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yiga-hellhole · 9 days ago

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TFTK CHAPTER 25: RECRUITMENT UNDER THE TWILIGHT KING

After Zant seized the Triforce of power, the next-most important phase of his plan enters: rebuilding his army. Old allies are in need of rescuing and, conveniently, they happen to be trapped right in his fortress of choice.

aaand welcome back! the next 4 chapters have been up on ao3 for a bit, but i only just got around to the promo art. thank you all for your patience! inspo for the top panel comes from kentaro miura's berserk, chapter 86 [MIND CONTENT WARNINGS IF YOU HAVEN'T READ BERSERK BEFORE], because i wanted this moment of tenderness to look unnerving. YAY <3

speaking of content warnings. CW this chapter for gore and graphic violence. this chapter was betaread, as usual, by @bulgariansumo and @orfeoarte ! thank u so much!

ao3 mirror

A ludicrous fantasy Ghirahim would once have mocked was now reality: Zant had claimed the Triforce. Its power thrummed in his veins like a second heartbeat, felt in shocks with the slightest touch. He felt it when Zant’s hand plunged into his chest to take their blade; he felt it when they shared a bed, ramming against his cheek when he laid his head upon his chest; he felt it when they as much as crossed gazes. Always deep, resonant, and rhythmic, the heavy beating of a drum right in his ears. It was alive – breathing that life into that wilted thing of a host, who had died two times too many.

It’d been in his possession for mere days, and already their enemies were grasping for cards. None knew whether to storm wherever he lingered, or to evacuate wherever his serpent eyes sought their next siege. Ghirahim stayed by his side as his scabbard, as his retainer, and, somewhat discreetly, as his lover, march after march, watching the shimmering ocean of battles carried out in their name below, but finding far more intrigue in seeing their flames reflected in the Twilight King’s eyes. There was coldness in them, ruthless like a natural-born killer, but through it burst the sparks of a manic joy. Of elation, that tugged at the corners of his lips. These days, it was getting more and more difficult to read him.

This was the fourth day. They made it to the Temple of Souls in record time. Winter had not been kind to it – where once a labyrinth of lush roses grew rampantly on its estate, there was now a nonsensical mass of dead, black thorns, so brittle to the touch Ghirahim couldn’t imagine them piercing skin. Yet they must have been, because there rang the occasional whine from their soldiers chopping the paths down. Ghirahim quietly thanked the fact Yuga was stuck in prison somewhere in that dark, gloomy building. The Sorcerer surely wouldn’t have liked to see what had become of his prized garden, much less what Zant’s forces were doing to it.

When they broke through this first line of defense, the second stood waiting. Four days was not many to prepare against a siege, but it had been enough for Hyrule to put them in a small spot of trouble. Their forces were struggling, a sea of thorns at their backs to be pushed into, and wooden clubs meeting their match against tempered steel.

But Zant seemed unperturbed. He simply stood and stared at the Temple, watching as the last snowmelt dripped down the balcony. He turned to Ghirahim almost casually, held out his hand, and said, “Perhaps it is a little early for a spring cleaning, but we might as well start, no?”

His Blade answered wordlessly, took his hand. Fingers entwined, they stepped past their frontlines and into contested ground… Only for a shockwave to tear through the opposing forces, and cleave them a path. Those that didn’t perish from the impact launched backward, slamming against the stone staircase leading up to the temple. They traversed this carpet of fallen soldiers almost without a care in the world, undisturbed by those who attempted to break past the force fields around them. Their steps forcing the blood out of crushed organs beneath, crimson splatters colored the ground where petals once lay. The occasional, opportunistic allied soldier would dart past them, but up until the doorway, they cleanly passed down their aisle.

What would normally require a battering ram and the effort of dozens of men, took Zant nothing but a forceful shove of the palm. The stone door before them thudded and shrieked, a spiderweb of cracks digging into its surface. It gave way soon after. Down it crumbled, the parts of it still intact creaking inwards on loose hinges. Past the rubble, dust, and pebbles, the next wave of Hyruleans greeted their intruders. The first fool to close in on them would feel a sword sneak past his gorget, and then, feel nothing at all. Blood fresh on his blade, Ghirahim struck down the next, and the next, and the next, fighting tirelessly to guide the Twilight King through the crowd.

But where were they headed? They knew nothing of where their prisoners were kept. Digging in his memory, Ghirahim recalled nothing vaguely even resembling prison cells in the entire building. The Temple was an archive, a sanctuary, a mansion. It was not meant to know enemies, much less to harbor them. Moreover, the place was a veritable maze. If they ran around recklessly in search of their lieutenants, they would certainly get ambushed.

At the risk of losing his focus, he started to dowse. Yuga… Though a powerful mage, his presence had always been weak. Ghirahim did not typically track smaller targets, but for the sake of speed, he attempted nonetheless. He honed in on a sound, a smell, a memory… Shrill laughter, rosewater, and a wicked glare from across the studio. Weak chimes in his core confirmed his calibration.

Yuga was upstairs. But, barely, it seemed… Whatever that meant. He had no time to linger upon it. Amidst his faltering concentration, Zant had slid in to defend him. This sight filled him with such an instinctual feeling of disgrace he took not a split second of hesitation to grab him by the arm, and promptly warped the both of them to the top of the stairs.

Hyrulean troops were sparser here, but they would not be for long once word spread they’d arrived here. Ghirahim looked left, looked right, hoping for a confirming chime to ring out.

Left wing.

Zant kept pace with him, but Ghirahim felt his burning look of inquiry at his back. “Yuga is kept this way,” he hissed out as they ran down the hall. “It’s best we get to him quickly.”

Oh, he could hear it already. How reckless it was to rush ahead with their troops lagging so far behind. How the path should have been clear before breaking out a prisoner. But the fool dragging behind him now had far too much power to worry about such practicalities. They cleaved through the hallway, right past the windows, the paintings –

… This seemed familiar to Ghirahim. He had a feeling he knew where they were keeping the Sorcerer. Very quickly, he found the thought of it alone tacky.

To his chagrin, they found the jail room a mere few turns later. Steel bars had been fitted over the door and the stained glass windows around it. Before it stood waiting a handful of guards, who rushed toward them at once. Yuga was imprisoned in his own atelier.

Ghirahim sighed and took the first of the guards down. These men were slightly more competent, he noted quietly. They would have to be, considering who they were trying to keep in. It took a few nicks on his skin and clothing for him to find a moment’s respite to turn to Zant.

“You can break through those bars yourself, no?”

He nodded in response, hesitating but a moment to step closer to the door. “Right, before we head inside. Yuga is going to be in an incredibly sensitive state. I think it would be wise if I led the conversation,” Zant said, ignoring the guard rushing towards the both of them until he sent the man sailing down the hallway with a flick of his hand. “I fear you might lack the tact for it.”

“Lacking tact? Me? You have some nerve,” Ghirahim growled, refusing to humor him with his usual light air of banter. “You’ve spent far too much time buttering me up to start insulting me now.”

“It’s just a piece of perspective you lack. I mean nothing bad by it,” Zant responded, his hands raised defensively.

Arms folded loosely as to not lose his grip on his sword, Ghirahim frowned back. “And what, pray tell, is it that I lack? Or do you think me too stupid to comprehend whatever you’ve got planned?”

“Come now, not so hasty. It’s just an observation I made. Your disdain for mortals makes you miss out on crucial details, Ghirahim-ili. Do you have even the slightest idea as to what could make him… Distraught?”

Ghirahim sighed, furrowing his brow. “Yuga is distraught to tears at the drop of a hat, to begin with. Were he to be upset in particular about witnessing the defeat of our Master, or something as juvenile as his precious roses being torn down, he would have little more reason to grieve than I do.”

Rumbling down the hall. Some crowd was approaching, whether friend or foe. They both ignored it completely in favor of their conversation. Zant smirked at Ghirahim’s response. “As I thought. I must specify. Had you listened, you would have caught that Lorule is a kind of mirror world. In it, a doppelgänger of each living being is born… Yuga, as it would seem, fills the role of Ganondorf in his world.”

His esoteric trivia again. Ghirahim found it odd timing, frustrating almost. He certainly didn’t enjoy the implications this one carried. “... I see. What about it?”

“A bit of sympathy is in order, is all. To give you some perspective. To lose Ganondorf, to him, would be akin to tearing your scabbard from you, and leave you without a hand to wield you. You could live, certainly…”

Ghirahim’s furrowed brow relaxed, his face now solemn. Zant was prodding at sore spots and he knew it – Ghirahim had experienced both of those, in relatively short succession, in the past few months. He was forced to speak aloud what he’d kept quietly to himself that entire time. “... But I wouldn’t be complete.”

“Precisely.”

At once, Ghirahim was annoyed. Must he have been reminded of such agonies now, and share them with one he was so cross with? He had long opinionated himself about Yuga’s incessant clinging to what was supposed to be his Master, but this bit of empathetic pampering from Zant drove a nail right into his ire. Yuga was no more special than he. Even less so! What was a failed copy to a loyal blade!? How infuriating.

“Hah! And you speak of tact,” Ghirahim exclaimed, frowning with a nasty grin. He decided there was little point in bickering in the hallway. So he marched on forward, giving Zant a stiff shove in the back to hurry him to the door. “This entire lecture could have been condensed to a simple, ‘Ghirahim-ili, let me handle this’. Not a snide comment necessary!”

Zant hardly stumbled, but easily swayed by him as ever, did exactly as he wanted. “Perhaps you are right, but I wanted to even the scales on the snark you’ve been giving me the past few months, just a little.”

“You are very lucky I can’t break through that helmet, Twili.”

“I’m thankful for it every minute.”

With the doorway now free to open, Zant opened the door with silent care and slithered inside. “Yuga, Lord of Lorule. We’ve come to free you from death row,” he announced.

When Ghirahim followed behind him, he realized instantly what Zant must have meant by a ‘sensitive state’. The atelier had been completely thrashed. Broken bottles of pigments littered the floor into a desolate rainbow amidst the toppled furniture. Strewn around the room, some crooked on the wall, were the remains of portraits, their faces burned off. There was but one painting intact enough to discern its subject – though for all of them, it could easily be gleaned. The scene unfolded just by the tall windows, covered in bars and thorns as they were, the grey skies beyond them shrouding the room in a cold, dull light.

Ghirahim felt an icy chill under the golden gaze of his late Master, piercing through him from across the atelier. The last depiction of Ganondorf he might ever see again, rendered in this loving detail, captured him in an instant, with his wild, fiery hair, his powerful build, and that stern, ambitious look that drove him to grovel every time it turned to him. So engrossed was Ghirahim, that he hadn’t noticed the figure wilting before it.

Yuga sat at the base of the portrait, leaning into a nearby chair for support, as if he once had collapsed there and hadn’t gotten up since. He was shrouded in black, the only color on him now being from his own hair. The once so-well-kept ringlets that bounced on his shoulders had collapsed into an unruly mass of curls, and just then, shifted across his back as he blearily turned his head.

Some glint of surprise passed through his face, but Yuga did not seem to have the energy to have it linger. As he turned to them, Ghirahim’s eye landed on one particular detail. In his madness, Yuga had ripped the casing of a decorative pillow to shreds with his teeth.

“... Zant? Ghirahim? You – Am I seeing ghosts?”

Zant stepped closer into the light, a dull white interlaced with the shadows of prison bars. “Worry not for your sanity, Yuga. We are very much alive.”

“But… The Desert… We were certain you had perished,” Yuga tried to reason.

Zant’s helmet clattered and folded in on itself. Beneath it, he smiled sympathetically. “By the skin of my teeth, I survived. I have Ghirahim to thank for it.”

Yuga turned to look at Ghirahim again, who, struggling to keep his expression straight after such a grating comment, nodded in acknowledgement. “I would be glad to see you, but, my friends, look at the state I’m in. My masterpieces. Our army. Our Master,” he prattled on, gesturing pathetically to himself. Before Ghirahim could ponder on how pitiful he looked, Yuga’s words took a bitter turn. “Why didn't you assist us?”

Excuses at the ready as usual, Zant responded quickly. “I was bedridden, still, the day Ganon fell. And if I hadn’t been, I doubt our late Master would have wanted us to come to his aid.”

Barely suspended disbelief crossed Yuga’s squinted eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Ganondorf betrayed us. That desert was meant to be our deathbed, and we failed to comply to his wishes by refusing to be buried in it. I suspect he had been displeased with us ever since our defeat at Death Mountain, and has been attempting to get rid of us since.”

Liar. Filthy, snake-tongued liar.

“... That – I had no idea, to think that he would…” Yuga was still for a long time, for as far as the chaos outside allowed for stillness. “Fool I was. To be so close to him, and so blind to his plans. But what does it matter now? You say you are here to free me. What, exactly, is left of me to free? I’m nothing, now. I’ve failed, I’ve been humiliated, and now, I am more powerless than I’ve ever been.”

And Yuga was buying every word of it like it was on discount. How fragile grief made the mortal mind! It was getting more and more difficult for Ghirahim to mask his disgust. But he could not simply zone out, close himself off from this exchange. These were lies that the both of them would have to hold dear, as to not betray to Yuga that they were complicit in the fall of Ganon. It would be a very, very bitter lie, for possibly centuries to come.

Again Zant walked closer to his frail lieutenant. He stood across him now, mere steps away. “On the contrary, Yuga. You will be instrumental in my plans.”

“... Plans? Oh, Usurper. Don’t tell me,” Yuga laughed weakly.

Those final steps were crossed. Zant hunched down, taking Yuga’s hands in his and squeezing them. “But I am. Yuga, you have wit. You have magic. But more importantly, you have my trust. ”

Zant then laid his hands on his shoulders, staring him down with those wide eyes of his. “Tell me, Yuga. What is it that you wish?”

His solemn chuckling having just come to an end, Yuga’s malicious side slipped through the cracks of his composure. He shook his head, cackling to himself through gritted teeth. His next words were growled through tears. “That horrid land gone. I wish all of Hyrule to fall on its knees before me, its people begging us to forgive what they've done. Then, I want it reduced to dust.”

“Then we share similar goals, Lord of Lorule,” Zant smiled. He sensed weakness and dug his jaws in. “What of our Master? Would you not wish him back?”

Fury bulged through the veins in Yuga’s neck. “... Pay… They’ll pay for taking him from us. From ME! Of course I wish for him. It feels like I’ve lost a limb, Zant. Like a part of me has atrophied. But a childish wish like that…”

Just as Yuga faltered again, Zant held him tighter, leaning into his field of vision. “Would you believe me if I told you, that there is a way? To feel his presence, for his power to dwell in you?”

Yuga’s head fell, his voice whittling down to a whimper. “... Mercy…”

“You say you want vengeance. To reduce Hyrule to dust. Then we have that in common, Lord of Lorule!”

As fiercely as he did tenderly, Zant cupped Yuga’s face in his hands. At once forced to look straight at the other man, the first face he’s earnestly met in what may have been weeks, Yuga widened his eyes in surprise. Then, as the sad figure froze in his hands, Zant lunged down and kissed him firmly on the forehead.

Yuga yelped in surprise, his frame seizing up. Then convulsing, as a powerful pulse emitted from the both of them, strong enough to rattle the room and all its inhabitants. A grey, runed pallor spread through Yuga’s skin for just a heartbeat. As small as that glimpse of power had been, it was enough for him to burst into tears. Clinging to Zant’s breeches, he sobbed, and wailed, and pleaded. As simple as that, a new allegiance was forged.

Ghirahim’s eye trailed from the gray hand stroking and soothing the mourning sorcerer’s shoulder, up to Zant’s face. When their eyes met, a triumphant, subtly vicious smile flashed back at him. What a dangerous ally he’d made.

Time came to free their other prisoner. By now, their forces had fought all the way up to the door to Yuga’s impromptu holding cell. A proper entourage was waiting for them at last. The last words exchanged and his tears dried, Yuga shifted in his seat. In his lap, he still held a black handkerchief, greyed, faded, and laces frayed, where listless hands had wrung the wetted fabric.

Their lieutenant made some wantful gesture behind him. “My crutches, please, I –” He struggled for a moment, hissing against the movement of his sore legs. “My apologies, I haven’t moved from this spot in quite some time.”

One of Yuga’s crutches turned out broken, doubtlessly during the same chaos that razed through the room he was confined in. Yuga paid the rest of the room no heed as they departed, making a clear effort to aim his gaze at nothing but the exit. Unpracticed as he was with but one crutch, Ghirahim joined his vulnerable side. It was a sorely uncomfortable affair. Both of them, in mourning, regretting the death of the one who symbolized their previous Masters. Yet, Ghirahim himself was composed, while the one currently hanging on his arm was a blubbering mess. Hidden behind a black veil was he, with reddened, puffed-over eyes, his gaunt cheeks, and the flaky skin on his fingers, drenched in tear-stained eczema. His despair truly made him ugly.

Though, he supposed Yuga had stayed by his Master’s side until the very end. Abandonment, betrayal, such forces would never come to stifle whatever sadness came to rear its head in the poor wretched Lorian.

Ghirahim knew the raw spot his companion carried on his person now all too well. In his envy of such open weeping, he felt inclined to rip it open. At the risk of a warning glare from Zant, he broke his silence.

“I have to know, Yuga. That final hour. Did he die with glory?”

Yuga swallowed, sucked in a choked breath. He stumbled for a moment. Was it truly so easy to topple his composure like this? How delightfully weak.

“Never before have I seen such power. Such raw, glorious fury, encapsulating all he stood for. He was everything, Ghirahim,” were the words he landed upon, final like the closing of a book.

Their violent chaperones huddled like a shield around the three of them, they traversed the swirling halls of the Temple. They did so in silence, mostly, with Zant too focused on tracking the Ring Spirit’s vague magical aura, and the other pair, too engrossed in their own thoughts to waste any words. The deeper they crossed into the Temple, the less disturbance they received. Snarling against their foes, the Bulblin soldiers guarding their flanks fought off the few that dared pursue them into this labyrinth.

As though breaking free from a spell, Yuga mustered the decency to speak to the one assisting him in walking. He turned to Ghirahim with a slight smile. “You have contempt for him, don’t you, Ghirahim? He broke his promise to you.”

Ghirahim did not respond. The way he shifted his gaze to the floor could have been taken as a refusal to answer, but really, he was just considering the thought for his own curiosity. Contempt? Was he capable of feeling such things for his Masters? How would he go about picking such feelings out from between the mountain of disappointment, sadness, and guilt? This overall inadequacy?

Yuga did not let him consider for long. His smile turned wistful as he spoke. “I tried for you, you know. When he was in one of his rare, fair moods, I’d approach him, and I’d ask, ‘Master, would it really be so terrible if you took him to your next battle? That boy cares for you so, it pains me to see him so neglected’. And do you know what he said?”

Yuga’s words almost shocked him. Fond reminiscence over mutual loss of a meaningful person. Common among mortals, but unheard of for him. How quaint. He’d never had a conversation like this before. The novelty of it alone made Ghirahim set his frustrations with Yuga aside, if only to see as many sides of this exchange as possible. “No. What did he say?”

Yuga mustered a laugh, lowering his voice somewhat in imitation of their Ganondorf. “ ‘That ‘boy’ of yours,’ he said, ‘is a millennia old weapon. You’d do better not to make him go soft’. A hopeless affair, it was! Even for me!”

The realization that Yuga had vouched for him, pleaded for wishes in his stead, without his knowing or urging, weighed on a part of his mind he didn’t recognize. What a strange favor… Ghirahim looked to the man beside him, now seeing an ally… No, a friend, he hadn’t known he had.

His own ignorance, paired with the thorough typicality of Yuga’s words, brought him a burst of laughter. Yes, that was how their Master was, exactly! “He was right, you know.”

And though Yuga joined him in his laughter, Ghirahim turned away just as his companion was distracted by nostalgic mirth, to hide sadness of his own. That simple exchange confirmed it. The truth settled heavily in his soul. Ganondorf never intended to wield him. Never had, never would. He swallowed the finality of it all and bore the thorns it drove into his throat with silence.

After a long trek through foggy corridors, Zant stopped. To their right stood a door, at first glance unremarkable, with its mundane size and simple wooden frame. Stepping closer, one would notice it completely plastered in talismans. Different colors, shapes, sizes – Ghirahim thought he could even distinguish different scripts. The Hyruleans were thorough with their wards, for even the Demon Lord felt an unpleasant sting standing near the door. Had Wizzro been kept there, these wards would certainly be keeping him firmly trapped inside.

To the living, though, such things were mere strips of paper, and Zant began idly picking at their edges to peel them right off the door. As he did so, Ghirahim cast a bored look to where they came from, squinting against the persisting fog. He wondered if they’d be able to make it back.

With the talismans removed, the lot of them passed through to find some matter of lodging, perhaps one meant for servants or guests. Its furnishings were mostly empty, save for some boxes and trinkets scattered around the shelves. But, more importantly, there sat a plain jewelry box upon the dressing table, a big, bright red talisman sticking it shut.

Zant seemed to notice his gawking and sidled up beside him. “I do believe I have kept you bored this entire siege. If you would like to do the honors…”

Yuga now taken off his hands, Ghirahim accepted Zant’s offer. He approached the box, and though the talisman itched his fingers through his gloves, he peeled it off no problem.

Almost immediately, the jewelry box began to shake. Cacophonous jingling of little accessories grated the ears, until a murky, groaning sound muffled all else. At once, the box shot open, a shadowy form bursting forth with clawed hands and gnashing teeth.

“A damn fool you are, to let me out of –” Wizzro roared, only to sheepishly fold into himself once he saw who stood before him. He let out an awkward chuckle. “Ah, erm, gentlemen. Hhhhi.” His mouth closed, then shifted into an eye, which darted between the three men before him. He lingered particularly on Zant, whose magic output evidently made him the biggest presence in the room. Naturally, a Spirit such as Wizzro couldn’t wrestle his attention away from such a phenomenon if he wanted to. “You’ll have to excuse me for the outburst. You see I’ve been eh, locked in that box for – How long, Yuga?”

“Beats me,” said Yuga, unenthused about being involved in the conversation.

“Yes, you get the idea. Quite a bit. Stewing in rage the whole time. You know how it is.”

Ghirahim raised a brow, having stood there deadpanned this entire exchange thusfar. “Sure.”

“Either way, so,” Wizzro said, turning away from them to hide his face. He rummaged around in the box for a bit, plucked his own ring out, and twisted it nervously around his finger. “There’s something… New, housing itself in you, isn’t there, Zant?”

Zant simply stared.

“I take it we’re under new management?”

Now, Zant smiled. “You learn fast. Yes, Wizzro. I will be requiring your services.”

“How much… Bargaining space, do you allot me, Twili? You should know, a spirit like me is in high demand.”

“I know every inch of that fickle mind of yours, Wizzro. You shall have nothing to complain about. And if you did, I would give you reason not to.”

“ Oh yeah. You haven’t changed. Good, good. Very well, then. When do we start?”

“Right away, Wizzro, my good man,” said Zant, holding out his hand as if offering to shake it. Pointedly, his right, so that Wizzro would have no choice but to join hands with his ring in the middle. Ghirahim exchanged a look with the poor sod as he floated by to accept, and found him more nervous than he’d ever seen him.

The shriek that rang throughout the room the second they shook on their pact confirmed that Wizzro had good reason to be nervous. Something told Ghirahim the conniving rat wouldn’t be giving them too much trouble from here on out. With that out of the way, the group of them, reunited at last, turned back down the hallway. There were still rats in the Temple, after all, and no King worth his salt would be caught dead with vermin in his home.

One last ally remained, and he may have been the most difficult to persuade. Frankly, Ghirahim wasn’t enthused about this one, but they were strapped for commanders. His personal opinions, therefore, meant very little. So, there they stood, at the mouth of the Northern Eldin Cave system. Naturally, as they had succeeded in doing so before, their army would greatly benefit from recruiting an entire clan of dragons. Now that Hyrule had succeeded in doing the same, they could not afford to lose their own.

Thus Zant described it to his co-lieutenants. It was just the two of them today, leaving Yuga to rest and Wizzro to tend to administration. Ghirahim was simply tagging along as his scabbard, as he usually did, these days. To-day, he was glad for it. He wasn’t particularly enthused about the idea of holding a conversation about the dreadful bore that was Volga, Dragon Knight. And he was certain it was Volga they were meeting with. The Dragons of this world hold boundless wisdom, though very few are equipped with the ability to relay it in mortal tongue. This left the Fire Dragons of Eldin with no option but to send their representative before the Twilight King. With the occasional gigantic serpentine head peeping in from the tunnels, Volga met them in solitary attendance, held emphatically close by the entrance of the cave system.

“Sir Volga. We meet again,” announced Zant.

Volga, though clearly displeased by even the sight of his two ‘guests’, kept an impressively stiff upper lip before them. “You know very well I do not bother with formalities. State your business.”

“My conquering of the Seer’s territory surely has not slipped your notice.”

“It has not.”

“You will also expect that I am not content with this alone. Even after Ganondorf’s defeat, Hyrule remains contested ground. Your people, too, have stakes in this. This dwelling alone convinces me. Your relatives hunching through the tunnels behind you, I presume, are far too large, too numerous, to dwell in the caves of a nursery. You wish to expand.”

With a pound of his spear, Volga scoffed, though he did not smile. “Clearly you know everything. Yet you bother to come and interrogate me. Why?”

“I simply thought a little sympathy might prove my good intentions to you.”

Volga, unlike many, saw through Zant’s sweetened words remarkably quickly. That was just about the one of the few things Ghirahim appreciated about him: the man’s resolve was like steel. “Silence! I will not hear another word. Shadow Lord, you are an open book. Next, you thought to offer some grand compromise, a way to use my people as your pawns.

I decline!“

At lack of response, Volga held his pike at the ready, fire pooling from between his teeth. “I will not repeat myself. Leave!”

Zant chuckled from behind his helmet, padding backward in resignation. But Ghirahim could see this surrender was completely false. Inside those massive sleeves, his fingers itched and twiddled. So Ghirahim steeled himself, his hands tense behind his back.

As he predicted, once Zant joined his side, he jerked his head toward him with violent anticipation. With a snap of his fingers, Ghirahim’s cloak disappeared, his chest exposed. Zant hesitated not even a second to rip his scimitar from its scabbard and bear down on the Dragon Warrior with voracity.

Ghirahim, naturally, could not stand idly by. Volga’s fighting style was far more exciting to him than the dolt himself, and Ghirahim eagerly seized the opportunity to witness it up close. With a whirlwind-strength spin of his polearm, gashes formed across the torsos of both Volga’s opponents. Yet it deterred neither of them. Furious blows were exchanged between the embers bursting through the air, the temperature in the tunnels at once reaching a scorching heat. Had it just been him and the Dragon, Ghirahim thought, this battle would have been delightfully equally matched, and he would have been eager to tear victory from his clawed gauntlets at the very last second. As it stood, Zant was there also, weakened only by his lack of killing intent. Ghirahim had almost gotten carried away by the thrill of battle – they were there to oh-so-diplomatically convince Volga, not murder him outright. Playtime was over soon. The butt end of Volga’s spear shot towards him, and he surrendered through a refusal to dodge. As Ghirahim tumbled back onto the stone floor, he watched as Zant stood poorly guarded before the warrior now barreling towards him… And suddenly, the Twilight King disappeared.

There was a mere flash of confusion when Zant vanished from sight. Volga had but a second to check his surroundings before his adversary appeared behind him, his spell-drenched hands now enclosed over his eyes.

A sizzle. He screamed. Ghirahim could only catch a glimpse of what Zant had done between Volga’s frantic clawing at his face, but it was enough to draw the conclusion. Slowly, but surely, a metallic, black mask was spreading across his eyes and fusing to his helmet. As Volga stumbled around the corridor, swinging wildly to find either an anchor or the wicked man who did this to him, the darkness down the cave began to clear.

Looming above the group of men was the rest of the draconic Clan, glaring at them with piercing teal eyes. Some bared their teeth in rage, tongues lashing and sulfurous drool burning holes into the floor, while others swelled their throat sacs, bright and glowing with kindling flame.

Yet Zant stood comfortably, almost oblivious to it all. Ghirahim came to put himself between the Twili and the panicking knight, with his blade drawn to threaten the foes before them. But something told him that even without this measure of protection, Zant would have had the same poise.

Zant spread his arms amicably. His upturned hands served as a gesture of peace, but the slight shimmer in the air betrayed it as a somatic command also, for shields to protect him from the dragons’ rage.

“You wish to have him back, no? Volga is a formidable warrior.”

Deaf and blind to his surroundings, Volga began to shift, as if cracking through the shell of his current form could save him from this blight. It did not – red scales turned to pitch black, jagged and pulsing with cyan magic. Ghirahim kicked the nuisance in the horn when he threatened to get too close.

Zant continued his oration. “Then hear me! If it is Eldin that you want, then my Kingdom shall have space for you. I merely request one favor in return: assist me in taking over Hyrule Castle. Doubtlessly, the Princess will have similar plans to my own, and I need the might of your people to overpower her.”

The teeth of his helmet clattering to expose half his face, Zant smiled. “Does that not sound so violently simple?”

The serpentine heads above them growled, their wild eyes darting between each other. Some snarled, baring their teeth, others squinted, and yet others bowed their heads in resignation. With the loss of their interpreter, the beasts had no way to communicate with this strange adversary. But, after what looked like some squabbling, of nipping at one another and snorting steaming breaths, the hostile among them hesitantly turned and retreated into the caves. The largest dragon remaining locked eyes with Zant and nodded.

Zant’s gentle smile from before turned into a wide grin. With a clap of his hands, Volga stopped struggling. At once, he shrunk in on himself, his draconian features reverting back to humanoid ones. But he was different from before. His armor remained pitch black, jagged and pointy, his eyes covered by a visor that seemed melded to his flesh.

“I will return him to you when Hyrule Castle is secure and my usurpation is finished,” said Zant, nonchalantly under the eyes of the shocked dragons. Doubtlessly, they expected him to revert the curse. “Until then, he will follow me just like this. I’ve found he gets rather uppity when you don’t keep the reins tight… Now, farewell!”

Volga followed Zant wordlessly, like a drone, as the latter cheerfully turned to waltz right back out of the cave. Ghirahim shot one pitying look at the Dragon Warrior’s remaining clan, whose hearts collectively crumbled, and turned to follow.

With three more high-ranking officials under his belt, Zant’s life as a royal stabilized, turned almost mundane. The Temple claimed as their home base, the next phase of his conquering creaked to a slow start, gears a-turning. Piles upon piles of correspondence stacked on his desk, Zant himself laid low, having his commanders at their territory’s borders keep his little place free from violence. It seemed to be working splendidly, because their pretentious pontifex of a King was taking full liberty to have some time off. Ghirahim stood at the staff entrance of the Temple, hands in his sides, waiting for the shadows in the distance to get a little closer.

Drawing near were Zant, riding the very same Bullbo he once carried the defeated Zelda on (he’d developed a fondness for the beast and was very pleased to discover it was still alive); and Lord Dargas, reigning Duke of Tarm. The plan seemed to be to pamper that wretched noble… Something about guaranteeing them a spot in Holodrum, in case they wanted to expand territories. Ghirahim watched the man fuss over his mustache and depend on three separate pages to get his arse down from his ludicrously sized horse and wondered if they couldn’t have picked some other vaguely rebellious province for that scheme.

Ghirahim stepped aside to let through three Bulblins pulling a cart containing the spoils of their hunt, to find Zant trailing not far behind them. Said Twili came up to him smiling brightly.

Such a smile did nothing to Ghirahim. “So. Did you have fun dodging your responsibilities with our good Duke? I don’t see what you’re stalling for.”

“To you it may seem like stalling,” Zant said, handing the massive spear he’d wielded over to a waiting squire. The weapon was so stupidly large, even an oaf like him wouldn’t miss. “But this, too, is part of politics.”

Ghirahim bumped him just a touch too casually for polite company. Said polite company pranced past them, his suit fully in order and dusted off, and the three of them exchanged a cordial greeting.

Ghirahim’s expression soured the second the Duke was out of view. “You’re trying to win simple favors, now? How very unlike you.”

“Perhaps, but I’ve put it to the test,” Zant began, placing a hand on Ghirahim’s shoulder to lead him into the garden. “For a King, there are two ways to assert his authority. The first would be appeasement; the second, tyranny, forcing obedience purely through violence. Considering your status as Demon Lord, I need not guess which of the two you are more familiar with.”

Ghirahim grinned. “And you are not?”

“Oh, I am. Most intimately, in fact. Tyranny is how I claimed Hyrule initially, and it is how Ganondorf led his army, as well. Coincidentally, both attempts failed, resulting in our deaths.”

“So you’ve decided to play nice,” Ghirahim teased, nudging Zant’s hand so it could slip to the small of his back.

“Not exactly… Relying on appeasement alone would require resources that we lack. Those of noble blood want extravagance and their every wish fulfilled. Which is where my experience with Twilit politics will serve me well…” Zant trailed off a moment, kicking a perished rose branch into the shrubbery. “Tell me, Ghirahim-ili. What impression would it give to freshly war-torn people, to be met with a new competitor of the throne, who immediately throws luxurious parties?”

Ghirahim gave it some thought. “I’d imagine it could go either which way. Either you assert yourself as resourceful, or you might strike them as a pompous prick who doesn’t know how to handle his own wealth.” Which wouldn’t be too far off, he thought to himself.

“Precisely. That is a gamble I cannot afford at this stage. So, we show them hospitality, a willingness to listen to their demands… But, just as Hyrule does, we have a trump card.”

Zant lifted his hand, his long sleeve dropping down to flash the mark of Power.

“Connection to the divine. I have claimed the Triforce of Power, as none before me could ever achieve, and I’ve wielded its power to seize the North. Any unwillingness to cave to my demands will be quickly snuffed out under the threat of such a force.”

“A solid middle ground, then.”

“So you could say.”

“I take it, then, that our Summit is being held soon?”

“Yes. The Duke of Tarm just so happens to be the first to arrive,” Zant said, turning to the stables behind them. Just as he stood and watched, the prey he’d claimed was being wheeled in through the back door – a large boar, only marginally smaller than his mount. Both found it macabre, a bit of a cruel joke, one that made Ghirahim turn back and Zant grin all the wider. “I’ve extended invitations to just about all our former allies. Not a soul will be missing out – Unlike Ganondorf, I will not be playing favorites. Our forces need to know they can depend on us.”

Such a bold comment made Ghirahim shake off his discomfort in an instant. He sidled up closer to his monarch, nudging him through his thick robes. “Ah… So you have no favorites, none at all?”

Zant smirked, locking this boldness in place by curling his arm around Ghirahim firmly, affectionately. “Well… Perhaps, Demonkind as of late, has been landing on my good side quite often…”

Laughing, making jabs, huddled in the arms of a man who could crush him. To once again linger in the shadows of a greater ruler, but never losing prominence – like the gem-lain hilt of a blade glistening in the shade of a warrior’s cape. No longer would he have demand over the absolute spotlight, but rather, he would share it with a King, who in turn was completed by the sword he’d wield, his deadly tool of choice. A thousand years it had been, from his point of view, since Ghirahim had last lived like this. It was as nostalgic, as the lethargy of it all made his skin crawl. For now, it did little good to struggle against his overshadowing. He reminded himself that this feeling was what he’d chased ever since his revival… But his choice of pseudo-wielder was, to put it lightly, irking to a painful degree.

The playing field had to be leveled a little bit. He reached over to deliver a harsh pinch to the delicate underside of the Twilight King’s upper arm and reveled in the pathetic shriek it evoked.

#bearwrites #beararts #ghirazant #zant #ghirahim #yuga #wizzro #volga #hyrule warriors #tftk #loz fanfic

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skyward-floored · 4 months ago

Text

Comes a few months after Volga is freed. He’s mostly been recovering quietly by himself, and trying to wrap his head around the whole wow I have a son thing. Until Ganondorf shows up, that is.

————————————————————

The wind is warm under Volga’s wings, a breeze from the distant desert helping him stay aloft. The night itself is cold though, sharpening the stars and brightening the moon, and Volga’s breath huffs out in clouds of steam.

He gives his wings another flap, then angles them downwards, steering towards the smoke he’d been following. He wouldn’t say relief is the word for what he feels when he sees the army encampment below, but he is glad to have finally located it.

After a week of searching, he was starting to think he would never find the place.

Volga drops to the ground and shifts back into a human, deciding walking is the best approach. Less screaming then flying over in his other form would result in, anyway.

Not that it much matters as he walks up. The guard outside isn’t happy to see him in any sense of the word, despite him not appearing as a dragon, and he jumps straight into the air at the sight of Volga approaching from the shadows.

He fumbles not to drop his weapon, and Volga rolls his eyes. Bumbling idiot. “I need to speak to your general.”

“Y-you’re not permitted here,” the guard trembles out, pointing a spear at him. “Leave, or I’ll sound the alarm!”

Volga huffs out an annoyed breath, smoke trailing into the air. “I said, I need to speak to your General.”

The guard pales, but remarkably holds his post. “You’re not allowed here, I’ve seen what you can do, dragon, what you’ve destroyed. Leave this place!”

Embers accompany the smoke this time.

“Do you really think you have a chance of stopping me?” Volga growls, thoroughly annoyed. The soldier pales further. “If I so wished it you would be nothing but ashes where you stand.”

The poor guard looks as if he’s about to faint, and Volga is about to force his way past, but they’re both interrupted by a set of approaching steps. The figure they belong to sends relief over the soldier’s face, but when Volga looks over, all he feels is an odd twisting in his chest.

Impa stands before him, her red eyes narrowed.

“Volga,” she says in a unreadable voice, several unspoken words layered underneath. “What are you doing here?”

“I sensed darkness over Hyrule. I wasn’t keen on a repeat of the sorceress,” he replies dryly. “I came to see what you were doing about it.”

He pauses, and glances at the guard before meeting Impa’s eyes.

“...I would prefer to speak with you in private.”

The guard looks equally alarmed and offended as he makes to speak, but Impa waves a hand to silence whatever idiocy is sure to come out of his mouth. “Follow me. I know a spot.”

Volga smirks and the guard glowers, but Impa ignores them both, leading Volga past the camp entrance and away to a small copse of trees. It’s sheltered, but not so much that they won’t see any danger if it arises, and Volga nods approvingly as Impa stops and turns to face him.

“Why are you here? How did you find us?” she demands, the moon highlighting the shadows under her eyes.

Volga blinks, and looks down at her. “I was not lying. I did sense a darkness, and don’t want another after what came of it last time. I came to get some answers. And perhaps provide some information.”

He looks up at the sky, gaze trailing along the stars, then back at Impa. She waves him on to explain with her arms crossed, and he clears his throat.

“After I realized something was amiss, I headed for your castle. I found it overrun by monsters, and I wasn’t certain of what caused it, or what happened to you or the Hero. I’ve been looking for you for days.”

Impa gets a strange look on her face, and despite her haggard appearance, Volga can’t help but think she looks quite lovely in the moonlight. It makes the white of her hair practically glow, and she looks comfortable in the shadows it casts, like she was made for them.

Volga mentally gives himself a shake. Stop that.

“I sensed darkness,” he continues, “of a similar vein to the sorceress’s, and that sent me off to find information. I found none, except for the remains of battle and the location of your camp, finally. What is going on?”

Impa sighs, looking even more wearied.

“...Ganondorf was properly freed,” she says finally, her voice grave, “and mounted a swift attack on us. We attempted to stop him, but we were caught off guard by the power he possessed.”

A bird calls somewhere in the woods, and they both still at the noise before recognizing it poses no threat.

Impa continues. “His monsters have overtaken the castle, and he himself has taken all three pieces of the Triforce. One from Lana, one from Princess Zelda. One... one from Link.”

The news makes something in Volga’s chest tighten, and something must show on his face, because Impa continues.

“Link is... fine. He fought admirably against Ganondorf, but it was not enough. His piece of the Triforce was taken, and Ganondorf disappeared. Our plan is to head to the desert to look for him, but we’re taking it slow for now, and gathering our strength. It’s a miracle Link and the princess weren’t more injured...” she murmurs, trailing off.

“He was injured?” Volga asks quickly, and Impa nods, the information making that strange feeling increase in Volga’s middle.

Though why should he care so much? He’s barely even talked to the boy, it’s not like he should care if he was injured.

And yet...

“Yes, but not seriously,” Impa continues, and Volga shakes himself, again. “He has had to recover though. He and the princess both. We were forced to retreat, and barely made it away. It was fortunate we made it as far, and with as many men, as we did,” Impa sighs, voice weary.

Volga looks at her again, appearance haggard, eyes weary, a few bandages peeking from under her clothes. She’s obviously exhausted, and been through a lot, and Volga feels a flicker of protectiveness at seeing his mate in such a state.

...He’s pretty sure he lost the right to feel that way though, so he drops it along with the other feelings trying to bother him.

(Except for the anger at Ganondorf for doing this. That he will hold onto.)

“...May I see him?” he finds himself asking. “Link?”

Impa hesitates, eyes trailing across his face.

Then she nods.

(...)

Impa leads Volga out of the trees and through their camp, keeping to shadows in order to hide his presence.

It’s almost surreal having him sneak behind her, smelling the smokey scent he brings with him wherever he goes. It reminds her sharply of when they would sneak around together all those years ago, trying to find a place with at least some privacy, ducking behind corners to avoid noisy gorons, and sharing a quick kiss.

Impa’s cheeks flush without her permission, and she shoves those thoughts aside. She needs to focus on the now.

Volga follows her through camp with nearly-equal stealth, and they reach the tent where Link is without issue. Impa slips inside, Volga behind her, and before either of them can do anything, Princess Zelda is halfway off her seat holding a sword in her hand.

Volga doesn’t look terribly alarmed at the blade pointing at his neck, but Zelda’s face is stern and unmoving as he looks at him.

“Impa,” she asks, eyes trained on Volga, “why is he here?”

“He wants to see Link,” Impa explains, and Zelda lowers her sword a hair when she sees Volga’s hand is nowhere near his spear.

“Are you sure?”

“I will watch him,” Impa promises, and Zelda looks between her and Volga in silence.

Something changes in her gaze as she looks at them, and Impa can practically see the gears turning in her head, her gaze resting on Link before moving back to his parents.

“Good,” Zelda replies, voice unusually serious. Then makes to leave the tent.

She catches Impa’s arm before she goes though, and Impa raises an eyebrow.

“Link pushed himself too far earlier,” Zelda murmurs, soft enough that Volga won’t hear. “He reopened the wound on his chest, and had to have another potion. He won’t admit it, but he’s exhausted, so please don’t wake him.” A faint smirk appears on Zelda’s face. “If you two argue, take it outside.”

“We will,” Impa promises with a quiet snort. She squeezes Zelda’s unbandaged shoulder. “Go get some rest, princess.”

Zelda nods, and with one last careful look at Volga, leaves the tent to return to her own.

Impa is left alone with her family.

She returns her attention to the other occupants of the tent, ignoring the fuzzy feeling in her eyes. It’s ridiculously late (or perhaps early), so Impa isn’t surprised to see Link completely sacked out on his cot, his blanket falling off his shoulder as he snores. With his injuries heightening his exhaustion, it’s no wonder he doesn’t hear them enter, nor Zelda leave.

Impa watches as Volga hovers a bit awkwardly by his bedside, fingers tapping on his crossed arms. He steps closer, Impa tensing on instinct, but then he simply adjusts Link’s blanket so it won’t fall off, setting it back over his shoulder.

Volga hesitates for a moment with his hand still outstretched, and then he places a hand on Link’s head, an unreadable look on his face.

A faint sigh escapes their son’s lips, and he turns into the hand in his sleep, his expression easing. Volga swallows, then slips his hand away again.

He’s silent for several long moments.

“You never sent word to me there was a child.”

Impa swallows, and looks down at Link.

“I know. I should have. I was afraid,” she admits quietly, “of what might have happened if the message fell into the wrong hands again. And truth be told... I was still angry at you. I thought you wouldn’t care.”

Volga looks over and meets her eyes, a truly hurt look crossing his face. “Of course I would care. I was a prideful idiot back then, but I was not so far gone that I would not have cared for a hatchling. Our hatchling.”

He pauses for a second.

“...did he hatch?”

“No eggs were involved,” Impa says dryly. “Trust me.”

Volga’s mouth twitches into something that might be amusement, but it’s gone too fast for her to be sure.

Link breathes out a little more loudly in his sleep, and Volga’s expression suddenly hardens as he watches him.

“You should have told me you were expecting before you left,” he says. There’s a sharp bite to his voice that wasn’t there before, one that makes Impa bristle. “You couldn’t at least have told me of his existence?”

“Excuse me? I didn’t know before I left,” Impa replies, equally sharp. How dare he? “Do you truly think I would have hidden it from you? I am not that petty, Volga. I would have told you as soon as I knew, but I could not leave my duties, and I had no way of safely contacting you.”

She can’t help but glare at him. “You could always have tried to find me.”

“I have my own responsibilities I could not desert, and I had no reason to try and find you,” Volga snaps. “I didn’t know you were expecting. How could I have?”

“I already told you I had no way of safely letting you know!”

“You could have tried harder! You’re telling me that in all years that have gone by you had no way to tell me anything?!”

“I was busy, Volga! The King and Queen both died! And I did try! It didn’t work!”

Link lets out a mumble in his sleep, and Impa and Volga both go silent as he shifts a little, staying quiet for a few long moments after he stills.

Impa sneaks a look at Volga, and is surprised to see the fire that had been building in his eyes fading. And when he speaks, his voice holds less of a bite.

“I know. I was still mad at you as well,” he admits quietly. “I don’t know what I would have done if you had contacted me. And then it had been so many years, so many more than I’d realized, and Cia...”

He cuts himself off, and crosses his arms again, looking almost... remorseful.

Impa swallows, something twisting in her chest, and Link murmurs again from his bed. Her and Volga both go silent again, watching as he shifts under his blankets, nuzzling sleepily into his pillow.

“...I am sorry,” Impa says quietly. “For keeping him from you. Even though it was never my intention.”

“The blame is not... yours alone,” Volga murmurs in reply.

Her eyebrows raise in surprise, something a little warmer settling in Impa’s chest at the words despite the anger and awkwardness of the situation, and the frankly unwelcome emotions it’s stirring up. They haven’t spoken this much in years, and Volga certainly wouldn’t have admitted to any blame in the matter back then.

Perhaps... he’s changed.

Maybe we both have.

The silence stretches between them, not exactly uncomfortable, but then Volga’s expression shifts suddenly, like he’s realized something, and he looks at Impa with suspicion in his eyes.

“...Again?”

“What?” she asks, and Volga’s frown deepens.

“You said you were afraid to send word to me, in case a message fell into the wrong hands again,” he says, voice sharpening. “And you keep talking about safety. Something happened, didn’t it?”

Impa’s mind is jerked back to memories she tries not to dwell on, shattering glass and shadows, terror thick in her throat as she’d heard a baby’s cry.

She exhales, and crosses her arms.

“Yes. A great many things, in fact,” Impa begins quietly. “Do you remember that lieutenant you bested the first night we arrived in Eldin? The one with the dark hair and the scar on his neck, who always seemed to interrupt us when we tried to be together?”

Volga snorts derisively, but Impa can see the anger in his eyes. “Yes. Narrow-minded idiot that he was. Seemed to view dragons as mere beasts, instead of intelligent beings. I recall him trying to bring up the uselessness of discussing a treaty with an animal.”

Impa swallows. “Yes. Well it seems he held a grudge. I don’t know how he figured it out— perhaps he saw us together one too many times, I truly don’t know— but he must have been stalking me after I returned home, and got ahold of a letter I had sent. He discovered the fact that I had had a son by you, and then...”

“What?” Volga demands.

Impa breathes out a sigh.

“...He attempted to kill Link. And me. He broke into where I was staying, along with a small group, and tried to murder us both,” she admits quietly. “We were very lucky... and that’s when I decided I could not raise Link myself. Not if there was any chance it could happen again. And that is why I never sent word to you either.”

Volga goes almost eerily still as she speaks, his eyes narrowing into thin slits.

His gaze shifts to Link as she finishes, their son still peacefully slumbering on, and smoke trails from his nostrils as his hands clench into fists.

“How dare he,” he whispers in a voice practically dripping with venom.

He growls, flames licking at his lips, and Impa clears her throat, gesturing rather pointedly at Link. “Keep it down,” she reminds quietly, and Volga silences his growl, though the anger does not fade from his eyes. Impa has a feeling if he were in his dragon form, his tail would be lashing.

“How dare that worm—”

“He’s been dead for a long time, so there’s no use in planning revenge,” Impa says as Volga fumes. “And the rest of his group was dealt with as well. There is nothing more to be done, calm down.”

“He tried to murder my mate and son, I will not calm down,” Volga snarls, and Impa startles at the intensity of his words. “He tried to murder you and I’m learning of it years too late to do anything, and that—”

He hisses and turns away from her and Link both, shoulders stiff as he stands in silence.

“I’m supposed to protect my mate,” he murmurs finally, voice still holding a growl. “And I was not there to do so. Because I was mad at you.”

His voice drops to one so quiet Impa can barely make out what he says next.

“I’m a fool.”

Impa stays silent, unsure of how to respond.

Then, almost of their own accord, her feet pad across the floor, and she sets a light hand on Volga’s shoulder.

“If you’re a fool, then so am I,” she says quietly. “I could have tried harder to reach out to you by other methods, yet I was too scared to. You did not know, Volga. You can’t stop that which you are unaware of.”

Volga’s eyes stay closed, but he doesn’t shake her arm off. “I abandoned my responsibility towards you.”

“As did I,” Impa whispers. “Volga, we... we’re both at fault. This whole situation, it was just... too many impossible decisions. We both made mistakes. But Link is alive, and both of us are as well. Dwelling on what you could have done had you known will solve nothing.”

Volga breathes out a small huff, and looks back at her, his eyes still angry. He looks calmer than he did though, and his gaze trails over her face, almost like he’s searching for something.

He must not find it, for he looks away from her, and Impa tries to ignore the odd pang of disappointment it brings as he turns to look back at Link.

“He has your face,” he murmurs eventually, watching their son sleep. “I didn’t notice before. His features match yours quite closely.”

“I always thought he resembled you more,” Impa says in reply, going with the attempt of changing the subject. They both need time to think about what they’ve just discussed. “He has your hair, and eyes.”

“Hmm... not entirely. My hair is darker than his. I think yours had a bit of influence in that regard.”

Impa studies the strands of Link’s hair she can most easily see, and nods consideringly. It’s true Link’s hair is a bit paler than the typical hylian blond— compared to Zelda’s, the difference is even more obvious. It’s fortunate he didn’t receive the fully white hair of the Sheikah, or his resemblance to Impa might have been too obvious to hide.

“That’s true. I guess his looks are both of ours,” she says more quietly again.

“He really is our son,” Volga murmurs.

The words sit heavy in the air, the reminder that Link is theirs, a son neither of them raised, but connected to them both by blood and the brief union they shared.

One that... neither of them has technically broken.

Volga must be having the same thoughts Impa is, for he suddenly breathes in rather deeply, and shakes himself, before settling his face back into a neutral expression.

“What made you pick such a Hylian name?” he asks almost idly.

Impa hums. “Secrecy. Any other name I would have chosen would have been... obvious. Link is an honorable name. It isn’t one my people normally use, but we hold it in high regard.”

“...it’s a good name,” Volga admits, crossing his arms. “Not one I would choose, but... you decided wisely. It’s fitting.”

“What would you have chosen?”

Volga is silent for a very long moment.

“Kozu,” he says finally, not looking at her. “It was my sire’s name.”

Impa looks at him, but Volga doesn’t look back, watching as Link lets out a soft hum in his sleep.

“And you?” he asks after a minute, voice quiet. “What would you have chosen?”

“I... I don’t know,” Impa admits, a bit taken aback at the question. “Perhaps after one of my family members as well. I didn’t give it much consideration since it wasn’t an option. Link always just seemed... fitting.”

Volga hums. “It is.”

And with that, their words completely dry up, the conversation run its course. It’s not a bad silence that falls over them, though. Impa would almost call it comfortable. If nothing else, the air has been largely cleared between her and Volga, and the ease that that brings with it is... refreshing. Clear. Like a shower she hadn’t realized she’d needed.

“Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?” she finds herself asking, and Volga shrugs.

“There are cliffs nearby, I’ll find a cave. Much better than any stuffy tent you would offer.”

“I never said I was offering you a tent,” she scoffs, but Volga’s eyes twinkle.

“We both know you were going to.”

Impa rolls her eyes, and Volga chuckles, softly so as not to wake Link. She forgot how much she liked the sound of his laugh.

“Does this mean you’re... going to stick around?” she asks cautiously.

“For now,” Volga answers, then gives her a look that Impa would almost call nervous. “If you’ll have me. And assuming your army won’t all react to my presence like the guard at the entrance did.”

“Some of them will,” Impa admits. “But if you’re going to fight with us, then they’ll get used to the idea.”

“...I never offered to fight with you.”

“We both know you were going to.”

Volga blinks, then chuffs out another laugh, louder than the previous one.

“I see your wit hasn’t faded in the slightest, Impa.”

She smirks, then nods her head towards Link, who’s miraculously slept through this entire conversation.

“We should let him rest,” Impa says, and Volga nods.

They don’t leave immediately though— both of them stand there for a moment, watching their son sleep in silence. Volga presses his lips together like he wants to say something, but as Impa looks at him, he turns away from the cot.

“I’ll take you to the edge of camp,” Impa offers, and Volga lets her move in front of him and open the flap of the tent. Impa doesn’t miss how his hand ghosts past hers, and she can’t quite stop the tingle that runs up her spine when he brushes past her.

Oh now he’s just teasing.

Impa firmly shakes herself and follows after him, pointedly ignoring the faint smirk still on Volga’s lips.

Neither of them notice how Link’s eyes slip open before they leave, silent blues watching as they finally exit the tent.

#hdw au #hyrule warriors #loz Volga #loz Impa #volga/Impa #...kinda #legend of Zelda au #legend of zelda #legend of zelda fanfiction #fic #writing from the floor #link didn’t catch all of that #but he caught a lot of it...

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