#LIKE YES I THINK HE SHOULD HAVE A MENTOR CONSIDERING THE BELT CANNOT BE TAKEN FROM HIM ITLL JUST COME BACK

[doomednarrative]

Tachibana this is A HORRIBLE IDEAAAA ARE WE FORGETTING HE IS 15

[bxstiae]

⚜ ; [ GANONDORF'S DEMISE / HC.3  ] WORLDBUILDING │ META

i honestly didn’t know how to go about this making this mainly because there’s so much to talk about for this topic. while i want to talk about ganondorf’s demise in Twilight Princess & the after effects of it, i should also point that that if affects link a lot more than it should -- mainly because it has to deal with the triforce of power and ‘the brand.’ let it be known, link is severely affected by the battle of ganon & absolutely has survivor’s guilt from it. 

first & foremost: i do NOT support ganon as a character for is he absolute EVIL & only wants to conquer the light. he is an antagonist! and if you think i support the antagonist, then please go to a corner to think about what you just assumed. I do not support him!!! but that doesn’t mean that i don’t consider him an important character. he is! he is one of the primary 3 of the triforce, without him, you cannot have the link or zelda. now, without further ado, let me get into this.

ganondorf could be considered a victim of circumstance if you look at it. no, i don’t think he should be pitied, but just consider everybody in the triforce:

link → courage zelda → wisdom ganondorf → power

each one has something special about them, which i will go into some other time, but for the sake of this headcanon, lets look at ganon. ganon is the wielder of power: he represents it! therefore he seeks out only to defend what he represents. Just look what he says in Twilight Princess:

"Your people have long amused me, Midna. To defy the gods with such petty magic, only to be cast aside… How very pathetic. Pathetic as they were, though, they served me well. Their anguish was my nourishment. Their hatred bled across the void and awakened me. I drew deep of it and grew strong again. Your people had some skill, to be sure…but they lacked true power. The kind of absolute power that those chosen by the gods wield. He who wields such power would make a suitable king for this world, don’t you think?"

just look at the fact that while ganon represents power, he also can represent pain, anger, & anguish. zelda, in a way, is supposed be the middle ground, while link is supposed to represent hope. ganon is fear. it’s also important to note that ganon is considered very unlucky in many cases. both zelda & ganon remember their incarnations -- this is a given for ganon because he literally says the following: "Do not think that this ends here... the history of light and shadow will be written in blood!" he knows they are constantly reborn. & zelda knows because she’s the representative of wisdom. link is the only one who is lucky to not remember is past incarnations. it’s set like that for a reason. because he cannot be tainted with the past. he cannon have doubt in his actions, he can only live in the moment. but i dirgess. back to the point: ganon is power, therefore is power-hungry. & he remembers all of his past lives and how he was foiled by link. 

ganon is a man of pride. there is nothing like that, but he resents link because link has it all. link has the god’s gift but link is also loved. link is incredibly humble. he doesn’t know the pains of royalty, he doesn’t know what it’s like living on the streets. he’s been lucky to be raised by people who care for him -- he grows up innocent. ganon doesn’t have that luxury, so yes, he resents link for what link has. but consider this: the brand is both a blessing & a curse. 

they will always be stuck in a battle with each other for all eternity. Their lives are intertwined forevermore. so while ganon spends his lives knowing his past ones, and spends each life trying to take what is always taken from him, link goes in not realising any of this. link legitimately goes in 100% blind at the fact that he will take what ganondorf struggles to have. & in the moment, link is only doing what he thinks is right. he has to take down ganondorf to protect hyrule. he has to. He’s never given a choice: he is told. 

he’s told by the spirits. he’s told by midna. he’s told by zelda. he’s told by everybody. the goddess hylia herself is telling him to because he has to. yet.... while he never questions the WHY, he does feel a sort of emptiness when everything is all said and done. after all, he took down one of the pieces of triforce. he’s fufilled his task, yes, but.... at what cost?

for link, it feels like he’s taken a part of himself too.

( never mind the fact that midna also goes home too and destroys the mirror of twilight as well, that’s another piece of him taken, but i’m focusing on the triforce here )

consider this: link had to kill a man that was like him.

there are only three people that can relate with one another in hyrule: link, zelda, & ganon. even more so with ganon than zelda tbh. like ganon, link still has to go through trials. link can relate to ganon because link has to go through a lot to prove his worth. he’s not given anything like zelda and ganon, and like ganon, link struggles.

so after he kills him.... he realises what he’s just done. he’s killed somebody who was pretty much like him. both are bearers of the brand, but they both didn’t have it easy ( not like zelda ).  he doesn’t realise this like immediately. no, he realises it after the fact. it eats at him. link has seen a lot and has witnessed death, but it’s ganondorf’s death that hits him the most. & yes, he feels somehwat GUILTY that he had to go & kill the only person that could understand him.

honestly, somebody told me that link looks so sad all the time. yes! he is actually! aside from being so absolutely tired & often times grumpy, he very much is sad. he feels used. he’s no longer innocent from the cruelness of life. he sees the world for what it is. the world is not nice. nothing is easy, & you have to sacrifice so much to obtain happiness. but in the end was it worth it? for link: no. 

link is not happy. at all. yes, he’s glad that the people he cares about are safe. he’s glad that the world isn’t ending. but he cannot go back to his normal life in the village as a ranch hand. he was ripped from that life & he cannot go back for the fact that he has all this experience under his belt now. he’s restless, tired, sad, & feels really empty. 

his heart is broken in more ways than one. he lost his best friend -- a friend that he didn’t really know he had or loved until she left and destroyed the only thing to visit her. he lost somebody who could have been a mentor of sorts. ganon could have been a friend to him absolutely, he could have been a teacher ( if he wasn’t such an asshole ). but that didn’t happen cause he had to kill him. he lost a bit of trust in zelda for the fact that she just let things happen & never told him anything. link is extremely jaded after everything & built his walls incredibly high up because he’s just afraid of getting hurt again. note: afraid, not scared! there’s anxiety in him that he’ll lose more of himself. 

lets also not mention that his entire journey was hell. he’s been poisoned, electrocuted, burned, etc.... like as much as he has a high pain tolerance, he’s had many moments where he could have died if it were not for the fairies and midna. not to mention that people have mistaken him for a monster too -- he doesn’t have self-esteem issues, but its given way to the fact that he finds hylians are extremely ungrateful. 

he feels that at this point,nobody really understands him. which sucks cause not only does he suffer from survivor’s guilt, i would say that he has a mild case of ptsd as well. he doesn’t sleep well anymore. he relives his battle with ganon all the time ( ganon image seems to torment him constantly ). he panics when he considers what would have happened if he just let ganon go too. link is not pure anymore. yes, he still represents hope, and yet, he can’t help but to look at things from a neutral stance.at the end of the game. link does, in fact, go from a neutral good to a lawful neutral position.

in a way, it’s all thanks to ganon. his death/end changed link. honestly, i would want to say its for the better. link isn’t a child anymore, & you can thank ganondorf for that. 

[purewhitepages]

Desert Heat Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Summary: First day on the dig and Claire is already feeling the heat

A/N: Thanks so much for the support on the last chapter. In case you’re out of the loop, I’ve started a side-blog specifically for fics to try and make them more visible among all my shit postings (hence why the previous fic is on my main blog). I’m also slowly figuring out how moodboards work. You’d think I was new to this site with how bad I am at everything.

Useful Info: “Petrie” refers to Flinders Petrie, one of the most famous and prolific Egyptologists ever. The poem is borrowed (with love) from Crocodile on the Sandbank by Elizabeth Peters. It’s one of my favorite books and partially inspired this fic. 

It was always necessary for the company to rise early while on digs in order to get as much work done before the noon sun stifled and shriveled them up. It was necessary, but that did not mean Claire did not resent it. She tried to suppress yet another yawn as she worked to delicately unearth the stone under her.

Her dreams the night before had been hot, though she could not remember any details beyond the burning sensation in her chest and belly, as well as waking up in a sweat. She tried to brush it off as nerves and the heat. Even in the dead of winter, the Egyptian sun was unforgiving.

For now she tried to focus on the task at hand and the sound of the diggers, whose work was supervised by John across the site. Lamb’s notes had proposed that there should be some sort of cellar--albeit crude--below the main level of the house. He had posited the entrance to be along the south-side of the building, where John and the diggers were currently working. Meanwhile, she and Fergus were carefully examining the rest of the building, even if just to see how much of Lamb’s notes had been correct.

“Milady, you need to stop looking over at the other camp,” Fergus warned as Claire yet again pulled her attention away from the other workers less than 100 yards away. She needed to get a grip and get over it, the choice had been made.

“I’m sorry, Fergus.” The words felt heavy on her tongue. The choice had been made, yes, but had she even considered the others around her? Fergus and John? Should they not have such an honor in this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? She had never been good at making decisions outside of her medical kit. Those choices were easy: this leg is broken, set it; this child needs medicine, give it to her; this man is dying, save him. But when people’s way of life and reputations were on the line? The choice should never be up to her. 

Fergus seemed unaware of her internal struggle. “Don’t worry about it, and try not to think of them. We have much to do here.” He was squatting in the dust next to what Lamb had posited to be the easternmost wall of the structure.

She nodded and crouched down beside him. Fergus flourished the brush in his right hand expertly, using his left, false hand to steady himself on the ground. Claire had never been quite sure how it had happened, and Fergus had never spoken of it directly, but she could guess. She’d heard of the punishment for stealing in more of the unsavory parts of Cairo. If the rumors were true, Fergus was lucky to still have one good hand left.

They broke for lunch soon enough and took refuge in John’s tent.

“No scrapes for you to tend to yet, eh Beauchamp?” John asked with a smile as he handed her a glass of whisky less than a finger-full. “To breaking ground?”

She raised her glass and nodded, taking a sip. John sat at his desk next to the cot where he slept, his back to Claire who sat in a chair across the tent.

“How’s the papyrus coming along?” Claire asked.

“Hmm?” John asked, clearly distracted. “Oh, it’s coming along. Slowly.” John’s voice sounded far away.

During the war, John had met a man named Hector Dalrymple who had, in John’s words, “inspired him” to study antiquities. He had died the year before John had been hired by Lamb. John had taken up the work, translating the papyrus Hector had picked up in Luxor before the war. It had mostly been love poetry. It had been a little more than a monthly ritual for Claire to find him drunk off his arse and crying over the ancient scraps of paper. She was not so naive to assume that these antics were brought on by scholarly frustration, but if John didn’t want to talk about it, she wouldn’t push it. She just carefully laid the papers into a drawer, put the glasses away, and led John to bed, forcing him to drink some water before tucking him in.

It had been quite a change for their roles to be reversed in the past few months. Though, John had never punched her in the nose while she tried to wrestle him into bed. And it was in that moment--looking at him from across the tent--that Claire realized she and John were both fulfilling the dreams of their dead loved ones.

Quite the pair we make, she thought to herself as she sipped her drink.

Despite it only being the first day of the new season, Claire’s thoughts drifted to the next year and the one after that, if only abstractly. If not for Lamb’s extensive notes, she would have been at a loss for where to dig this season. What about next year? The Antiquities Department had made it very clear that if no major finding was discovered at the Behribu site, it would most certainly be closed from further excavations. Lamb himself had scoffed at this notion.

“It’s all stuff and nonsense, my dear. What does St. Germaine care where I decide to play in the dirt?” He had said. But it had been easy for Lamb to say that, he had acclaim and connections to the British Museum as well as the Egyptian Antiquities Department. They had allowed her this one year in memory of him, but what of next year? Would she even be able to secure a site?

Or, more accurately, would John be able to secure a site and let Claire tag along. What if John didn’t want to go next year? Surely he would be able to move onto anything now that his mentor had died. Fergus too. She felt lost, quite literally, in the middle of the desert, with only the faintest hope for water behind the next sand dune.

A throat cleared and she looked up to see a young woman standing at the tent flap. She wore a button-up dress belted at the waist with trousers beneath and brown boots. A large straw hat with a brim sheltered her face from the hot sun.

“Excuse me,” she said. “But I’m lookin’ for a Miss Beauchamp, are ye she?”

It seemed almost comical to even ask, as they were the only European women most likely within 100 miles. 

“You must be Miss MacKimmie, you may call me Claire, please. Come in and close the tent flap behind you.”

The young woman eyed the other two adults carefully and stepped in. John had looked up when she came in, but had returned to his work. It was unlike him to be so unsociable, but Claire assumed he was onto something with his papyrus. Lamb often got into similar moods, sometimes even for days on end.

“That’s John Grey over there,” Claire explained as she produced a chair for the young lady to sit on. “You must excuse him for shunting himself in the corner thus, he is in the middle of unearthing the dead.”

John snorted at her from his place in the corner but otherwise did not respond.

“What can I do for you, Miss MacKimmie? We were just about to have lunch, Fergus should be back any moment now with it, will you eat with us?”

The young woman colored at her words and shook her head. “Ye needn’t trouble yerself, I just- well-” She wrung her hands. “Mr. Fraser was kind enough to say I could come to you if I needed help and-”

“Do you need medical attention then? My kit is in my tent but I could-”

“No, please, I just needed to get away from the other camp is all. And, well, there isna much else to go, is there?”

Claire nodded but quirked an eyebrow. “What is it about the other camp that you need to get away?”

She blushed and looked down. “The men,” she said bluntly. “Not all of them, mind ye. Mr. Fraser is very kind to me, he’s my cousin, ye see. But-”

“But he cannot always be around to guard and guide you?” Claire finished, all too aware of what some men could be like on digs. She wasn’t sure if it was the sun or the low proximity to civilization that caused men to lose all sense of propriety and manners, but it had always been a problem too big to correct.

She nodded demurely.

“Well, I don’t see a problem with letting you take refuge here for now. It’s only us three and the diggers in our little camp.”

Just then Fergus returned, laden with plates for the three of them. Miss MacKimmie shot up to her feet like a lightning bolt when he entered. Claire stared at her and then back to Fergus.

“Ah, I was not aware we had a guest.” He placed the plates on the table where Claire and Miss MacKimmie sat, and brushed his hand on the front of his pants before offering his hand. “Fergus Beauchamp, at your service, madame.” She noticed Fergus moved his left arm behind his back.

Miss MacKimmie seemed incapable of speech so Claire stepped in.

“Fergus, this is Miss Marsali MacKimmie, she’s the illustrator for the other camp. She’s come here to get away from unsavory male company.”

“Not that I find all male company to be unwelcome!” Miss MacKimmie seemed to have found her voice quite suddenly. “Just- some.”

Fergus nodded good naturedly. “I will go get another plate, you may have mine. Please, do not wait on my account.”

As he exited, Miss MacKimmie fell back into her chair. Claire happily began to dig into her food, eyeing the young woman.

“I’ve always found an accent to be quite attractive in a man, if you don’t mind me saying Miss MacKimmie, now that it’s just us girls.”

The young woman’s eyes trailed over to John at her words, but Claire kept talking. “My first love was a Belgian lad when I was twelve. Something about that French accent. What do you think, Miss MacKimmie?”

“Oh leave the poor girl alone,” John called, teasingly. “Some of us have not grown as hardhearted and cynical as you.”

“Are you going to eat with us or are you going to continue to moon over ancient love poems?”

“I don’t moon, and I’ll be there in a second.”

The tent flap rustled and a deep voice cleared their throat. Claire glanced up and then straightened up at the site.

“Marsali, what the devil do ye think ye’re doing here?” Mr. Fraser growled, casting a glance at the women seated at the table, to John at the desk, and finally to the two cots lined up across the tent. “It isna proper for ye to be in a man’s tent. Even with- another woman.” His voice faltered.

She hadn’t even considered the propriety of Miss MacKimmie’s presence--or even her own--in what was essentially John and Fergus’s room. Perhaps she was too quick to judge men’s actions in the middle of the desert.

“You must forgive us, Mr. Fraser,” Claire finally said. “We do not have a common area tent and prefer to eat together out of the hot sun.”

His gaze fell on Claire. “Then ye must set up an umbrella or awning for an eating area.”

“Jesus H. Roosevelt, quite the big spender, what do you say John? Should we buy food next time or an umbrella big enough for the three of us to eat under?”

John grunted and Claire rolled her eyes.

“While you’re here, Mr. Fraser, would you be so kind as to lend your linguistic abilities to our man John so he can eat before going back under the hot sun, Doctor’s orders.”

Mr. Fraser seemed like he was about to protest before she mentioned linguistics. “What does he require help with?”

John glared at her. “A number of years ago I acquired some papyrus. There is no rhyme or reason for the various hieroglyphics between them. I have a hunch they were looted from various tombs before they finally ended up in my hands.”

“Well, I’d be delighted to take a look if ye’d like.”

“It really isn’t necessary, Mr. Fraser-”

“Mr. Grey, it would be my pleasure.”

John seemed at a loss for words and nodded. “Alright, I must admit a few of the cartouches are a bit out of the ordinary.”

Mr. Fraser smirked good-heartedly and nodded. “Allow me to lend my expertise, but later, if ye wouldn’t mind. Perhaps at suppertime? I have a few volumes I could bring with me, Petrie and the like. For now, we must be goin’. Come, Marsali, Dougal was lookin’ for ye.”

Miss MacKimmie exchanged a glance with Claire before standing and walking over to her cousin.

“Good day to you both,” Mr Fraser bid them as they left.

Claire jumped up and went to the tent flap, lifting it up.

“Mr. Fraser!”

He turned back, the heat seemingly making the air around him waver. His tan skin gleamed in the sun and his blue eyes seemed all the more striking underneath his hat.

“The invitation for supper extends to both you and Miss MacKimmie. We shall expect you both after the work is done, here, in this tent.”

He glanced at the young woman beside him and nodded before turning away to the other camp.

Claire stared at the two men hunched over the bits of ancient paper, eyes peering across the rim of her glass of whisky. She had tried to engage in conversation with Fergus and Miss MacKimmie, but had soon realized that they were not inclined in doing anything beyond polite comments about the weather and stealing glances at one another. She had noticed the young woman’s eyes lingering on Fergus’s left arm, but if she was at all disturbed by the false appendage, she made no mention of it. Between them and the scholars in the corner, Claire found herself quite alone.

She soon got up and crossed the room, peering over John’s shoulder at the work.

“Any progress?” She asked. 

“See for yourself,” John said, handing his open journal over his shoulder to her, his finger marking the spot.

Claire read over the lines and nodded. “It’s very...well, perilous, wouldn’t you say?”

“Read it out loud, if it pleases ye.” Mr. Fraser turned back to look at her, leaning back against the desk. “Poetry deserves to be read out loud, does it no’?”

Claire smiled and nodded. She took a step back, dramatically and held the book out as if she was preparing to read a dramatic monologue from Hamlet.

“The love of my beloved is on yonder side

A width of water is between us

And a crocodile waiteth on the sandbank.”

Mr. Fraser’s eyes did not leave Claire as she spoke, the glass of watered down whisky at his lips to hide a small smirk. She glanced back up at him over the book, his eyes washing over her and causing her stomach to churn. She wondered to herself whether his was the gaze of the beloved or the crocodile? And which one would she have feared more.

John threw back the rest of his drink and held out his hand for his notebook, breaking the spell. She handed it back to him.

“Do you think that’s the first time that poem has been read out loud since the time of the Pharaohs?” Fergus asked from across the room.

“What an honor it is then, to be here when it is,” Miss MacKimmie answered him.

“Quite the sentiment,” John’s voice sounded far away.

“What do you think, Miss Beauchamp?” Mr. Fraser asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Well, our modern interpretation is quite different from what the ancient one would be.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Aye?”

She nodded. “Yes, the crocodile on the sandbank seems to us to make it the tale of ‘forbidden, star-crossed lovers,’ trope. Most would mention Romeo and Juliet.”

“But ye’d beg to differ?” The mirth did not leave his eyes. 

“The Ancient Egyptians, would beg to differ, Mr. Fraser. The crocodile is meant to show the strength of the man, it is implied he will triumph over the beast and is therefore stronger than a crocodile.”

“As ye say.” Mr. Fraser placed his glass on the desk and crossed his arms over his chest.

Claire narrowed her eyes at him. “What? Do you have a different interpretation?”

He shrugged. “It isna in my mind to infer what the words of a long dead man may or may not mean. I merely make the knowledge accessible and let the intellectuals rabble about it.”

John scoffed. “And do you not consider yourself to be an intellectual?”

He smirked. “All I mind is the connection, ye ken? To the man. We often think ourselves so mighty and civilized compared to the ancients. But to see these words and in them the reflections of emotions we too experience.” His words were emphatic, passionate. He looked up at Claire, the strength of his words reflected in the depths of his eyes. “Do we not feel the same yearning to be with the ones we love?”

It was getting late and the two Scots bid goodnight to their companions. Claire walked out with them on the way to her tent. Mr. Fraser eyed her as she dropped the tent flap behind her.

“Ye dinna need to see us out, we ken the way right enough,” he told her.

“I’m glad you think that. I’m not seeing you out, I’m going to my tent.”

His eyebrows raised for a moment before he schooled his features. “Aye, as ye say.” It was hard to tell in the dim light, but she swore she could see some color staining his face as well.

“What, did you think I shared one with Mr. Grey?”

He made a noise in the back of his throat with an eye at Miss MacKimmie, who was doing her best to look like she wasn’t eavesdropping. “I have no right to pass judgement on strangers.”

She scoffed. “It is true that we may ignore certain rules of propriety out here in the middle of nowhere, but a body has a right to privacy, don’t you agree?”

“Aye, I do.”

“And not all of us are so desperate for company of the opposite sex. It takes a great deal more than cheap whisky and ancient scraps of paper.”

The smile that so often graced his features when they spoke returned. As did the heat in her stomach that made her delirious with déjà vu. “I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Beauchamp.” His eyes sparkled in the low light of the stars overhead.

She all but ran into her tent and closed the flap behind her.

Chapter 3