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yiga-hellhole · 2 months

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TFTK CHAPTER 19: TWILIGHT KING'S REVERIE

there's some real utena type shit happening here i think (special thanks to @orfeoarte for the lettering and also the beta reading!!)

CHAPTER 19 IS DOOONE thank you all for your patience. this time we're diving into the depths of zant's mind again. what's he thinking about so soon before (what may be) his final battle? well, read and find out!

AAAAGGHH I'm sooooo excited to drop this chapter!! I've been looking forward to writing it ever since i started making this fic into a full-length, multi-chapter story!! i really hope you'll enjoy it. thanks again to @bulgariansumo and orfeoarte for giving it the once-over!

CW this chapter: Suicidal ideation, self harm, graphic violence. once again past the three asterisk *** mark the chapter gets erotic undertones, but with high plot relevance, i hope you'll give it a look either way!

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“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, he 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.

#zant #ghirahim #ghirazant #ganondorf #tftk #tloz #hyrule warriors #bearwrites #beararts

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