#monstrous menagerie | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bardic-inspo · 9 months ago

Text

Blood in the Mortar

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

Rating: Explicit (Smut!!)

Key Tags: Vampire/Blood Bride Lore, Service Dom Astarion, Sexy Use of Telepathic Bond, Evil Power Couple, Torturing a Captive, Choking, Biting/Blood, Masquerade, PIV, Cunnilingus

Summary:

“I wanted to see you right where you belong,” Astarion whispers, the sound as sheer as the lace he wrecked. “So beautiful on your throne.” It started on Naomi’s knees, this new life of passion and pleasure unbridled. Astarion didn’t know he’d be hers, just as much as she’d be his, when he bit her thrice, bled her dry, and gave her just one drop of his ascended blood.

Cross-posting from my AO3 account. This is my first BG3 smut fic. If you like it, I'd love to know! Click here if you'd prefer to read on AO3.

“To whom can a vampire bare its soul and admit its fears? From whom can it receive consolation for the past, comfort for the present, and hope for the future?...The vampire is drawn emotionally to a mortal and decides, because of the strength of this emotion, to make her his bride…The happiness of the vampire becomes tied up with the prospective bride, and its well-being depends on hers.”

-Van Richten’s Monster Hunter’s Compendium, Vol 1

Astarion twists the stem of his wine glass, idly tilting the contents within. His assorted guests warp in the bulb of it, swaying between rosy red and clear crystal.

A gravelly voice interrupts his game. “Quite the menagerie you’ve gathered here, Lord Ancunín.”

Astarion doesn’t bother to stifle his sigh. There’s no mistaking him as the lord of the house, even masked as he is. Astarion’s ensemble this evening is pitch dark velvet swirled in crimson thread and snaking silver. His mask glimmers in the same shade of scaled metal, set to complement the curve of his cheekbones, with only miniscule, twinkling rubies encrusting the edges. Nothing meant to outshine the searing color of his eyes. The mask might be silver, but it’s a red dragon Astarion embodies for this particular masquerade.

This party’s for more monstrous company, after all.

No expense was spared for the ‘menagerie’. A grand piano, polished to an opalescent white, plays under spectral hands at the heart of the ballroom alongside a string quartet. A starlit Baldur’s Gate glistens outside the windowed east wall, framed in gold drapery to match the shimmering flecks in the white marble floor. Lavish wine and better blood pour freely; his guests have only to lift their empty glasses to have them brimming again.

Even with all the ornate masks, in the shapes of creatures exotic or fierce, none of the fangs in the room are fake. All the titles are, save for his and his consort’s. Astarion’s lip curls with distaste.

This masquerade was meant for nobility of a supernatural stature. Vampires, warlocks, lycanthropes. Those who lead them. But what his doors received were lowly spawn. Servants sent in their masters’ stead to get just a glimpse of the one and only vampire ascendant, and then to scurry back and tell tale of him. Cowards.

There’s only one human here who’s just human.

Astarion offers him a well-practiced shrug of a laugh. “I do hope you don’t feel out of place among us more…colorful sorts. Lord��? Forgive me, what was it again?”

“Isn’t the point of a masquerade not to bother with such trivialities?” The stranger chuckles hastily. “In any case, I am not lord. Only a humble apprentice to the most renowned wizard Waterdeep has to offer.”

Ah, yes. The invitation was sent for the newly named archmage, filling the god-shaped hole Gale left behind in the wake of his own ascension. Astarion’s eyes flit over the lanky, unkempt apprentice who addresses him instead.

His hair hangs in honey blonde waves past his shoulders, like the mane of the beast he seeks to imitate. It’s a lion’s mask the apprentice wears. Perhaps a poor attempt at humor. The effort would’ve been better paid towards penance, and a sheep’s head would’ve suited him far better than the guise of a predator. Anything would’ve been more fitting than the baggy business he calls a shirt.

Astarion clicks his tongue. “That still doesn’t give me a thing to call you.”

“I am Enrik, if it pleases you.”

“No surname?” Astarion asks with an arched brow.

“None of consequence, my lord,” he replies with the uneasy edge Astarion’s entitled to.

“Well, Enrik, I hope you find our masquerade pleasing.”

“It has certainly been enlightening thus far.”

“And how’s that?” Astarion asks brusquely. He never did like wizards.

He doesn’t like the look on this one’s face, either. The lion that should be a sheep surveys the room with a pitying expression, like he’s watching some petty amusement. A zoo. Gods, or a circus. And what would that make him, Astarion the Ascended, if not a clown? Astarion’s fingers tighten on the stem of his glass, an imperceptible change to any eyes not keen enough to catch it.

“Why, it’s been only a year since your ascension,” Enrik says. “You’ve accomplished much in short order. It’s quite remarkable.”

Astarion’s nose twitches. Praise. From cattle. How quaint, and ill-fitting.

His expression abruptly eases. A refined, familiar scent carries to him from across the crowd. A note of lavender, twined with his favored bergamot.

“And you’ve already enthralled some truly magnificent specimens,” Enrik carries on, oblivious. “Take this fine creature, for example. What a pretty thing to have strung along on your leash.”

Astarion feels her before he sees her. She wipes a palm down the sheath of her skirt, smoothing out some infinitesimal wrinkle. The music smooths, too. With that one simple motion, it bends and blends into something deeper, fuller. All of the lesser spawn of Astarion’s making straighten their slouched shoulders.

He feels the tug of her in his head, and then the cool stroke of her hand to his back, the soothing feel of her fingers combing through his hair, and the gentle scrape of her nails against his scalp. It takes a concerted effort to suppress the pleased groan that bubbles in the back of his throat. All this from across the room, without so much as a glance, let alone a touch.

Hello, darling, he thinks, and she hears it just as if he’d spoken aloud. Aren’t you ravishing?

Her skirt is snow-white crepe that clings taut to her shapely hips before fanning out at her feet. It’s the same lovely shade of ivory as her hair, twisted in a braid like a crown around her head, with the rest falling sleek down her back. A black lace bodice sets just off her lilac shoulders, with gloves to match. Floral stitching vees down from her waistline. The same embellishments decorate the skirt’s edges.

His dark consort, his Naomi once-Tavriel-now-Ancunín, weaves leisurely through the partygoers. The thorny prickle of Astarion’s irritation inspires a little lift at the corner of her mouth.

I’ve been called so much worse, she thinks. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh. I think you called me ‘creature’ just yesterday. Should I not have taken it as a compliment?

Astarion’s scowls. He should be grateful to have your name in his mouth. To even set foot in our home. Let alone speak to me like that. Or at all.

But think of how much fun he’s started, she answers, chipper. You were so bored before.

She’s not wrong.

If they’re not the guests you wanted, Naomi continues, cool and calm, then they’re intruders, aren’t they? Whatever should we do with them?

A slow smile steals its way onto his lips. Just when I thought I couldn’t love you more. Miracles never cease.

“Do you know what they call her?” Astarion says aloud, to worse company. “Other than mine, of course.”

“She was the hero of Baldur’s Gate.”

Astarion waves a manicured hand irritably, as if swatting away a stray fly. “One of them, true, but isn’t there another name that comes to mind?”

The man swallows thickly. “The Siren of the Sword Coast.”

"And yet here you are," Astarion sneers, "ready to dash yourself upon the rocks like a little ship blown astray. I can hardly blame you."

His eyes soften, just past the shoulder of Enrik’s gaudy doublet. In the low flutter of candlelight, he spies the sheen of amethysts set among delicate feathers wrought from silver. He'd had the mask made for Naomi with the likeness of a swan in mind.

Still, as pretty as it is, his favorite gleam is those eyes. She still kept the kiss of violet in them, even in death. It mingles with the red in her irises, like a rich, dark wine.

"She is captivating, isn’t she?" Astarion sighs, a faint smile grazing his lips. "My beautiful bride."

“Forgive me my lord, I meant no offense,” Enrik says, eyes down with deference. “I’m merely an admirer of fine things. And a messenger for my fine master.”

“Do your duty, then,” Astarion says tersely, his smile evaporating.

“My master understands that power is the only currency that holds any weight for men of your making. He has much of it to share, if you're likewise inclined.”

Astarion laughs coldly. “And what does your master wish for me to share with him, exactly? I don’t bite just anyone, after all.”

A swallow bobs in Enrik’s throat. “He only means to make mutual use of your shared arsenal. Like you mean to make of his, my lord. He could work wonders with even just one scream. He could bottle it--”

Astarion clenches the wine glass in a chokehold. He could kill this wretched cretin here, now, bare-handed. Or have him drawn and quartered. Or--

No one knows their manners these days, Naomi sighs inside his head. But if you want to play along and see what this archmage would pay, I’ll--

Astarion’s jaw clenches. You won’t be screaming for him, little love.

It earns him an eyeroll. It wouldn’t be like that--

It won’t be at all. Astarions sends his answer with the weight of a stone.

He sips his wine, boring into Enrik with a hard stare. “Don’t you know swans make the most achingly beautiful music?”

Enrik’s eyes dart anxiously over Astarion’s burning ones. “Only just before they die, so the stories go.”

“Before someone does,” Astarion drawls, as the vintage seeps sweetly down his throat. “You see, my beloved, oh, she’s a monster, too. She so does love the taste of blood in her mouth, now that she’s supped of mine.”

Enrik edges back, shoulders hunched small like the prey he is. “I-I’m just a messenger my lord. Killing me after you’ve so graciously offered your hospitality would be the same as breaking a mirror. It would only cast ill luck on you and your house.”

A gloved hand wraps Enrik’s shoulder. He shirks from that delicate grip like it's scalding. At long last, he finds the decency to shut up.

Naomi’s fangs gleam like the bottle in her hand. “More wine?”

The white marble of the ballroom shimmers like freshly fallen snow. All the curtains are drawn back, cinched aside for good measure. Shadow and sunlight slice the floor in slanted strips. Gritty ash piles where the light lies, coils of rope strewn among the gray dust of guests gone for good.

Only one remains.

Sprawled motionless across the floor, Enrik lies nose-to-nose with the knife edge of day and darkness. It’s only a silhouette that keeps him from being swallowed by the glow. Only Astarion’s grace shades him.

The vampire ascendant cuts a sharp shadow before the arched windowpane. Brightness clings, soft as clouds, to his curls, his lean edges, and his jaw. His velvet coat crumples at his heels as if it were nothing more precious than the ash heaped around him. He’s blessedly bare from the waist-up, resplendent in the sunlight while he surveys his domain awash with it.

It calls to mind the man who took Naomi out into the woods all those months and nights ago. What he looked like when she woke and found his back arched, chin tilted skyward. What she’d do, and what little she wouldn’t, to see Astarion slip into bliss every day as easily as slipping out of a coat.

It’s Naomi’s grace that finally rouses their disheveled company. A rolling melody, played on piano, pours from her fingertips and crests with the morning birdsong drifting in. Enrik groans against the grain of it.

At once, the music cuts to quiet. Naomi’s hands hover over the keys, knuckles twitching in faint longing. Then, she turns on the bench and turns her attention towards her restless audience.

“Good morning,” she says brightly.

Enrik squints up at her. His brown eyes leak with the light, even though he’s sheltered from it. They dart across the room, skimming like stones over water, before they sear into Naomi.

“You.”

“Who else were you expecting? You’re in my home.”

Rope binds Enrik’s hands and heels. He tugs at the ties, or tries to. He hasn’t yet figured out it’s all for not.

Naomi stands, her heels clicking staccato to the tile. As she goes, she paints a palm over the piano keys, stroking each octave from root to rise. Music flows freely again all on its own, even when her hand falls away.

She comes to loom over her captive, lips pursed. “I hear you said some very rude things to my husband.”

Enrik folds against the floor, panting for breath.

“You should be so grateful for our hospitality,” she says. “Should have been. That’s all behind us now, isn’t it?”

Feral noise rips from his throat. Like a dog, he lunges, snapping for her ankles. She side-steps into the light, not bothering to flee any farther than an inch. He freezes, ogling the shiny toe of her shoe now parallel to his nose.

“You don’t fear the sun?” he gasps, quivering.

“I need not fear anything.”

Naomi lifts her head, meeting a scarlet stare brimming in equal measures affection and amusement. Sunlights melts over the bare of Astarion’s chest, spurring her tongue to wet her lips. He leans against the glass, head angled back, eyes slitted in satisfaction. A slow smile unfurls on his face.

“You should be grateful, too,” Naomi says with a sneer, “to lay here and not just a little to the left.”

“W-What do you mean? What did you do to me?!” Enrik’s eyes bulge. He squirms in a sudden panic, to no avail.

Naomi tilts her neck to the side and taps at the scar Astarion’s teeth marked her with. Her fingers fan down on her own throat, savoring the shape of that succulent memory. Of the last bite he gave her in life. Of his lips swirling comfort into her skin before sucking her down to the last drop. Of the look on his face, the awe he had, when she next woke.

The faintest leak of breath, soft as down, passes from Astarion’s mouth.

“You--you--! You turned me!” Her hostage sputters. Naomi frowns darkly.

“Oh not me,” Naomi snaps, incredulous. “I’m only a weak little spawn puppet, according to you. According to you, the only good thing I can do is scream. How could I manage to turn you without choking on my own leash?”

She gags for good measure. He doesn’t get the joke. He hasn’t caught on to the other joke yet. Which means she’s safe as can be, even this close. So long as she stands on the other edge of Astarion’s shadow.

Astarion turns. His silhouette twists with his movement. Enrik shrieks like a swine.

“Oh, that wasn’t good at all. You can do better.” Naomi presses out a strained sigh, crouching down to fist a hand in his hair and yank his head upright.

Enrik bares his teeth as if they aren’t dull and flat. “Filthy bitch!”

The insult doesn’t so much as chip Naomi’s serene composure, but it puts a twang in her head, along the invisible string that links her and Astarion. His anger lashes in her mind like a restless tail.

“What a vile little ingrate,” Astarion snarls.

She lets her hostage’s head roll from her palm, cheek smacking the tile. Enrik writhes against his restraints. Naomi clicks her tongue in reproach. I’ve barely even touched you yet.

Green magic threads between her gloved fingers, glittering. She snaps them and says, “Scream.”

And he does. Loud enough to drown out the crescendo coursing from the grand piano. Inside of Enrik’s skull, the song isn’t nearly so sweet. His back jerks up and away from the floor, head bent back, eyes torn wide in terror.

His cries pitch with the slink of Astarion’s shadow stretching nearer. Sunlight clings close behind his heels. Naomi’s fingers flex and the spell recedes.

Her magic leaves Enrik sniveling, inching like a worm away from the slice of light between Astarion’s legs. Astarion huffs softly. With a wave of his hand, a ghostly one apparates behind him and snags the curtains closed.

Astarion’s scent sweeps with his sleeve -- the sweetness of brandy, mingled with the woodsy smell of rosemary. His knuckles gently brush the side of Naomi’s cheek. Instinctively, she leans towards the touch.

“Precious thing,” Astarion chides with a pout. “You’re being far too sweet to him. Here I thought you only had room in your heart for me.”

Naomi inclines her head, eyes narrowing by a hair. “My sire would see me be crueler?”

Astarion’s thumb grazes her lips. At once, she parts for him, teasing the pad of it with her tongue while he toys with the tip of a fang. He presses in, watching his skin bend to near-breaking, as if to test her sharpness. Before any blood’s drawn, he draws his hand down to cradle her chin. His voice is smooth as satin, though his stare is a hardened one.

“Your sire would see you spoken to with the respect you’re owed. And he needs you to kneel, dear one.”

The words are a weight to her shoulder, easing her down. But the heft is a comfort, not a compulsion. He could compel her, if he wanted to.

He hasn’t yet.

One day, she thinks, he will. And he’ll feel the weight of whatever chains he’d wrap her in through the bond that binds them tighter than the tadpole did. He won’t do it without good reason. Naomi doesn’t need a reason to kneel for her lover. That he wishes it is enough.

When her knees meet the ground, she feels the shape of Astarion’s smile pressed against their bond like it’s pressed, wet and wanting, against her mouth. She feels the dainty tug of his teeth coax her lips apart. Tastes the coppery tang of her own blood and the velvet undercurrent of his within her veins. The heat of him, still such a novel thing in his ascended body, bleeds from his skin to hers, fanning the newfound ache between her thighs.

In her mind, and his, his lips pour down her bare shoulders. His fingers fist in the fine fabric of her dress, ripping it to ruin. He leaves none of her untouched. To anyone else’s eye, they’re not even touching.

Naomi’s eyelids flutter. She downs a hard swallow. Good girl, he says, just for her.

To their captive audience, he spares no such kindness. Astarion raises his foot above Enrik’s ankles, letting it dangle for a moment. It drops like a hammer to an anvil. Enrik bucks with a fresh scream and a sickening crack.

“I’d never give a miserable little wretch like you the gift of immortality,” Astarion spits. “You wouldn’t know how to appreciate it.”

Confusion flits between the pain and panic in Enrik’s eyes.

“That’s right,” Astarion seethes. “You’re not a vampire. You aren’t worth my consort’s teeth. Or mine.”

Crunch. Another ankle shatters. Another shriek claws the air. Astarion strolls, leisurely, to Enrik's hands next. He grounds his heel into the pop of fingers breaking beneath his boots. Their hostage heaves a broken sob.

“Sh, sh, sh, oh, it’s all right,” Astarion croons. “I happen to have just the knife for you.”

Astarion crosses back to his coat piled near the window and draws a dagger from its folds. Rhapsody. Cazador’s blade. Naomi hasn’t seen it since they claimed the Crimson Palace for themselves.

Brightness glints off the twined edge, a match for the harsh and singular focus gleaming in Astarion’s gaze.

So that’s what Astarion was smiling about, as he basked by the window. What had him so peacefully quiet and content. Murder was on his mind, even then.

Not the only thing on my mind, little love. She feels the slant of his smirk in her head, as if it ghosted past the hinge of her jaw. There’s no trace of it on Astarion’s stony exterior.

He plucks the crystal wine glass from the sill while he’s there, rotating the stem as he saunters back over. Blood flecks the fine leather of Astarion’s shoes. He plants them on either side of Enrik’s torso. He seizes Enrik’s collar, yanking harshly until he’s kneeling, too.

“Fuck you,” Enrik spits. “Fuck you both! My master will--”

“Darling,” Astarion trills, grip unwavering, “Would you..?”

Magic swirls sticky across Naomi’s tongue. “Ad Lapidē.”

Violet runes blaze to life beneath their captive’s knees, capturing him in perfect stillness. His mouth hangs agape with unspent vitriol. Astarion’s hands recoil, twisting the dagger in one, and the glass in the other.

“Your master,” Astarion sneers with a dark laugh. “Too much of a coward to show his face, so he sends you. His sacrificial lamb, sent to speak to me about sharing my dearest treasure, like he isn’t the scum beneath her shoes. He had to know I wouldn’t hear of it. But he didn’t care enough about you to even taint your blood. That’s right. My lesser spawn sampled you just like they would any cattle. But my beautiful bride hasn’t had one bite, not yet. Not until I was sure you were sweet enough for her palate.”

Astarion strokes Rhapsody down the man’s outstretched neck. The barest streak of blood leaks from the scrape. Astarion’s eyes skate over the ash piles around the room, wistful.

“All it took was a sleeping potion,” he muses. “Just a few drops. Now all of the spawnlings sent by all of my lessers are dust. You’ll wish to join them, before this is done. And you will. When I decide we’re done.”

Naomi’s eyes fasten to the blood beading down Enrik’s pallid throat. Astarion digs in ever-so-gently with Rhapsody’s tip, just enough to start a stream running. He presses the cup beneath it. Slowly, the crystal fills red to the brim. Her mouth waters.

Astarion looks up abruptly, eyes wide and soft as his malice dissolves to fondness. “Darling, you do look famished. Open up for me, dear.”

Naomi’s chin lifts, lips parted. Astarion tilts the glass to meet her with the utmost care.

“I won’t have your grime and sweat on her lips,” Astarion hisses in Enrik’s ear. “Only your blood. You don’t deserve that…” He sucks a sharp breath in. Naomi watches with rapt attention as it stutters through his chest. “...pretty little mouth.”

Blood, rich and smooth as cream, slips across her tongue. Her eyes slip shut with it. With each swallow, syrupy warmth spreads slowly through her chest, down her legs, through arms, to her every inch. Too soon, it’s taken from her. Naomi’s eyes flutter open. She’s taken all of it, already.

“More, my love?” Astarion hums happily. “You only have to ask.”

“More,” she says at once, lips still wet.

Astarion carves. The insolent apprentice bleeds without a sound. Again and again, the cup fills. He tips it to her lips, and Naomi drinks until her eyelids grow heavy.

Her body thrums like it remembers the pulse that used to play through her veins. She’s warmer than a dead woman should be. Even the air itself feels like the kiss of steam tingling against her skin.

It’s then that Naomi feels Astarion’s lips in her head again, sucking little marks down her throat that match the rosy flush heating her cheeks. She pants out of habit, out of instinct, and not of need. Out of want for him to watch what he does to her. As if he doesn’t already know.

One twist of Astarion’s wrist turns the little leak of blood from Enrik’s throat into a fountain. Naomi’s spell dissipates in violet sparks. His body slumps over, lifeless. Blood runs from him in little rivers, rushing to fill the grout lines between the tiles.

Astarion cradles one last glassful in a delicate grip. His face clears of any clouded rage as he gives the glass an experimental swirl. Wordlessly, he tilts the cup to her mouth once more.

Naomi gasps. Wetness paints her chin. It streams down her neck, drips down her sternum and between her breasts, still bound in lace. Astarion drips with it, down to his knees in fluid motion. Somewhere behind him, the wine glass shatters. In her periphery, she sees the shards glitter like frost.

“Oops,” he says, low and shameless.

Barely any blood made it to Naomi’s mouth this time, but she doesn’t mind one bit. Astarion crawls to her, catlike. She’s only spared a moment to admire the lithe muscle flexing through his naked chest before he leans into the hollow of her throat. Silver curls brush soft beneath her chin. And then, she feels the tip of that devilish tongue take a tentative lick of the mess he’s made.

And gods, what a mess she must be. Blood smears from her neck to her navel, near-black on her blue-gray skin. Dark like Astarion’s eyes, with pupils blown wide and hungry. A flare of heat twists low in Naomi’s stomach. Her thighs shift, wet with it.

Thread rips in her ears. Rhapsody drags delicately down her side, scratching faint like a quill. The lace of her gown splits without resistance. There's none to be had against that mouth of his, just as busy as his nimble hands.

Astarion laps, dainty, down the path of her swallow. His coy smile curves with a petal-soft laugh against her collar bone. Naomi laughs, too, breathless as his tongue chases lazily after the spill. Breathless as the day he took the last breath she needed.

Ever since, Astarion’s given her everything she could want, without leaving her wanting for more than a moment. Now, her knees will never grow numb, no matter how long they bend against the marble. The chill of it can’t phase her, either. Even if it could, Astarion’s drawn the curtains wide. When she kneels for him, it’s only ever on sun-soaked stone.

Astarion treasures her. Cherishes her. Lavishes her with love and pleasure and wealth and power. Preserves her like prized silver, polished with such devotion so she’ll never know the tarnish of time. She’s his spawn. His wife.

But above all else, she’s his pride. The very thing that rules him. The only thing that still does.

Naomi wants to be in ruins with him. To be the last pillars of a broken world already so far beyond repair before they were dragged through it. Aeterna amantes. Until the fall of everything.

Until then, this, the low groan he gives her while her fingers stroke red through the plush white of his hair, the heady hum in her blood, the bloom of someone else’s waking color in her cheeks, the way Astarion looks at her like there’s nothing else at all, the way he tears into a dress he paid a fortune for, the hand he knots through her braids to wreck them -- this is everything.

Astarion tosses Rhapsody over his shoulder to join the broken wine glass, just like any other worthless trinket. His deft hands curl into the tears in her bodice and tug. At once, it gives way to his grip. She would, too, were it not so binding. Naomi grounds out a gasp. Her skirt pools at her knees, leaving her bare but for the warmth of Astarion’s roaming hands and the daylight pouring over them both.

“Do you know why I wanted you down here, pet?” He asks softly.

Astarion’s eyes latch to hers while his teeth toy at the curve of her breast. His tongue slicks over to soothe where his fangs grazed her, and then it melts against a pert nipple, taking it in with a lewd suck.

Naomi paws for a coherent thought, but all she finds is a pleading hum. He nips her again, just enough to see her tit tremble from the pull when he draws away. He leaves her nipple glistening and the underside of her breast peppered in pink before moving on to the other.

“To torture me, clearly,” Naomi pants. Her hands still tangle in his hair. Amusement glimmers in his gaze as he plants a chaste kiss to the inside of one of her wrists and sets them both back at her sides.

“Oh no, my sweet. I would never,” he says, chin resting flat against her navel. He looks up at her with wide, doey eyes, full of faux innocence.

He slinks lower, laying a line with his tongue that ends in a kiss just above where her skirts still shield her. He shifts them aside, ripping where he needs, until it’s only one little piece of black lace covering her cunt. Astarion growls against it, nosing at its edges, his back bowed, stomach brushing the floor. His teeth find the waistband and tear that, too.

Hot breath fans across the other mess he made. Naomi wavers on her knees. From that minute motion alone, she can hear how he’s soaked her.

But Astarion doesn’t disprove her theory; he leans back abruptly, straightening up to his knees again. An arm loops slack around her waist as he circles around to her bare back. Naomi’s lips twitch. If this is the game he wants, it’s too soon to beg. The thought inspires another needy flex through her cunt. His other hand slides to cup the heat of it, and Naomi whines. Reflexively, her back arches. Astarion pulls her still.

He catches the side of her jaw, angling her back into a biting kiss. It’s over before she wants it to be, his lips red and glistening with what he stole from her. Without him, her mouth burns from the cut.

“I wanted to see you right where you belong,” he whispers, the sound as sheer as the lace he wrecked. “So beautiful on your throne.”

For a brief moment, he draws away entirely, leaving her with nothing but a lonely chill. And then, his back comes flush to the floor beneath her. His body splays behind her. The heat of his mouth crests against the heat of her cunt, his face fitted between her thighs, his lips hovering so close, but not close enough. His breath alone snags the one halfway through her throat.

“Oh,” her realization comes out quivering.

The tip of his nose nudges, just barely, against her clit, spurring her hips to roll. But all she gets from that mouth is mischief and a quiet snicker. He shifts his cheek, laving a long stroke of his tongue to the tender crux of her inner thigh before sealing it over with a tight suck. When he bites down, he draws out her blood with a rough moan.

Astarion pulls back, his smirk glazed in her, his eyes aflame. “Oh, darling, I’ve barely even touched you yet. And you’re so very wet for me.”

“Touch me, then,” she hisses between her teeth, raking her hands through his perfect curls and fisting them there.

His eyes spear into hers, hard like the way he clenches her ass and pulls her hips down. Even as it sets her on fire, his mouth gives her mercy. Astarion’s tongue melts hot across her cunt, swiping slow and dexterous. Not for the first time, Naomi thinks she might like to die like this.

It’s not so different from how she died. It started on her knees, this new life of passion and pleasure unbridled. Even then, Astarion already knew the shape of her body like he knew his own hands. Every curve, every intimate bend, how to make her speak in noise instead of words. The hidden language behind every whimper she makes, every shiver.

So he knows exactly what he’s doing while his tongue teases gentle circles around her clit. He knows, by the time his timid little laps blend into a needy suck, that she’s so, so sensitive. Astarion’s hungry groan seeps into her slickness. She feels him like a current and clenches again, just as hungry.

Every feeling he gives her gives him an echo back just as strong. Every thought in her head is in his head, too. He eats her cunt and feels fed by her pleasure curling in the tips of his toes. He didn’t know he’d be hers, just as much as she’d be his, when he bit her thrice, bled her dry, and gave her just one drop of blood back.

But Astarion knew her body before she was his bride. Now, he knows her mind. A part of him lives there, as she does in his. As he drags his pale, elegant fingers between her folds, he drags her head through a dozen depravities. Filling her with nothing but thoughts of how he’ll fill her properly.

He could have her against the arched windows lining the east wall, body pressed so pretty to the glass so he can see the imprint of it even after she peels away. She could feel the heat brimming off the sun outside, washing over their empire. He could taste her sunbathed shoulder while he fucks her senseless. His little love, dipped in honey. So what if someone else sees. Later, he’ll see to them not seeing anything ever again.

He could take her here, on the ballroom floor. Pull her down just as she surfaces from the pleasure he’s paid her, and roll her beneath him to bury her in it all over again. Make love on the marble streaked with the blood of their enemies, where hundreds of dignitaries have danced and dined on countless evenings before. But none of them were ever blessed with such a fine feast as he. The stone would be hard and unyielding against her back, and he would be just the same, driving into her, relentless. At least it’s far prettier than the dirt they used to fuck in.

Or--

A new picture snaps from Naomi’s mind to his, with the dip of his tongue to her entrance, a staggering spike of pleasure, and an unbidden whimper.

The piano. Pearly white with jet black keys, so pristine, so gorgeous with blood spilt red down the sides. Naomi poured over the side, ivory hair tinged with crimson, cascading over her bare, bent back. Astarion’s fingers buried in her hips, planting the promise of bruises, his body bucking wildly into her as he finally--

Naomi’s moan hits the high pitch of the ceiling. She grinds, needy, against the pair of fingers he crooks inside of her. His thumb spreads her slickness back and presses to the pucker of her ass.

So eager for me to fill you up. His voice in her head is a caress. Her hips roll with the sound. His thumb dips inside her ass with the motion, and Naomi gasps as she eases into that delicious stretch.

But darling, I haven’t fed all night, Astarion pouts, mouth moving with agonizing slowness as his eyes flutter shut beneath long black lashes. Naomi’s eyelids grow heavy, too, as she’s lost to that lovely, slick click of his lips. A meal like you is meant to be savored.

He fucks her holes leisurely, with the air of someone who knows he’ll be back for more before long. It brings to mind those long, lithe fingers, folded between the pages of a book to mark his place. All it takes is an effortless flex of them to keep her coaxed open like this. Her body draws taut as he leans her over the precipice of her own pleasure.

If you need more, my dear, by all means. Take it.

He growls into their bond like he’s the one devoured. Like he can plead ignorance to how he’s taking her apart with his hands, his mouth. Naomi catches a whine between her teeth. Astarion’s free hand cups her ass, urging her into the thrust her body bends towards. She parts a hand from his hair to brace flat to the floor beside his face, the other knotting anew in his silver curls.

Desperately, she rides against the flat of his tongue, against that long, refined nose, fucking herself back into the curve of his fingers. Every pull of them pulls her under, deeper into her own ecstasy. Her body grips him back like she means to drown him, too. The tip of his tongue flicks her clit in relentless rhythm, starting off a shudder she can’t stop.

“Don’t stop,” she begs within and without, the jerk of her hips growing frantic.

His mouth is mercy. When she comes for him, she’s wreathed in heat, slick with sweat, every nerve in her body alight with the most blissful burn. A strangled cry breaks in her chest. It buries the song now trembling from the piano. Naomi shivers out a sigh, and the keys shiver with her.

Astarion wraps his arms tight to her thighs, anchoring her through the aftershocks. When she stills again, her body throbs with a heady rush of blood, pleasure, want. Every part of her is limp with it, save the pulsing, rigid press in her mind and in his trousers. She’s putty in his hands even as his fingers leave her. Naomi twitches back towards the touch he takes away, body aching with his absence.

Naomi’s knuckles unfurl, stroking soft through the tangles she wrought. What a sight he is, his hair in utter disarray, his mouth a mess of blood and lust and her. An ease settles into his graceful features, not so different from that quiet contentment he wore while leaning into the light by the window. His eyes simmer with it, lips drawn in a soft smile.

Without warning, his grip tightens. Naomi stifles a huff of surprise as she’s taken down, marble kissing smooth to her spine. A pale hand cradles her head, cushioning her fall. In a blink, he’s hovering over her bare body and dipping down to catch her in a fever of a kiss. It’s a needy, sweltering latch of lips, tangy with her own sweetness as much as his.

“Here?” She purrs to the seal of his mouth.

She lets him feel the way the word alone makes her body tense. Waiting. Wanting. Their bond curls with it, crooked and beckoning in his head. The way his fingers bent a few moments before, buried in the heat of her.

A long breath passes out through his nose, his eyes sliding half shut. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. But his cheek turns by just the barest hair, and Naomi’s attention follows after his.

Music flutters, breathy, off the black and white keys. The piano stays a pretty picture of perfection, among the deaths little and large they’ve littered throughout the ballroom.

His teeth trace the angled edge of her ear. Naomi keens with the sting of it as she’s swept from the floor.

“There.”

She’s caught in his kiss again as he carries her. One swipe of his tongue to where he bit her lip before has her quivering. Has her a world away from the one still around them. Vaguely, she’s aware he’s somehow rid her of her gloves and shoes. She hears a dull, wooden clatter, and then a resounding thud. The piano plays on, but it's muted.

Astarion doesn’t bend her over the way she mused. Instead, he seats her on the polished wood of the piano’s closed lid. His hands leave her back to push her knees apart, scoop beneath them, and pull her spread legs to the strain trapped in his trousers.

Naomi grins, her fangs snagging his lower lip as he tries to part from her. Astarion’s answering groan is rough like a scrape of sandpaper. It leaves her mouth raw, tingling, alive with a pulse that plays to the tune of his pleasure. She wants more of that noise. More of the happy purr it pours into her head from his. One drink of that sloppy, slap happy look on his face sates her more than blood ever could.

You’ve given me everything, he told her, once. But now, all she can think is more. Take more. Take everything.

Astarion grinds his hard length against her in answer. The sweet friction makes sweeter music in their mouths as Naomi moans with the motion, too. Still, there’s far too much fabric for her liking.

Astarion’s fingers make fast work of it. He unlaces his pants only enough to free his cock, parts from her only enough to push her back and clamber up after her. Then, he’s on her again like a second skin. Her cunt throbs with the press of his cock, the tip of it wet and seeping against her thigh. She tries to fit a hand between them, to wrap her palm around his girth and feel with her hands, not just her head, how badly he has to have her. Astarion doesn’t leave her space for it.

It’s not his hands that put her flat on her back, against the body of the piano. It’s the sudden swell of his adoration ballooning from his brain to hers. The weight of his affection pins her there beneath him, utterly paralyzed, as the music flows on under both of them. He’s brimming with it, and it washes over her in a wave, a cup overflowing.

His curls hang down in his eyes, wild with the look of a man starved. “You’re going to scream for me, little love,” he says with the slightest slur. The thought smears from him to her, burning in the back of her mind like a pull of liquor. He brushes her snarled hair back until it tumbles over the piano’s edge, white over white. “I’m going to make you. And I want to see that beautiful face when I do.”

“Please,” she starts to say.

But barely any of it makes it past her lips. Astarion never leaves her wanting for more than a moment.

“O-Oh,” she stammers instead, as her soaked cunt splays to his cock sliding home. Astarion pushes out a moan as he pushes into her. He hooks her legs with his arms, folding them up and back.

“That’s my girl,” he pants, forehead heavy against her own. His thumb circles her cheek, a feather-light counterweight to the thickness he seats inside her. He watches her intently, fixated. Hypnotized. “My good, good girl.”

Kisses and praise tumble from between his teeth, down her cheek, to her throat. Naomi’s head rolls back while she relishes the wet, smacking mantra that’s the mess of them. He’s not tender with his tempo. He doesn’t have to be. You could ruin me. I’d let you ruin me, she thinks again.

And how beautiful he is, in ruins with her. No more composure. No more restraint. Sweat streaks his brow as it bends beneath his focus. All there is is the blend of them, the slow rock of the piano underneath them, and the scattered, stranded pieces of a melody left in their wake.

It could break. The thought cracks through her, through them, with the wooden whine of the piano legs taking the shift of their weight. Astarion crushes her worry beneath the thrust of his hips, any notion of it lost to the head of his cock pressing just where it needs to make her see stars.

Naomi bites down on her own lip, grounding herself in fleeting pain and the tang of blood. He’s not even touching her clit; he doesn’t have to. He floods her with how it felt when he did, when his tongue rolled against the swell of it, just the tip of it teasing that sensitive little bud. How she felt to him, so silky and slick in his mouth. How amazing it feels to finally fuck her, to take what’s his and have her take him so, so tightly.

He could ruin her. Snap her like the creaking legs of this instrument, not long for this world. It would be almost as effortless as the way she spreads for him. But instead, Astarion fills her. Every shift prods the crown of his cock against the sweetest spot inside her cunt.

Naomi’s fingers claw into Astarion’s back as he bucks wildly. Tears sear in her eyes. The tell-tale pressure in her pelvis builds near-blinding.

“Scream for me, darling,” he growls against her neck, out loud this time.

Her cunt throbs with his command. But she doesn’t heed it. Astarion lets out a low, steaming hiss.

“I said scream, dear,” Astarion says, his velvet voice edged in warning. The sparks of his indignation spit flinty in her head alongside a flicker of excitement at her defiance.

He wants to feel the rush of her own power with the spasm of her cunt as she comes undone. He wants her magic to spill into him as he spills his seed inside of her. Wants to taste it with the rest of her. If Naomi was nothing to him, she’d still be the siren; it’s not a power Astarion gifted to her. It was hers without him. It is her. And she’s his.

“I might break the glass,” she whispers, wary of anything louder.

“Oh, my love,” Astarion says tenderly, a husk in his throat as his hand wraps loose around her neck. “You can break everything.”

Astarion kills her hesitation. She’s never felt more whole. She feels holy, feeling her own perfect squeeze around his cock, feeling herself fucked in his body and her own. Feeling what she does to the man who already has everything, but will never have enough of her.

When Naomi screams Astarion's name, it’s everything else in the room that shatters.

Glass crashes from the windows. They burst one after another in quick-fire succession. Astarion buckles against her body with the sudden, decisive snap beneath them. His hips jerk, rutting erratically. Warmth spurts into her with every shudder down his spine, every pulse of his cock.

He cuts her cry with his teeth buried in the crook of her neck. Naomi clings to him as her cunt convulses. It’s the bite that takes her apart, knowing he tastes his own name in her throat and thinks--

Mine, mine, mine.

Naomi’s head drops limp. Astarion’s grip on her neck gives way to soft circles stroked against her cheek again. Mine, she thinks, as his ruby eyes watch her keenly, awash in the soft glow only she knows.

Even after Astarion stills, the room spins dizzy from her upside-down view. She blinks it all back into place, but some pieces won’t fit together again so easily. They’re far closer to the floor than when he slipped inside of her. The piano legs splay at odd, splintered angles. The floor glitters with glass like crystalline teeth, ready to bite the heels of any who dare tread their hall.

Astarion slides out, and she shivers with the fade of his warmth. He sits up, his gaze sweeping the shattered windows, his smirk smug and wet with her. “Perhaps all of the Gate heard you. The gardener did for certain.”

Naomi sits up, too, leaning forward and letting his shoulder take her weight. Her forehead comes to rest against his collarbone. She finds an easy smile while relishing the way his heart still hammers his chest. She did that, in multiple senses. Absently, he tucks the hair sticking to her cheeks back behind her ears.

“I guess I’ll have to kill her,” he adds, chipper. “I suppose, for now, we can spare all the others.”

“She’s already dead enough, dear,” Naomi sighs.

A tiny, discordant note of sadness plucks in her chest, among the pleasant haze settling over her. Astarion stiffens against it, as if she reached out and pinched him. She doubts he’d be so eager to slay one of his spawn for the same crime of hearing her come for him.

The gardener is hers, of a sort. Not a vampire -- Naomi can’t make those. Before Naomi sang her awake again, the gardener was just a sad stack of bones collecting dust in a closet. Now, she rattles along to Naomi’s tune, keeping the flowers trimmed to her liking.

“I suppose you’re right,” Astarion murmurs. His expression softens with fondness, the sort that’s rare to surface unless they’re alone, but never fails to make her chest light and fluttery. “Are you tired now, pet?”

“We stayed up all night,” Naomi laughs faintly.

“Hm,” he nods with a pitying frown. “Let me see to you, my treasure. Don’t you move.” His lips curve, coy, as his eyes flicker back to the wrecked windows. “I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

He saunters back to where his coat lays, now tattered. He returns to settle it around her shoulders, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead.

“You’re such a staunch defender of my honor,” Naomi says dryly, even as the leftovers of their lovemaking start to seep down her thigh.

“Ha,” Astarion shakes with a rolling laugh. “I rather think I’m the thief of it. You were quite the heist. It wouldn’t do to have some debaucherous upstart happen by and think they can make off with what’s mine.”

“I wouldn’t let them live through it.”

“Aw,” he clicks his tongue, “you’re such a romantic.”

Astarion leaves her with her legs strewn over the broken piano, relacing his trousers as he goes. Glass crunches beneath his heels. He stops to ring the bell near the door. A few seconds later, it creaks open a hair. She catches his curt commands to the servant she can’t see on the other side.

“...yes, here, in the ballroom. My consort and I wish to take in the view, and see none of you.”

His lesser spawn are quick to make good on their orders. The door swings open once more a short time later, and in floats a claw-foot tub without another soul to be seen. Magic clings, cloudy, beneath the porcelain belly of it. A pleasant, floral scent curls with the steam from the water within. The tub drifts to the heart of the ballroom and settles with a soft thud before the yawning window panes.

Astarion returns to her as her toes touch the ground again. He frowns tightly, eyes narrowing.

“There’s debris scattered everywhere, my sweet,” he says, saccharine even in reproach. “I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

Naomi sniffs a laugh, picking her path carefully. “If I can’t handle a little sharpness here and there, it’s a wonder how I’ve managed to handle you.”

“Oh, it’s simple,” Astarion says, catching her wrist with an effortless flourish. “We were made for each other. By each other, really.”

And Astarion’s made up his stubborn mind that she’s not to take another step, it seems. With a soft huff, he sweeps her off her feet all over again, strides to the tub with her legs dangling over his arm, and delicately deposits her there.

Water laps at the tub’s edges, splashing as she situates herself. She shrugs from Astarion’s coat, shucking it away to join all the other debris they don’t have use for. Heat tingles across her skin, like little, loving nips of Astarion’s teeth. Naomi eases back into the burn of it as the sting settles sweetly.

Astarion rids himself of his shoes and trousers. He dips a foot into the tub, bidding her to make way for him with a gentle nudge. The water ripples as he settles in behind her. With a satisfied sigh, she sinks back against his chest and deeper into the furling warmth.

The ballroom overlooks the well-kept gardens behind the estate. The hedges are high enough, only a spyglass might have hope of spotting them both bare. Under Cazador’s reign, the garden was little more than a sprawl of weeds and webbed ivy. Now, fountains babble between the blooms of pink and blue and violet. If she strains, she can catch the weave of music in the trickling flow, like tinkling wind chimes.

A soft breeze tickles her ears, sending gritty glass and ash scattering over their floor. Astarion clenches a soft sponge in his grip, wrings it out, and starts to scrub her skin in slow, deliberate strokes. Naomi’s head tilts back beneath his tender care, every rub taking the tension from shoulders.

She turns after a time, and he starts to wash blood from her front, while she wets her hands and works the redness from the white of his hair. Her fingers linger along the slants of his ears, rubbing delicately, until she catches that satisfied hum in his throat that leaves her lifted, floating on the buoy of his happiness.

The water never cools or clouds; magic still swirls in the steam, even long after they’re free of blood and grime. Astarion rakes hand through her hair, his fingernails digging pleasantly against her scalp.

“You are divine as ever,” he rumbles. “Rest now, pet.”

And she does, slipping soundly into a trance, soaked in sunlight and lavender oil with her lover wrapped around her. Only Astarion sends her to the sort of rest that reaches her soul. His presence is sanctuary.

It’s his disquiet that wakes her suddenly. He still strokes her hair just as gently, but he levels a hard-cut stare out over the garden, his lips set with the same stoniness.

“No one will ever take you from me,” he murmurs, as if to himself.

“As if they ever could,” Naomi whispers back, reaching up to graze the edge of his jaw.

Heavens help the fool who tries. Any who dare to hatch such plots, to harbor such ill will in their Crimson Palace, will find themselves laid to rest with all the others. Their enemies’ gravestones are just bricks in their empire, every one of them laid with blood in the mortar.

Astarion dips his head down, the hint of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose it might be fun to see them try. In the meantime, my love, I’m of a mind to keep you spread for me for the next tenday.”

Naomi laughs. The sound echoes around the otherwise vacant room.

Astarion’s grin only grows, the tips of his fangs sharpening his smile. “Did I say something funny, dear?”

His lips crush down against hers in a kiss consuming.

#ascended astarion #astarion #astarion ancunin #tav x astarion #astarion x tav #tavstarion #vampire ascendant #vampire lord astarion #bg3 #astarion smut #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfic #my writing #naomi tavriel

272 notes · View notes

yiga-hellhole · 10 months ago

Text

TWILIGHT FOREST, TWILIGHT KING, CHAPTER 17

hello everyone i'm back!! sorry for the wait. i'm happy to bring you the next installment, slipping back into the Hyrule Warriors main plot: THE BATTLE OF THE TRIFORCE. Arms in hand, the Demon King's troops join to settle a conflict as old as time. Hyrule will not go down without a fight, but a fight is precisely what they've hungered for. This day, the Triforce will be bound to but one Chosen's palm - but whose?

this one is um... beefy... hope you enjoy!

CONTENT WARNINGS THIS CHAPTER: graphic depictions of violence, brainwashing/fatal possession, animal harm/death

ao3 mirror

It was a monster of such volume that the air whistled and soared as it moved. Trapped in the dungeons of Gerudo Palace, the newest asset to their already venerable menagerie of monsters was adjusting to its new home. Poorly, that is. The Molgera whined, contorted, and pressed its massive, fleshy face to each corner, as if enough rooting around would magically create an opening in solid stone. Spikes rattled against the metal cage as the heaving beast slithered in its confinement. Cacophonous, like a hundred prisoners banging their cups against the bars in begging. Ghirahim stood hands at his sides before the bars of this colossal cage, fighting back the urge to poke at the beast and agitate it some more. From the tension building behind him, though, it’d seem the most amusement was to be found on this side of the prison.

“Cooked up something nasty again, didn’t you, Zant?” Wizzro wheezed. His laughter was like that of a pneumonic man on his deathbed.

The necessary arrangements now logged into the massive volume hovering before him, the living heap of cloth and malice patted a decrepit, clawed hand far too affectionately on the end of one of the creature’s spikes. It recoiled nearly instantly. “I want partial credit for this one, you hear?” Wizzro sneered. The glowing eye at the center of his face squinted shut to morph into a grinning mouth. “If it weren't for me showing you through the Lady’s volumes, you’d still be nose-deep in the books by now!”

Zant stood aside, watching the wicked sorcerer’s machinations with his usual cold patience. “You will be duly acknowledged for your secretary duties, Wizzro, but the arcane achievements were my own.”

Wizzro clicked his tongue, shooting a nasty glare at his casual defiance. He seemed only mildly distracted by the gaping mouth now hovering wide open at the other end of the cage. A tendrilous tongue, one long bulb at its end, stuck out towards him. “Pah. Whatever. I’ll make sure this thing is appointed to the right trainer,” Wizzro dismissed with a wave of his hand, turning instead to the strange shape poking and prodding at him.

As if all sense abandoned him at once, the ring spirit seized the decoy organ with both his clawed hands with great interest. The Molgera let out another wicked screech, sending spittle to drizzle (almost) all three men from its maw, as it lunged forward. Its gummy jaws slammed against the bars, prompting nothing but a cackle from Wizzro. “It’s an interesting one, to say the least!”

Ghirahim opted to watch these events from a healthy twenty feet away, while Zant simply grumbled, wiping his helmet clean. “That it is. I’d advise you to keep it intact before we strike Hyrule Castle.”

The dejected Molgera, curling up listlessly in its cage, seemingly accepted its fate as its arrangements were scribbled down in their finality. Each temper fickle in their own way, the pair of dark wizards settled the last logistics of their monstrous stocks before their patience mutually wore thin.

It was Zant who attempted to draw their conversation to a close, but not without drawing a last bit of ire. “We will meet again at the siege, then. Our forces arrive from the north, and you-”

Wizzro snapped at him instantly, cutting past him with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Yeah, yeah, we’re coming from the South, anticipating their backup, and whatnot. You needn’t drill me on this, Warlock,” he gestured wildly as he spoke, slapping the massive logbook shut and dismissing it in a puff of smoke. “We got the correspondence! We had the briefing! It’s all in order. Other than delivering this beast to us, you have no business sticking your nose in our plans!”

Ghirahim felt a sudden boring of a bright red eye in his back. He’d been perfectly content before to linger at the sidelines, amusing himself with the bickering of the other men, but could not help a coy flourish when a jagged nail was pointed at him. Wizzro gestured at him with a mild frown. “Also. Why is he here?”

Zant’s helmet covered his face, but his smile carried in his voice. His helmet creaked a little as he turned to face his compatriot. “Any good King needs a chaperone, wouldn't you say?”

“Hiya-hah-hah!” Wizzro shrieked in laughter. “Again with the shticks! What I’d say is that the ‘King’ part is already doubtful, but ‘good’ is entirely off the table, you maniac!”

Clearly, this amusement was not mutual. The Twili had tolerated Wizzro’s ceaseless nonsense up until that point, but no longer. As if a candle had been snuffed, his temper snapped, and an enraged squeak echoed past his visor. He whipped back towards Wizzro, looming over him and balling his fists in his sleeves. “You wouldn't know a King if one’s fingers were shoved knuckle deep into your-”

“Gentlemen! I feel like we all have business to attend to,” Ghirahim interjected, blinking himself between the two men with a hand each, grazing their faces. “As much as you ripping each other to tatters would amuse me, Master Ganondorf would put me back in my box and throw me to the dragonets for letting any such shenanigans happen.”

Both of the robe-clad adversaries growled at the interruption as much as they did at each other, and so childishly exchanged a scowl in the line of sight that passed over Ghirahim’s head.

Zant dusted off the apron at his chest in an uncharacteristically pompous gesture. “Business we have, indeed. Let us depart at once, Ghirahim. Our time is better spent that way.”

Just as Ghirahim was about to turn and glare at him for yet another inciting remark, Wizzro made his immediate disinterest quite clear with a loud, hacking, drawn-out clear of the throat, and the turning of his back on his fellow commanders.

The pair of them chuffed out a simultaneous laugh at the display, before in equal coincidence reaching out for the other’s hand. Fingers bumped, ears tinged the slightest red, and their hands clasped. With a chime and rustling echo, Ghirahim and Zant disappeared together, leaving behind Wizzro to dark devices they’d prefer not to witness.

A nearly-collapsed outpost was to be their haven. Mere days before, this very fort had been raided by their forces. Their efforts tore down two of its three watchtowers and fashioned its gray brick walls with gaping holes. It would shelter their supplies and some of their men, but by far not all of them. Such a shoddy hideout was a statement; they had not a single intention of pulling back. Hyrule would fall at their feet today, and the Triforce was theirs for the taking.

Their formation gathered at the base of a nearby cliff, the platform itself elevated above Hylia River to the east. For the time being, they were sheltered from sight, but their advance had surely been sighted. Ghirahim could smell the pungent fear that lingered in the air. This quiet would not last long.

Ghirahim stood at the center of the formation, with Zant at the west-most end, and Yuga and his Master at his flanks. Though focused on the path ahead, he could not help an occasional glance to his left. He hadn’t yet seen Yuga on the battlefield proper and certainly wasn’t used to the sight of her in armor. Her curls spilled out from underneath a horned, brass helmet. Her armor was, in general, rather minimal, covering not more than her shoulders, her head, and her torso in a golden luster. Such was the outfitting of a spellcaster, he supposed.

His eyes then strayed to the right, lingering in momentary awe on the mighty form of his Master, before an unexpectedly bared face stared at him from further away. Zant had lifted the front of his helmet and waited for him to meet his gaze.

He looked at him with the same eyes he cast at him that morning. Small, squinted, and affectionate, peeking at him just past the thick fluff of his comforter.

“You stayed.”

Ghirahim, equally buried under the heap of blankets, blearily turned to him. Some distance had been put between them in all their tossing and turning, and he found something shifting under the covers. Zant’s hand was seeking to grasp onto him. He laid his hand in his trajectory, and thought his smile contagious when the Twili indeed found him, squeezing firmly.

Yet, Ghirahim teased him with a frown. “Of course I did. I’ve been staying over, watching you sleep those wasteful hours away, much before.”

Zant blinked. “Yes, but you were distant until recently,” he reasoned with a bit of a fluster, before burying his face further into the comforter and mumbling his next words. “I don't know. Perhaps it's silly.”

“It is,” Ghirahim replied, meeting his hesitant, embarrassed face with a fond smile.

And how infectious that fondness was! Zant giggled softly, scooting just a bit forward to have him within arm’s reach. Those ghostly fingers glided over his arms, to his face, and caressed him there. Zant touched him carefully, yet purposely, as if his very hands would gild him. Peering at him with such infatuation, something sadistically giddy lit up behind those amber eyes. Zant laced their fingers as he spoke, his smile cracking open the slits at the corners of his mouth. “... Watch me today, Ghirahim-ili.”

The warmth of their bed that morning may have been taken from them in the wind’s chill, but their connection did not falter for even a second. Zant turned away, folding his helmet back in place, but demanding he looked at him, either way. He’d entered the field empty-handed and announced that unarmed state’s end with the flexing of his fingers. When he brandished his weapon, he did not carelessly whip the two scimitars from his sleeves as he usually did. This time, he balled his fists before his chest, a crackling, fizzling orb of magenta light pouring from between his fingers. Its grip clutched in his hands, the Scimitar of Twilight appeared, glowing fiercely in red. Zant at once swung it over his shoulder, metal clanking heavily on metal.

Before the sight of him could make Ghirahim swell with pride all too much, the raising of King Ganondorf’s hand snapped him back to focus. A shudder down his back straightened his spine, squared his shoulders, and guided his hand to his hip, where his sword sat sheathed.

Ganondorf marched to the front of his formation, bronze boots pounding on stone. He turned, his vibrant red hair whipping in the wind. A stern glare graced his features as he looked out over the troops, but standing so close to him, Ghirahim saw the corners of his lips tugging into a smirk behind his tusks. Master was confident – so he would be, too.

“Gerudo, Demons, Monstrous Tribes, and those that joined us from beyond the Veil of Death, hear me,” he shouted, his booming voice rattling through their skulls. “Across the Ages, my past lives have waged war against Hyrule, and all but once, we failed. We have been humiliated, banished, and eradicated from history, but no longer. Time is on our side now, my brethren. With the Triforce within our grasp, the Age of Demons is upon us.”

Ganondorf grinned, baring his tusks and wrinkling his fiery eyes. Sword raised to the sky, he thundered forth his promise. “Hyrule will fall!”

With this final rallying call, their forces pulled out. Cavalry scouts burst past their frontlines, hooting and hollering atop hogs and horses. Oh, how Ghirahim yearned to set out in the same way! Still, no longer could he chase simple carnage. Not only had he a reputation to uphold, but their formation had to be perfectly tight for this initial stretch. His battalion trailed tightly behind him, each unit led by demons and living armor – ever his favorite. Those that didn’t simply win his favor in skill just reminded him of home.

Zant, too, led his troops with remarkable poise. His soldiers rushed past him, but his towering height and flashy garbs continued to catch the eye. The soldiers rushing past him may as well have been see-through, for Ghirahim saw him clear as day, framed in zoetropic image.

He could see it all. His hands were firm on the hilt, his swings were smooth. He slid across the floor like that massive blade weighed nothing, with a stance no mere Hylian could topple. Each move was more calculated than the next, gliding from pose to pose almost mechanically. Zant was… Perfect, almost, theoretically. Such swordsmanship was a cold one, devoid of character beyond what could be conveyed in a manual. Zant was a puppet to his own knowledge, stern in what he’d learned. He showed nothing at all of the fierce, impassioned recklessness he unleashed when it was just the two of them.

This, too, was a message. Ghirahim hardly had time to think of its meaning when he himself was engaged in combat and drowned his fluster in bloodlust.

Bloodlust was not kept to him alone. As more and more Hyruleans forced past their frontlines, Zant grew overwhelmed. Bit by bit, that discipline chipped away.

The poor sods. They had no idea the Twilight King fought his best when unshackled.

Now content with his display, Zant ramped up his ferocity. With a single stomp, a deep black shock wave sent the four soldiers around him staggering, allowing him to pierce through the first of them unimpeded. His shoe planted on the standing corpse’s chest, he ripped the blade free and used its blood-streaked momentum to dismember the next in line. Projectiles from his sleeves, pulses from his feet, and the shadowy rays from his sword pieced together in a complex web of arcane and martial arts – not so different from how he’d fought before, but adding an elegance that was so sorely missed.

His lover wasn’t half bad, he grinned to himself, watching the man’s battalion split off and head up into the Rockface Hills to claim whatever awaited them there.

Three battalions remained in their cluster. Soon it would be two.

A whistling in his ear and an uncanny instinct of foreboding dread alerted him to something awry in the east. Before the first moblin behind him could cry out in alarm, Ghirahim had already identified the source of his concern, his core chiming and blinking on pure instinct.

For the first split second, it could have been mistaken as a flaming cloud, tearing through the air with the glare of the sun obscuring its flight. A volley of burning arrows nearly went unnoticed, had he not shouted for shields, and raised a barrier around himself and the captains at either of his sides.

The only commander he could see, and he hoped he’d heard his warning, was Yuga. A panicked wave of his scepter betrayed that he’d turned to the source of the noise just a touch too late. With a yelp, Yuga raised one of his portraits to shield himself, but his startle made him careless. The bolts thwacked into the ground at his feet, each missing its mark until a single one didn’t, and buried itself into his lower leg.

The earlier gasp of panic forced itself out of him with a horrid shriek, and a wobble of his stance. Kept upright only by the desperate support of his staff, he composed himself, but in body only. In an instant, Lorule’s finest sorcerer turned rotten in temper and was eager to let the world know.

“I would say you’d rue the day you crossed me, but when I’ve finished, you will be naught but ashes in the wind!” Yuga hissed. Yuga spat. His normally so dainty hands grasped the arrow in his leg firmly, before snapping off its length, leaving only a splintered stump lodged by his ankle.

It took one stumble for him to realize he could not walk with such an injury, but he refused to back down. Purple swirls of malice radiated off of him as Yuga began to hover above the floor, bracing his staff in a knuckle-whitening grip. Gnashing his teeth, he glared down the troops beyond the cliff and screeched his curses in all their brutality. “Foul wretches! Maggots beneath my boot! Return to the rotten flesh you crawled from, hideous things!”

His feet now off the ground, Yuga launched himself forward at breakneck speeds, his curls nearly uncoiling themselves in his haste. One swing of his staff and the portraits that circled him spun around him like a whirlwind, each spewing a hellfire of lightning into the swarm of men he forced himself through. That draconic trail scorched itself into the grass as he soared by, cleaving through whatever once stood in his way. The sorcerer disappeared into the crowd, the sounds of carnage overpowered only by the throat-rending cackle that roared free from the banshee of this battlefield.

Not a moment was wasted. Soon, red and scaled hides filled in the cracks weaving through the Hyrulean frontlines, as bokoblin and lizalfos alike rushed to seize this vital opening.

Distractions now out of the way, Ghirahim felt oddly relieved. Being the sole commander now at Ganondorf’s side caused the thrum of his pulse to soar. The Eastern Keep was drawing nearer, and conquering it would break them all into the wider Hyrule Field.

A blue-clad soldier closed in on him but was swiftly kicked out of the way for the crime of disrupting his thought process. With the onset of enemy soldiers pouring in through the gates, his once so-perfect formation was refusing its emulsion. Frontmen skewered each other on their pikes at both sides, a battle of endurance to see who could wrestle the clutches of death the longest. Their collapse meant the line of soldiers behind them breaking through, blending gold and silver in their raging strife. A wicked force tore through the minds and bodies of the warriors, and her name was Furore; a mass, blinding anger, of knowing that if either force failed, they would fail for good. Yet in her mantle she carried glee, the joy of battle, to motivate them with more than fear. For it was this fear that, were it to overpower their minds, would make them not more than beasts!

Ghirahim was no mere recipient of this force. He seized it, made it his own, and knowing that mayhem would soon reign, lit the embers within. His eyes flit to the side, burning pupils catching on a beloved target. Ganondorf, too, was entangled in battle, cutting down the few soldiers that dared to approach him. Such foolishness made for a fine warm-up, perhaps, but the smallfry was by far not worth the Gerudo King’s effort. They ought to breach into more challenging grounds!

Launching himself forward, Ghirahim bounded for the keep. A devastatingly easy prospect: break in; clear it out; take out their commander. It was an easier task than usual. Being the only entryway to the northern Hyrule Field, the Keep’s gates were swung wide open, spewing out platoon after platoon. He just had to worm his way through.

In such an enclosed space, controlling the crowd was child's play. Frankly, most thinking went into just what was the most amusing way to take care of this little problem. He stood perched atop the drawbridge, pondering his approach as the soldiers surged below him like a tidal wave. Stuffing a cork in that seemed like a prime first choice.

With a snap of his fingers, a barrier burst into view, putting an immediate stop to the Hyruleans’ advance. He hardly had to do a thing after, Ghirahim noted with amusement. Not expecting a sudden wall, the frontmost soldiers slammed face-first into the diamond-spangled forcefield. With some luck, some would have been stabbed or crushed purely on accident in the jostle… But he’d see that when he got there. Padding leisurely across the upper footbridge, he made his way to the keep’s balusters, where about a dozen archers waited for him.

Bolts plinked uselessly off his skin. With a leap, he bridged the distance between them, and let them taste the bloody merits of a melee fighter firsthand.

He’d hardly finished with the lot of them before the first of the soldiers he’d trapped down there came running up the stairs. Ghirahim grinned, relinquishing his grip on the larynx he’d just crushed and dropping the poor wretch to the ground. The Hyruleans funneled straight for him, barreling in a line as neat as angry men could manage. Ghirahim could taste their blood already.

Soon, he did. He drove his blade down the collar of the frontmost soldier, piercing the gap in her gorget, and kicked her down the stairs before she’d even finished dying. For a moment, the crowd stumbled, balance lost under the deadweight piled on top of them, but their haste won over their supposed respect for their deceased. The corpse was callously tossed to the side, plummeting into the crates and barrels below.

Such was how Ghirahim held the stream of warriors at bay. Even though the piles of bodies and half-alive things grew ever greater, every new batch of soldiers seemed to reach higher and higher steps near him. It wasn’t until one of them bore down on him, pushing to force him back, that he noticed just how many of them were teeming in the lower levels. Peeking past the railing, the keep seemed to be more crowded than it was when he’d started. Ghirahim shook himself free with a shout, stabbing through the offending soldier’s gut to throw him off the stairs, but found three more of them surrounding him.

He’d bitten off a little more than he could chew. Reinforcements were in order. Hand raised, he braced ready to snap his fingers and rid the entrance of its barrier…

… Until a sudden presence materialized in the center of the fort. A massive shockwave followed, deep dark and full of hatred, sending every single soldier that set foot in the Keep either out the gates or into the wall.

Zant, scimitar on his shoulder, stuck out his arm, pointing a pallid finger at a flashy-looking soldier that lay hunched over and dazed in the far corner.

“Found you.”

Suddenly forgetting all about the soldiers surrounding him, Ghirahim vaulted off his high ground and joined the Twili’s side.

“You don’t intend to steal my thunder, do you?” Ghirahim prodded, nudging his co-lieutenant on his bloodied sleeve.

Zant chuckled in response. “You looked like you could use some assistance. I’ll leave the final strike to you, but do not dawdle. More of them are coming.”

How dishonorable, to have to deliver the mercy strike on a dying man! He approached the opulent knight – a Caster himself, whose aura tied to the southern gates. The man panted, twilit runes festering on the bare skin of his palms as he reached for the Demon before him. Whether he pleaded for mercy or sought to ready some sort of spell, Ghirahim couldn’t quite tell. Nor did he really care.

Blood trickled down pearlescent armor as Ghirahim’s sword skewered through his throat. A last gasp sucked through the gaps around the blade, bubbling the blood that spurted free in an obscene rattle. The tip of his blade scraped past bone, picked at the cartilage. Such sounds alone, that carried from his sword into his core and truly made his body and weapon one, were almost enough to make him forget the outside world.

But it didn’t, for with the life of the Keep Captain, so too was the golden barrier extinguished. Finally, they could move for greener pastures, and he would see his Master truly in action.

Flanked by his two remaining commanders, the Demon King strode on, mocking the shining ostentation of the distant Hyrule Castle with his glory. Where any other royal would shelter behind the might of his army, Ganondorf broke past it, crowning his frontlines with his presence. Even with the oceanic vastness of the troops behind him, all eyes, all dread, were focused on the sight of him alone.

Truly, what a sight he was! The very air itself howled in pain as he swung those massive blades. Just one strike of darksteel sliced common armor to ribbons, its sheer size taking out a dozen men in the blink of an eye. Where Zant prevailed in wild strength, and Ghirahim mastered bloody precision, their King encapsulated these martial styles into one deadly whole.

The trampled grass of Central Hyrule Field now under their feet, the three men looked onward, their eyes on the nearest gate to Hyrule Castle grounds. With its gates firmly locked, spiked barricades littering the paths, and wooden shelterings strewn to hide soldiers unknown, this Keep would prove to be a tough nut to crack. Neither of his companions commented on it, but the occasional sheen of metal between the battlements clued Ghirahim in on archers at the ready, too.

“It seems their efforts are focused on guarding this keep, Master,” Zant proclaimed, bounding his way next to the Gerudo King’s side with a slither in his gait. “They can only guard the palace from so many angles. Surely, their Northern bridges are less fortified… It may cost us some time to travel ‘round, but it would give us better chances at overwhelming their defenses.”

Ganondorf grunted and furrowed his brow. “And do you volunteer to such a plan?”

Eagerly clutching the grip of his scimitar with both hands, Zant giggled, nodding strongly enough to bob his helmet. “Yes, Sire. My squadron and I can force such a measly gate in no time flat.”

With that answer, Ganondorf turned from him again, eyeing his surroundings carefully. Ever defiantly, his gaze fixed upon the fortified keep before them again. He never did take well to being told what to do, and that obstacle beckoned him with a challenge. “Then go. We will stay and secure more territory.”

The East Field Keep proved to be a challenge, indeed. There was no forcing those doors, they would have had to go around.

Nigh yanking a field scout off his horse, he hissed an order into the creature’s droopy ears to summon their raid captains there at once. Going up and around was going to require ladders, but with all that rubbish in the way, they’d never even reach the base of the wall. Whatever was hiding behind the barricades would have to be done away with.

Lizalfos attempting to clamber over the wooden barricades were run through by the soldiers hiding behind them, while those trying to skirt around them met the same fate. It was going to take a lot more heavy-handed work to clear the way, and Ghirahim delightfully volunteered. To serve as a meat-shield was far below him, but little pinpricks bothered him none. So long as he could sprint past just one gap and shake those fools up, their forces would soon follow.

A rain of splinters left in his wake. He made quick work of the barriers, bursting through them with his fists alone, and ripped whatever unfortunate soul he could get a grip on back through the opening with him. Soldiers bearing their own massive shields followed suit, with his very own Darknuts taking inspiration from his infernal technique. Bounding in rapidly from the North, the first of the raid captains arrived. Oil-drenched torches sailed through the air, setting the barricades aflame, and soon, the field was riddled with charcoal and ash. Their siege towers soon followed, tall, wooden things, sawed like the necks of dragons, and slammed nearly uncontested against the Keep walls. Shrieking and screeching bokoblins clambered their way up, and sowed chaos on their stronghold from above.

Ganondorf did not wait for the path to be fully cleared, and joined in on the carnage with great amusement. Taking advantage of the archers’ panic, he hacked and slashed his way through the remaining eyesores to run right for the looming gate. One sword sheathed at his hip, he balled his fist, his eyes clouding over with something truly malicious. Just a spark of that ancient terror was summoned, then, and for a moment, the tether that bound Ghirahim to his Master tightened, digging into him as if wreathed in thorns.

With a roar of a battle-cry, he reared back his fist, before his form disappeared behind a swirling black mist. The gargantuan shape of something terrible, an earth-shaking manifestation of Vengeance itself, shrouded the Demon King and braced to attack in the very same way.

Giant knuckles pounded into the gate like a battering ram. The impact was thunderous, clattering teeth and eardrums for miles to come. Wood charred and smoldered where Ganon’s fist struck it, and though the gate had, by some miracle, not flown open, it’d been knocked nigh entirely off its hinges. Screws and chains kept it standing in a flimsy wobble, like stringy tendons refusing to relinquish a limb. There wasn’t a point in it any longer – the first demonic forces were pouring into the Keep from above, and the gap their King had forced in the doors would fit their footsoldiers just fine.

Just as Ganondorf unleashed his victorious laugh, a series of explosions caught their attention.

Ghirahim turned to the source of the noise, only to find tall plumes of smoke rising from the Northwest Checkpoint. Pulling his sword from a fallen soldier’s chest, he gestured to the distance. “Master! To the North, Zant has broken through!”

Unsheathing his second sword again, Ganondorf growled. The bulking shadow that loomed over him slowly fizzled away and shrunk down to a mere wisp that slithered down into the folds of his cape. “Then I shall join him. You stay here and retain our frontline.”

Ghirahim nodded and turned. Just as he was searching for an allied banner to join forces with, his attention turned again to his Master who, a few paces further, had turned back around, his gaze fixed on the field across him.

Courage had been sorely missed on the battlefield up until that point. Now, a shining example of it, with sword drawn and eyes fierce, tore his way through Hyrule Field. Ghirahim scowled at the approaching Reincarnated Hero, but his attention soon split to his Master instead, who stood grinning. He decided to keep any mocking comments about their little foe to himself, for now.

Stepping up to stand beside him, he called to Ganondorf’s attention. “A simple distraction to keep us from moving north, without a doubt.”

“That matters not. I have a score to settle with the boy,” the Gerudo King replied, tusks still bared with his cruel smile. “It seems the Hyruleans seek to entertain me… If they wish to lose their greatest asset so early in the battle, then I will gladly oblige.”

Ghirahim knew better than to disturb an ancient rivalry, for he was there when it first came into being. Still, he gave one uneasy look back at the pillars of smoke. “What of Zant, Master? Shall I join him? Having him lead such a siege on his own would be a death sentence.”

Ganondorf scoffed, giving his concern not a moment’s notice. His sights were set on the Hero, and nothing else. “Is Wizzro not approaching from the south, still? The creature has always been drawn to his dark proclivities. If Zant wishes to be a King in his own right, that much assistance must suffice.”

The King’s dismissal pooled with strange dread in his gut, but Ghirahim banished anything that stood in the way of his loyalty. Sword over his chest, he bowed, baptizing himself again in the cold clarity of servitude. “As you wish, Master. Not a soul will intrude upon your duel, that I promise!”

Fending off anyone that went near, Ghirahim circled the duel in his lethal dance. He was quick, he was efficient – he drowned every instinct to flourish and impress, for if he were to distract his Master from this crucial battle, he’d sooner shatter than forgive himself. With the Keep nearby in shambles, he was almost fighting too leisurely. The battle was under control.

At least, until reinforcements came from the East. Marching through the Keep at the other end of the field, another wave of Hyruleans came their way. Ghirahim hissed, surveyed his surroundings, and came to a painful conclusion. There were by far not enough of their forces here to hold back the oncoming onslaught.

Driving his blade into an approaching knight’s shoulder, a sudden burst of inspiration struck him. He retracted his sword, indulgently lapping off its trail of blood, and shot a playful look at his defeated opponent. Sated by the piercing scowl of fear, Ghirahim pushed him over, leaving the man to bleed out on the floor. He knew just how to handle this.

Picking out a target was almost too easy. The Commander at the front of the crowd stuck out like a sore thumb, bearing a gilded shield nearly as tall as himself and a bright plume on his helmet. Kicking up sods of grass, he broke into a sprint to head straight for this flashy figure. With pleasantly surprising dauntlessness, the commander did not flinch. Faced with an ancient demon barreling towards him, all he did was brace his shield and brandish his longsword, ready to strike.

The fool could raise his shield all he liked! All he had to do was make contact!

Ghirahim raced across the ground with the speed of Zephyr, his every step taunting the man to show him just a shred of fear, but to his maddening delight, he continued to find none. Such men were always his favorite. They could still break.

Mere seconds away from the oncoming battalion now, he used his momentum for three long, bounding steps, before bracing his knees and launching himself forward, arms outstretched. Alarmed cries rang out, but he heard them not much longer. The second his palm laid flat on that opulent shield, diamonds surrounded the pair of battlers, and in that shroud of diamonds, they left the scene.

With most forces sent out elsewhere on the battlefield, the bridge to the North-East felt like a quiet enough spot to conduct his schemes. Using the commander’s disoriented dazzle to his advantage, Ghirahim swiftly kicked his shield out of his hands, sending it clattering across the stone floor.

The racket seemed to shock the man back into focus, but before he could ready his stance, the demon was upon him, clutching him by the banner on his chest to yank him at eye level.

“Do you think your Princess cares, Captain?” Ghirahim hissed, pushing the man closer to the rockface wall. “A monarch that wants her people to thrive does not send them to battle unprepared. Here you are, facing against the Demon Lord, wielding an ordinary blade. You think you can hurt me with this?”

Once again swept away, drunk on his own power, Ghirahim pushed himself away from the man, leaving him dazed. The smell of fear was pungent, ambrosiac in the air, and yet, the soldier gripped his sword tighter. Ghirahim met those burning red eyes with a grin, his arms spread in a mocking invitation. When the man charged for him, he didn’t move a muscle – he did not even flinch, merely stood, daring him to strike.

And strike he did. A wicked slash of his greatsword, aimed at his chest, poised to kill. In the hands of such a towering man, bearing a sword of this caliber, such a blow would rend flesh down to the bone, hack through, and rend the lungs to shreds. Yet, when the edge of the blade reached Ghirahim, it tore nothing but the fabric of his cloak.

In an instant, Ghirahim was back on him, hands clutching the banner at his chest and driving him against the wall, his knee jammed between his armored legs.

“You see?” he whispered, leaning close to press his forehead against the wretch’s helmet, and peer into the whelk that hid inside. “You are powerless against me. Your precious Zelda has forsaken you.”

His victim shook his shoulders in an attempt to wrestle him off, but all it got him was punishment. Ghirahim slammed him back against the wall, helmet hitting stone with a resounding clunk. Leaning down into the dizzied man’s eye contact, the demon tilted his head. “Does it not anger you? All your years of training. They reflect in your strikes, boy. You are not mere cannon fodder. Thou art a warrior. You have your pride, and here you are, reduced to a meat shield for the inflated ego of a rotting royal family.”

Painted lips curled into a smile, Ghirahim crooned his temptation into the ears of a lost man. “History would find you blameless, were you to channel your rage now…”

His words were a poison, seeping from his flicking tongue to probe at the edges of the defenseless man’s psyche. Mortal minds were simply so fragile, so permeable, needing only the stroke of a pointed nail to tear a hole in its tender fabric. And how easily it tore, how quickly the man once struggling turned to putty in his hands.

“Your will may have been signed the moment you stepped into this battlefield, but destiny still has its branches for you, Captain. You will not find your greatness with Hyrule, but perhaps, were you to join us against it…”

The hands grasping his cloak weakened, a sword clattered to the ground. Ghirahim chuckled. It wouldn’t be long, now. The veil was torn, the soft gray meat of this flesh-born’s brain practically between his fingertips, its every shock and pulse struggling to get past his dark enchantment. And when the man began to gurgle, that tell-tale death rattle of the mind, Ghirahim keened with glee. Ichor poured from the soldier’s tear ducts, his nostrils, and, were they in view, he’d see it dribbling from his ears, too.

Ghirahim, too, had a little puppet now. Soon, he’d have many more.

“Pick up your blade and run along, human. We have work to do.”

The man stumbled off, his shambling gait slowly righting itself. It was a dirty little trick, for certain, but one he thought would please his Master dearly. The ichor that dripped from the man was a sign of contagion. The second he was to mingle with his fellow men again, his curse would spread, and tempt every man that joined him in this same betrayal. A vice to most, but to a demon, such pride was a delicacy.

Moments later, Ghirahim perched atop the rock outcropping, overseeing his handiwork. To his glee, it appeared that not only had his little trick indeed turned the reinforcements back where they came from, his Master had enjoyed similar success! His blue scarf tainted red, Hyrule’s Hero turned tail and headed back for the castle, leaving King Dragmire to tear down the crowd in pursuit.

Such a well-oiled plan almost left him a little bored. Still, such a large group managing to somehow sneak past where Yuga was supposedly stationed, worried him. Leaping down from his vantage point, he flagged down whichever raid captains he could find on the way, and headed for the Keep that bridged Hylia River.

Such a small, thoroughfare keep was apparently a low priority in the Hyrulean defenses. Very few soldiers were stationed here, which took mere minutes to be cleared out, whether fled or felled. Dirty little chores like these were unbecoming of a demon lord, Ghirahim bemoaned to himself, perching himself on of the battlements of newly conquered territory.

He hardly had time to assess the view beyond the Keep before a shrill voice interrupted him from below.

“Lord Ghirahim,” exclaimed Yuga, hovering down by the bridge. He floated up to him soundlessly and sat on the balustrade beside him. Turning to look up at him, he addressed him pleasantly. “A sight for sore eyes. And how sore they are, indeed! Chaos reigns in the East. They’re killing each other out there!”

Ghirahim looked down at the Sorcerer and found him worse for wear. His banners were rendered to tatters, his armor dented and smudged, not to speak of the sweat and grime that tainted his skin. His mortality reared its ugly head, certainly, in the way he sat there hunched and panting. Nevertheless, it felt like a bad idea to tell him of all people that his appearance was anything less than perfect. A bit of small talk seemed like a much better option. “Oh, so you’ve noticed. Some of my finer work, wouldn’t you say?”

“Such mass hysteria was your doing? Why, I’m impressed,” Yuga chimed, looking at the distant crowd with newfound interest. Perhaps his little trick had worked a little too well – it looked like those flies were dropping faster than the contagion could properly spread. Before he could lament this setback any further, Yuga kept him engaged. “I suppose all is well on the central front? Otherwise, I haven’t the faintest idea as to why you’d be busying yourself with my turf.”

Ghirahim laughed, preening his hair. “All is well, indeed. Just before I arrived, I witnessed Master forcing that eyesore of a Hero to go running on back to his little home.”

“Oh, splendid. How I wish I could have seen it,” Yuga languished, resting his chin on his palm with a sigh. “I suppose I should be glad enough for this sorry affair to be over soon. With that worm out of the way, the tides are surely turning in our favor.”

Something about those words jabbed their way into his ire. For a battle that he had yearned for from the moment he’s been summoned, to be dubbed a ‘sorry affair’, picked at the stitches of an old wound the sorcerer inflicted on him. Was this the man his Master favored over him? Perhaps his injuries made Yuga’s whiny side surface, but he hadn’t reconciled with him quite enough yet to give him the benefit of the doubt. Deigning to respond, Ghirahim stood atop the fort looking for a fight to join, but he ended up finding something else.

Hiding in the sun’s glare, a shadow approached and spread its wings. An exasperatingly familiar dragon came into view, the beat of his wings whipping the two men’s luxurious hair in the wind. The membranes of his clawed wings billowed like sails in the catching air, the thin cracks in those black expanses spilling the sun’s radiance between. Volga landed on the bridge with heavy thumps that caused the bridge to whine under his weight. He looked a little more dull than usual – his fiery mane was reduced to a flicker, and his scales lacked their red sheen.

Volga craned his face up to look at the pair, baring his fangs as he spoke. “The Zora Princess has arrived, riding tides summoned by a noble I do not recognize. They douse my flames too quickly. I alone am no match for them.”

The earlier drab from before faded in an instant, a sparkle igniting in the sorcerer’s eyes where a foggy haze had just been. “Oh, how I’ve longed to meet with that adorable siren princess once more,” Yuga proclaimed, pushing himself off his seat to float gently to the ground. “I shall join you. Gladly!”

Ghirahim raised a brow, his eyes flitting between the two men below. How quickly that prissy figure managed to turn his mood around, all with the promise of a pretty girl! Still, he feared his recklessness, for if there was anything Yuga would risk his hide for, it was the promise of beauty. His eye on the hastily-treated arrow wound on his lower leg, Ghirahim sighed. He could only hope his concern wasn’t taken as an effort of friendly reconciliation.

Quickly masking his uncouth state, Ghirahim hopped from the battlements to stand beside his co-lieutenant and address him with a light scold. “Yuga, you’re injured. I’ll not encourage cowardice in the slightest, but Master will not forgive you if you act rashly.”

“Some nerve you have! You needn’t worry about me, Blade. I’ll see to the eradication of these fools… With the utmost elegance,” he waxed with a voice like a dream, his arms raised in a flourish.

Yet, when Yuga shot forward to head to this promised reunion, his supposed companion did not follow. The sorcerer turned to find Volga hesitating, his head lowered and his scaled back raised. Draconic Warrior Volga was cowering.

“What ails you, beast?” Yuga questioned, his scowl wrinkling his bloodied brow bone. “One little setback and your claws lose their edge? Join me!”

A growl resonant enough to shake the drawbridge chains vibrated the wood beneath their feet. Volga slinked away, spines bristling and mane sputtering with flame, and hissed as he spoke. “The Demon King cares not! He sends us to our deaths,” he spat. “I will no longer fight as a pawn in his name.”

Ghirahim’s fangs bared involuntarily. Such insolence was unacceptable. Maddening! His fingers curled fiercely around the grip of his sword, and his gaze zoned in on a vague, pink mark behind the dragon’s shoulder, left there once by his Master’s trident. But before he could drive himself into the tender flesh of Volga’s weak spot, Yuga gripped him by the horns and shook him, forcing their eyes to lock.

“Know your place, cave-dwelling reptile!” Shouted Yuga, face contorted into a snarl. “You dare let your loyalty stray now? You turn against our Master, in his greatest hour?”

Volga struggled against him, bearing a strong endeavor to win, but the handle those twiggy arms had on him was unfathomably relentless. Any attempt to shake him off seemed futile – Volga’s muscular neck writhed, its tension tightening his body enough to flare out his plating. Veins bulged on the Lorian’s temples as his rage built. It was fire against fire, bull against fighter. Their scuffle lit a new spark in Volga’s sputtering flames, but before he could use it against his captor, the back of Yuga’s boot slammed his glowing maw back shut.

That treacherous attack only served to make Yuga angrier. He now fully yanked at his horns, dragging him with him to solid ground. Even after all this berating, Volga still refused, digging his claws into the soil. Yuga looked down at the grooves in the ground and cried out in disgust. “Sickening! Pathetic! Shame upon you, for daring to call yourself a dragon! Have some sense! It seems I must knock it into you.”

Steeling his grip, Yuga lifted himself higher in the air, dragging the dragon’s head with him. His arms raised, his eyes spat fire, hovering fearlessly before the snarling maw mere inches from his feet. With one shrill cry of exertion, he swung his arms downward and threw the Dragon to the ground.

Volga hit the ground chin-first, hissing in pain and rage as the ground cracked beneath his plating. Before he could gather his bearings, Yuga bore on him again, his uninjured foot stomping down on his snout. “You wish to be respected? You want to be treated as more than a pawn, as you say? Then show us! Show yourself as more worthy than the beating I will unleash upon you, should you refuse!”

For his last sneer, Yuga leaned in close, hissing his venom through clenched teeth. “Now you cough up whatever sickly bile allows you to spray your flame, Lieutenant, and you better do it soon, before I reduce that bulky form of yours to oil pastels!”

At the threat of his staff, Volga bounded away, his tail lashing with a vicious temper. He gave the pair one more skeptical look, before chuffing out an agonized, wretched burst of flame, and turning back to the distant battle. Taking off into a gallop, he climbed the air with beating wings, and announced his return to the masses below with a guttural roar.

Left behind, the Sword Spirit looked up at the wild beast’s ascent with an air of calm, while Yuga stood panting next to him, his flushed face slowly returning to its usual corpsely gray. Such a performance deserved a bit of accolade.

“My. I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Ghirahim said, bringing a hand to his face in idle amusement.

Yuga paused, swallowing to gather his breath, before chuckling in response. “Spare me the cajolery, Ghirahim. I have a royal visitation to attend.”

Just like that, the Sorcerer lifted himself off the floor once more with a wave of his staff, and along with the breeze, he was off.

This side of the battlefield now thoroughly occupied, Ghirahim skirted along its edges, the rush of the river below carrying him on its roaring winds. As Volga relayed to them, the Zora were advancing rapidly from here, but on his own, he wasn’t keen on drawing their attention. As tempting as the thought of sticking it to the Lorian was by stealing his kills, the Zora often bore enchanted weapons. The Demon Lord wouldn’t risk his pristine state for mere petty gestures!

Racing down the path to the south, Ghirahim had the quiet hope of running into his Master. Something akin to worry tugged at his strings when he saw the gates to Hyrule Castle nearly untouched. A mass of soldiers kept any invading forces at bay – which meant that Ganondorf was being held up by the bridge, for whatever reason. He had to cut through the crowd somehow.

A remedy (or, a minor poultice at most), to his predicament, appeared in the shape of raid squads by the crags, who stood gathered around a cavalier scout relaying her rapport.

Desperate for any news at all about the sudden delay of the advance, Ghirahim hurried on over, urging the scout to tell her tale.

The Gerudo woman tightened the reins on her antsy steed and addressed him with a bow of her head. “There was an ambush from the Eastern Central Keep, My Lord. King Dragmire was impeded, and now, Commander Link has fled to the Castle. We are sending reserve troops to clear the path.”

Ghirahim’s eyes narrowed. The disgust in the air around him was palpable, enough to further panic the scout’s horse. “Then I shall go with you.”

The cavalry was fast but not much faster than he. The gaps in the crowd the scout cleared for herself closed up quickly before him, and with every soldier he cut down, his disdain grew. So soft. So weak. What tricks could these ants possibly have gotten up their sleeves to give his Master this much trouble?

With every pace, the mass of soldiers grew ever-denser. The red plume of hair that was once his guide was soon no longer dependable. Overwhelmed by their adversaries, the Gerudo’s horse let out a hellish shriek when run through by steel, and soon, slumped to the ground, its rider perishing with it.

Yet, he no longer needed her. The bridge was in view, and soon he would reunite to assist his Ruler, his Master, his –

Cyan, bluer than blue, sped back down the bridge like an arrow. Towering stature, white hair, and red eyes that left glowing streaks as she moved. Ghirahim knew now what had delayed them so. To think a General as renowned as her would retreat so soon, hardly even injured!

Just as he intended to ignore this display of cowardice and let her run her merry way, a sudden force yanked his head to keep his eyes on her.

“She aims for the Temple,” hissed a sudden voice in his mind. “Should the Hyruleans get the Great Fairy’s assistance, we will surely regret it!”

“Zant!” Ghirahim whispered in retort, “you have the nerve to get into my head?”

“Do not distract yourself with technicalities,” Zant growled. “Go!”

Biting back his ire, Ghirahim hissed through his teeth. How could he allow for such a vulnerability in his own mind? Had a tether been planted there, without him noticing? If so, then when?

All such questions had to wait for later. A blade like him would only take commands from his master, but he took the liberty of taking Zant’s words as a friendly suggestion. He had been waiting for a proper face-off with the Sheikah general, to test if this one was a more exciting opponent than the previous. His feet took off below him without a second thought.

The thrill of slaughtering hundreds was fair enough a way to sate him, indeed. But nothing fulfilled him, nothing made him feel like he was truly fighting, like an impassioned one-on-one with a worthy warrior who wanted him dead for more reasons than simple victory.

Tracking the scent of her blood alone, Ghirahim burst after her with speed that would strike envy in a lightning bolt. Though the prospect of giving chase for the sport of it was plenty attractive, he knew better than to let his amusement get ahead of him. No, for now, he merely wanted to get a better look at the Temple and see where he could best ambush her. He could afford no distractions, so his path had to be clear. Yanking the raid captains he’d run into earlier with him, he set forth to the temple stairs, and waited for the right moment to rear its head.

Ever-so-politely, the Commander did not keep him waiting long. Ghirahim lavishly draped himself atop one of the few pillars still standing above the Temple’s crumbling staircase, strewn as it was with holes from beast claws and long-gone explosives. Somehow, this barren place still held onto its sanctity. He wondered how much further they would have to ruin it for that persistent, divine itch to stop.

That idle thought could only ever be that, though. His target burst from the crowd, and in her near-blinded fury, almost completely overlooked his presence. Carelessness was one thing, but plain rude was another! With a scoff, Ghirahim jumped down from his perch and landed himself square in her path. In an instant, she staggered back and drew her blade.

“Again you cross my path, Impa, and how your numbers have dwindled. You were a mighty people once, a veritable threat,” Ghirahim purred, circling the commander. This alone stopped her advance and drew her weapon, for she was healthily wary of turning her back to him. “And now, you can hardly even be called a tribe. Once you served the Goddess, now merely Her diluted blood, who with each thinning drop tore down your numbers, your dignity… Are you truly content with this?”

If she was ever at the edge of being compelled, Ghirahim certainly didn’t notice it. Impa thrust her greatsword toward him just as he took a step closer. “When the lands we stand on were still called the Surface, there was your kin, mercilessly slaughtering mine. You dare speak of our tribe in solidarity now? Spare me your poisoned words, Demon. I will not be manipulated by the likes of you!”

“Oh, well,” Ghirahim cackled, ducking from the second strike from her blade with his hands childishly clasped behind his back. “It was worth a try, I suppose.”

The giant slab of steel came for him again, slamming into the ground where he once stood with her full weight behind it. Yet the Sheikah was nimble, and thus, frightfully strong, in how she twirled and slid around him and dragged the heaving weapon along with her. He had to take his every step with extreme care.

Her attacks did not go uncontested. Ghirahim drew his sword in retaliation and threw himself upon her in a flurry of blows. There was something familiar about the way she fought – reminiscent of the so-called Hero, perhaps. But in those brazen arms hid decades of discipline and ferocity. What she lacked in holy power, Impa made up for with expert technique.

In other words, he was in for an incredibly enjoyable battle.

Though his sword was smaller, more nimble than hers, she managed to deflect nigh every strike and dodge away from others. He was certain he at least nicked her fingers once or twice, but either she simply didn’t care, or some form of enchantment had been cast on her.

This suspicion was confirmed when, with a sudden wince in her expression, she left herself wide open for just a split second, and he thrust for her chest. Though her armor here was bare, the tip of his sword still bounced clean off, a golden flicker rippling where he’d struck. Had Hyrule’s Princess so graciously cast the same protection over a mere servant, that she’d bestowed upon her divine Hero? How delightfully sentimental.

It did not matter. A barrier simply meant he had to hit harder, as he did last time. Lacking the privileges of Zant’s magic from his previous attempt, he just had to make do with his own. With her next strike, he jumped back far further than he needed to and deftly escaped her range. He had to be quick, but the slight limp in the Sheikah’s step assured him he’d have just enough time for his little party trick, if not with ten milliseconds to spare. With no further hesitation, he held his rapier out before him, and with a flick of his wrist, twisted it in his grip, and buried it into his own chest with a decisive thrust.

Shock. He just won another second!

His core ran hot. Burning, searing metal to its melting point, enough to pulse an aura of sickly purple from his chest to his entire body. Grass was charred beneath his feet as the heat coursed through his every inch, but by far stronger was the sheer darkness. Whatever life once carried in the ashes below was promptly snuffed, its soil scorched and poisoned. He gritted his teeth, not in pain but in exertion, as the searing flame in his chest grew ever brighter. His magic was doing its work; his will was next. For every blade forged needed a purpose, a name. And what was this one? Once, it was to be his simple favorite, light and easy to wield. But over the years he had accumulated many more just like it, and its value had diminished to that of mere nostalgia. Such a loyal friend needed something more potent.

What did he want for it? It needed to strike true, to be wicked in every edge yet sharp enough to cut through mountains unharmed. It had not to be graceful, but to simply bring death.

And when he pulled it from him, glowing bright red from the hellfire he’d retrieved it from, it became a jagged thing. The picture of a grimace, of metal that in itself bore rage and scowled at its foe.

Yes. I shall call you Annihilation.

Impa closed in on him bearing her scabbard as a shield. Her feet ground tracks into the soil as she slid at him with enough speed to knock him off his feet. And it would have, had he not braced himself the last second, meeting the firm wood of the scabbard with a ram of his elbow, cracking its polished blue surface. The impact loosened the greatsword in its hold and she took full advantage of this. Impa kicked the scabbard fiercely, sending it swiveling around to sit at her back, and unsheathed her blade in its momentum, seeking to cut him down in one broad sweep.

This was his new pet’s time to shine. Instead of the traditional parry, he swung the cursing black blade downward. Sharp edges stuck together until the sharpness of his own prevailed and slid down, dragging an ear-grating screech out of the Sheikah greatsword. A strike so wretched it taught steel to feel pain! Ghirahim chuckled as the two swords buried their tips in the dirt between them, but was smart enough not to linger long.

Before her heart could finish another beat, Impa swung her blade back up, sharp edge upturned. Glittering specks of hair scattered in the wind as Impa cleaved through the tips of his bangs. In an instant, his vision went red, a crimson hue that pooled from the General’s eyes and washed over all of his vision. Such rage emboldened him as much as it weakened him, for the second he spent gritting his teeth and indulgently spying for a weak spot to torture, Impa punished him.

Blade outstretched, she dove beneath his arms and swung. A deep line carved into his gut, carving through his false skin and splintering a groove in his surface.

They were petty injuries to his body and standing, but enough to send him into rage. One hand fiercely gripping her shoulder, he pushed himself forward, driving his knee into her gut. Impa staggered back with a groan, shaken but unharmed, and kept herself standing with her sword as a crutch. With this new distance wedged between them, he once more pulled his cleaver and lunged for her.

She parried him once, twice, that massive eyesore of a blade serving far too well as a shield until it didn’t, and he struck the gap between her arms and armor.

Annihilation slipped through, obsidian steel hungering for bloodshed, and tore a gaping hole into the magic that protected her. A fountain of golden sparks followed her in an arc as Impa fell to the ground. She hit the floor with a heavy thud, her scabbard cracking further beneath her bulk.

Ghirahim hopped back with whimsy, tongue darting between his lips and sword at the ready, as she jumped back upright with a swing of her legs. Even without her divine protection, she seemed just as hellbent on striking him down. But no matter. His next strike would not miss.

For just a second, her scarlet eyes parted from their contesting gazes and flitted to the Temple behind her. Impa’s feet braced in the soil, her knees bent, and she shot for her goal.

Ghirahim didn’t let her set more than even a step. Those signs of her escape were subtle, and anyone even a smidge less analytical than he would have missed them. But Ghirahim drove a dagger into her hip before she could even think of which foot to put where, and nearly sent her tumbling.

Yet Impa kept going, shielding herself with her scabbard as she advanced further up the temple stairs walking backward. If she thought getting the high ground would put her at an advantage, she was dead wrong! Ghirahim hurried after her in pursuit, lunging for her legs as swift and deadly as a viper. Her balance was wobblier now that she’d been injured, but her fury had not depleted even in the slightest bit. He saw it clear as day in her eyes – either she would get to that Temple, or she would die trying. If only all Hyruleans saw the beauty of such dedication. Perhaps, then, some of these battles wouldn’t have been so dull!

To Ghirahim, it was a test of mettle, or rather, the indulgent act of poking a sleeping bear with a stick, while Impa treated his ceaseless meddling as the annoyance that it was. Hoping to finally throw him off her trail, she swung down, the embers in her eyes bursting into wildfires.

Ghirahim raised his blade in defense, edge catching on edge once more.

With a single flick of his wrist, the greatsword slotted into the jagged shapes of his masterpiece and became trapped there. This blade was not a mere extension of his body – it was him, a piece of his very soul, granted physical form. It held onto Impa’s weapon without as much as a shiver, clasped with the same deft ease as he would have pinched it between his fingers. Their eyes locked, dog meeting wolf dangerously outmatched, and Ghirahim flashed a smile.

The muscles of his arms tensed. Impa couldn’t escape, so instead she attempted to push through. Out of pure curiosity, he let her try. He gazed up into the blade, and oh, how beautifully polished, clean of any grime or corruption. Their eyes stayed locked until he met his own in the sword’s reflection, and his lips curled into a grin. He was immaculate still, the assault on his haircut aside, while she stood panting, scowling, and shaking above him, her teeth grinding audibly with every bit of force she pushed into the blade. Falling apart like this was a shame of such a good swordswoman. He wouldn’t bear to look at it, if he didn’t delight so much in being the cause.

So, he put an end to it. With his only warning being a yell of exertion, he used her strength against her, and with a swing ripped the blade clean out of her hands. The greatsword careened down the stairs, cracking the stone bricks beneath it in its rancorous descent. Before she could think to dive after it, Ghirahim reared back again, and hacked her clean in the shoulder.

Impa fell to her knees with a guttural cry, for a moment, finally looking defeated. She glared daggers at him when his heel planted in her chest. With the cadence of a butcher missing the right tendon, he ripped his sword back out, beholding the blood seeping down its sawtooth edge. What a beautiful, loyal thing, yet one even he hesitated to lap clean after witnessing the damage it did.

In his distraction, the General made her escape, staggering further up the stairs. They were both thinking the same thing: could she make it to the temple, before the gnarly wound on her shoulder sapped her off her strength, and sent her to Death’s door? Her arm dangling uselessly at her side, and her blade buried far beyond where she could escape from him to retrieve it, Impa shot him a foul look.

His confidence was getting ahead of him! From her upturned palm, a bright blue light surged, its specks of luster dazzling him before they struck him like a thousand darts. Yet this magic did not pierce, it did not scratch. Rather, it stuck to him in droplets, merging in ever greater globs in less than a second. His vision blurred, his hearing grew distorted and whined, and before he knew it, his head was encased in a churning sphere of water.

The thought that she attempted to drown him amused him. An airless laugh bubbled forth from his lips and echoed through his abyssal scold’s bridle in crystalline chimes. But this amusement did not last long. A kick to his chest sent him tumbling to the ground, and icy daggers pinned his cloak to the ground in an attempt to keep him down. Distraction, after distraction, after distraction, all in the feeble hope to cross that field and plead the Fairy Queen for her aid.

The poor thing hadn’t the slightest clue he didn’t need to see her to strike her. The dagger in her hip betraying her location, he raised his hand, fingers tense, like drawing taut the string of a bow. A snap. Cold steel flew, whistling through the air as it followed the trail to its brethren, and struck flesh.

Impa cried out, stumbled, and at last, fell forward onto the steps.

Ghirahim strutted on over, sword at rest but not yet sheathed, to stand over his once-opponent. A little river of crimson poured free from her, dripping down the stairs and staining its pure white marble in the stench of near death. Yet, listening carefully, it appeared she still breathed.

He nudged her carelessly with his foot. “Lady Impa, I must say, I’m impressed. You and I make for such an excellent pair of duelists when you don’t insist on making every turn of my life into complete misery.”

With her last shreds of wakefulness, Impa turned to gaze at him. Her complexion withered, but her eyes had not yet glazed over. She was angrier than he’d ever seen her. “You… Vile…” She hissed through blood-stained teeth. “Wretched thing, a traitor, a dishonor to the world, for your own selfish needs, you…”

The corner of his lip twitched in annoyance at this name-calling. Ever the high-and-mighty, righteous woman, perhaps even more of a bore than her predecessor. He was almost glad that the blood loss seemed to be taking her ability to speak from her, but then a sudden pulse of energy alerted him that some other force was at play.

Golden specks of light rose from the General. She, too, took notice of them, a sparkle of bitter hope lit in her expression. A weak laugh was all he heard from her, until the light flooded her body, and she was gone.

With the Sheikah Chief defeated, Hyrule’s army devolved into further chaos. If they had been betting on reaching that Fairy to ensure their victory, then the sudden outpour of soldiers could only have been their last-ditch effort. Ghirahim rose, his cape tearing to tatters under the daggers as he shed it. Standing atop the temple stairs, he ran a hand through his hair, shedding the water from his vision to survey the battlefield.

It was a deluge of blue and silver. Were they winning before, then the Hyrulean swarm that broke out from the now-opened gate to Castle intended to change that. All matters of banners, people from every corner of the country, dashed forth from the palace and the foothills.

The princess was nowhere to be seen. Unmistakable to his analytical eye, however, a corridor, narrow as it was, cleaved through the masses. A certain someone else was making his way through the field again. Mounted on horseback, Link, his palm ablaze with golden light, shot through the field like an arrow.

Zant, Yuga, Wizzro, Volga, his Master, anyone, they were nowhere to be seen. As far as Ghirahim was aware, there was nobody else to stop the Knight that galloped straight for their base. Somewhere, a hunger for that old dynamic between hero and thrall awakened in him again, turning from an urge to a fiery prey drive within a split second. He was no stranger to chasing around little blond holy men. By all means, this was his calling.

And so, shattering the stone steps beneath his heels, Ghirahim bounded down the Temple stairs and threw himself into the mass of soldiers at the foot of the hill.

Yet, he could find no opening. The crowd was forcing him back out every step of the way, as if they could sense the string that tied him to the boy, and feared what would come of it, were the two ends of it to meet.

It was thoroughly amusing. No matter how sheer the numbers, these forces could only ever slow him, not stop him. Though even distraction would prove to be dire, the further those hoofbeats strayed from him. He had to be in pursuit and had to do it fast, but the dense formation barring his way left not a single opening. Such an advantage would have to be gained the old-fashioned way.

Shields raised before him as soldiers pointed their spears at him, rancorously barking commands for him to keep his distance, or to surrender, or to keel over and die already, and other such nonsense. It was starting to get annoying, really. Again, the gleaming metal pointed at him was of a mundane sort. He peered down at the spearheads in disdain. The jumble of sticks and steel wobbled, pointed insistently at him, and swayed all too tantalizingly.

Before the oafs had a sliver of an idea, he swiped a handful of them into his hand, crushing the bouquet to splinters in an instant. Taking advantage of the knuckle guard on his rapier, he twirled the blade around his hand and changed his grip to that of a cutthroat. He was upon them in a flash, breaking through the first line of shields with a single kick, and carved through armor and flesh alike with the full weight of his momentum behind him.

But the cavity he’d cut into the formation would only hold so long. Hundreds of the shouting sacks of skin seemed hellbent on stopping him all at once, hounding him with everything they had. Shields bashed into him, swords and spears clattered and bounced off his skin but tore his clothing to tatters. It wasn’t long before their desperation made them forfeit their weaponry altogether, settling for trying to kick him over, or yanking at his arms, if only to stall his advance for another second. Eyes darting dangerously, he cut down whoever he could focus on long enough to kill.

Ghirahim trudged on, heaving, stained in blood, mud, and whatever else. It was slow, it was humiliating, but it was progress, and he could bear this nigh endless assault, if only for the carnal, berserker’s satisfaction the blood on his blades brought him.

At least, until he heard something unmistakable. One of these dogs had the gall to laugh.

There stood Ghirahim, his beloved cloak tattered, trampled and abandoned, his clothing hanging from him in ribbons, his skin cracked with glittering black and his hair tousled from far too many gloves yanking at it. They didn’t simply want to impede him, they fully intended to humiliate him.

Enough!

He wasn’t sure if he simply thought it, or shouted it to the heavens, but within an instant, his brute endurance changed to a rush of bloodlust. With a cry, he raised his arms and summoned a glittering red, impenetrable barrier.

The small crowd bunched in there with him seemed to realize that it was merely their own numbers they could trust awfully quick.

Ghirahim greeted the dawning fear that would soon suffocate his playpen with a cheek-splitting grin, baring every pearly white tooth he had.

Where the density of the crowd was once their greatest strength, it was now the soldiers’ downfall. There simply wasn’t enough space for any of them to join in proper formation, much less extend their sword. It was by design, of course. Ghirahim burst out in laughter, as gleeful as he was sadistic, as he began to tear away at the soldiers around him. Oh, how quickly they donned that veil of valiance again, so desperate to fall in honor after throwing themselves at him like animals! They certainly weren’t holding their fairest warriors as reserves. Even the blood tasted vile on these ones. The crowd thinned rapidly with the fury of his blade, which, to his amusement, made enough space for some of these fools to try and fight him again. It turned to a delightful routine – parry, perhaps a second clash of swords, then a jab at the shoulder, and a stab to the gut. Around them, the barrier had turned from red and gold to a flat crimson, obscuring his private arena from the outside world in a curtain of blood. And what a carnage it had been! Only five of them were left – ah, forgive his enthusiasm. Four, now – Three, tearing limbs out their sockets, crunching their jaws under his fists – two –

And then there were none.

Ghirahim stood upright, surveying his handiwork with renewed clarity. Cloth, skin, chainmail, plating, and shields alike accumulated on the floor in a scrapyard amalgam, groaning wetly under the force of his footsteps. A rhythmic pounding of pommels against his barrier thrilled like a landslide in the air, but he was confident the masses would not break through. He stroked a hand through his hair, only to notice black talons peeking through his gloves, and begrudgingly smiled.

His power was getting away from him again. Looking around the death gathered at his feet, he knew just the way to righten this new burst of energy. Unencumbered by his now-deceased assailants, he stretched himself with a laugh, cracking his shoulders to spread his hands to either side. Dancing forward across the heap of bodies he’s left, he swayed his arms in fluid motions, like plucking the strings to a harp. With each twitch of his fingers, he felt the power surge from the fading life beneath his feet, up his legs, and to his core – an eerie feeling, yet unrivaled in its profoundness, that chilled as much as it burned.

With two snaps of his fingers, spectral servants surrounded him. He’d wasted enough time; he had to catch up with that boy, and fast. Of all the strings that tugged on him, the one tied to the Hero’s Incarnation pulled the hardest. His barrier now dismissed, he sent the specters forward to clear his path, only to find the battlefield had changed in his absence. Drawn to the scent of blood, he’d imagine, Bokoblins had poured into the cracks of the Hyruleans’ defenses to draw ever nearer to the palace. Finally, some more backup than the measly groups he’d summoned!

He ran, he cut down anyone in his way, and he swerved through any opening he could. His feet pounded across the bridge, wind soaring in his ears. Moreso with kicks and elbows than with his swords, he broke past groups of soldiers, only to find an iconic presence tower above it all, glaring at the setting sun.

“Master,” Ghirahim cried out, and launched himself to his side to run beside him.

Ganondorf looked down at him over his shoulder. Past the blood and grime that others had splattered on him, he was as immaculate as he’d been when he first arrived. “The boy fled before I could engage. The Hyruleans are planning something, and I have no intention to-”

Golden beams of light had the audacity to interrupt his magnificent words and rip their attention to the north.

“The bridge keep… They have it out for our bases,” Ganondorf growled, stroking a hand across his black steel blade to charge it with wicked thunder. “Keep me no longer, Sword. I must be swift.”

Were it any other time, burdened as he was with the despair of judgment and abandonment of his Master, Ghirahim would have hung his head and accepted his departure. But this grave turn in destiny, where finally, the Demon King would get his hands on the Triforce, invigorated him to boldness never seen before. He lunged for the departing Gerudo and clutched his arm.

“If he’s going for our bases, Master, there is but one place he can go. I’ll take us there,” he shouted over the noise of battle, never shying from his gaze, even as he scowled at his sudden forwardness.

Yet Ganondorf’s expression softened, if one could ever call such a vicious grin ‘soft’. To Ghirahim, it was the most reassuring sight he could see.

Ganondorf turned to face the golden light once more, and spoke with narrowly restrained eagerness. “Then get on with it.”

Ghirahim gripped his arm with more vigor than he’d ever held anything. Diamond magic gathered at their feet, enveloping the both of them in a maelstrom that rippled the grass and billowed fabric in its intensity. Enveloping the Demon King in his own power sent his core into overdrive. Steam burst from his gritted teeth with a single pant, the sheer exertion threatening to melt him down. The golden light inside that man was simply so grand, so all-encompassing, that to wrap around it with the fickle fibers of his own seemed insurmountable. Yet he, the Demon King’s blade, his servant not only by design but by fierce desire, would not falter.

When they tore through the fabric of reality and landed at the foot of their base, the sheer vertigo of the transportation was enough to bring Ghirahim to his knees. He clutched the pommel of his Master’s sword, panting, and craned his head to look up at him. Ganondorf looked down at him past his pauldron and nodded at him, a smirk pulling at his features. He’d intrigued him – perhaps even impressed him!

Invigorated by the urge to have those eyes on him again, he wobbled back on his feet, as if born again, to trail after the Demon King as he marched onward.

Ganondorf turned his attention to a second rain of light pelting from the sky, steeling his grip on his crackling blades. “Hyrule’s Hero intends to drive us out of their turf. How fortunate that we can meet him halfway.”

This corner of the battlefield was still under their command, but their influence was slipping. Anything past Hylia River seemed to have been reclaimed by blue and silver, and their sickening radiance grew ever closer. It was a battle of endurance now, where the Demon forces had to resist being driven back, lest their goal slip through their fingers.

It was dire, yet it was not. Were he among Volga and Yuga, whose fire and thunder lit up the skies behind him, he might have despaired. Were he still trapped in that humiliating clash he’d ripped free from, he might have faltered. But sheltering the mighty back of his Master, whose shoulders squared exuding nothing but power and confidence, he knew victory was mere inches away.

That inch was announced with the skidding of hooves and the blowing and snorting of a startled equine. Link forced his horse to a halt, blue eyes shooting a piercing gaze at the two of them as they caught him off guard.

“Oh, come now,” Ghirahim chimed, collecting himself with a whip of his hair. “Don’t be shy! You’ve come this far, surely you didn’t think we’d let you claim our territory unchallenged?”

Ghirahim laughed, his arms outstretched in invitation as he waltzed his way over to the knight. The young man was worse for wear – his green garb was dirtied from his earlier battle, and though he’d been run through the infirmary, his heaving stance betrayed painful injuries. Yet, that furious, noble glare was unmistakable. He’d dragged himself here with willpower alone, and that very force would carry him ‘till his heart gave out.

Which, frankly, sounded like a fun little exercise.

Another smoky laugh escaped him when Link spurred his horse again, setting out for him with full intent to smack his head clean off his shoulders. Ghirahim looked back, inviting his Master to mock their adversary, and found him permitting his whims with a squint of his eyes.

Just before the advancing horseman could strike him, he disappeared with a flash and zipped back into view a ways behind. The horse bucked and staggered, aggravated not only by startle but the instinctual ferocity of demonic presence.

Ghirahim watched on in amusement as Link struggled to pacify his mount, finding it the perfect moment to prod at him some more. “Quit bullying that poor animal and face us properly, boy! You’re not slipping past us again!”

Eyes flitting between his two foes, Link grew antsy atop his panicked steed. He dismounted her with a sweep of his leg, setting her to run free, and once again brandished his sword. Both feet now firmly on the ground, his earlier discombobulation was nowhere to be seen. When Ghirahim prowled toward him, tongue darting between his lips, Link scowled at him with nothing but a righteous sense of duty.

How annoying!

“Ghirahim,” Ganondorf warned him. “Step aside.”

Snapped out of his bloodlust, the sword spirit straightened himself, his free hand before his chest. “As you wish, Master,” he stated, retreating with a bow to let Ganondorf take his place. “Same arrangement as before?”

The Demon King shook the sparks on his swords awake. “Let not a soul through.”

“As you wish.”

And so, Ghirahim braced himself again, darting forth to clear the King a proper arena. Those with seconds to spare would soon be dragged on the periphery with him, riddling the edges with hulking monsters. Two separate worlds were unfolding on this battlefield, that of the raging war of the masses, and the private duel guarded so tightly at its borders. In the natural order of things, those spheres would never have met, not until one of them ended, but a twist of fate broke their edge.

Just behind him, Ghirahim noticed a Dinolfos seize one of the Hyrulean captains in its gauntlet and lift them off the ground, inspecting them with nostrils twitching and teeth bared. With a furious hiss, it tossed the soldier to the ground, sending them skidding into private grounds.

Ghirahim would have torn the wretch apart for disturbing their King’s space, did he not notice just who was thrown to his Master’s attention. With scarlet hair, golden armor, and richly patterned clothing, the identity of this soldier was clear. Even more damning was the blue-and-silver banner hung from her waist.

The distraction allowed Link an opening. Ganondorf grunted as a gash was hacked into his thigh, but his first wound only served to invigorate him. “What is the meaning of this?” He snarled, tusks bared. The strikes he delivered upon Link’s shield caused the boy to buckle through his knees, and be thrown to the ground with the next. “You dare poison my own people against me? To think Hyrule calls me wicked. You would have Sisters slay each other.”

Link and his fairy stayed silent. He threw himself back on his feet and lunged for the Demon King once more.

If the battlefield was in dissonance, then the fatal clash behind him was a symphony. There was no desperation in it – the drive to see each other dead was pure and true, and Ghirahim would give his life to protect it. The bodies he left in his wake were his offerings, gifts for his Master, to keep that music safe and undisturbed.

Yet, even with this passion, in his strife to keep the raid squads at bay, an ominous glow in the skies distracted him. At once, the familiar comfort of servitude was shattered. Ghirahim kicked the burly Hylian before him to the ground and skewered him in place, if only to allow himself a few seconds unimpeded to keep an eye on that strange sight. The glow was met by a smoldering darkness from below, that formed a murky yellow globe just beyond the fortifications in the East. From that same faux-sunspot, light rained down from the sky, pelting down on the barrier in ground-shaking ferocity. But this attack was different; rather than the golden rays invoked by the descendant Hero, this one was a pure, blinding white, taking the shape of thousands of arrows. Zant had anticipated it! How nostalgic it must have been, for light and darkness to clash once more!

Then, the unthinkable happened. Not in that it was impossible – really, it was the only logical outcome – but in that he’d never want to imagine it. The Twilit barrier shattered to bits.

Ghirahim froze in place, eyes glued to the shining barrage from the heavens.

Even through the ringing in his ears, Ganondorf’s voice rang through clear as glass. “Princess Zelda is growing desperate. If she’s felled Zant, she will make her way here shortly.”

Felled?

“Do not let her reunite with her Knight, Blade!”

His feet moved on their own. Were there any soldiers impeding his way, he must have taken them out in sheer automation, for he didn’t notice them. All he had eyes for was the deluge of radiant arrows that turned the condense in the dark clouds above into a glittering expanse of stars. The heavens rejoiced and cheered for their princess as she took away what mattered to him so.

Ghirahim ran, too numbed by shock and steered by command only. What would he do, were he to round that corner and find her there? If he found something else he wouldn’t want to see? Would he be able to look away long enough to take her down?

The swarm of Hyruleans thickened around him as their demonic forces dwindled. Their keeps were being cleared out and invaded swiftly, leaving their most competent generals struggling to retain their ground. Yet, every one of them that saw his advance, rallied to clear his path. They could not win this war with numbers alone – everything rested on defeating the bearers of the Triforce.

The northern gates were in sight now, their doors blown to scrap and splinters, and the surrounding ground scarred with blight. He sprinted through them, rattling the bridge’s chains with his pounding footfall as he rushed to get to this final stand, only to skid to a halt.

In the distance, he saw a clash between beast and man still unfolding, as if the world had not ended here moments before. Approaching in eerie silence was an armored Bullbo, growling in strain against the many arrows that pierced its hide, but more notably, carrying an unbelievable shape on its back.

Zant slowed his steed with a pull on its reins and sidled up next to Ghirahim. Now witnessing him from the side, a second passenger came into view. A bloodied bronze gauntlet on thin, serene arms, and a curtain of vibrant, straw-blonde hair, draped past The Twilight King’s lap.

Retracting the visor of his helmet, Zant bared his smile. “Hail, Ghirahim-ili. I see you have stopped General Impa, as I advised. Well done,” he said, looking to the skies to find golden light still raining there. “What of the boy, Link?”

“... I… He’s… Master is, ah…” Ghirahim stammered, his throat suddenly feeling too tight to speak. “Link is weakened, and we stopped his advance. Master… Will prevail. Zant, how-”

“Excellent,” Zant interjected sharply. “Our victory is at hand, Ghirahim, but I am too weakened to escort the Princess on my own. Wizzro can only keep the forces behind me at bay for so long, thus, I must make haste,” Zant seemed to soliloquy for a moment, before looking down upon him from his mount again, grinning his teeth bare. “Will you join me for this grand finale?”

Ghirahim was too paralyzed to refuse or accept. Zant took his silence as confirmation anyway. He took off in a gallop. Feeling the strain at his collar, Ghirahim followed.

Hyrule field was in a greater state of chaos than Ghirahim had left it mere moments before. Enervated by the battle, the remaining demonic forces grew ever fiercer. Were it not for the bounty they carried with them, the sides would have seemed equally matched. Ghirahim wordlessly fluttered around Zant like a moth contemplating the light of a lantern, striking down anyone that came close. And those numbers gained, indeed, as they drew ever deeper into the conflict. Zant had drawn his blade, but from atop his porcine steed could only do so much.

The sight of the Princess splaying across the saddle eased their burden as much as it increased it. Hyrulean soldiers grew panicked and enraged, bearing down on them in droves, while their monstrous captains saw it as their cue to join their entourage.

As the eye of the storm formed around them, Zant addressed him. “You saw it. That golden light, decimating all in its wake. A magnificent power, isn’t it, Ghirahim?”

“It is,” Ghirahim replied. And you defeated her, he thought to himself. Against all logic, Zant came out victorious. At this point, asking him ‘how’ would only have resulted in a lackluster answer. Nor would knowing just ‘who’ this figure was sate him. The desire for questions was beginning to wane.

Ghirahim knew power when he saw it.

Zant chuckled behind his helmet. Tiring of this pace, he sent his mount into a gallop, and forced his way into the crowd. The Bullbo shrieked, tossed its head, and sent men tumbling, and grew ever-fiercer as more and more blades drove into it. With a sweep of his adamantine sword, Zant poked holes into the line of Hyruleans for their own troops to flood into.

He shrieked with laughter, yet held the princess fast to his saddle with care, as he turned his steed to face his co-lieutenant with masked glee. “All of it will be ours, very soon. Hold fast, Yima gradiegra. Master awaits.”

His Dagger.

Yes, he could do that.

With the sounds of combat mingling with the thunderous laugh and shouts of the Demon King, Zant deemed them close enough to dismount his beast. Sword sheathed at his back, he hopped down almost leisurely, as if the fate of the world wasn’t perched upon that very saddle. He turned, reached up for her, and let the limp frame of the defeated Princess Zelda collapse into his arms.

He lifted her carefully. Her head drooped against his shoulder guard and her arms laid over her stomach, as if she were naught but asleep. With her face now visible, Ghirahim could hazard a guess as to how she’d been defeated. The same pale gray of the hands that cradled her spread to her own skin, besmirching her features with runic pestilence. She breathed still, but there was no telling for how long.

As they drew closer to the fated strife that awaited them, Ghirahim felt like every step hollowed him out deeper. It was an odd feeling, acute in its onset, that gnawed at him without apparent cause. The leash that bound him to his duty tugged on him ever stronger, but as he drew to its source, he felt the urge to dig in his heels and resist.

Something wasn’t right. Wasn’t there more he had to do? More he had wanted? Thousands of years he had dedicated to this goal: deliver the Triforce unto his Master’s hands, so He may claim the Surface as His. It was right before him now, on the cusp of being completed, but it felt wrong. Unfulfilling.

It was just as he’d felt before, but now, he realized just how time had gotten away from him. Never did he expect his wish to dodge out of reach so quickly. With each pace of feet that shouldn’t be, his melancholy grew. His purpose was about to conclude, without him where he belonged. The Demon Blade was firmly in his scabbard and refused by his Master’s hand. In such a crucial moment, he never got to be his sword.

With that pit in his core, he watched on as the masses split by his blade and the duel carried on. Even as war raged on for hours, Ganondorf retained his poise. His stance was like that of a mountain, never to crumble, only to erupt. The flats of his enormous swords acted as shields against the fury of Link’s attacks, while their edges bore down on the boy like a butcher’s knife. His Master wielded those blades forged in the sword spirit’s shape, but empty of him, to strike down the reincarnation of his foil, almost in mockery. Ganondorf realized the picture he was meant to fulfill, certainly. He was the image of Demise, but as proven time and time again, he was his own man. With such pride came its own tools, resigning Ghirahim to symbolics only, to be by his side as an object of veneration.

But looking upon Zant, carrying the Hylian Princess in his bloodied hands, his world went still. Even he had fulfilled that part of their mission, the Twilight Scimitar as his implement. If Ghirahim didn’t know that sword to be empty, he would have taken its twilit glow to be an insult, a triumphant laugh to have stolen the King of Shadows from him. Ghirahim taught those very hands to grace that hilt, and now that they were wrapped around foreign steel, an entirely new feeling chilled him; sharpened his gaze. It was an emerald, serpentine envy.

All that time he spent training him to wield this very blade, and now, the fruits of his labor went to that wretched thing. As he had once intended, indeed, but now that his goal was attained, he felt not a shred of satisfaction. He felt robbed, instead. The one to feel the maiden’s blood coursing down his blade should have been him. It was only logical - it was just!

The surrounding armed forces were split into a perfect crowd. Some were frozen in place, looking on in horror as the bloodied dove that was their Princess hung cradled there in her defeat. Others threw themselves at the Twilight King in almost bestial rage, swords outstretched, had they remembered to wield them in their fury, to strike down the wicked foe that carried her. Yet, none could manage to reach him, being bounced off by a shadowed shield, or ran through by the Demon Lord’s blade, who stood to defend him without even thinking to do so.

In an odd tranquility, Zant padded over to Ganondorf, the bottom half of his face bared and his lips a mirthless smile.

But even with the approach of his defeated compatriot, Link did not relent. He took one look at Zelda and his face tightened into a wide-eyed snarl, before throwing himself back at Ganondorf with furious abandon. His adversary merely laughed. Whatever respect he had for his foe was no longer visible on his face. Ganondorf braced his swords, turning them in his hands with flowing sweeps like they weighed no more than paper, to deflect the Master Sword’s glowing strikes. Steel sang and thrummed under the relentless flurry of blows, but all was drowned out by the thunderous laughter from beyond the wall of metal.

Link was fierce, unrelenting. Red stains spread under his tunic where the King did not strike, but where old wounds tore open under sheer strain. Sweat coursed down his face, mingling with the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. His stumble betrayed a pain untold. Yet, none of it stopped him, even as Zant drew closer, the Princess in his arms.

Tiring of the boy’s meddling, Ganondorf glared at him past his massive blade, before whacking the holy sword right out from his hand with one mighty strike.

Ghirahim knew that alarmed chime better than anyone. He taunted her with a cheerful tone of his own.

Now disarmed, Link seemed undeterred. He wasted not a second before diving back for his blade. He could not get far before Ganondorf’s golden gauntlet clasped around his left wrist. Hyrule’s beloved Hero was lifted into the air kicking and screaming, at the horror of every bystander – all but two. The Gerudo King’s metal-clad fist drove into his ribs, shattering through a glimmering golden barrier and striking chainmail with a sickening crunch. Just like that, Link was silenced, gasping for air that would not enter him, and eyes bulging in their sockets.

And so, with his two servants standing before him in adoration, Ganondorf held his foil in his hand like a hunting trophy, and extended his other, palm turned up, to receive his next piece of destiny.

Zant stepped forward once more. He craned his head to the side, looking at Princess Zelda almost wistfully. All was silent, save nothing but the shifting of fabric, the clanking and jingling of bangles and armor, and the Princess’ strained breathing, as Zant held her out to his King in shaking arms.

Ganondorf snatched her from him without a second thought. Hoisted in the air by her wrist, Zelda still did not stir, dangling limply before her fated companion. That green-clad companion now only had eyes for her. Link stared at her pleading as though worrying enough for her might wake her.

Whatever sentimentality was about to unfold, The Demon King put a swift stop to it. A pulse of energy burst from him with the clench of his fists around their arms. All troops were forced into silence, with two lieutenants brought to a kneel. Something thrummed in the air, like the warning signs of a thunderstorm, carrying a heavy pressure that stoked the breath. Where the sun had once cast the battlefield in a pale gold, darkness now crept in past the hills, summoned from far and wide to swirl at Ganondorf’s feet.

The bearers of Courage and Wisdom recoiled, writhing and contorting in agony as a golden glow was forced from them. Their captor paid their anguished cries no mind. The light poured from them ever stronger, almost blindingly so. Their magic had a mind of its own, knowing that to be parted from their vessels would be an unprecedented act of wrongness, and kept itself lodged firmly where it sat. It shrieked, struggling to keep itself contained, until at last, it could fight against pure power no longer.

That same golden glow ripped from them in an instant, and Ganondorf seized up, his head craned to the skies. Wide-set eyes pierced the heavens, their gaze alone boring a hole in the dark clouds that gathered there. A resonant thrum caused the debris on the ground to skip about like grasshoppers, an image so playful yet foreboding.

That humming grew louder, deeper, until it shook the crowd so deeply all were deafened by the shaking of their own bones, and it burst into a climax. More radiant than ever before, a bright red light flared from the Demon King as if the sun itself stood in their midst. Fierce energy whipped around him like a maelstrom before it shot into the sky, lighting the beacon to signal the beginning of the end. Above it all, Ganondorf laughed.

Drained of their worth, two Hylians were relinquished, and dropped to the ground.

#tftk #ghirazant #zant #ghirahim #ganondorf #yuga #wizzro #volga #hyrule warriors #the legend of zelda #bearwrites #beararts #impa #link #<- decided to tag those goody two shoes anyways

65 notes · View notes