He could feel it. 

Then, for a second, he could feel nothing at all. A split second of distraction cost him dearly, when it allowed for Darunia to come within arm’s reach and drive his hammer straight into him. The flat of the giant hammer drove into the side of his head with such a deafening impact he thought his head might snap clean off. Instead, he remained intact, launched across the bazaar to tumble through ruined market stands and trampled carpets. When he came to a halt, all he could see was dust, the approaching Darunia not more than a shadow in the clouds of sand. Ghirahim stood up, a hand to his wounded cheek to find it just that – wounded. Through his false skin, he could feel chips taken out his face, like little razor-sharp dimples on his cheek.

The rest of them were approaching now, right outside the gate. Ghirahim found the least he could do was give them a proper welcome spectacle. Concealed by the dust, he launched forward at the shape of the Goron Chief in ambush. Its wicked, curved tip aimed at the jugular. Darunia staggered away, but every twitch of movement just made the scimitar slice him deeper. With just one more stumbling step, Ghirahim got the vengeance he wanted. An arc of blood gushed from the Goron’s collarbone, splattering to accessorize Ghirahim’s wounded face. Clutching his bleeding wound, Darunia thrust his metal arm forward to push the Demon away from him and hobbled back into the dust. 

Ghirahim gave chase until he remembered his task. Wind whipped through his hair and took the sands with it, revealing at last his surroundings to him. Standing in an arc around him, barricading his way to the desert, stood the mightiest of Hyrule’s army. There was nowhere left to lure them, this would have to be his final stand. He could not fight all of them at once – not Link, not Fi, not Zelda, not all of the other pompous royals gathered here. But he could make them see. The blade, the tooth dangling from his ear. Now, he would make them witness his sorrow. To their knowledge, it would be grief for a fallen friend, but in the depths of his core, he felt nothing more than disgust for obeying the word of another.

Tears gushed from his eyes. He was doing this – he was betraying his Master. Ghirahim ( was he even worthy of a name? ) contorted his face into a maddened grin. The carnage, the destruction, the pure, unfiltered chaos this final gambit would unleash might have pleased Him, but it would not be in His name. It was moot! He should have accepted his fate in the Arbiter’s grounds. He should have stood patiently waiting in executioner’s row, to be pierced by the very same arrow that he saved his conspirator from. If his Master willed him to shatter, to turn to dust and forgotten in the eyes of history, then that was to be his fate, and nothing more. 

Instead, the Sword Spirit glared down the approaching Hyrulean commanders with the same manic grimace, and readied his spell.

“Šamu dullu-ya, Majora! Bēlu ellāmu-adāni, Lā Naparkû Umṣu! Anāku bussuru kâti bursaggû, naqrabu napištu. Banû annûm āra-šu ašītu, baqāru tidintuka!”

He danced and danced through the sand, flickering himself atop every surface he could find to evade the grasp of his assailants. Midna and Lana were the first to stiffen, to call for someone to put a stop to this, but none of the arrows sailing past could hit their mark. Every word drained more and more energy from him. This was a true summoning, a bargain driven. Within the first uttering of the Arch Demon’s name, he could feel it watching, stalking around him like a wolf with gnashing teeth, licking its lips until it found his offer sufficient. 

He would have thought it an infernal illusion, ripping him to some other plane of existence, did he not notice the straw hat atop the mask and the blue sky expanding behind it. The Skull Kid floated before him upside down, looking him dead in the eye. With a single tap on the nose, it shook him out of his paralysis.

“Took you long enough. Don’t let me get bored again, Ghirahim-ili! ”

It mocked, it shrieked with laughter, and it rattled its mask. Arms to the sky, it hovered squeaking and groaning with strain, and then with the same great effort, swung its clawed little hands down as if pulling a massive lever. Then, it waved cheerfully and disappeared within a blink. 

Silence. Nothing at all. The commanders still around him stood waiting with caution, alarmed by the Arch Demon’s arrival, and just-as-sudden departure. Only when a rumble shook the pebbles on the bazaar grounds did they think to look up.

Not Ghirahim. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the skies for even a second. He saw it the second Majora disappeared. A small dot, a mere speck in the endless blue of the cloudless heavens, approaching rapidly. The Moon was falling down on Gerudo Desert.

Cries of panic, of retreat. Chimes of magical transportation rang around him. Hyrule’s commanders were fleeing en masse. Perhaps he would not strike his intended targets, but he didn’t care. This battle would find no spoils or prisoners. Nothing but a wasteland would be left, leaving not the slightest bone for the vultures to scavenge. Swirling clouds of condensation shrouded the Moon in its rapid descent. It was hypnotic, almost, Ghirahim thought, standing in the center of its massive shadow. He considered then what would happen if he simply stayed here. The clouds dissipated as the Moon crossed their threshold. By all means, he was insane for dawdling here, and yet he took the time. 

Head cocked curiously, but eyes blank, he peered up at a giant visage that scowled back. Like it challenged him, almost. He was forged to survive any impact, surpassed only by weaponry that rivaled him in magic ability. But he’d never been hit by a meteor before. Would it shatter him? Did that matter? Oh, how tempting the thought was. He was a dead man walking either way. Where would he go if he survived such an impact? Master would break him. 

Ah, his trump card was getting a little close for comfort now. He could feel the heat of its approach on his skin, its tremors shaking the ground beneath his feet. There were mere seconds between this moment and the inevitable crater the Moon would leave. He turned his stare away from the skies and turned to look around. Not a soul remained in the bazaar, but the soldiers that fled – be they friend or foe – certainly weren’t far enough to escape the blast radius. They’d be dust soon, blend in with the sands.

Playtime was over. He’d fantasized plenty. Zant was waiting for him; whether he’d find him succumbed to his wounds, or in a prime state to kill him himself, he’d have to see when he got there. Whether he’d have the guts to see him to his end…

Now, to get out of here. 

Chapter Text

From the shadow of one colossal threat, into the other. This one weighed on him far heavier. Ghirahim stood in the cold dark of Zant’s chambers, for a moment, taking refuge in the first second before his eyes could adjust. Ever-so-indulgently, he blinked just a little longer than he had to, shrouding himself in the comfort of that shadowy blanket and shielding himself from what he would now have to undertake. When he opened his eyes again, he glared at the shape lying on the bed. When he strained his ears, he could hear a squeaky wheeze, little grunts of pain spotting through his breath. 

Perhaps he had been a little too optimistic, hoping for Zant to have succumbed in his absence. Ghirahim approached the bed, the injured Twili upon it heaving his blankets with his arduous breathing. Neither of them had noticed he was still holding the Demon Scimitar. What good would it have done, to be any more aware of that frivolous thing? Ghirahim could forget about any urge, any fantasy, of using it to pounce upon him and flay him where he lied. With every step closer, that little dagger all but shook in his hands, cheering to see its beloved alive, though not well. It exploded into a cloud of diamonds, each shred and particle snaking back into Ghirahim's core by a trail. Such bothersome affection was best left where he could keep watch of it, and lock it away, deep where he could no longer feel it. All until this rotten fool would recover, rip it from him, and drag him about by the strings of his weakness all over again, no doubt.

Six seconds. That was how long he spent in that chamber, up until that point, when a flash of light broke through the gaps in the curtains, and briefly cast the room in dim light. Another second and the thunderous roar of a massive impact followed. The whole castle shook, dust raining down from the ceiling, the contents of shelves jolting in place and tumbling to the floor, glass and ceramics shattering on the spot, and wooden furniture rattling on their legs. The screws from Zant’s canopy bed gave way. A curtain rod, drapes and all, dislodged from its place and bared the fallen Twilight King to the little light that made it through the windows.

The tremors subsided at last. All of the palace – no, the world, was eerily silent. Sand, carried across the desert by the shockwave, pelted against the outside walls and spewed through the curtains. Ghirahim approached the bed, grains crunching beneath his feet.

Peering at him through swollen eyelids, Zant turned his head ever so slightly. “Your last gambit, I take it?”

Ghirahim deigned to answer. A last gambit, indeed, but one he never wanted to play. Majora’s words rang in his head, clear as day.

“... use it wisely, for when the tides of war turn irreversibly against your favor. ”

Oh, and how the tides had turned. In one fell swoop, Ghirahim had lost both the battle and his Master, both of these promises doomed for failure from the very start. By accepting Majora’s allegiance, all in the name of the pitiful man now lying wheezing before him, those very tides crashed into him again, only from a different angle. Now that he stood there, wave-beaten as he was, the water cleared from his eyes. He could see just how laughable of a trap he’d fallen for. In calling Majora to his aid, Ghirahim silently wondered whose hands he had played into.

Zant stammered through this silence. It seemed he could not go a single minute without ushering his little plans along. “We cannot stay here. In the next few hours, those taking refuge in the dungeons will free themselves from their barricades and swarm through the Palace. If they find us–”

“Our lives will not remain secret” Ghirahim interrupted. “I get it. You want me to find some alternate place, yes? Or, even more probable, you already know exactly where you want to go?”

Zant averted his gaze. If Ghirahim didn’t know any better, he’d think it was an expression of guilt. Though, a playful one, like that of a prankster caught in the middle of their schemes. It may as well have been, to a man like him. 

“Do you remember… That ruined little village in the woods?” Zant asked, finally.

“I do.” 

Questions he once would have freely blurted out with a wry smile now refused to move, lodged somewhere in his throat by their barbs. They buzzed in place, instead, like cicadas stuck in their husks. Was there even a single house intact? Would such shabby lodging truly be up to his standards? But to return to such banter, nothing would feel more unnatural. In choosing to remain with this man, his capricious yet determined self was cut off from whatever steered him now. 

So Ghirahim stood and said nothing further; simply stared.

Zant took his silence as a prompt to continue. “I spied one house on the outskirts, I believe, that could at least shelter us until I recover. I was considering our base at Eldin, first, but I do not trust it to be properly deserted. For the time being, if you could take us there…”

“Yes. Fine.” Zant’s words were full of implicit little meanings as usual. Teleport us there. Clear the coast. Bring bandages. Bring bedding. Steal whatever food you think we can use. Take every God-damned thing that you value because we are not coming back. And don’t get caught. 

Once, he thought reading into his every word was a skill, a convenience that made the two of them more efficient than any other pair. How awfully intrusive it felt now! As if Zant, instead, wormed his way into his mind, and commandeered him as he pleased!

Ghirahim’s arms hooked under the fold of Zant’s knees and around his shoulders all the same, cradling the injured man to his chest. To let that line of thought go any further was to suspect a past weakness where he had once seen strength. He thoroughly had enough of those today. To dig any deeper, to realize –

Zant’s head slumped to the side, burying his face in the nape of Ghirahim’s neck. He was burning up. Of all the wounds he’d sustained that day, one of them was bound to fester. Ghirahim supposed he would have to snatch some coriander along the way for a tincture or two, and –

Oh, Hell. 

—

Their arrival at the abandoned town had been uneventful. War was raging on beyond the treeline, miles and miles away, but in this forest, the simple cycle of life and death turned and turned along as though the world had been quiet. Birds rooted around in piles of fallen leaves for their morsels, bucks bellowed for their harems further out in the woods, and rodents hurried for cover, away from these strange new arrivals, as though they’d been the only disturbance for years. It felt thoroughly undeserved. Ghirahim’s life was on fire. It would only have been fair for this place to feel its cinders, too. 

But if everything was judged by his standard of fairness, he never would have left Ganondorf’s side. Zant would have been wearing his usual stupid, blindly loyal smile beside them both, and they would have Hyrule’s ashes stomped to coals beneath their feet. Instead, Ghirahim stood inside the last standing house of this village, surrounded by bare necessities. Zant lay in a makeshift cot, sweating a fever away tucked in the shadows of the room. Finding a spot for him had been a bit of a challenge. The place was littered with uncovered windows and a hole in the roof let in a persistent beam of sunlight even if he managed to fashion some curtains. Ghirahim sat against the wall across the Twili, face buried in the comfort of his favorite cloak. Termites and lichen made their home in the logs pressed against his back – how this place hadn’t collapsed along with the rest of the village, Ghirahim couldn’t say. Zant would probably have some long-winded theory about it all, but if he heard even another squeak out of that man before sundown, he wouldn’t hold himself responsible for whatever happened next.

And night did fall, after hours spent in nothing but solitude. Ghirahim sporadically flitted about the house, passing through like a ghost. Through the windows, the forest’s naked branches clacked in the wind like the dead waving their skeletal arms. One way or the other, he supposed the memory of those he wiped from the face of the earth in Gerudo Desert, sent its regards. But the Desert was far behind them now, their belongings scattered across the floor or bundled up in chests throughout the little house. They would not return. 

Ghirahim sat outside as the sun sank below the treeline, poking at the cinders of a fire pit he’d set up a little ways from their shelter. The night air was a little easier out in the open, without the soft sounds of suffering keeping him so dreadfully on edge. To sit by Zant, with so many accusations to sling at him but no motivation to do so, filled him with such a terrible thunder. He couldn’t stand another minute in there with him. 

Of course, he was enraged at Zant. Somehow, that maniac had managed to deceive a Demon, and, with how Ghirahim so piteously carried him to safety, had gotten away with it, too. It was infuriating, as much as it tore his heart to pieces. They had loved each other then, and though Ghirahim had let it shatter, the shards of this love still remained within him.

Zant meant no harm to him, this he knew. But what the Twili did not seem to get through his thick skull was that in threatening his Master, that threat extended to his most loyal blade. 

What other choice did Ghirahim have, though? He didn’t have the authority to be selfish, but deep inside himself, he cherished that wish, still, to have his true purpose fulfilled in the hands of his Master. Removed so far from Him now, for the first time, Ghirahim confronted his wish head-on. He could not bear dying a second time, without his true purpose fulfilled. So, even if this incarnation of Demise would not wield him, he could at least try to live on, and wait for the next. The only way to safeguard that childish desire now, was to remain hidden away, by Zant’s side.

Plop. Plop. Plop. Something was close to burning in the pot he was tending to. Bubbles rose through the thick liquid and popped into tufts of steam at its tawny surface. He took the pot, but a little rattle behind him urged him to turn before he could return to the cabin. Yet the ruined village around them was quiet, his idle scrying sensing nothing out of place. Dismissing the disturbance as another quirk of his agitation, he kicked a serving of sand over the smoldering ashes of the fire pit and headed back inside.

Zant sat propped up in his bed. His hand was raised to his face in a puckish, half-hearted attempt to conceal that he had been poking at his stitches mere seconds earlier. Ghirahim ignored those silly traits and handed him a bowl.

Raising shaky hands, his scarred ear straining to twitch, Zant took the bowl with surprise. Wide eyes peered inside. “I… Did not know you could cook.”

Ghirahim curled his lip, offended both by his carefree attempt at small-talk and at the underestimation of his abilities. “I am Demon Lord. I hold encyclopedic knowledge spanning thousands of years, and you think I wouldn’t know how to prepare a simple gruel? ”

“... Forgive me for inquiring,” Zant mumbled, bringing the bowl to his parched lips. 

A moment of silence passed between them, with Ghirahim again hunched down against the far wall. Sitting there, staring at Zant somewhat struggling to feed himself through tremoring hands and an injured throat, became quickly unbearable. 

Ghirahim was tending to one of his daggers, a leather case full of them beside him, when Zant interrupted their silence again. “I must say, Ghirahim… I did not expect you to want to care for me, as grateful as I am for it. I remain a little jarred.”

Ghirahim furrowed his brows. Rose from his seat, made his way over to the cot and loom over the wicked thing nesting there. “Simple. It would be inconvenient if you died now. I have put everything on the line for you, Zant, and to let you perish from something as simple as a fever would mean I’ve wasted valuable time. I’m a deserter now, thanks to you,” Ghirahim hissed, looking down on him from beside his bed. “Do you understand? You owe me everything.”

Zant for a moment seemed intimidated. A long, spindly form, normally so towering, sat folded in on himself more fragile than a newborn bird. He blinked up at him with his big eyes, before resigning himself to nursing his bowl of food. “I know, Ghirahim. I know. And you shall get it. All in due time…”

That was how Ghirahim spent hours. Days. Cleaning bandages and watching a traitor eat porridge. Oh, Demise Mercy. He must have been defective. The both of them, fools locked in a little hut, each robbed of their sound minds. Back in the Palace, Ghirahim must have knocked the last sense out of Zant when pummeling him for his transgressions, or he would have realized the idiocy of his plans by now. In that same vein, he himself must have had his reasoning beaten out from him with the hammering of steel. Otherwise, he never would have tagged along. The Demon King was not an enemy one could meet in any way other than prostrated, begging for a quick end. Yet here he was, persuaded to betray him, head-on.

This exact line of thought repeated ad nauseum in his mind nigh every hour of every day. Either Ghirahim would hush it with some excuse, or let its flame run its course, quietly, yet viciously, behind dark eyes aimed straight at his conspirator. Today was one such day of well-contained rage, tempered as he tended to the last of Zant’s injuries. Despite the many ills he would wish upon the man in his darkest hours, Zant’s health was indeed improving, leaving only lethargy and persistent pains, both of which motivated his loud complaints. 

And how he cursed this recovery. Every bit of care sparked an affectionate streak in the Twili. Zant spent what little energy he could spare on conveying his gratitude, carefully at first, but growing ever more bold. Ghirahim flinched from his touch in these early hours, until it angered him, swatting his hands away at the slightest provocation. But at the first solid contact, the laying of those pallid fingers on his false skin, he realized he was powerless. 

He had missed it. Ghirahim craved to be touched by him. It was the closest thing to a disease he had ever felt.

There could have been many things that made him stay. It could have been Zant’s bizarre kindness, his devotion, and all their fond memories. But above all, Ghirahim was a Blade. He followed power. Even when laying there, too ill to move, there was a spark of determination in Zant’s eyes. A deep grudge that had rested in smoldering tar until finally ignited, burst into flame deep within the Twili, and would not cease burning until he got what he wanted. Zant had died not once, but twice, and came clawing out his grave with the same deathly resolve each time. Narrowly escaping death a third time, the fire still lit in his soul proved it. There would be nothing stopping that man from taking Hyrule, promised by his expression alone. How horrifyingly familiar it was.

So Ghirahim allowed it. All of it, his affection, his schemes, and his weakness, as Zant lay there shallowly breathing. Even in the chance his comparison was false. His captor, his usurper, had trapped Ghirahim so thoroughly by his side that there was no choice but to remain. And through his efforts, past something so cruel, Ghirahim loved him still. Zant would take everything the Demon King ever had, starting with His blade.

As Ghirahim lamented this, he loomed over him, tugging the stitches out of a freshly sealed scar. Out of all moments, Zant thusly decided to be possessed by another one of his honey-eyed fits. He reached his hand – a little steadier this time, but hesitant, still – to Ghirahim’s face, to trace a thumb along the blemished skin of his cheek.

Only to recoil. Zant tested again, running his thumb along the little dimples left by Darunia’s hammer. “Did I do this, Ghirahim? In convincing you to betray your Master, did I damage you?”

Before Ghirahim could get past his perturbation and respond, Zant looked at him intently. His hand flat on his jaw, Zant spoke gravely. “If I cannot do this without hurting you, I have already failed. You are a collateral I cannot accept. I wouldn’t forgive myself, and, by the Sols, would not expect you to either.” 

Pallid hands found his own. Zant stroked past his fingernails, talons that they were, beneath his gloves. He guided this hand, and pointed its nails at his heart. “Tell me, then, if I am to blame, and, should you wish it, to repay my crime against you… Kill me.”

Ghirahim paused. For a moment, he indulged the thought. He imagined rooting past his ribcage and ripping out whatever strange, beating organ lay beneath. Only to find the appeal fall flat. If he had any cheer in him, he would have had to stifle a laugh at this bizarre request. He must think I’m stupid, he thought. It’s a bluff. He knows I’m in too deep to conspire against him. 

Pathetic, wretched man. Is this the only way he knows how to express love? Empty threats on his own life, gored upon my blade?

“Don’t go on such ridiculous tangents,” Ghirahim said, wrenching his hand free. “It was Darunia.” He turned his back on him, then said no more. 

Silence fell, one of the many unbearable ones they kept on having inside this house. Without looking back once, Ghirahim made for the door.

Zant interrupted him, right as he placed his hand on the door handle. “... Ghirahim, please-”

“Please, what?” Ghirahim snapped, glaring at him over his shoulder. “After everything you’ve already taken from me, you have the nerve to ask any more from me? What could you possibly want?”

Zant startled. “This is what I mean! Do you intend to sit and simmer in silence for the entirety of our cooperation? You are bursting at the seams with unsaid frustrations, and yet, you remain with me. So do us both this favor and hurl whatever you have bottled up in there my way. Clearly, this tension benefits neither of us!”

Ghirahim froze. Did it truly take this many days for Zant to wonder? Was it so inconceivable to him, up until this point, that anger would remain? The urge to snap at him was irresistible. He pushed the small crack in the door he’d pulled open back shut with far more vigor than necessary, and whipped himself around.

“You wish to hear it? Fine. I’m astounded I even have to spell it out for you. Aren’t you so smart? So cunning? You’ve ruined my life!” Ghirahim shouted, stomping his way to the center to the room. “Every chance I’ve had in this war, to build my reputation, to bond myself to my Master, you’ve sabotaged. With your ridiculous plots, your manipulative little distractions. And then, oh so merrily, you lay there on your deathbed and say, you intended to have the one man that matters to me, killed!? What a terrible fate you’ve strung me up with!”

In all technicalities, it was impossible for Ghirahim to run his voice ragged. In his frustration, it still had. His words tumbled out of him moreso than he spoke them, tripping over hitches and bumps on their way out. “By all means, ‘sitting and simmering’ is the most charitable thing I could do to you. I ought to tear you limb from limb and feed you to the pigs!”

Ghirahim heaved breaths through clenched teeth, fast-paced in his rage, but gradually slowing. Before him, Zant looked petrified. How cathartic! To cause him even the slightest fraction of pain, after he himself was hurt so deeply! 

But as much as it soothed him, the sight also fizzled out his drive. Ghirahim knew he couldn’t tear into him forever. So, his hackles going slack, he resigned himself to solemn reasoning. He looked at him bitterly as he spoke. “But I won’t. Because what good would it do me? You’ve made sure every home I ever had in this wretched time is burned to the ground, and every ally, gone with it. You give me no choice but to go along with your schemes. I’m trapped in here with you, so I will act as damned frustrated with the part as I please.”

Throughout his outburst, Zant had cowered, his eyes wide and on the verge of tears. He’d looked hurt, like for once his plans weren’t packing out the way he expected. This changed when Ghirahim’s temper grew calmer – where Ghirahim’s resolve faded, Zant’s grew. His eyes narrowed, his lips drew to a tight line, and his back straightened. Zant looked thoughtfully down at his hands in his lap. “I see. So you think you are blameless in all this?”

“Don’t you dare –”

Zant’s face snapped up towards him, once again freezing him inside that all-consuming gaze. “No, no. Ghirahim, you act as though I’ve forced your hand at every turn through this. I must make one thing crystal clear to you, it seems.”

Zant took a deep breath, his eyes closed, and sighed it back out. His patience gathered, he spoke. “When Ganondorf first summoned me, Ghirahim, I was ready to die. I had been since Cia resurrected me, too. And though I indeed intended to stray from Ganondorf, it was only ever a wishful thought.” His tone grave at first, he soon grew wistful. “Had you not accompanied me, my Blade, and showed me the vastness of this world, I would not have wanted to remain in it. I would have lost myself to a drone-like state and fought to the death without aim, as I had before.”

“And,” Zant said, eyes aimed straight at his core. “Had you not taught me swordsmanship, had you not given me our scimitar, I would not have become as strong as I am now.”

Ghirahim could see it now. The full extent of the trap he’d fallen into. Strings intertwined. Each bound by their wrists, twisted and tangled. Forcing each other closer, and closer, until their laced fingers tied together and soaked red with the blood on their hands.

Zant saw the moment the dots connected behind his eyes. Despicably so, he almost looked smug. “So face it. We have sculpted each other like this, for better or for worse. You chose to return to me. On Death Mountain, in the Temple of Souls, and even after I revealed my deceit to you, you came to me of your own accord. Do not dare blame me for the impulses of your own heart.”

All throughout Zant’s words, Ghirahim felt a storm brewing inside his chest. Thunder threatened, rolled, deep within, until at long last, it snapped free at such simple words. 

“My heart?” Ghirahim scoffed, grit his teeth. The elation of his next words nearly sent him into delirium. He glared at him madly, wearing an incredulous smile. “I do not have one!”

Somehow, a statement of truth evoked instant distress in Zant. His eyes went wide along with the cracking of his temper. Biting his lip, huffing almost childishly through his nostrils, Zant reverted to his old ways with tears beading in his eyes. 

“Why must you always quarrel with me?” Zant whimpered, composure finally gone. “I saw you exploited, in danger, and I took you with me. I cannot deny you your nature as a blade, this I know. B-but even then, all I wanted was to place you in safer hands!”

Ghirahim’s expression, on the other hand, did not change. He folded his arms, his nails digging into his skin even through the cover of his gloves. Fabric nearly creaked beneath his grip, straining at the seams. The stupidity of it all was almost enough to pacify him. Keep him safe? A living weapon, in time of war? Zant was a little boy living in his own reverie. 

Ghirahim was at once disappointed with this spineless response. He sighed. Narrowed his eyes, then growled his next words. “Then you failed.”

Zant bared his teeth, similarly balling his fists. “Perhaps I may have. But in banishing us, Ganondorf, too, forced us into this fate. If it had otherwise meant dooming you to scrap, then my conscience is spotless.”

He felt the corner of his lip twitch with involuntary rage at this. Such a presumptuous face was just begging for a fist to be planted square in the middle of it. Ghirahim wanted to step forward, to grab him by the collar of his nightgown and rattle the mess of his brain some more, but a different part of him begged for him to be reasonable. 

Ghirahim would never get the chance to wrestle past whatever held him back. Before he could set another step, a tremor shook him to a standstill. At once, the gentle, golden rays seeping in through the ceiling cracks turned red. Not the warm vermillion of sundown, but rather, a sickly crimson, stifling every other bit of light like a bloody fog. At once, the woods around them turned dead quiet. Not a leaf dared to rustle. Then, another tremor, rattling the rusty nails in the floorboards and shaking dust loose from the ceiling. At once, Ghirahim felt it. Deep in his soul, a roar and a magnetic pull, urging him to flee the house. Yet, he remained frozen in place.

Zant looked up, peering intently out what little window he could see. He whispered.

“Ganon.”

Ghirahim did not notice when he stepped into Zant’s range, but he must have, because a hand suddenly clasped around his wrist. Zant stared at him intently.

“It’s time. Take us there,” he insisted, clamping on with a tightness a man this frail shouldn’t be able to manage. “Somewhere safe. A vantage point. I must see him perish with my own eyes – I’ll trust no one’s account on it.”

Ghirahim furrowed his brows, revolted, but soon stopped struggling against him. Either way, there was a deep instinctual need that drew him to the battle Ganon now was entangled in. If he dragged Zant along, the man could do very little harm to begin with. But what allured him most, was the thought of leaving him there to be discovered. Zant’s naive drivel had, once again, drawn his ire. The effort Ghirahim had spent in keeping him alive may very well have been a fallacy, should he change his mind now… But to bring him directly before his old Master may very well reinstate his position by Ganondorf’s side. 

And, if he was lucky, in his hands. This was his very last chance. 

—

As they arrived, within a second, Ghirahim saw his last chance slip from him, vanishing into thin air. He had taken Zant with almost suspicious eagerness, situating the both of them atop the cliffs that surrounded Hyrule Field. Stroking a hand through his hair, he propped the man in the shadow of a great tree. Leaning on makeshift crutches as he was, lacking his helmet, he would need to be a semblance of safe. Or at least feel the part. 

But when Ghirahim turned to face the battlefield, to where his Master was bringing chaos to the lands of Hyrule, he lost any hope he had. The source of the ground-shaking pounding of hooves, of the malice-filled roars, was unmistakable. There rampaged Ganon, Demon King, reducing the once-green fields to a barren wasteland under the deep-red skies. He was colossal, resembling the man he knew only by his fiery red mane. Now, he tore through barricades in the form of a boar, with tusks like battering rams and clawed fists decimating men by the dozens just by galloping past. In his wake, keeps had crumbled, monsters had feasted, and a gigantic sword had lodged itself in the most suitable pedestal of all: Hyrule Castle.

Zant limped to the edge of the shadow to stand behind Ghirahim, close enough for him to hear the manic giggle under his breath over the carnage.

“Magnificent, isn’t it? All that power. That is what the Triforce contains.”

It was. He was dazzling, awe-inspiring, enough to bring the demon to his knees, eyes and mouth agape. The world trembled before the Great King of Evil, who had brought ruin to the once-so-grand Hyrule Castle, and swept any resistance aside with a single swing of his hand. But it was also terribly, terribly, wrong.

“... He’s lost his mind. I have seen this before. Ganondorf, as we have known him, is gone. There will be no more negotiations, no more allegiances, and no Kingdom to rule. The Princess must have pushed him over the edge –”

“And he’s taking everything down with him,” Ghirahim finished, the words leaving him in a quiver, like it was the last breath he would ever take. He fell to his knees.

Zant had the gall to snicker. “Oh, but he will not win. He cannot, not if – Ah, there you have it.”

As if struck by some unseen force, Bestial Ganon recoiled. Attacks once focused on the Demon himself now veered to the Colossus Blade lodged in Hyrule Castle, instead. Ghirahim remembered this sword – forged for the hands of Giants, only to be seized by the clutches of Hell, and made into a conduit for the Demon King. If it functioned anything like the one kept in Demise’s palace, it would have served as an amulet, to cast a protective spell over its Master. 

And now, it was being bombarded by a deluge of shimmering arrows, and wicked little birds carrying explosives in their talons. It all pitter-pattered on the midnight steel like prismatic rain, but the shriek of cracking metal was no less foreboding. Though Ganon chased them down, with the arrival of the Rito, all troops were heading for the Castle to reclaim it. Ganon tore through brick and mortar with enough force to crack one of his horns clean off, but it was too late. Launching the demon boar back, the Colossus Sword shattered. Though no less dangerous, Ganon was now vulnerable. 

Ghirahim whipped around to glare at the man behind him. Those eyes looked on the ensuing chaos like nothing was out of place. “You know more than you let on. Spit it out.”

Zant squinted his eyes nearly shut with a wide grin. “Ah, well… It was a gamble on my part, but I confess. Do you remember Chancellor Meherat?”

Ghirahim grimaced at him fiercely enough that no words were necessary to get him to continue.

“I intercepted her in the desert, buried her in a shallow grave. But not before planting a letter on her body, detailing some… Educated guesses, on how he might attempt to conquer the Castle. I’d hoped her traitor-sisters might find the body and give her a proper burial, and I was correct. I’m almost a little taken aback by how well something so brash seems to have worked.”

Ghirahim at once flew back to his feet and lunged at the Twili. He grabbed him fiercely by the tabbard, tugging him down to eye-level with his fangs bared… But past his enraged panting, found he couldn’t force a single word to form. With every anguished bellow behind him, his grip on Zant slackened. He couldn’t bring himself to turn around and look. So he buried his face in the fabric of Zant’s cloak, and let it soak up every tear he spilled. When Zant brought his hand to his back and stroked it softly, he wanted to recoil. He wanted to shake off his wretched affection, sprint down to the battlefield and come to his Master’s aid, but all was hopeless. In this state, Ganon would not even recognize him. Not as his ally, not as his blade. He would shatter him to splinters on the spot.

Ganondorf had broken his promise. Ghirahim would never return to his hand.

So, defeated and ensnared in the Twilight King’s web, Ghirahim gave up. He hid himself from the sight of his dying Master, as the monomaniac he clung to looked on in fiendish delight, nearly drooling at the power he coveted.

Until, as the clamor continued, Zant prodded at him to catch his attention. “Ghirahim,” he hissed. “We have been spotted.”

Mind gone muggy from his despair, Ghirahim sluggishly turned to where Zant urged him. Surely, at a distance, there stood a trio of blue-clad Hyrulean soldiers – two Hylians and a Rito. They were almost mere specks in the yards between them, but certainly eye-locked, nonetheless. 

Zant leaned in, whispering as though they might hear from such a distance. “It is in our best interest that Hyrule believes we are dead. We cannot afford witnesses.”

Ghirahim stared a little longer, but soon the Rito braced himself, flapping his wings to take off in flight. 

“So, what are you waiting for?” Zant chimed, extending his bony hand in the direction of the now-fleeing group. “Go, Yima Gradiegra. Kill.”

Ghirahim hadn’t realized how he’d hungered for such words until the command alone blazed fire within him. Before he’d even registered it in his mind, his feet took off in a sprint. All his fatigue, his listlessness, had disappeared, peopling his mind instead with this newly-acquired purpose. With bloodlust.

Kill. 

The first head rolled. The next drew a sword on him, only to find his blade flying into the dirt and himself skewered in a flash. Downy feathers fluttering down from above reminded Ghirahim of the Rito, who had taken off beyond his reach. With a snap of his fingers, Ghirahim sent a cloud of daggers whistling through the skies and plunging themselves into the plumed flesh of his target. With a squawking scream and a few futile wingbeats, the Rito sank in the air, and plummeted down to the ground. 

Only when he pounced on the already corpse-bound soldier to carve his throat for good measure, did a call of his name snap him out of this droning state. Without even looking back at the carnage he’d left, he winked himself back to Zant, and hid himself in his arms.

“Excellent work, my Blade… You and I, we shall have Hyrule at our feet.”

Those words, those hands stroking his back, encouragingly… Something burned within him and it sickened him. Enough to burrow further in those wretched arms. It was not just the sights of war Ghirahim hid from. Not just the unbearable reality of watching his Master die before him a second – no, third time. Most of all, he hid from the off chance he would meet Ganon’s eye from afar and have him see the spark of delight that lingered there. The shame it would bring to admit he had followed another man’s commands – a mortal, – and found joy in it… It would be far easier, were He to die without knowing of it.

So Ghirahim let Him. In the shadows of the Twili’s cloak, he could see nothing, but the deafening sounds of the clash behind him spoke volumes. An army of demons, falling to the hands of flesh-born men. The mightiest of them all, slain by the powers of light. As he had time, and time, and time again. For once, Ghirahim had the privilege to avert his gaze from his Master’s fall. Though he took it, he regretted it in an instant. 

But this regret did not last long. His eyes snapped wide open when he heard a low rumble, followed by a horridly familiar giggle. A shockwave soon launched the both of them back. Ghirahim, still hidden in Zant’s arms, landed on top of the injured man completely unceremoniously. When he raised himself to see what pushed them back, he came upon clear amber skies of dusk, and Hyrule Field green and spry as if nothing had ever touched it. A crumbled land, bathed in golden light, stretched out before him.

“Ghirahim, my ribs,” groaned the man below him. Though addressed, Ghirahim lingered just a few seconds longer than necessary, before turning to sit beside him. Listlessly, he pulled his knees to his chest.

“Now, I truly cannot go back.”

“No,” said Zant. “But we can start anew, once more.”

Ghirahim deigned to respond. He supposed they would have to.

Chapter Text

So, they returned to that little forest town, as bit by bit, the World returned to normal for the victors. The two of them noticed nothing of these efforts, other than their bond slowly returning, as much as Ghirahim wished to struggle against it. With his last tethers to his True Master now gone, there was little, so, so very little, tying him to the wishes of his past life. Day, after day, Ghirahim’s walls chipped away, allowing that old fondness to peer cheekily at him through the cracks in the mortar. Captive and Keeper, Victim and Tormentor, Blade and Master. Conniver, and Target. Such words he would once have used for their dynamic, but he had no word for what it was melting into. The life they led, sheltered in these woods, defied everything he knew. 

It was bare, it was calm, it was quiet, this one-man sick bay. These days, the most excitement Ghirahim got was the occasional target practice on a woodland bird, that he could then feed to his patient. If they’d wanted, they could have fled, then, a pair of deserters never to be heard from again. But, deceptively, in these moments of peace, Zant was letting his plot simmer. A man like him would never have been content with a simple life. 

Neither was Ghirahim. Not for one minute did he consider this drag of an affair his possible future life. If he could not have Demise, then he would at the very least have vengeance. Now that Ganondorf could not give that to him, he would take it himself. Hyrule would burn for what it did.

Ghirahim dapped a wet rag on the gash by Zant’s forehead. Arterial scabs were stubborn to heal, and on Twili, this seemed to be no different. By all means, there was no reason for him to keep doing this. Zant was able to sit up by himself just fine and had long abandoned his fever. Yet, with so little to do but wait, not even an army below him to amuse himself with, he’d rather care for this fool and feel useful than sit around. When he finished reapplying the bandages, Zant thanked him with a coo and a stroke of his thumb across his cheek. Then, he requested from him his field guide, that strange hobby of his. Though he’d traded calligraphy ink for graphite, Zant was no less eager in his scholarly pursuits and would sit, hunched, working on sketches and descriptions of creatures whose appearances he’d long committed to memory. Ghirahim was thankful for these moments. There were only a few forces in this world that could rip Zant from his concentration now, and he wasn’t up to such nonsense that day. 

So, he did what he would every time the house got quiet. He went for a walk. At first, he would just explore the ruined town at his leisure, perhaps turn over a stone they had missed when they first came here and find anything of intrigue whatsoever. On the third evening, though, far into the woods, he began to hear voices. Whether it was the fairies, or huntsmen, or soldiers looking for the last monstrous hideouts, he was not keen on finding out. What if, upon the sight of him, they would scatter, and spread word of his survival to Hyrule? No, he would much rather ambush them than seek them out. Since then, he’d taken to calling his habit of wandering a patrol.

On the eighth day of his roaming, an unfamiliar sound sent his hair standing on end, and his fingers braced to summon his weapon. It was a rattle; not like the clacking of branches, as he was used to, but like the shaking of an instrument. Hollow… As his eyes scanned his surroundings, he remembered something Zant said, so long ago now. He, too, complained of hearing such a sound at the edge of the woods when Ghirahim himself could perceive no such thing. Did he, somehow, transfer this madness to him?

But madness it was not. For soon, the rattling returned, this time accompanied by a troubled little whine. Then, out from the bushes, a strange creature barely the height of his knees came toddling towards him. It seemed to be entirely made out of wood, with stumpy limbs, antlers like branches, and a painted leaf stuck to it, serving as its face. Once it had confirmed Ghirahim could see it (doubtlessly through his bewildered, and somewhat disgusted look), it spoke.

“ᚺᛁᛏ:ᚾᛖ:ᛊᛁ:ᛊᛈᚱᛖᚲᚨᚾᚨ:ᚹᛁᚦᚱᚨ:ᛃᚢᛉ:ᛁᛏ:ᚷᚱᚨᚢᛏᚨᛉ:ᛒᚱᛖᛊᛏᚨᚾᚨ:ᚾᛖ:ᛚᚨᛁᛒᛁᛃᚨᚾᚨ! ᚠᚢᛚᚷᚨᚾᚨ:ᛗᛖᚲ!”

Of course, Ghirahim understood not a word of what it had just said, but had an idea of what it wanted. It waddled away from him with great urgency, only to turn and jump up and down a few paces later. Ghirahim looked behind him, thinking what would become of Zant, were he too stray too far… Well, if he was spirited away, that wouldn’t matter to him anymore, would it? With his true purpose gone, his sense of caution had also gone almost entirely slack. He decided he didn’t much care for the consequences of following woodland creatures into the thicket. So he just did that, and set off after the panickedly bouncing creature. Every once a while, it hopped high enough to see past the tall grass. Which was a thoughtful, but unnecessary gesture. He had long since set his dowsing to the odd little thing, and could follow it to the ends of the continent if he had to. 

It had already been later in the day when Ghirahim departed their shelter, but the light in the forest grew ever more ochre as he chased after his odd chaperone. They passed through wisps of fog, which were familiar in their chill… For a moment, Ghirahim thought the moment of his disappearance must have arrived, and the soaring sound of wind seemed to agree. Until, with just a few steps, the clouds pulled away at once, and his sight could not have been more clear. The wooden creature guiding him then came to a sudden halt, refusing to go any further. When Ghirahim stopped behind it, it quickly grew anxiously irritated. Squeaking some unintelligible request, it got up behind him and started pushing him in the calves, urging him to go on. Generously, he complied. Less generously, he took offense to this undignified interaction, and promptly kicked the creature off of him. It led out some little cry of pain, tumbled backwards into the brush, and, alive nonetheless, scurried out of sight.

The last stretch the pixie expected him to walk was short, as soon he waded past a juvenile treeline to find a clearing. In the middle of it, hovering above the gnarled stump of a felled tree, was Majora. And, the poor sod it inhabited, slumped over in the air like a marionette at rest. The second Ghirahim stepped closer, though, the puppet came to life. Glowing a deep purple, it shrieked a little, before rapidly jerking its arms to and fro. Having sufficiently awakened, its mask leered down at him.

“Ahh, how nice of you to join meee, Ghi-ra-hi mmm,” spoke the mask, hitching on each vowel like a rusty hinge. Majora’s host convulsed, creaked, its master forcing its head into jittering angles. 

Somewhat unnerved, but unwilling to show it, Ghirahim crossed his arms and managed a pleasant greeting. “Good evening, Great Gluttony. Your vessel is looking a little worse for wear.”

“Yesss-s-s-ss, it is becoming… Too small for me ee e. C ram pedddd d. T t t. But it matters not. Not for me, and not for it. W itness m e. ”

The puppet stopped shivering. Its arms fell limply by its side. Hand by hand, it then began to grasp at its face, feeling around for the edge of the mask. Gloved hands, their talons poking through the fabric, found the opening of the puppet’s jaw and yanked. 

From its open mouth, a claw surfaced. More curled around the rim, one by one, until an entire draconic hand forced itself through the far-too-small opening, and slammed itself into the ground. From this anchoring point, Majora pulled itself out. Wild, iridiscent manes pooled from the defenseless Skull Kid in an avalanche, until from this mass of fur, an armored dragon burst outward. The mask, once stuck to the vessel, now rooted itself to the dragon’s face, leeching into its flesh by pulsing, pink veins.

It bristled and shook. The last of its body wormed itself unnaturally from the beak of its vessel, like a snake shedding its skin. With a single flick of its furred tail, it had completed this metamorphosis, and discarded the Skull Kid against a nearby tree with a thwack.  

Now before Ghirahim, the towering mountain of armor and mane that it was, stood Majora, the spitting image of its former self. Once, it was more massive than this, yet Ghirahim was dwarfed before it. The tips of its horns almost grazed the lower canopy of these infant woods as it sat. Where its colors were muted and meager millennia past, the bright colors of its sealing curse had turned it into a veritable prism. Through the trees, the light of the setting sun enshrined its wispy fur in an infernal halo, leaving Ghirahim imprisoned in its shadow. The Great Gluttony, Arch-Demon of the Timeless Lands, had returned to this realm.

Well, for as long as that mask could keep this form up, at least. It rumbled with satisfaction, shaking out its head to dislodge its fur from its triple set of horns. As it moved, the plates of its armor clanked together like cymbals. Ch-Ch-Chsss!

“Charmed. Anyhow,” said Ghirahim, thoroughly unamused and checking his manicure. “A little woodland sprite hassled me to come pay you a visit.”

Majora grimaced, for as far as a reptilian face could do so. It dropped itself to the ground, folding its claws comfortably. “Messing around with fairies? Have you learned nothing from our last encounter?”

Stepping back slightly from the gnarled purple face leering closely at him, Ghirahim kept his countenance cold. “I’ve learned to spot a trail when I see it. Now, what do you want from me? I’m a very busy man.”

Majora wagged its head side to side almost cheerfully. “Oh, I wanted nothing more than to say my thanks for the little nudge you’ve given me. And, of course, to have you witness my return to glory,” it said and raised its behind. Curving into an arc, Majora stretched out its long-dormant body. “It’s been soooo long since I could properly stretch my legs!”

“I don’t recall doing a single thing for you. But, if it gets you out of my hair, then I most gratefully accept.”

Sitting back down with a gasp, Majora had its eyes wide and grin wry. “You truly must give yourself more credit, your lordship! Had it not been for your oh-so punctual summoning, I wouldn’t have had enough power to feed!”

Majora sat up on its haunches, coloring its words with gestures of its claws. “With the lives you sacrificed in the Desert, I could finally clamp my jaws into a long-desired target. All of Ganondorf’s misery, mine, all mine!”

Standing in the dragon’s shadow, Ghirahim widened his eyes and covered his mouth in shock. But before he could sink into guilt over complicity in his Master’s death, Majora took his expression alone as a cue to keep babbling. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. How else do you think Hyrule returned to peace so quickly? This place would have been a wasteland, had even a drop of his rage been left to simmer. By all means, I’m such a nice little demon! The Hylians should love me.”

Amidst that self-satisfied prattling, Ghirahim could have been gnawing his nails clean off. Had he not accepted Majora’s offer, then it wouldn’t have been able to, ‘eat Ganondorf’s misery,’ as it said. But then, did this contribute to Ganon’s defeat? Had he, by purging Gerudo Valley, ensured that untimely demise? Or was Majora merely a scavenger, picking the scraps off the Demon King’s carcass? 

Could he be certain Zant hadn’t known all this, the second they left those woods, mere months ago?

Nail polish sticking to his teeth, he was quickly snapped out of his thoughts by large, shimmering talons pawing at him. “Ghirahim!! Lookie-look! My little vessel seems to have survived. How quaint!”

Just by the tree where Majora left the little creature, small squeaks and groans emitted from a beaten form. It sat up shakily, patting at itself. Said vessel’s true face was now revealed. It was a featureless, shadowy thing, with two glowing beady eyes and a sparrow’s beak. Soon, that beak burst open, freeing an anguished wail. Unintelligible babbles poured from it, prompting the two distraught fairies beside it to start dragging it to the shrubbery, doubtlessly perturbed by the pair of demons glaring down at them. But being parted from what was once its mask only made the childish thing shriek harder. Nevertheless, the fairies prevailed in their escort, as more and more of them poured from the woods to help pull it away. 

“Poor thing,” tutted Majora, watching along. “It must have gotten attached to me. And who can blame it? Power is alluring, even as it devours you.”

Ghirahim turned, feeling thoroughly addressed, to indeed find Majora looking at him closely. When their eyes met, it flashed its teeth with a grin and got back to its feet, prowling circles around him. Ghirahim felt his hand itching for his blade. Why did he come here unarmed?