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yiga-hellhole · 1 year ago

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TFTK: CHAPTER 14

the siege for the triforce of power is at hand. two co-lieutenants are assigned to guard their flanks while their master claims his shard of destiny. one way or the other, death mountain will fall.

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hiiii long time no see on the main work. it's out! lots of new (and old) characters in this one. it's been a real trip. i'm just going to let this one speak for itself because, well... it speaks a lot! 14k words under the cut. enjoy everyone!

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, 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.

#beararts #bearwrites #zant #ghirahim #ghirazant #ganondorf #yuga #yuga loz #darunia #midna #tftk

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