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asumofwords · 11 months

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The Sublet - Roommate!AU

Warnings: She/her pronouns, slow burn, angst. Tags will be added as the fic goes along.

Pairings: Modern!Aemond x Reader

Summary: Living with Helaena Targaryen was one of the best decisions you had ever made. Meeting at university, the two of you became thick as thieves and quickly best friends, moving into a flat together. But what will happen when Helaena has to leave, and her quiet, brooding, brother moves in?

Notes: Hello angels! Here is chapter two of my new mini-series! Was a lot of fun writing this, and am hoping to have a new chapter our every week if possible! I hope you enjoy <3

Chapter 2: Departure

Helaena stood at the door, two large duffel bags in her hands. Her hair was braided back away from her face, something you had begged for her to allow you to do early that morning before her flight. Her violet eyes looked around the apartment before landing back on you.

“I’m going to miss you so much.” She swallowed, eyes looking teary.

You stepped forward, cocking your head as you offered her a small smile, “Hey, hey, hey Miss Waterworks, not yet! We got to get you to the airport first before I let you cry.”

Helaena laughed and you reached out to grab one of her bags, grabbing your keys from the small hallway table dish. Helaena spun and pulled open the door, moving out of it with one bag in hand whilst you followed behind her, pulling the door behind you with a click.

“Is it locked?” She asked, watching as you tugged to make sure.

“Yes, mum.”

Helaena clicked her tongue at you before moving to go down the steps of the apartment. When you arrived at the bottom, you moved across the street to drop her bags into the trunk of your car.

“I’m going to miss our drives in this beast.” She sighed as she got into the front seat, rubbing the dashboard where an array of small, iridescent bug stickers sat, curtesy of the self proclaimed ‘Passenger Princess’.

“Hel, you’re making it sound as though you’re never coming back.” You pulled out of the parking spot and began to drive her to the airport, hand coming out to shuffle through the old 2000’s CD you had put in the stereo.

“Might as well be dead. I love mum, but she’s going to be more wound up than ever, especially with Nyra there.” Helaena leant her head against the window, looking out at the trees you past on the road.

“Well at least Baela and Rhaena will be with you. You haven’t seen your cousins in ages. Plus you’ll have Daeron with you too.” You smiled at her, quickly turning your head away from the wheel.

Helaena smiled back, hand reaching out to turn up the volume of ‘I’m like a Bird’ by Nelly Furtado.

“Yeah, I’m going to invite them to come visit us! Remember last time they came and we went out?”

Your lips pulled back into a grin, “And you got so wasted I had to carry you home on my back?” You snickered.

Your best friend grumbled, “Serves you right for ordering shots.”

You laughed loudly at the memory of Helaena stumbling about the club, singing so loudly that her voice the next day was crackled, and mascara stained her under eyes, "That wasn’t me, that was Bae!”

“Oh yeah.” She giggled.

The drive to the airport went fairly quickly as you sang side by side and talked about everything and nothing, and before you knew it, you were standing at the gate hugging Helaena for dear life as everyone around you boarded the plane.

“I’m going to miss you so much.” She cried, cheeks wet with tears.

“Aw Hel, you big softy. You will be back in no time! Plus we can FaceTime while you’re there.”

Helaena pulled back and wiped her eyes with the back of her hands, nodding at you as she sniffed. You leant forward a pressed a kiss against her forehead, “Now remember to call me if you need anything, okay? I will come if you need me.”

“Okay, I promise.” She readjusted the tiny beetle shaped bag on her shoulder and took a steadying breath, “I gave Aemond your number, so he will probably text you when he gets there, so remember to give him my key.” Helaena gave you a pleading face, “Please be nice to him. I know he can be quiet and standoffish, but he has a good heart. It hasn’t been easy fo-”

You grabbed Helaenas’ shoulders as you smiled at her, “Hel, breathe. I promise to be nice, and it will be totally fine! You just worry about your fam and I will take care of everything else, okay?”

Helaena nodded again before she pulled you in for one last hug. You squeezed her tightly, feeling your heart clench in your throat. You knew it would only be a month, but ever since you had become friends, you had been inseparable.

This would be the longest you would be away from each other.

You watched as Helaena boarded, waving at her as she passed through the gate down to the plane. You had to sniff your own tears back as you watched her silver hair disappear out of sight. Once she was on the plane, you made your way back to the car and drove yourself home, feeling the quiet around you immediately.

Helaena really was a solid rock in your life, and you hoped you were the same for her. She had been there for you through so many life milestones. Buying your first car, your first big break up with your douchebag ex, everything. And you wouldn’t have it any other way than at her side.

When you got back to the apartment, you parked your car and finally checked your phone. There was a text from Helaena saying she had wifi on the plane, and another from an unknown number.

Oh.

You got out of the car, flicking your hair behind your ears as you shut the door behind you, locking the doors with a click of the button. You looked up at the apartment block you and Helaena called home. It was an old art deco building that had been cheap to live in when you and Helaena first moved in, a little run down if you were honest, but beautiful nonetheless.

But now, the apartments were stupidly expensive, and yet your Landlord hadn’t once increased your rent. You wondered if it was because they knew who Helaena’s family was, old money and new, and one of the biggest and best lawyer firms in all of Westeros. But really, the Targaryens had their toes in many fields.

They owned vineyards that stretched over thousands of acres of their ancestral lands, realestate, restaurants, you name it. They owned something of worth, and their name held power.

You remembered when you first went to inspect the apartment. It was decently sized with tall ceilings, some of the paint was peeling, but once you and Helaena had moved in, you spent the first weekend painting the walls together. But the thing that had drawn you to it the most was the bath. It was hard to find an apartment in the city with one, and considering that the block was so old, it even still had the original tub and penny tiling floors.

You walked up the stairs, as you opened Helaena’s messages.

When you got to the top of the landing, Aemond was already there, waiting.

The silver haired man was leaning against the door boredly, looking down at his phone, a silver strand of hair falling over his eye. At the sound of your approach he straightened his posture and looked at you.

You had forgotten how tall he was. The Targaryen towered over you.

It had been a while since the last time you had seen him, and his hair was considerably longer, hair tucked behind his ears. His violet eye watched you as you gave him a small smile, the other clouded eye, unmoving.

“Hey.” You greeted, standing in front of him, fingers gripping the strap of your bag, unsure of whether to shake his hand or offer him a hug.

It felt awkward.

“Hi.” He responded quietly, eye searching your face.

Aemond wore black jeans and tight black top that stretched across his chest. Around his neck, hidden behind his shirt, was a small silver chain that dipped beneath. You remembered he had been wearing it the last time you saw him, Helaena said something about Valyrian steel? You couldn’t remember, but it was something that he clearly never took off. The smell of leather and smoke curled around the both of you as you looked down at his toned arms, a black leather jacket slung over one.

It was in that moment, as you took him in, that you realised something.

Aemond was handsome.

Gods, how had you forgotten he was handsome?

“You going to let me in?” He asked, tone flat.

You felt heat rise in your cheeks, your hand with the keys flicking up as you moved to open the door to the apartment. Aemond barely moved an inch to allow you to reach the door, and you had to utter a small ‘excuse me’ to him so he would shift and give you space.

You felt his eye on you as you opened the door and stepped through the apartment, Aemond bending down behind you to pick up a faded, green duffel bag that he had left on the floor while waiting for you.

“Welcome.” You smiled backwards at him, dropping your keys into their dish and fishing out Helaena’s from your pocket, “These are yours.”

Aemond grasped the keys, large keychains attached to them from grazing across the palm of your hand. They looked comical in his, what with all her keychains; bright blue butterflies, shining green and pink dragonflies, and a long pendant with your name beaded on it hanging from the tips of his fingers. Helaena and you had made them for each other on one of your infamous craft nights in.

Aemond nodded at you in thanks.

You moved through the apartment as he followed behind quietly, his height looming over you making you feel incredibly small.

“So,” You turned around looking at your roommates brother, “You’ll be in Helaena’s room.”

“Mm.”

Oh Gods, here we go.

“Um,” You looked around the lounge room trying to diffuse the sudden tension, “Did you need anything?”

“No.” He answered looking down at you, bag still in hand, "Thank you.”

“Right, well, Helaena’s room is on the left. Let me know if you need anything.”

Aemond nodded and walked down the hall, his large black boots beating against the wooden floor boards. You watched as he continued his way down to her room, opening the door and stepping inside. The door shut behind him with a soft click, and you let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding in.

Your phone buzzed in your hand and you looked down at it. You quickly typed a response to her back.

You huffed a laugh and went to sit in your room, putting away the pile of laundry that sat unfolded on the bed.

Aemond didn’t leave the room or make a sound after he went inside. He was as quiet as a mouse, just as you had remembered he was last time, and you felt that the next month would be spent with him existing in her room and you existing around him. It would most likely be awkward, though you didn’t mind, at least he wasn’t Aegon.

Aegon was nice, but he was also a sleaze. Trying to get into everyone and anyones pants. Even after you had told him you weren’t interested, he continued to flirt with you boldly, immediately giving you the fatal ick.

However, there was one thing you couldn’t deny about the Targaryens.

They were all stunningly attractive.

They all had the same piercing, violet eyes that only people of Valyrian decent had, as well as their shimmering silver, white hair. They were like sirens, luring anyone into their trap, and you had almost fallen for Aegon’s until he opened his mouth.

As the afternoon faded away and the night soon crept in, you reheated some of the pasta sauce that Helaena had made, adding a singular portion to the saucepan until you remembered that her brother was also here, and had not emerged from her room at all. Not to eat or got to the bathroom, or even get a glass of water. So with that thought, and the echoing ‘be nice’ in the back of your mind, you added a second portion to the saucepan and began to heat it up.

You put another pot of water in the sink and filled it with water to boil on the stove, putting some music on shuffle with your phone, and as you waited for it all to cook, you unloaded the dishwasher.

‘Freak’ by Lana Del Rey played loudly out of the speakers as you moved the cups and dishes back into the cupboard, the water on the stove coming to a boil. You put in the pasta and stirred the sauce a bit, adding some spoons of the pasta water into the sauce pan, just as your grandma had taught you.

“Baby if you wanna leave, come to California, be a freak like me too." You sang quietly, grabbing two bowls and forks for the both of you.

As you watched the water boil, the pasta cooking inside, you thought of what the next month was going to look like.

You wondered how Aemond would react if Cregan came over.

Would it be awkward?

You shook your head, it was your house, and Aemond was a grown man. You were sure that he wouldn’t mind.

And if he did, tough titties.

When the pasta was cooked, you strained it, separating it into the two bowls and pouring the sauce over the top. The smell of Helaena’s amazing sauce filling the space around you, making your mouth water.

“What are you making?” Aemond’s voice came from behind you, startling you.

“Gods be good.” You breathed, hand readjusting its grip on the saucepan as you scraped the last of bolognese into one of the bowls, “Bolognese, got a bowl here for you if you’re hungry. Helaena made it.”

Aemond moved from behind you, and as you turned to look at him, you noted that he was just in his jeans and shirt, shoes long gone. Thats how he had crept up on you. That or you were lost in your own world. You picked up the second bowl and moved to hand it to him.

As your eyes moved towards his face, you noticed that Aemond had tied his hair away from his face in a low bun and you felt your breath catch in your chest as he looked at you.

Oh.

“Thanks.” He grabbed the bowl and moved towards the dining table, steps silent as he crossed the room.

“No problem. Do you want a drink?” You asked across the room, opening the fridge, pulling out a soft drink for yourself.

“I’m okay, thanks.”

“Water?”

A pause.

“Sure.”

You filled up a glass of water for him and moved towards the table, placing it in front of him on a coaster. Aemond sat with his hands in his lap, not beginning to eat yet, like he was waiting for you to sit down. Perhaps he was waiting for you. Helaena had told you that their mum was rather strict with etiquette and traditions, and you likened that this was a lesson from her.

You went back to grab your drink and pasta before sitting opposite him.

“You know,” You began, hoping to break the tense air around you, “You don’t have to eat at the table, we can sit on the couch if you want. Or you can eat in Hel’s room if that’s better for you.”

“Hm.” Aemond hummed, not easing your worries, before twisting his fork into the pasta, bringing it up to his lips to blow.

You ate in silence together.

It wasn’t uncomfortable in a way that you didn’t like each other, or that there was any bad blood, you just did not know anything about him, and he knew nothing about you. And he barely spoke. But beside that, Aemond was perfectly polite, if not a little stiff.

You thought that perhaps picking a random stranger from the train and bringing them home to have dinner would make for more easier conversation and be less awkward.

“Helaena cooked it,” You explained, trying to fill the room with something other than the sound of clinking cutlery, “Not me. I think it was to save us both cooking.” You laughed, twisting another forkful of pasta for yourself, you felt a great urge to get to know him a bit, after all you would be living together for a month, “Hel told me you’re thinking of moving back to Kings Landing.”

Aemond placed his fork back into the bowl, “I am.”

Short. Stiff.

No wriggle room.

No ‘yes, and’.

“Do you know where you would stay? Probably close to family right?”

Aemond was quiet, and you felt like you had stepped over a line. You suddenly remembered his strained relationship with everyone but his mother, but even then, that was somewhat difficult, or so Helaena had told you. You opened your mouth to apologise, but Aemond responded.

“Most likely. Might go back to uni and finish my degree.”

You blinked at him, “Oh? I didn’t know you were studying?”

“I was. But I deferred when I moved to Harrenhal.“ Aemond paused, staring at your face blankly. It made you wriggle in your seat, “I think it would be good to finish it.”

“I think it would be.” You agreed, “I’ve only got a year left until I graduate. God, I can’t wait until it’s over.” You smiled at him, having finished your dinner, “What were you studying?”

Aemond’s lips pursed as he looked at you, as though he would rather be talking about anything else, or more likely, not speaking at all, “I was doing a double degree. History and Philosophy, majoring in Politics.”

Your eyes widened in shock, “Oh damn. A double degree? How the hell did you manage that?”

One degree was hard enough, you couldn’t imagine juggling two.

Aemond let out a humourless huff, “What are you studying?”

You leant back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head sighing, “Similar to you, History, but I’m doing a little side Poetry class which I’m enjoying.”

Aemond hummed, “Poetry?”

“Yup.” You popped the p, suddenly feeling as though you were being interrogated in your own house. It set you on edge.

“Favourite poet?” Aemond asked, the question catching you off guard completely.

You blinked, thinking for a moment before you answered him, “Kafka.”

“Kafka?” Aemond replied, brows lifted, “A romantic.”

You cocked your head as you looked at him, “Kafka is a lot more than just a romantic. I think it would be disingenuous to put his work into a box.”

A smirk wound on Aemond’s lips as he hummed, the first time you had ever seen the man give something that wasn’t a frown or pout, and you felt your heart race in your chest.

“You’re right. Just was not expecting you to be a Kafka girl.”

Now you were offended, “What, did you think I would be more of a Sylvia Plath?”

“Nothing wrong with Sylvia Plath.”

“I know that.” You snipped, “Let me guess, you’re an Edgar Allen Poe.” You pointed at his all black apparel.

Aemond let out a sharp huff.

“Emily Dickinson.” He answered, lips pursed again. The way he was watching you, it looked like he was sizing you up.

You hated it.

“Hm. Favourite work?” You pressed, arms crossed across your chest as you looked at him.

You couldn’t tell if he was making fun of you or not.

“‘A great Hope fell.’”

You were surprised once again, “That’s not beating the Edgar Allen Poe allegations.” You paused in thought, tilting your head as you thought of the piece.

“‘A not admitting of the wound, Until it grew so wide, That all my Life had entered it, And there were troughs beside.’” You recounted a paragraph, feeling as though you had one-upped him for even knowing it, but in truth you had recently studied Emily in your Poetry class, and her work was fresh in your mind.

You wouldn’t tell him that though.

Aemond blinked at you with one eye, not showing at all that he was impressed that you knew his favourite poem off by heart, or even slightly surprised, which made you want to hit him over the head with your fork.

Dick.

“They are both amazing in their own right.” He stated as he stood, pulling his empty bowl towards him before he collected yours.

You thanked him, watching as Aemond moved to the kitchen and began to stack the bowls into the dishwasher without being asked.

Maybe those manners from Alicent weren't bad after all.

“Do you know where the linen closet is?” You called across the room.

Aemond nodded.

“Okay, I have work tomorrow so I won’t be home. You have your keys?”

Another nod.

“I’m going to watch some tv. Do you want to join?”

Aemond turned around and walked back towards you, “I’m going to bed.”

Your mouth felt dry, and a blanket of embarrassment curled around you.

“Ah, no worries.” So much for trying to make this easier, “Well, goodnight.” You gave him a curt smile and moved towards the couch, not waiting for his response as you got comfortable, turning on the telly to put your favourite show on to binge.

“Night.” Came Aemond’s smooth timbre from behind you, and not long after you heard the soft click of his door.

You grabbed your phone and checked to see that you had some new messages. The first from Helaena, she had sent you a photo of her in a car, having landed in Old Town, followed by five consecutive messages.

You smiled at your screen, typing back a response that there was no murder yet.

Yet.

You hoped that it wouldn’t come to that. But with Aemond’s quietness, and even the subtle stubborn and self assured manner that he carried himself with, you felt that perhaps things may come to a head one way or another.

Helaena had said the two of you were more alike than you know, but you just couldn’t see it. He was so quiet, and you weren’t. He was brooding, and you were forthcoming. He was a dick, and you were not.

Most of the time.

Flicking back to your notifications you spotted another message, finger tapping it to open.

It was Cregan.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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heyitsdoe · 6 months

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A/N- Happy Merry Holidays, @xisum! I am (obviously) your secret Santa for the discord exchange. Thank you for some lovely prompts, and I hope you enjoy the one I chose to write about. I hope you have a lovely day, and please enjoy this not so little piece I put together for you. <3

WARNINGS: None, enemies to lovers, hints of hurt/comfort but nothing serious

“This place is a fucking maze…” You growl as you run, Killer only a few steps behind you. The halls of the marine base were confusing and seemed to have no clear pattern to them. That, or the adrenaline currently coursing through your veins was just causing you to lose all sense of direction.

“Or you just don’t know where you’re going.” Was your masked companion’s biting reply. You manage to fix him with a steely glare even while still being pursued by the group of marines calling for your blood 30 paces back. You wished you could see the way his stupid face behind that mask looked so you could punch it.

“Shut up and keep running!”

“Go left.” He points up ahead towards a branching hallway.

“Why that way? Straight is our best bet!”

“Because the ship is west, and we’re running north!”

Ugh!

“Fine!” You gripe, veering left and plunging headfirst down the hall. Killer gains ground and now leads your wild escape through the interior of the base. A fact you aren’t particularly thrilled about, but you’d save your breath on getting the hell out of here first, you guess.

There’s no end in sight, and unfortunately, you begin to hear the tell-tale signs of more marines from somewhere up ahead of you. At this rate, you’d be cornered between two groups of marines with nowhere to go. The both of you come to the same conclusion together, and stop midway down the hallway.

“I guess we’ll have to fight our way out.” He swears under his breath.

“That’s an idiotic plan. We’re severely outnumbered.” You bite back.

“We’re kind of out of options here, Y/N.”

Eyes searching frantically, you scan the nearby doors for some sign of what they might hold behind it, but alas, they’re all just as nondescript as the next. Frustration and adrenaline rising, you throw your hands up and let out a noise of irritation.

Making the executive decision, you roughly grab Killer’s arm and the knob to the door closest to you. Ripping it open, you shove him inside none too gently, causing him to bump into something on the inside and curse at you. The next moment, you squeeze inside and shut the door behind you, locking it for good measure and plunging the both of you into darkness. At first, it’s too dim to see where the two of you had even ended up, but as your eyes adjust to the lack of light, and the tightness of the space becomes more apparent, you realize.

A supply closet. Great. And of course you’re stuck in such tight spaces with the man you could barely stand. Was this how you died? Cornered in a South Blue Marine Base supply closet? You’d haunt Killer for all eternity if so.

“Quit squirming around.” Killer mutters in a hiss as you shimmy and move so that you can try finding a more comfortable position to stand. The space is narrow, and with your size and his broadness, it’s not exactly roomy. “Do you want us to get caught?”

“Me?” Your gaze swings to the vague outline of him in the dark, and your arms cross. Try as you might, it doesn’t seem like there’s any way to not be touching him in this tiny closet. The places where your body touches him feel itchy and uncomfortable. “You’re the one with the bright idea to infiltrate the base to begin with. We wouldn’t be here if not for you.”

“They had intel we needed.” He ground out in a harsh whisper. “It was a smart plan, if we’d actually been able to execute it without problems. Like someone deciding to trip an alarm because you couldn’t keep your thieving hands to yourself!”

You open your mouth to retort, but a large commotion silences you. From the muffled voices, you realize that both groups of marines had met one another halfway down the hall, just outside your door, and were discussing your whereabouts. Killer stood as still as possible, mask trained on the door. You could feel his arm tense, blade ready to go should they start using their brains and attempt to open the door.

Forced into silence but still pissed off at him, you resort to glaring and thinking all of the negative thoughts. Perhaps if you felt them hard enough, they’d telepathically translate in his head and he’d know what an ass he was.

Insufferable, pig-headed, arrogant bastard!

Unfortunately you don’t possess the ability to project your thoughts, and so he stands there unaffected by your stewing irritation with him. Too preoccupied listening to the marines outside, or just intentionally ignoring you. Somehow, that thought was infinitely more annoying.

You shift, trying to reach for your weapon as well—you were still deciding if it was to prepare for a possible marine infiltration or you’d just whack Killer with it instead. His mask flickers to face you and he grabs your shoulder in a tight grip.

“Stop moving.” He whispers furiously, but you only try yanking yourself out of his grip. He lets you go, then focuses back on the door in case the noise had caught anyone’s attention. However, the marines beyond continued to report as normal, your shuffling gone unnoticed.

Soon enough the two groups came to a new plan, and went separate ways once more. You hadn’t been paying enough attention to have an idea of what they’d decided. All you cared about now was getting the hell out of here and back to the ship. You had a choice few words for your Captain about being paired up with his first mate ever again.

A minute or two of silence persisted outside of the door, until you reached over to unlock it. Another 30 seconds of waiting, with only the quiet as answer. Readying your weapon, you reach for the knob and yank the door open in a rush, Nothing came up to attack you, and the lack of shouting meant no one had heard you either.

No point waiting around for someone to fight. Without so much as a glance at the man who held your ire at the moment, you took off down the hallway, resuming your search for the exit once more. And, when that fails, Killer resorts to busing a window on the western side of the building. He doesn’t bother waiting for you and jumps out onto the pavement beyond it. You huff, using your weapon to clear out more of the glass since he hadn’t made enough room for you to get out.

He stood waiting outside with crossed arms, as if impatient. He didn’t bother doing anything other than watch. You flip him your middle finger and finally make it through to the other side yourself.

“Thanks for the help, asshole.”

“You managed, didn’t you?” The bastard even sounded bored about it.

Oh, you’d wring his neck when you got back to the ship. “I hate you.”

“Likewise. Now, keep up.”

It takes a few moments for the dull ringing in your ears to fade and the rest of your senses to return. The aches and pain didn’t hit until a few seconds after, and you grimace at the way your leg throbbed and stung.

“Fuck me…” You mutter, out of breath and coughing out puffs of dirt and dust that had made their way into your mouth. On shaky and painful limbs, you prop yourself on to sit up, eyes adjusting to take in your situation.

The cave had collapsed, by the looks of it. Only the dull blue illumination of the strange mushrooms that covered the walls allowed you to see anything at all. That damn treasure chest had been booby trapped, just like you’d suspected, sending everything tumbling down around you. You blink, taking a second to get your breath back, before you suddenly realize you hadn’t been alone.

You spot Killer’s unconscious form a few feet away. For a second, you only stare. Serves him right for triggering the trap you’d explicitly told him was likely there, you think. Then, you sigh. Kid would be devastated if his first mate and best friend were to die. And as much as you disliked the guy, you didn’t necessarily want him dead. He was useful in a fight and cooked a decent plate of spaghetti.

Shuffling over on your knees, you place a hand on his arm and shake none too gently.

“Hey.” Your voice is hoarse and scratchy, and you cough a few more times to clear it. “Killer, get up.”

It takes a bit of shaking to finally rouse him, but he comes to in a similar fashion to yourself. The mask shakes back and forth slowly as he gets his bearings. You hear him groan as he sits up himself, looking around at the small space the two of you currently were currently enclosed in. You hear his heavy sigh, and can’t help the glare.

“For the record, I blame this on you.”

He doesn’t deign to respond to your verbal barb, and instead takes better stock of your situation. He tries to stand, but can’t make it more than a few feet above his head before his mask thuds against the top layer of rock, sending several skittering down over you. The structure’s integrity was in question, and the possibility of collapsing what little space you have left leaves you both hesitant to go battering at the walls.

With a groan, he eases back down and sits. “Not a big space.” He mutters. “Which means not a lot of air.”

You pause, looking around and seeing your peril a little closer. You hold up a hand and keep it there, waiting to feel any sort of breeze cross your skin. But the air remains stale and still, chilly despite the hot summer’s day that had raged on the island you’d resided on. How deep in the ground were you?

Things were looking bleaker by the second, and your anger surges and rages alongside your creeping fear that this was the end, that you’d die here in a hole in the ground and no one would know where to look for you. Instinct wanted you to yell at your unfortunate companion, take him by the shoulders and shake him until his head spun, rip off that mask of his and give him a good punch.

At the very least you could get out all the feelings through a yelling match. That always seemed to ease some of the anger. “Stubborn idiot, I told you it was trapped. But no, you couldn’t have just listened to me.”

Killer gives a long sigh, quiet for a long time. Part of you were surprised he didn’t counter with an equally scathing retort. Your bickering had become second nature with how much the two of you verbally sparred.

“Can we just…not fight? For once?” When he does speak, his voice is quiet and exhaustion permeates through his whole being. “We just…that’s all we seem to do, is fight.”

You stare back, unsure of what to say. So used to the bared teeth, you don’t know what to do in the face of his sudden reluctance to fight back.

He continues when you don’t respond, shifting in place so he sat with his back facing you. “Kid knows where we went, but we’ll have to hope he puts two and two together to realize the cave collapsed and we’re underneath it. So if this is it, I don’t wanna spend my last few hours arguing with someone who hates my guts.”

The truth weighs heavy, just as the slimness of your chance of making it out of here cuts at your fearlessness. The Grand Line was a dangerous place. More notable pirates than you had died in better conditions. If anything, you should have shoved him away from that trapped chest instead of sitting back and letting him see what happened if he messed with the damn thing in the first place.

This was as much your fault as his.

Most of the anger that had been clouding your head dies down to a simmer, before dissipating entirely. Replacing it was an exhaustion to match Killer’s, and the aching of your body began to settle in place alongside it. Only the sound of his breathing can be heard, slow and shaky.

You make a decision then.

You adjust your legs underneath you and turn, sitting with your back facing him and close your eyes. Over time, your backs eventually rest against one another, but neither of you comment on that fact. If you were being honest, having someone here with you was infinitely better than being stuck in this collapsed cave on your own, where the chances of your disappearance wouldn’t be nearly as alarming. And not even just for that…but you at least were all alone down here in the dark.

“I don’t hate you.” You eventually mumble, realizing as you spoke the words that you meant them. He may piss you off in more ways than you can count, constantly try to show you up and just generally get in your way, but he was still a crew mate, and your Captain’s best friend. He had your back when things got dangerous, and despite an antagonistic attitude towards you in return, he’d never done anything to completely break your trust in him.

You don’t expect a response, and don’t receive one for a very long time as you wait for rescue to come. Better to conserve the little oxygen remaining in this stupid cave and keep quiet, you think to yourself, until Killer’s quiet words break the silence, and whatever hard feelings the two of you had held up to this point.

“I don’t hate you either.”

The cell door locks with a resilient clang. The Marine who’d thrown you both in here looks particularly triumphant and pleased with himself as he walks away down the hallway, casually swinging the key by his finger. You send a glare his way, hoping he trips and falls and chokes on the damn thing.

“Kid’s gonna be pissed at us. And it wasn’t even our fault this time.” You mention, forehead pressed to the iron cell bars morosely, ignoring Killer’s bored pacing. With the space so small, he couldn’t go more than three steps in either direction.

“Nothing to be done about it now.” He grumps, head turning as he paced to stare up at the ceiling. “There’s gotta be a way out of here.”

“Right.” With a glance at the sturdy and well-maintained set of bars currently holding you in the cell, you give a scoff. “You gonna stretch these things apart with your bare hands or something?”

Silence meets you, until you lift your head from the metal and glance at Killer behind you, who was testing the durability of the bars you’d mentioned. Shaking your head you can’t help a mirthful grin.

“Face it. We’re stuck in here until someone breaks us out.”

A dull thud denotes Killer’s frustrated kick at the metal, followed by a mumbled swear as his foot radiated pain where it had met the bars. The marine further down the corridor yells for him to knock it off.

He finally takes a seat in front of you, back to the bars as he accepted your fate for now. Lowering your head back to the bars, you watch your companion with a patient and appreciative stare. His mask is tilted to face outwards at the hallway leading to your freedom, until it suddenly shifts to point directly at your instead. Perhaps he’d noticed your staring.

“What?”

“Thanks. For earlier.” Noticing the way his mask tilts to the side in confusion, you explain. “That marine who was getting handsy?”

“Oh.” He turns away with a shrug, head shaking dismissively. As if he hadn’t one-punch KO’d the guy who’d been sneaking feels at your ass on your way to the jail cell. “It was nothing. You could have handled it. I just…got to him first.”

“I know I could’ve.” You agree, smiling a little. “It’s still appreciated.”

He hums in reply. Crossing your arms over your chest and settling in to get as comfy as possible in such a small cell, you stretch out your legs and cross them at the ankles, right beside where he is seated. Seeing your posture, Killer mimics it, letting his legs straighten beside your hip. There isn’t even a bench in the cell to sit on, so the both of you have to make do with what you can.

The distant bustle of the marines, whatever they were doing, kept your attention until the unexpected sound of chuckling beside you made you turn to look at Killer. His shoulders shook minutely, and you gave him a confused look.

“It’s always like this, isn’t it?” He gestured to the cell around you with one hand, before letting it drop back down in his lap. “Just you and me and some uncomfortable little space we’re forced into.”

“Just our luck.” You mutter as if bitter about it, but the tone in your voice is obvious that you find it a little funny too. And the uptick of the corner of your mouth makes that even more evident. “I guess I could be stuck in places like these with worse people. You’re not too terrible.”

“I’d take you over Kid any day to be stuck somewhere with. So, I guess you aren’t either.” He muses, and you can’t help the snort of laughter that leaves your mouth. The visual of Kid being caged somewhere with you was too nightmarish to think about. You’d go insane in an hour.

Another silence overtook the space between you, but this wasn’t uncomfortable at all. You’d grown so used to having Killer nearby in some capacity. Even when you didn’t find yourselves in situations like this one, you’d noticed he was around you a lot more frequently nowadays. Even Kid had remarked on the lack of hostility that had so distinctly accompanied so much of your relationship.

You felt a sort of ease being near the man, now that you didn’t feel like bashing his helmet into the nearest hard surface at any given time. Most of his quirks, you’d come to find, were amusing and to a degree…endearing.

Hell, you’d even call him a friend. And you had so precious few of those nowadays.

You settle in for the long-haul, knowing Kid and the rest of the crew would tear the place apart to come and rescue the two of you. All you had to do was wait.

You’re not sure what wakes you from unconsciousness, perhaps the gentle rocking of the waves or the slow drop in temperature as the sun finally dipped below the horizon and set the sky ablaze a warm orange. Whatever the reason, your eyes squeeze tighter before cracking open to peer at the side of the little rowboat you and Killer had stashed away on in your effort of escaping the disastrous events of Sabaody.

As the memories come flooding back from the day before, you rise in a rush and look out over the edge of the boat at the waters beyond. Not a single thing in sight, you realize with trepidation. Your heart beats hard in your chest with a thud, and your aching back protests as you stretch into a sitting position.

You turn to wake Killer, but are surprised to find him already awake and sitting up, watching you with a patient expression. It’s still jarring to see the blonde man without his helmet in place—a habit he’d only recently started around you—but you don’t squander the opportunity to see him in the flesh.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” You asked with alarm coloring your tone, but he holds up a hand.

“Relax, Y/N.” You can see the little log pose bracelet secured firmly in place on Killer’s wrist, and you breathe a little sigh of relief. “We aren’t lost at sea, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“How far from Sabaody are we?”

“No more than half a day’s rowing east.” He points in the direction the log pose is fixed to, before lowering his hand back to his lap. “It’s just a matter of waiting out the Admiral they called to the island. I doubt he’ll leave immediately after all of that. We’ll meet with the others at the rendezvous point in Grove 68.”

You sigh, shaking your head and holding it as an impending headache began to form. “I hope Kid and the others made it.”

“I saw Kid reach the ship. He would have gotten the rest to safety too.” The confidence and assuredness made it just a bit easier to breathe. Killer never had any doubts in your Captain. It was one of the things you liked about him so much.

Despite that comfort, you can’t help but wrap your arms around yourself protectively, mind straying to just how close you’d been to annihilation. A stray spark of light from Kizaru had nearly taken your head clean off. In the blink of an eye, your life would have ended, and it would have all been so fast and needless, you think. The heat from the bolt had nearly seared your eyebrows off.

“Hey, hey, come here.” Killer’s voice cuts through the rising panic, noticing your sudden change in demeanor, but you still feel like you’re drowning in emotion. The boat shifts, and his arms are quick to wrap around you a moment later. You settle into his embrace and shiver, letting the overwhelming grief of such a close call wash over you in full force. You’d never seen your impending death so closely before.

“You’re ok. Let it out.” His chest rumbled beneath you with his quiet words, unbothered that your silent tears were soaking his shirt. Fingers dug tightly into the fabric, holding him even closer to you, if at all possible. Shaking off the excess fear and anxiety, you stutter in breaths as Killer soothes you with his voice.

You cling to Killer like a lifeline, like the sturdy rock in a turbulent stream, using his steadfastness to anchor your unstable emotions. The way his heart beats on, strong and solid beneath your ear, the gentle rise and fall of his chest with every breath, and the feather-soft touch of his thumb trailing your arm up and then down again.

His scent fills your nose, calms your senses, eases your nerves as much as they could in the moment. Slowly, over time, as your breaths deepened and the panic that had gripped you faded, you lay there against his chest with closed eyes and so much appreciation for him in your heart.

How could you have ever hated a man like this, who held you without complaint so tenderly? What an idiot you’d been.

“Can we…stay like this for awhile?” You ask in a rough voice, swallowing back the warmth in your heart and the lump in your throat as you came to realize what it meant. “Please?”

“We’ll need to start rowing back towards the island if we’re going to meet up with the others…” He says, pulling away just enough to look into your face. And at first, you think he’ll gently ease you away from his chest, but something in your expression softens his, and he gives a gentle smile as he pulled you back into his arms.

“…but that can wait until morning.”

It was sweltering underneath the wagon’s canvas cart. The fabric of your clothes clung to every inch of skin on you, making every subtle shift of your position all the worse. And to top it all off? This operation required silence, so you couldn’t voice your displeasure aloud. Killer, who’d been tasked to accompany you in setting up this ambush position, was no doubt quite thankful of that.

You glance over at him just a foot away from you, wondering if he was suffering just as much if not more in that mask of his. Even his body language didn’t give much away. Thus far, the man didn’t fidget or shift around much at all. Remarkably still and calm, given the circumstances. You’d never been able to quite sit still just before a big fight. And this one would prove to be a rather big one, if the meeting of pirates to come was any indication.

It’s hard to resist another glance at your companion, and so yet again your eyes trail his muscled arms and broad frame, weapons rested easily on his knees to await the signal. His chest rose and fell in steady measure, the shirt taut over his muscled chest and offering a delectable sight.

It had gotten increasingly difficult not to let your gaze wander to the first mate over the past few weeks. Or to try not thinking about how he’d held you until you’d eventually fallen back asleep in his arms. The beat of his heart had lulled you back into that cocoon of safety and warmth.

And something in him seemed to change as well. He went without his helmet more and more around you. Your eyes met and held for several seconds before a timid smile would break the spell over you and cause one or both of you to look away. Fleeting little things, those moments. But enough that you knew something was there, surely.

He hadn’t said anything yet. Neither had you. The right moment hadn’t come, you thought. But perhaps soon.

Killer’s helmet tilted towards you curiously—realization hits that you were still staring at him—and you shot him a smile. Miming how hot you were with your tongue out and one hand fanning your face, he nods in agreement. His finger reaches up and taps the mask covering his face, head shaking ruefully.

You point towards his head, mouthing for him to take the damn thing off if he was feeling it too. He hesitates, no doubt wondering if to do so would leave him unprepared for the fight yet to come, but discomfort seems to win out in the end. Carefully, so as not to knock into anything in the cart or the canvas top covering it, he reaches up and lifts the blue and white cover from his face, revealing his handsome-yet-sweaty face. Another swift sake of his head sends sweat drops dripping from his face, before he gives you an appreciative look.

Your smile widens, glad to see him not so uncomfortable in this damn cart. Then, you reach for the bandana secured to your arm and untie it. Shaking it out, you lift it to his face and gently wipe away the excess sweat from his forehead and cheeks, watching the way he closes his eyes and allows you to touch him as you see fit.

It would be so easy, you think, to just lean down and kiss him like this. In the quiet, alone with no pesky crew mates around to interrupt you. You wonder if his lips are as soft as they look. If his kiss would be as gentle as you’ve started imagining it would be. In all your musings, you’ve stopped wiping at his sweat, and his eyes open to look at up to you tenderly.

The silence is thick, but the tension between you is thicker. Killer’s eyes drift down once to your lips, before meeting your gaze again. You feel his hand close softly around your wrist. The heat of the cart, coupled with the feelings getting caught in your throat makes you dry swallow. Your voice is scratchy and barely more than a whisper as you speak.

“Killer, I-“

The sound of a nearby gunshot startles you both in place. Another beat, before you realize the significance. That was the signal to break cover and support the crew. You scramble apart from Killer and grab your weapon as he swiftly jams the helmet back on his head. Sharing a nod, the two of you jump out from the canvas and attack anyone who dares step close enough.

The wind was brisk as you sailed away from the shores of Wano. Leaning against the Victoria Punk’s front observation deck, you watched as the island became smaller and smaller in the distance. While the beauty of the country couldn’t be denied, you never wanted to see the damn place ever again. Not after all of the heartache and grief you’d gone through while within its borders.

You’d nearly lost everyone. Your Captain, your crew, and…with a glance at Killer who stood beside you, face now split in an unending grin, you can’t help but wonder what was on his mind. He’d given up so much, lost some part of himself that no one knew if he could reclaim. A hollowness in your heart wouldn’t go away, no matter how hard you tried willing it to.

You should feel at peace, far away from Kaido and his beastly crew. For the first time in weeks, there was room to breathe, time to rest, and safe enough to let your guard down for just a moment. But there was no peace with the Kid Pirates. And there likely wouldn’t be for some time after.

“I can feel you staring.” Killer mentions suddenly, eyes still riveted on the place that had stolen his freedom of expression and his ability to swim all in one. You blink, the silence up to that point shattered.

“Sorry.” You mumble, shifting in place at the railing and giving a sigh. Perhaps you’d inadvertently made him feel uncomfortable. His laugh was already a sore spot for him, and now his altered appearance probably even more so. Your throat clears, desperately trying to fix the situation. “I just…was wondering how you were holding up.”

“As well as can be expected.” Is his colorless reply, face never breaking the supposedly happy expression. But from the side profile, you can plainly see the pain in his eyes. “I’m sure it won’t be easy getting used to me this way.”

You’re not sure what to say to that, and he seems to take your silence as something else, closing his eyes for a long while before turning to face you.

“Y/N.” Your name on his lips sounds so mournful all of a sudden, and you look up into his glistening eyes, struck by the juxtaposition of his smile in comparison. “I know that we almost…had something…before.”

Your mouth opens to reply but he troops onward, as if he’d never get the words out if he didn’t do it now. His hands take your own, thumbs brushing over the back of your palms. You squeeze his back in response.

“I’m sorry, for the person I’ve become. I’m sorry if I’ve changed too much for you to still feel…whatever you may have started feeling before Wano. But given the choice again, I wouldn’t change what I did. I would still eat that damn fruit if it meant all of you could be safe, even knowing what I’d be after.”

“Killer…” You mumble, heart-stricken. A tear slides down his smiling cheek, and almost instinctually you reach up to brush it away.

“You’re someone I cherish, and to know you’re safe, and happy, is all I want.” He concluded, eyes closing again. “I…still want to be your friend, if you’ll have me. But if you can’t, then I-“

“Look at me.” Is your firm command, and he stops mid-sentence, staring at you with such a sad gaze and brilliant smile. Hands reach up to hold his face, and you step closer to him, hoping he could see through to the depth of your feelings beneath. “I would give anything to return what was stolen from you; I’d trade places, cut off a limb…whatever it might take.”

You can already see the protest bubbling up from his lips, so you slowly shake your head and don’t give him the chance to interrupt.

“But even if there’s no way to do that, to give that part of you back,” you continued, ignoring the way your chest welled up as you laid you feelings bare after these months of holding them in, “you will always be enough, just as you are.”

The tears run anew in his eyes, and his chest heaves once with a stuttered breath as he grasps the weight of your declaration. He surges forward and wraps his arms around you in a crushing hug, squeezing you to his chest with a force that has you struggling to breathe. But you let him hold you so tightly without complaint, hoping that he would never doubt how much he meant to you again.

You think you hear him sob once into the crook of your neck, but you only hold him tighter, arms wrapped around his neck protectively.

“I think I love you.” Is his muttered, muffled confession.

A part of you always wondered, always assumed, that your attraction was mutual. The two of you were so closely bonded, love seemed like such a natural result. And yet you still feel that little skip of your heart as you pull him away just enough to looking into those beautiful eyes of his, and see the same adoration you felt for him reflected back.

And for once, his wide smile finally matches the emotions in his gaze.

His hands take hold of your head, gently, tenderly, and tilt your face as he leans in close. “I love you.” He says again, barely more than a whisper, eyes flicking back and forth across your face, searching for the answer to a question so obvious.

Your reply is an assured and determined meeting of your mouth to his. A kiss, so simple but with so much emotion and passion behind it that you felt something shift entirely. Even as his mouth molds to your, kissing you like he was savoring the moment, you could feel the upturn of the corners of his lips.

The next day may bring ruin and tragedy yet again, the journey ahead was fraught with mystery and danger, and yet you feared nothing, because after all this time, you had this man to have you and hold you and kiss you like he couldn’t envision anything sweeter. There in his arms at the front of the ship’s lower deck, everything felt right.

And when you finally did have to pull away to fill your lungs with breath, you matched his smile with a bright one of your own.

“I love you too.”

#one piece #one piece x reader #g/n reader #killer #killer x reader #massacre soldier killer #scenario #secret Santa exchange #secret santa

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vinestaffery · 28 days

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hello everyone, it's me again. here to post the lovely teal duo, Scythe! I love these two too, but I am here to ruin some of ya'll's day with this!!! enjoy :3

"This was never the way I wanted it to go, Scythe."

It was probably one of the worst things Scythe had ever heard in a while, especially as her adoptive daughter at the time.

"I'm so sick of what you do, harvesting innocent people's horns for some... Bounty! I never grew up wanting any of this Scythe; you promised to stop."

Scythe refused to see you again after a while.

Medkit tried pushing you to greet her, but why would you trust a demon who can't even face his own fears?

Broker was next to try and convince you.

She was going on so many murder sprees that Ban Hammer lost all proper focus on him and Medkit.

She was going to get herself killed acting like this, and she knew.

She couldn't have you anymore; Scythe was so infatuated with you. You were special.

But you are gone now.

You were gone because she broke one simple promise—something she couldn't even keep to her word.

"C'mon kid, you know 'er for being like this, can't give 'er one chance?"

"I've given her plenty, Broker; I am not going to be a dog with their tail in-between their legs for her anymore."

You completely left the family after a while; the constant ringing of your phone annoyed you.

That's when you went to complete hide-away; you couldn't handle seeing them anymore.

Your family? Gone is your only hope in this god-forsaken world.

You pushed it away because of your own personal boundaries.

Vine Staff came by to support you, and Katana, who welcomed you with open arms to Thieves' Den,

It was like another family, but you couldn't let your old one go.

You refused to go to Cross Roads or even meet up with Vine Staff and Katana at Phighting! Matches because they'd be there.

Scythe had gotten so violent throughout the games that she was nearly removed after giving Slingshot a serious injury, making him unable to play.

You were re-considering going back to forgive her.

But no, you couldn't. You can't.

She was a monster; you couldn't change that out of your mind.

But God, deep down, you missed her. You missed her hugs, her hilarious humor, and her terrifying aura that scared off others in Lost Temple.

Broker and Medkit are fighting one another because Broker got caught once more, making Medkit have to rescue him.

Then Scythe encouraged the behavior even more.

You missed the chaotic household.

"Scythe, leave me alone," you spat.

"Kid, listen 'ere, I swear on my soul." Scythe tried her hardest to draw you in. You shook your head, refusing to give in to the nostalgia. Scythe's manipulative tactics wouldn't work on you this time.

"You can't change that again, Scythe! You killed an innocent girl! What if you killed me? What if you slaughtered me just the same?" Scythe's eyes widened in shock at your words, a flicker of guilt crossing her face before she quickly masked it with defiance. "I had no choice; you have to understand," she pleaded. But you remained unmoved, knowing that her justifications would never erase the blood on her hands.

"What misunderstanding!? That your stupid bastard boss told ya' so?!" Your voice grew louder, and your anger was boiling over as you confronted Scythe. The truth was clear to you now, and nothing she could say would change that.

"You were just following orders, is that it?" You spat, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, guess what? That excuse doesn't fly with me anymore." Scythe's facade crumbled as she realized the weight of her actions and the reality of her choices were sinking in.

Tears welled up in her eyes as she finally admitted, "I was wrong." The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of her guilt and your disappointment.

"You sure were wrong." The silence was enough room for her to not move—a small tremble. You could see the internal struggle written all over her face, the conflict between duty and morality tearing her apart. Finally, she whispered, "I'm sorry."

"I ain't looking for a damn apology; I'm done," hands unbuttoning the vest that Scythe had made for you. You threw the handcrafted vest off of your body. The sound of the vest hitting the ground echoed in the room, a physical representation of the shattered trust between you two. She reached out, but you stepped back, shaking your head in disbelief. The bond that once held you together now lies broken at your feet.

"Tell Medkit and Broker I am leaving; I don't want anything from you; I don't want to hear from you at all. Never again," With tears in your eyes, you turned and walked away, the weight of the betrayal heavy on your shoulders. As you left, the finality of your words hung in the air, sealing the fate of your relationship with Scythe.

hihi!! hope you enjoy!! <3 [i hope i made you cry all]

#scythe x reader #phighting x reader #phighting!#scythe phighting #phighting medkit #phighting broker #x reader #gender neutral reader #gender neutral y/n #gender neutral pronouns #x reader angst #angst #no happy ending #੭୧ㅤ﹔ ㅤ vinestafferyㅤ．scenario #੭୧ㅤ﹔ ㅤ vinestafferyㅤ．phighting!#੭୧ㅤ﹔ ㅤ vinestafferyㅤ．phighting!scythe

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anamericangirl · 3 months

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Uhhh hey you know queer folk are marginalized? Disabled queer here, and I’m aok coexisting with xtians and such as long as they are all coexsisting w me. But when ppl wish for my existence to be erased and for me to not marry my fiancé… that’s where there’s issues. I will always preach love, I adore churches. I anually go to xtian masses with my mother’s parents. I understand the message Jesus gave. And that was that all ppl should be allowed to exsist. At the end of the day Jesus was a probably queer poc Jewish man who hung out with prostitutes, disabled folk, queer folk, beggars? abd other impoverished down trodden and marginalized ppl.

I’m sorry you feel that we are not marginalized and that we are infringing on your rights. I’m sorry you look and see a mirror of actions on to us.

And I want you to do as Jesus would. And forgive you. Because all ppl are capable of compassion and understanding. And I hope that one day you will understand that too my friend

Hey so you actually don't understand the message Jesus gave at all and it sounds like you've never read the Bible. No offense but you're just objectively wrong about what Jesus preached and who he was.

His message was not "all people should be allowed to exist." His message was that we are all sinners and we are all living in sin and we need to repent from our sins and give our lives to him and follow him and accept his forgiveness and gift of eternal life that he paid for with his own blood on the cross and endeavor to no longer live in sin. Yes, even you.

His message was not co-existence.

However, no one, not even Christians, are actively trying to keep you from existing. People disagreeing with something you do with your life is not even remotely the same as trying to say you should not be allowed to exist and it's time to stop trying to conflate those things.

Jesus was not a "queer poc" man and that's blasphemous tbh.

Jesus also wasn't hanging out with thieves, beggars, the poor, prostitutes and the disabled because they were "marginalized" he hung out with them because they needed to hear the truth of his word and they needed to be saved and to repent of their sins.

He said himself why he hung out with them when he was confronted about it.

"And Jesus answered them, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. I have not come to call the righteous but sinners to repentance." - Luke 3:31-32

So for you to try and rewrite that to fit your modern day narrative is, again, blasphemous.

I don't have a problem with you existing and I love you as a fellow human being and Jesus loves you but that does not mean everything you do is ok and that there is nothing God wants you to repent of and leave behind. In order to follow God, like we need to do, we all have things we have to abandon because they are sinful.

And you need to read the Bible and seek God's guidance to discover what aspects of your life are going against God's commandments and leave them behind.

#anon #answered

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ratrrriot · 1 year

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Do you have any sonic ocs? (Or ocs in general, haha) (totally not asking so I can make fanart, nahhhh….)

The fact that you are considering drawing my OCS when you haven't even seen them yet is very flattering,thank you!!

these are from when i was in highschool lol

This is Spark, They are a Tetraplegic Chao Cream found and brought to Tails,who successfully managed to build a fully functional mechanical body for them to play with. This robot body is connected to their brain and can even fly.

Spark lives at Tail's workshop and they’re clearly very fond of Cream -who regularly visits them to play- and Tails.

Originally,Tails was going to design Spark’s robot body based on his own (for trademark reasons) but since Cream was Spark's “owner” (for lack of a better term referring to someone who takes care of a chao) ,she wanted to participate in the designing part and gave him a few crayon drawings of rabbits, which were so cute that Tails simply had to include them in the final design. This is why they look like a Fox/Rabbit hybrid. (it also makes sense since Spark sees them both as some sort of older siblings)

ofc Spark isn't always inside their robot body,Tails takes them in and out everyday.

Aaand these are some apprentices I designed for the Babylon Rogues! Tundra,Velvet and Ember. They love snowboarding and are developing their skills at Extreme Gear Racing. They kinda need some redesigning...

These three are orphans. They used to live at an orphanage situated in a small town near Snow Valley. Unsatisfied with their lives there (and that nobody seemed to be interested in adopting them) they ran away around the age of 12 to try and start new lifes on their own,resorting to thievery and trickery to get by. Life was hard and unfair for three kids growing up in the snowy streets,but thanks to Velvet's determination,Ember's charisma and Tundra's intelligence they managed to survive. After a year of wandering,they stole 3 snowboards and started practicing the sport ,with the hopes that one day they would become famous professionals who didn't need to resort to stealing. However,by they age of 16, they hadn't just developed great skill and love for what they now consider "the art of thievery" - and a liking for equipment and luxuries most can't afford- but they also had lost all interest on the "safer" version of snowboarding and became addicted to the speed and the danger of racing.

They set on a journey to find their childhood idols: The babylon Rogues, a group of legendary thieves that they heard tales about back at the orphanage's storytime and who's Extreme Gear skills were what originally inspired them to try snowboarding. They traveled far and wide searching for them and once they managed to find Wave,Jet and Storm,they begged them to teach them their ways . After annoying them enough (and practically not letting them alone lol) the trio of professionals finally agreed to train them.

VELVET THE NORTHERN CARDINAL:

Energic,Peppy,Sassy,Optimistic,laid-back and confident. A speed junkie and a little bit of a clown. The fastest of the trio. Jet is his Idol and he'll do anything to impress him. Tries to annoy Sonic to imitate his teacher,but he actually thinks he is the coolest guy around after Jet. He has a big heart and doesn't seem to hate Sonic -or anyone -at all,but he does enjoy some friendly banter at the moment of competing. Jet likes him a lot and is kinda proud of him but he tries not to show it ,as he doesn't want the kid (or himself) to get attached or to think he'll actually pass to him his "Master of the wind" title someday.

The gem-shaped-computer on his neck was a gift he received from Wave after she updated her own and didn't know what to do with her old one. According to her,she handed it down to him cause "it matched his feathers". Now,feeling honored by one of his idols,he wears it with pride.

EMBER THE COCKATIEL:

Cheeky, Rebellious, Brave, Impulsive and Loyal. Doing tricks in the air like its nothing is her specialty. Cares a lot about her looks and is an expert at the art of deception. She is also can be a little bit of meanie. She and Wave share a sister-like kind of relationship. Since they both have strong personalities, they fight a lot and she tends to disobey her,espeally when it comes to the times she tries to teach her about mechanics and "the boring part" of Extreme Gear personalization. However, they always make up and end up gossiping at the end of the day.

TUNDRA THE CRESTED PENGUIN :

Silent, cold, shy, serious, a bit competitive and incredibly smart. Expert at strategizing and finding shortcuts while racing. Has high expectations of himself and doesn't handle failure very well. Being the oldest by a year,he is very protective of his adoptive siblings. Unlike Wave and Jet,Storm didn't have to be convinced to take him under his wing cause he liked the kid since the moment he showed up. tho he is trying to teach him to live a little and be a bit more impulsive at the moment of racing.

#rat answers #my sonic ocs #Spark #Ember the cockatiel #Tundra the crested penguin #Velvet the northern cardinal

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roseghoul26 · 1 month

Text

Javier Escuella x gn!Reader

Synopsis: For the last few nights, Javier’s guitar has been disappearing at night, returning back to its spot in the morning. No one in camp seems to know where it's going, and he’s getting real tired of his belongings getting taken. Tags: Not Beta Read, I Wrote This In Like Two Hours, Developing Relationship, Crushes, Fluff, You Steal Javier’s Guitar, Turns Out I Can Write Something Short(er), Arthur Morgan is a Nosy Bastard, But We Love Him Author's Note: i wanted to try writing from a different pov, and i needed a break from writing smut so here’s this little drabble <3

For the life of him, Javier could not figure out where his guitar was disappearing to each night.

He prided himself on being a very observant man, someone with eyes on the back of his head, as the saying went. He was quick to notice when someone was attempting to swindle him, pickpocket him, deceive him in any way. It’s how he’d survived so many years on his own, and how he excelled in the gang.

Even when it came to his belongings in camp, he kept a close eye on them. If he saw someone approaching his tent, even if he trusted them, he’d always keep an eye on their hands, not too keen on having someone steal his hard-earned belongings. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his campmates, but he lived with a group of professional thieves; he could never be too cautious.

When it came to his guitar, his most treasured belonging, he watched it like a hawk whenever he was lingering around camp. If it wasn’t in his hands currently being played, then it was propped up on a barrel or stool, always in line of sight. So you’d think he’d notice when someone took it, right?

You’d think so, but the currently empty spot where it should be said otherwise. Every night for the last couple days, without fail, it had been snatched, only to be returned an hour later. The first time it happened, he nearly lost his mind, practically tearing apart the camp to find it. His relief was immeasurable when he saw it returned an hour later, with not a single scratch on it. He had then chalked it up to having too many drinks that night and forgetting where he had set it.

When the second night came around and it disappeared again, he was less worried than before, but he still began to ask around camp, keeping an eye out for the wooden instrument. Charles had just shrugged when he asked where it was, but even in the dim light he could see a slight grin on his face. He refused to elaborate further when Javier asked, and after a few moments of getting only silence to his question, he moved on to the next person.

Arthur was even less of a help, saying he saw someone take it, but didn’t say who or to where. He had cursed at Arthur then, and the other man just laughed in response.

Hosea hadn’t seen anything, apparently, and Sean was too drunk to even make out the whiskey bottle in his hand. Pearson was too preoccupied with making the camp dinner, and Mary-Beth claimed she was too busy reading to see anything, but the lack of a book near her made her lie very clear.

It was like the whole camp was conspiring against him, making him look like a fool. Every person he asked either feigned ignorance, or just straight up refused to tell him. It was when he asked Tilly that he got any sort of clue. She had pointed him in your direction, saying that he should ask you if you’d seen it.

Javier wasn’t sure what to make of you. The newcomer of the Van Der Linde gang, you’d been with them for about a month, and Javier had had very little opportunities to speak to you, always on different jobs for the camp. When he did speak to you, it was quick conversations, or around the campfire with the others. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to you; it was quite the opposite. There was something intriguing about you, something that he couldn’t quite put a label on. You were talented, that was undeniable, and he’d heard nothing but praise about you from Dutch, which made you good his book.

But as he glanced over to where Tilly was pointing, any plan of speaking to you went right out the window. He quite literally stumbled over his words as he talked to Tilly, a small chuckle leaving her that he missed as he continued to watch you. You were sitting around the fire, in the middle of talking with Bill, Hosea, and Dutch. The light from the fire illuminated your face, and you felt his heart begin to race as he watched a beautiful smile appear on your face.

Another thing that Javier prided himself on was his confidence. He was suave, a charmer, and could talk his way out of anything. Yet as he watched you, all that confidence seemed to be sucked away, and the thought of talking to you became a daunting, impossible task; it was almost pathetic.

So, instead of following Tilly’s suggestions, he had just wished her a good night, heading back to his tent. He had to do a double take when he saw his guitar propped up in his usual spot, still in the same condition as it was prior. He felt like he was going insane.

Instead of playing like he normally did, he just went straight to bed, much to everyone’s confusion. He was confused, and not just about his guitar. He was confused on why he had reacted the way he did when he saw you. He’d never really thought of you in that way before, but now that he did, he couldn’t stop. Has he always found you that… beautiful? Was the reason why he didn’t talk to you not because of conflicting schedules, but because of his cowardice?

He didn’t sleep well that night.

He expected the next night to be the same thing, but was almost disappointed to find his guitar untouched the entire day. He even made a point not to play it, but there were no takers, and he went to bed even more confused.

It disappeared that night, and he somehow managed to not see who did it. It was like they were a phantom, invisible only to him. He practically stared holes into the empty spot as he awaited for the person to return to it, but when an hour passed and no one showed up, he got up, legs aching from sitting still for so long. A disbelieving sigh, followed by a string of curses in Spanish spilled from his mouth when there, behind him at one of the other campfires, the guitar sat. Arthur just smiled at him when Javier raised a brow in question, and it took every ounce of willpower in his body to not throttle the other man.

The rest of the week went like that. No matter how hard he tried, or how many “traps” he set up, he couldn’t catch the little thief. It was almost funny, the entire situation, but he was far too frustrated to find any amusement with it.

He had tried multiple times during that week to approach you, but it was like the universe hated him. One time, he nearly tripped over his own feet while making his way towards you, and you luckily didn’t see. When he successfully was able to walk, you were called away by Dutch, an apologetic look on your face as you walked away.

But most days, he just couldn’t bring himself to approach you. The others, Charles and Arthur especially, had picked up on his predicament, one of the kind enough to not tease him for it. The other, more specifically Arthur, found great pleasure in tormenting him about it. Charles had to stop him from attacking the other man, and that’s how he currently found himself alone in the woods, calming himself down with a cigarette. Normally, he would use his guitar as an outlet, but to his not-surprise, it was missing.

It had been a while since he was this far away from camp as Horseshoe Overlook at night. It was almost eerily peaceful, the sound of crickets and nocturnal animals the only thing he could hear. It was even colder, and he was grateful that he had slipped on a jacket earlier in the night.

Grass and branches crunched beneath his feet as he walked further into the woods, no intent behind his motions except for exploring. That was until he heard something in the distance, so light that he thought he was imagining it for a moment. It was music, a lone guitar, to be exact. Tales of hearing music in the woods from his childhood flooded his mind, yet he didn’t feel scared. Weirdly enough, he felt at ease, and he found himself walking closer to the sound.

It got louder as he went down the hill, and as he got closer he heard a voice accompanying the guitar. It was soft, uncertain almost, yet it was quite beautiful. It pulled at him, almost like a siren’s song, and he continued to make his way toward it, an excited energy buzzing in his body.

To say he was shocked to see you sitting against a rock, guitar in hand, singing those stunning melodies, would be an understatement. You had your back to him, and you doubt you could hear him approaching, and he glanced at the guitar in your hands. His new suspicions were confirmed when he was the familiar faded oak instrument in your hand; you were the one taking his guitar each night. If it were any other person, he would be pissed off. Yet he couldn’t find it in himself to be upset at you. Instead, he was amused, the hilarity of the situation finally revealing itself to him, and for once he didn't feel the need to run the other way instead of talking to you.

He stomped out the cigarette, still going unnoticed by you. Not wanting to startle you too badly, he cleared his throat, jumping himself a bit when you immediately stopped. There was now a gun in your hand, aimed directly at him, and he held his hands up. When you were able to make out it was just him in the darkness, you relaxed, holstering your gun. “Javier,” you breathed out, and he felt his heart jump at the way you said his name. “I’m so sorry…”

He waved it off. “I startled you. No need to apologize. I’d be a bit more concerned if you hadn’t done that.”

You huffed out a laugh. “So it’s good to be jumpy, then. Noted.”

“Being ‘jumpy’ keeps you alive. Heard way too many stories of people being a little too slow on the draw, and end up dead because of it.”

You just hummed thoughtfully, before a look of concern crept on your face. “I wasn’t disturbing you, was I?” You gestured to the guitar. “I thought I was far enough away from camp, but if you need me to move…”

“You’re fine,” he reassured. “And besides, even if I could hear you all the way from camp, you wouldn’t have disturbed me. You play wonderfully, and your voice is, well, beautiful.”

He swore you blushed at the praise, ducking your head in embarrassment. He watched as your fingers danced over the frets, almost like you were doing it out of nervous habit. “You’re too kind, Javier.”

“How long have you been playing?” He asked, taking a few steps toward you.

“Since I was a child.” You let out a breath, your head resting against the rock behind you. “Here,” you patted the ground beside you, “come sit.”

Praying that he wouldn’t make a fool of himself, he complied, your shoulders brushing as he sat. You didn’t seem to mind, not pulling away. In fact, you almost seemed to relax even more, but he quickly banished that train of thought. He was reading too much into it.

You continued. “I’m admittedly a bit rusty; I stopped playin’ a few years back. But then I saw the guitar in camp, and Arthur said it didn’t belong to anyone and I, dunno, just got the urge to start playin’ again.”

He had to bite back the laughter and the threat towards Arthur’s wellbeing that almost spilled from him. Of course Arthur was behind all this, the nosy bastard. He couldn’t tell if he was grateful or not, though.

“You should start playing in camp. They’re probably tired of hearing me play all the time.”

He couldn’t help the small smile that grew on his lips at the excited look on your face. “You play too?”

He nodded. “I do. I realize now you probably haven’t heard me yet.” And so you don’t realize who’s guitar that actually is.

You shook your head, the motion causing your arms to continuously brush against him. “Well, then how long have you played?” You shot his question back at him.

“Only during the past couple of years. Picked it up because I needed something to occupy my time, and I found I rather enjoyed it. Let’s just say, though, you’re much better than me.”

“Well, I don’t know ‘bout that,” you laughed. “I haven’t even heard you play yet.” You tried to hand him the guitar, but he just held his hand up, shaking his head lightly. It was adorable, the way you almost pouted.

“I promise, you’ll hear me soon enough. For now that guitar’s better off in your hands.”

You sighed, barely conceding. “Fine. But don’t get annoyed if I nag you ‘bout it.”

“You couldn’t annoy me if you tried,” Javier admitted, almost a bit too honestly. He wasn’t sure where this was coming from; it was like the filter on his mouth just shut off, scared off by your proximity. You cocked your head, confused, and Javier elaborated a bit further. “If it was any other person that was taking my guitar each night, then we’d have issues. But I don’t mind if it’s you.”

Shock then mortification washed over your face, and Javier regretted telling you for a moment, missing that soft smile. “This… this is yours?” You asked, voice rising in volume as you gestured to the instrument. You groaned when he nodded, head slumping against the rock, defeated. “And I’ve just been takin’ it each night. Javier, I am so sorry-”

Javier chuckled a bit. “Like I said, I don’t mind. You’ve treated it well, which is more than I can say for the others when it comes to my stuff.”

His words seemed to just go in one ear and straight out the other. Your cheeks had darkened from embarrassment, and he would’ve found it cute if you weren’t so upset. “But it’s not alright! I should’ve asked, I… I should’ve known Arthur was lyin’ when he said it didn’t belong to anyone. Oh, I’m gonna kill him,” you snarled, getting up quickly, not before gently setting the guitar in Javier’s lap.

He didn’t let you get too far, his hand instinctively reaching up to grab your wrist, halting you immediately. You were both equally shocked, both pairs of eyes glancing to where he was currently touching you. His heart hammered in his chest, but he didn’t let go, gently pulling you back towards him. “Stay. Please.”

You continued to stare at him, moth agape, and for a moment Javier thought he misread everything. But his worries about disgusting or upsetting you were quickly discarded when a bright grin adorned your face, a pleasant light in the darkness of night. With a gentle tug, Javier brought you back down to where you had just been sitting, his hand never leaving your wrist. It was weird, how quickly his body had missed the heat of you, and he unconsciously felt himself pressing close to your side.

Or maybe you were the one pressing into him. He couldn’t tell.

“I’m sorry.” He heard you apologize yet again, and he let out a lighthearted scoff.

“How many times do I have to say that it’s alright? I’m not lying, I swear!”

“And that’s what Arthur said, but here we are.” Even though your words were accusatory, he still heard a slight laugh behind them. “He was ‘bout to face my anger if he had just ruined anythin’ with you.”

“What do you mean?” He tried to not sound too hopeful.

“Well, I’ve been wantin’ to talk to you, to get to know you,” you admitted, no longer looking him in the eye. “But I thought by doin’ all this,” you pointed at the guitar in his lap,” that I ruined any chance of creatin’ any sort of… friendship with you.”

“Only a friendship, cariño?” There was that confidence he was known for, back now that he realized that his desire to know you wasn’t so one-sided.

Your head snapped to him when he said that, eyes going wide. “I… well…” you were extremely flustered, and Javier found great joy in the fact that he had done that to you. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

“Yes, we will.” He murmured. He finally let go of your wrist, smiling a bit at the way you seemed to sadden, but his touch wasn’t gone for long. Running his fingers across the back of your hands, he then interlocked them, resting them on your thighs.

Another beautiful smile from you dazzled him, and he sighed in contentment when you tentatively rested your head on his shoulder. In no world did he imagine that this was how his night would end, but he was certainly not complaining, especially when you moved impossibly closer to him.

When the two of you returned back to camp hours later, hand in hand, guitar in your own, laughter making you breathless, he barely noticed the looks from the others, too caught up in you to even bother to look elsewhere. Something new flickered in his chest, something he hadn’t felt in a while, and it took until he tried to fall asleep to put a name to it.

For a moment, he thought it was just love, but even it was overshadowed by the other thing he was feeling: hope. For the first time in a long time, Javier Escuella went to bed with hope for the next day, and he had you to thank.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #javier escuella x you #javier escuella rdr2 #javier escuella x reader #javier escuella

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poichanchan · 2 years

Note

Hiii, someone relatively new to the phandom having just played through p5r, but can I ask how the swap au premise works? I'm curious what your own takes might be on how the situations for both joker and akechi happened to lead for them to be on opposite sides in comparison to the game! I tried to look it up a bit, but there's a lot of different headcanons, but I love your concepts so much I wanted to see if you had any particular thoughts on the setting :3

Hiiiii welcome to p5 brainrot jail haha! (genuinely though, welcome and im happy you enjoyed p5r!) Everyone has their take on swapAU, I specifically wanted to play with the idea of Goro and Akira swapping their ROLES ONLY.

In my AU Goro Akechi is still the son of Shido who is largely out of his life. Goro's life is a mess, his moms in rehab, and he is sent to Tokyo on probation (to his mother's friend Muhen the owner of JazzJin). I've adjusted Goro's life just enough to have him keep his childish love for justice. He finds his found family in the PT. Goro is a Snarky, whole, intelligent, a little mean, energetic, gets flustered, but also is passive and observant when he needs to be. HIS ROUGH LIFE MADE HIM GRUFF AND HONEST BUT HE ISNT JADED. Akira hates how shallow and transactional his life is. He has his awakening, ends up on Shido's radar via the research group he has in place to explore and exploit the metaverse. Akira's parents probably work around the research team somewhere and didn't think too hard about what they were getting their son into... a mix of negligence and wanting to get more opportunities as a family/bootlick. From there he has his forced 2nd awakening and gets ensnared in Shido's conspiracy. There is a lot of resentment in his life because of this, and when he is faced with Goro's existence, the literal SON OF SHIDO WHO HAS THE SAME POWERS yet life turned out so different for him because their roles are swapped its terrible. Akira is also very good at adapting to who he talks to like in canon. He is good at socializing and charming, thus the detective prince facade becomes a thing to help him gain access to deeper levels of mementos blah blah blah

Akira is also rationalizing a lot, he is seeing himself weeding corrupt people out, a hero getting hands dirty and sacrificing self for greater good. The metaverse is his stage. And he is THE showman. Detective prince Akira is more sweeping/showy/charismatic/flirty, his joker vibe comes through more normally. APART from the resentment Akira has for seeing Goro live his life the way he does, the resounding ITS NOT FAIR he feels in his heart, he also reeeeeally want the stupid phantom thieves to 'cherish your normalcy. stop messing with my plan. how fucking naive do you have to be to think THIS is justice?' COLD SEETHING FOCUSED FURY FROM AKIRA Its such a mess lol But i think hit Akira in the places that would make him play out the detective prince and Black mask bits without losing too much of his own flavor. His rationalizing is important, otherwise i felt he would feel the moral conflict harder and withdraw instead of being showy and sweeping. Also for their social links i have thoughts, i think detective Akira's special place would not be... jazzjin. I think he would drop by like canon Akechi drops by Leblanc, but nothing more. I have in mind a place up high at a height, something like the Shibuya Sky observation deck as a place he personally visits often to reflect and stare at the massive view of the city from. It felt right to have him up there looking down alone but comforted by it. Plus eventually share the view with Goro who he sees as this actual fated rival for all the reasons above. Their outfits are the way they are because i did not want to change them too severely in colorpallette or essence but wanted to play up some parts of their personality and represent it in the outfits. AND BECAUSE THIS IS A SHUAKESHU BLOG I NEED TO STRESS THAT because they are less jaded, because Akira is bolder and flirtier and Goro is more stubbornly optimistic about this dark world akira sees, they get closer alot faster, which makes the whole black mask and interrogation room bit very messy/

added pix to make post spicier THIS IS A MASSIVE POST BUT IM GLAD YOU ASKED BECAUSE I DUMPED MY THOUGHTS IN ONE PLACE FINALLY. there are some other things ive thought out a tiny bit, like hobbies etc but i put them down later when ive developed it more etc @ anyone reading, thank u for reading and these are my personal thoughts i am thingying to entertain myself!!!!! dont be mean to me thanks ;v;

#swap au #persona 5 #persona 5 royal #IS THIS A MASTERPOST #masterpost #ref #sorry if i have typos in there its 2am and the question has me brainrotting again

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tickle-bugs · 10 months

Text

Cool Guy

Anon: Heya! If you're still doing them, could you make a tickle fic on Luke and Han but js Han getting Luke? I love the whole Luke being like Hans lil bro 😭 An idea being maybe Luke is embarrassing Han in front of Leia and Han gets him back, Leia maybe helping Han a bit? I like your fics a lot haha! It's alr if not ofc, js have a good day! :D <3

Summary: Han is cool, suave, and absolutely irresistible. Luke vehemently disagrees.

Han knows logically that he cannot not squish the galaxy’s last hope like a bug. That would be unwise. There is, however, zero question of if he deserves it.

Luke is almost better at being a little shit than he is at being a Jedi.

“Princess!” Han leans against the wall. The Falcon’s internals hum behind it. Leia looks up at him blankly.

“Pest.” She takes a bite of a sandwich. “What do you want?”

Nothing. Not a thing. He just loves the irritated curve of her eyebrow, the sharpness of her gaze, the curl of her lips--

“I’d love it if you’d stop taking what’s not yours.” He nods towards the sandwich. Leia regards it, then makes deep eye contact on her next bite. Han chuckles in something like disbelief, but he knows her. Knows how she likes to provoke.

“Nice boys share their food.” She takes another bite.

“Well, I ain’t nice. Keep your thieving little hands to yourself.” Han considers wrapping up the sandwich, just to be petty, but he knows she hardly takes interest in his things unless she needs something. He could find something else to eat.

“Or else what?” She plays with the crust of the bread. Eye contact. God, he loves this game of theirs. She leaves him breathless too often for his liking, though. As he flounders for a comeback, he hears a high-pitched noise from the other side of the room.

Luke. Great.

“What are you wearing?” Luke laughs incredulously. Han looks down at himself. He’d put on a fur vest today instead of his usual cargo one. It was something he’d snatched off some mook that’d tried to set him up with a dishonest deal. It’s old and it smells a little funny, but he likes it. It’s his now.

“Wh—it’s a vest. It’s cold.” Han frowns.

“You look like Chewie shed on you.” Luke leans his hip against the doorway as he settles in to mock. There’s a Wookiee outcry of indignation from the cockpit that goes unanswered.

“It’s a fashion statement.” Han adjusts his posture, gives them a new angle. Luke snorts. Han scowls.

“What exactly are you stating?” Leia rests her chin in her hands. She’s got a crumb on her cheek. He does not think about brushing it away.

“You’re both terrible.” Han stomps off to change.

“Right back atcha!” Leia calls after him. Her laughter is sweet, even at his expense.

….

Run-ins with Empire patrols always put Han on a fine edge--he’s a well-oiled machine with Chewie at his back, but recent additions to the Falcon have proven…distracting. As he slams them into a hyperspace jump, the twins’ noise somehow drowns out the noise of the engine. Leia’s complaining that he took too many risks, Luke’s insisting he took too little, and Han’s half tempted to spin send the Falcon into a barrel roll just to hear a different sound.

Chewie won’t let him. The honorable bastard.

The moment they finish the jump, Han swivels out of his chair and goes…well, he’s not sure where he’s going, but he knows he needs to see and hear something besides Luke crunching angrily on crackers.

Leia follows on Han’s heels, Luke follows on hers, and Han considers just ejecting himself from the airlock and being done with it.

“If you want to die, be my guest, but don’t put us at risk for your ego.” Leia smacks his chest. Han can’t tell if he’s imagining the lingering touch of her fingers.

“No, you’d miss me too much.” He fires back, pulling out of her grasp. He takes long strides, taking a petty sort of joy in hearing significantly shorter legs scramble after him.

“Not a chance in hell,” Leia snarls, snatching the back of his vest. He whirls around.

“Yes, you would, because things are boring without me. You like having me around.” He leans into her space. She stands her ground.

“The fate of the galaxy is boring?” She conveniently ignores that last part. Han doesn’t miss it.

“It is without me. Face it, princess. You’re attached.” He puts his hands on his hips. Leia’s face turns an interesting color.

“Ha! See? Attached!” Han points triumphantly. Leia smacks his hand away.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t need to. The truth’s all over your face.” He circles that pointer finger in her face. She smacks it hard enough to bruise this time.

“The truth that I can’t stand you, more like. You’re arrogant, reckless, irresponsible—“

“And exactly your type.” Han grins. “You like having me around. Meanwhile, I’m cool, casual, and unattached.” Han clicks his tongue. Leia attempts to burn a hole through his forehead with her gaze. He worries for a moment that she might.

“Really?” Luke crunches loudly. “I heard you telling Chewie that you like having us around. That you wouldn’t know what you’d do without us. Didn’t sound very cool and casual.”

“I was drunk.” Han’s face burns. Leia snorts. Han scowls.

“Drunk mind, sober thoughts.” Luke grins teasingly, waving a chip in his face. Han tries to snatch the bag, but Luke twirls effortlessly out of the way. Damn Jedi.

“Sounds like you’re attached, laser brain.” Leia circles her finger in his face, and Han wonders if turning himself in to the Empire might be better for his ego.

…

Han’s not sure when his game with Leia stopped being a game and started being this, but he’s not complaining. He’s made out in worse storage rooms than the ones on the Falcon. They’d started with fetching a rations restock, devolved into bickering, and, well…their arguments usually end in violence or the threat of it, so Leia trying to climb him like a tree is a much-welcomed departure from form.

Normally Han’s great at keeping his emotions in a cold, dark little box where he never has to deal with them, but Leia looked so pretty yelling at him that he just…had to kiss her. He knew at that moment he’d die if he didn’t. It’s not the first time they’ve kissed and he hopes it won’t be the last, but each touch with Leia is like drifting closer to the beautiful terror of the sun. The best part, the overwhelming part, is that she wants him too.

All of that would’ve been well and good, great even, if Luke hadn’t been standing in the doorway.

Luke and Leia have some kind of stare-off that Han suspects involves their twinness--there’s lots of flustered, offended noises without words being uttered. Luke raises his eyebrow in a way that really seems to get to Leia, because she splutters, which she expressly does not do.

“Don’t you start! I tolerate him!” She glares at Luke, her cheeks turning red.

“Aww.” Han smirks. She elbows him in the ribs.

“With your mouth?” Luke’s near hysterical.

“Among other things.” Han smirks wider. Luke’s face twists in sheer disgust.

“Shut up,” Leia hisses, blushing and hitting him harder. He grins.

Luke levels a finger at Han, a habit he picked up from him in the first place, and then stalks off.

“Chances he knifes me in my sleep?”

“Lower than me doing it myself.” Leia swats his arm once more for good measure, but she’s still glowing, and Han thinks he might want to see that smile of hers for the rest of his life.

“I’ll take those odds.”

The difference between Luke and his sister, in Han’s opinion, is that Luke’s noise goes inwards. Leia will scream at Han until she’s red in the face and then she’ll miraculously find more air. Luke gets quiet and vengeful, which is why Han starts to suspect foul play the third time he trips over thin air.

Han really wants to fight back, but every time he opens his mouth, Leia’s lurking around some dark corner.

On hour three of Luke’s temper tantrum, Han’s eye begins to twitch. He’s probably bruised every inch of his shins by now, he’s tired, and he thinks if he can close his eyes for an hour he might remember how to function. Just a sweet, Skywalkerless hour.

Han drags his hand over his face as he walks off to his cabin. He finds Luke standing in the hall like an omen. He doesn’t move when Han approaches. The little furrow in his brow is probably meant to be intimidating, and maybe one day it will be, but Han can’t bring himself to care.

The desire to lay down overcomes his rational thought, and he does to Luke what he often does to Leia: jams his hands under Luke’s arms and lifts him out of the way.

Except, unlike Leia, Luke doesn’t try to kick him. He lets out a giggle at a pitch Han didn’t know he was capable of.

Han pauses, raising an eyebrow at the rapidly-reddening Jedi in his arms. He twitches his fingers. Luke chokes out a surprised laugh.

Han’s suddenly not tired anymore. Funny, that.

“Han, don’t you dare, c’mon--”

Han sets Luke down but doesn’t release him--he viciously wiggles his fingers where they’re trapped under Luke’s arms. He goes down like a sack of droid components, filling the Falcon with bright, bouncy laughter it so desperately needs.

“You get a minute for every bruise, and my shins are looking mighty purple.” Han whistles lowly, pressing into the gaps between Luke’s ribs. Luke lets out a giggly hiccup and kicks his legs.

“That’s not f-fair!” Luke clutches Han’s arms desperately. Han twitches his fingers and he curls up, shaking his head. Han distantly wonders when Luke last laughed like this. If he ever has.

“Yeah? Tell me about it. Pick on someone your own size and maybe life will be fairer.” Han tries to keep his stare blank, but his mouth quirks up at the corners. Luke lets out an indignant gasp, but he quickly tumbles right back down into laughter.

“Let go,” Luke growls, his whole face scrunching around his smile.

“Kid, I can’t let you go if you’ve got my hands.” Han gives a dramatic tug. He stops, raising his eyebrow expectantly. Luke pouts--pouts!--at him and lifts his arms at glacial pace. Han pulls away…

…and goes right for Luke’s exposed stomach. His shout of betrayal mixes beautifully with his laughter.

“Rookie mistake,” Leia tuts, snickering at Luke’s misfortune. Han jumps at her appearance--man, he should put a bell on these two--and Luke takes that as a signal to start wriggling away. Han reels him back in with a hearty laugh.

“Leia, fetch your--” Han cuts Luke off with a squeeze to the side before he can say anything embarrassing.

“You gonna help, Your Worship? Or are you above getting your hands dirty?” Han casts a glance at Leia.

“Never.” Leia smirks, kneeling beside Luke. They stare at each other for a long, tense while. Leia’s gaze drifts over him the same way she sifts through a plan for holes, until she stops at his knees.

Luke’s eyes widen. Leia grins.

She latches on like a viper and Luke squeals, drumming his feet on the ground. He throws his head back and cackles himself into silence, flopping around uselessly.

“Remind me to stay on your good side,” Han chuckles, a little nervous.

“You’re notoriously bad at it,” she smirks. Han swears he feels the ghost of her fingers on his own legs. He shudders.

Luke’s surrender is less of a cry and more of a wheeze, but they let him go quickly all the same. He tosses his arm over his glowing face with a great, heaving sigh.

“You alright over there?” Han chuckles, nudging Luke’s boot. He lifts his arm to glare.

“I hate you.”

“I know.” Han pats his ankle. Luke kicks him. Han squeezes his knee and he immediately blurts out a tired, giggly apology.

“Stop being a little shit and trying to trip me up. It’s not gonna work. Too cool for that.” Han pats Luke’s stomach.

Warm hands wrap around his waist and he leans back, scaring himself with how easily he fits into Leia’s arms. She hooks her chin over his shoulder.

“Are you ready?” She murmurs, brushing her fingers over the fabric of his shirt.

“Ready for what?” His hand finds hers. He’s more than ready, if he’s reading this right. She’s rarely like this beyond closed doors, and it sends a thrill through him. Her lips brushing his ear drives him just a little crazy. He starts to stand, but she pulls him back down.

“To be tripped up.” She smirks. He feels it.

“Wh—“

Leia’s fingers dig in with deadly accuracy. Han crumples and his bravado goes with him. Loud, hearty laughter bursts from him as he slides to the floor, boneless in her arms.

“Aw, look at you cool guy.” Luke sidles up next to him with a shit eating grin. He tickles mockingly under Han’s chin and he, mortifyingly, giggles. Luke chases the sound, having way too much fun for Han’s liking.

Han growls and tries to kick him. Leia’s fingers find his hips—cruel and unusual—and he’s toast. He resigns himself to die in her lap, which isn’t the overall worst way to go, and makes a mental note to write Luke out of his will.

As long as Chewie thinks he’s cool, he supposes it’s still a net win.

#dont try to place this in canon its about the vibes #my fics #star wars #ticklish!luke skywalker #ticklish!han solo #(at the end)#han solo #luke skywalker #leia organa #idk what han and leia's ship name is. i think its scoundress?#idk lol #this is based off a blooper/deleted scene (not sure which) of han and leia arguing on hoth and harrison just picks carrie up and moves her #while they're still yelling #i think harrison went down the wrong hallway and that was him trying to correct it but it was so fucking funny i had to write about it

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desmorotu · 4 months

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lasko’s playlist ⭐️ (a glimpse)

˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁀➷ for @morgansplace !!!

☆ lovesong - adele (lasko, despite already having a partner and is able to express how he feels freely to them, is still a hopeless romantic. he often feels a pit in his stomach when thinking about love, and this song conveys precisely how he can feel. he enjoys humming the melody and tapping his foot to the beat + has cried to this song just because 💀)

☆ i’m not okay - JVKE (he loves the piano!! he is a sucker for a good, heart aching melody that can bring goosebumps to his skin. he doesn’t particularly relate to the song per se, but he does agree with the message that it is okay to not be okay.)

☆ life eternal - ghost (he thinks about his partner when this song plays :p. he really enjoys the choral elements to it! damien’s been introducing him to different kinds of music and lasko is experimenting with ghost currently. he bobs his head to the beat and enjoys dramatically staring out the window when it’s nighttime. he’s witnessed damien screaming these lyrics at the top of his lungs.)

☆ closer - nine inch nails (gavin showed him this song LMAO. despite being shy about the lyrics when listening around other people, when he is alone he is definitely jammin’. he actually enjoys the suggestive lyrics a lot, but he will never admit it to the others. he lip syncs and looks in the mirror while he does it to make sure he looks “attractive enough.” not even his partner knows he does this yet.)

☆ singularity - bts (after having looked up the english translation, he feels a deeper ache when listening to it. he relates deeply to these lyrics, acknowledging that he oftentimes puts others way before himself and, just as in the song, “buries his voice” in fear of rejection. he loves taehyung’s deep vocals and prefers listening while driving because he seeks the vibration of the bass.)

☆ like crazy - jimin (lasko may or may not have gone down a bts rabbit hole at some point—but this song hits him to his core. it’s in a way that he can’t explain, but goosebumps take over his skin and he has to stop whatever he’s doing at the moment to listen and appreciate in its entirety. he was very happy when his partner told him that it was on their playlist after listening to it with them :3)

☆ sure know something - kiss (lasko’s an avid kiss enjoyer—i won’t be hearing any protests. he likes listening to this one with his partner and breaking out of his shell for a moment to dance along with them :). he likes the bass and paul stanley’s voice could “bring a grown man—yes, that grown man is me—to his knees.”)

☆ you know me too well - nothing but thieves (he heard this from another person’s car radio while stopped in traffic and he shazamed that shit. he loves the sensual vibe and, if he ever decides to make a sex playlist, will probably be putting this song on there.)

☆ sway - michael bublé (he fuckin LOVES the entirety of this song. he dances with his partner to it and often enjoys watching them dance to it by themselves. his mouth is always agape, eyes wide and looking desperately in awe. he loves spinning them around and seeing the mischievous glint in their eye. he regrets not ever picking up an instrument, but he would pick up a trombone or violin in a heartbeat if given the chance.)

☆ dancing queen - ABBA (this motherfucker IS the dancing queen even though he is no longer seventeen. he always smiles his biggest when he recognizes the familiar melody and lets himself dance to it even if there are people around. even in the most subtle of ways like walking to the beat or swaying his body, he cannot stay still with this song on. his partner likes to play it when they’re walking through the doorway as an “intro song.”)

refer to lasko’s playlist cover at the bottom!!

˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁀➷

okay omg i hope you like it 💔 more songs from my playlist that give lasko vibes this time. these are just my opinions + headcanons ! i tried really hard with this but sometimes i’m really bad at words so i’m sorry if the descriptions are repetitive :(. again, if you want to see more, let me know!! i personally love content like this and i’ve was actually really inspired by morgan’s OC icon post :3 it was SO COOL

k bye 💟

#redacted audio #redacted asmr #redactedverse #redacted headcanons #redacted asher #redacted gavin #redacted lasko #lasko moore #redacted freelancer #redacted damien #redacted huxley #how did i forget tags #wtf is wrong with me #redacted damn crew

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eddiesghxst · 1 year

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hellooo! the idea of eddie absolutely hating carnivals has been tossing around in my head for so long so i wrote this :)

this was heavily inspired by Hearts Aglow x Weyes Blood and is definitely not proof read

————

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: eddie munson x henderson step-sibling!reader

summary: you and Eddie like love each other and Eddie hates carnivals.

contains: gn!reader, secret relationship trope, eddie being down bad, carnival shenanigans, mentions of oral, lots of fluff, and eddie in his lover era <3

word count: 1.6k

-masterlist-

Eddie is pretty. He’s so pretty with pink and blue and yellow hues dancing across his face, carnival lights twinkling in his brown eyes. He’s got sprinkles of glitter in his hair that he will surely be bitching about later on, and his lips are tainted red from a cherry-flavored snow cone.

You want nothing more than to smear your lips across his and taste them for yourself, but you’re stuck admiring from afar, poking your straw at the watered-down strawberry slushie in your cup.

Eddie believes that carnivals are nothing but money-sucking machines. The games are rigged, the rides are without a doubt hazardous, the food is overpriced and shitty, and there are hundreds of sticky, obnoxious kids running around like they have no home training. Eddie hates carnivals with every bone in his body, but he’ll be damned if he misses out on any chance to be around you.

You and Eddie are…well you’re something. You haven’t quite established exactly what your relationship is with Eddie. You hang out a lot, and you go out to watch movies, and you hold hands, and you kiss, and you might’ve sucked him off in the back of his van a few times, but Eddie hasn’t asked you to be anything serious yet. It’s not exactly his fault, he would’ve asked you a long time ago, but you asked him to go slow and ‘let’s just be careful for now. I don’t want Dustin finding out just yet.’

So…you’re not quite dating but you’re not not dating either. You’re feeling it out. You want to be sure about your feelings with Eddie and you want him to be sure about his feelings with you; because once Dustin finds out there is no going back. And you’d hate to be the reason why your (step) brother loses such a dear friend.

Eddie agreed to go slow and he agreed to keep it between just the two of you for now, but jesus christ, he can’t stand not being able to touch you and hold you and openly admire you in the ways he wants to.

He misses you and you’re less than thirty feet away.

There’s a small stuffed animal in Eddie's hands when he walks up and sits next to you on the bench. It’s a miniature pink dolphin, the best he could get with a lousy shot.

You glance at him and smile, “Hi, stranger.” Eddie smiles back and passes the dolphin to you, you trade him for your slushie and snicker. “I thought you’d pick the shark.”

Eddie shakes his head, and peers down at the drink in his hand as he swishes it around. “It’s not for me.” He takes a sip of your drink and you watch as he smacks his lips together, letting the taste of the sugary treat settle in. “This tastes like shit.”

You snort, bumping your knee against his, nearly breathless at the sight of Eddie’s smile. “Because it’s watered down, genius.” Despite his previous display of distaste, Eddie takes another sip of your drink and you smile as you watch. Your fingertips dig into the plush toy; you want so badly to run your fingers through his hair, push his bangs back and kiss the arch of his eyebrow.

You push your knee against his once more and he looks over at you. “Thank you for my gift.” It’s almost pathetic, how giddy you get when Eddie dotes on you. He once drew a sun on your hand and you could barely tear your gaze away from it for the rest of the day. It nearly ripped you apart when the ink rubbed off in the shower.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. I would've gotten you one of those huge stuffed animals, but those games are shitty pieces of money laundering thieves.”

You laugh as Eddie kicks at a rock beside his foot, mumbling a few curses under his breath. Just as Eddie begins to add to his rant, a couple walks past you, an oversized bunny draped across one of their shoulders. You and Eddie watch as they stroll by, and you fail to hold back a laugh. “Are the games rigged or do you just have poor aim?” You tease, to which Eddie snickers and responds, “I’m sure you know enough about my aim.”

The back of your hand meets Eddie’s shoulder in a warning slap and he giggles like a teenage boy.

You fall silent for a moment and Eddie melts into the feeling of your leg pressed against his. “Why don’t we go get something to eat? I know a place with better drinks than…whatever this is.” Eddie grimaces down at the drink and you roll your eyes. “We can’t just leave—” “Why not? Harrington and Buckley are here.”

You glance at him, and you can’t bear to watch the way his shoulders sink with the reminder of your reality. “Right, forgot about that for a second.” He sighs. You press your lips together before taking in a breath, turning to him, “Yeah, but you also haven’t taken me on the Ferris Wheel yet.”

Eddie gazes at you for a moment before turning to look at the large spinning wheel. He turns back to you and lifts a brow, “You expect me to get on that thing?” And you’re rolling your eyes and ushering Eddie to stand up and follow you before your friends can notice your disappearance. He complains but follows anyway, “You know they built this shit overnight right? Does that sound remotely safe to you?”

You let out a breathy laugh with a shake of your head, “Eddie, you smoke two packs a day and drink Jolt Cola like your life depends on it. That shit’ll kill you quicker than this ten-minute ride on a wobbly Ferris Wheel.” And well, Eddie can’t argue with you on that, so he sucks it up and follows you onto the ride.

Once you're on the ride, your body is pressed against Eddie’s as it begins, slowly and slowly inching you up to the top. You’re busy watching the scenery but Eddie, for the most part, is busy watching you. When you glance over at him, you become shy of his gaze and smile, pointing over his shoulder so he can turn to see the sunset. Eddie watches in silence for a moment before he speaks, “This might be the first time the sight of Hawkins doesn’t make me wanna gag…”

Eddie turns to you and winks, nudging you as he speaks “But I think that’s just because you’re here.”

You gaze at him for a minute before tilting your head, “Eddie Munson, are you flirting with me?”

Eddie hums, raising his shoulder to dramatically shy away from you as he twirls a piece of his hair with his free hand. “I’m not that obvious, am I?” His eyes shine with adoration and mischief.

You hum, tilting your head back and forth in faux thought, “Obvious? No. Cheesy? A million times yes.” “Come on that was good. You’ve gotta admit that was good.” Eddie scoffs when you shake your head no before replying, “It’ll just inflate that big head of yours.” And Eddie’s lightly pressing the entirety of his large hand against your face, playfully pushing you away as you giggle.

You grasp his wrist to pull it away and Eddie thinks you’ll drop his hand, but he’s gladly mistaken when you lace your fingers with his. Your heart skips a beat at the familiar feeling of his rough, calloused fingertips pressed against the back of your hand. Whenever he’s spent long hours shredding his guitar, Eddie makes a show of holding his fingers up in front of you and wiggling them until you gently grasp his wrist and press careful kisses to each of his sore fingertips.

Eddie’s voice is gentle and steady when he speaks, “What happened to being careful?” Your eyes meet his and for a moment, you don’t even remember that you’re on a spinning wheel, you only know you’re here with Eddie. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you all night.” You admit.

His eyes are soft and silky pools of brown as they dart all over your face, searching for any sign of hesitation. “What about your brother? Our friends—” “Nothing matters when you’re 50 feet above Hawkins, Indiana.”

It’s your last trip around the Ferris Wheel before the ride ends, and Eddie refuses to wait in the line again and you’re looking at him like he’s a sky full of stars, so of course he kisses you. It’s slow and gentle and he wants to keep kissing you until his lungs shrivel up inside of him from lack of air. His hand cradles your jaw and he smoothes a thumb over your cheek when he pulls away.

The ride is almost over and you’re sad to have to return to your friends and be pulled away from Eddie. “Will you come over tonight?” You ask before the ride ends. Eddie had been waiting for you to ask, he’s been thinking about it all night. He tries not to sound too excited, but he’s got a shit-eating grin plastered on his face when you look at him, “Leave the window open?” “Bring some smoke and I'll think about letting you stay the night.” You tease, giggling when Eddie feigns offense.

As you step off the ride, you already want nothing more than the night to end, already missing the warmth of Eddie’s touch. But when you rejoin your friends and glance towards Eddie, he winks at you and you’re positive that you will sneak in at least two more secret rides before the end of the night.

#she’s ready now <3 #i was feeling soft today :))#eddie munson x reader #drabble #eddie munson #eddie x reader #stranger things fanfic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #eddie x you #eddie munson x gn!reader #gn!reader

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yiga-hellhole · 24 days

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TFTK CHAPTER 20: ENDURING RESOLVE

Ganondorf has gone into hiding. His two most loyal servants guard the desert in his stead. Hyrule approaches, knowing not what kind of death awaits them, deep beneath the sands. Zant tests out his blade.

FINALLY DONE! sooo sorry my beloved tumblr readerbase. this update has been available on ao3 for a little over a week now, but i had to steam through a pretty bad art block to get this promo image done exactly how i liked it. so without further ado, here it is!! i have a real doozy for you all today! again, thanks so much to @bulgariansumo and @orfeoarte for betareading the chapter! there's a couple secret languages in this chapter again... thanks very much to @unironicallycringe for helping me with figuring out Akkadian. as for the translations, well... you go puzzle it out!

content warnings this chapter for: graphic violence, animal death, medical gore, domestic violence/physical abuse (for lack of a better term)

ao3 mirror

They rose before the sun had even fully set, thieving their love-nest of its purpose hours too early. Any preparations they could do, save donning arms and armor, would have been too late in this final moment before battle, but they had to be ready to defend themselves at any moment. The air was tense, dead-silent so as not to alert any potential enemy scouts. But in that deep silence, every nervous sigh, every jingle of chainmail, grated the ears from miles away.

So sat Zant in his chambers, eyelids still thick and heavy with sleep, but nonetheless perched at the edge of his bed, gazing out into the night sky. Ghirahim lied where he’d left him, sunken into his pillows and layers of sheets. In this companionable silence, there was as much to be said, as there was a lack of words to convey them. Indecision to what topic could suit the last hours before this all-out battle, they spoke of nothing at all. Yet there was deep understanding in it, a bond between them that only needed a glance of the eye to be conveyed.

Pacing anxiously was unnecessary. Ghirahim lay comfortable; to him, nothing enriched the soul like battle, and he was ready to rise every minute of the day. No need for armor, for food, for a minute to come to his senses. He could jump up the second the warning horns blared.

Thus, he dozed, his eyes on the tense Twili beside him until they wandered to the portrait above him. When had he moved it above his bed, he wondered? To think a man so reserved could be so vain. The gold of its canvas glittered in the weak light, egging on the stars in the sky beyond with its own splendor. Ghirahim felt a smile creep up on him and his eyes drew to a close.

He didn’t quite keep track of how long he lay there simply sifting through the favorite contents of his core, before that line of thought was interrupted, and a warm static forced itself through his mental imagery. It started deep in his chest, washing over his every extremity in waves. His skin tingled, his breath hitched. A contented sigh dragged out from him and joined the warm air in the room. This feeling, how long ago it was since he last felt it. It could only be…

Sat on the carpet beside the window was Zant, the Demon Scimitar before him. Moonlight could not hope to pierce the deep black of their blade; their masterpiece was a shadow among shadows. A vibrant teal glow pulsed throughout the veins in its fuller, like light beneath the ocean waves. That glow slowly grew richer, occasionally interrupted by the stroke of a cloth across the blade.

Ghirahim shuddered. There was the source of that odd feeling, that sent shivers up his back and caused his face and stomach to flush an embarrassing red. Soon Zant caught him staring at him past the mound of sheets and met his eyes – glowing, giving him no choice but to witness them – with a smile.

“Pardon me. Did I disturb you?”

“Disturb is a strong word,” Ghirahim said, unable to suppress a shuddering groan. From fingerguard to its point, the cloth rubbed away every speck of dust and smudge of oil.

The sound that escaped him piqued Zant’s interest immediately. Eyes that should pay attention to the razor-sharp edge of their sword widened at him. “You can feel this?”

Taps of powder against the blade. Puff, puff, little clouds of white dissipating in the gentle breeze. “To some degree, yes.”

Bright, amber eyes narrowed. “What is it like?”

Adjusting comfortably, Ghirahim sank back into the sheets, hiding half of his face. He stared him down no lesser, though. “There is hardly any equal to this feeling, Zant,” he hummed, pleased by the sensation of gentle polishing. “But if I had to describe it… Something akin to having my hair brushed, or hands stroking my back, I suppose.”

Zant’s eyes turned to the sword, now carrying a certain spark. He beheld it in a different light. “I see. How fortunate to know.”

Ghirahim shifted, curling himself in the mass of sheets to get a better look at his machinations, but without abandoning the glow of their joint warmth. Their companionable silence returned, the quiet room filled only with the whisper of cloth against metal, and the gentle churning of his core. Warmth buzzed through him in waves, like fingers with long nails tapping and tracing the features deep in his chest. That so-abstract sensation turned ever warmer, more squeezing, when that familiar smell of cloves arose, and Zant turned to oiling the blade. Ghirahim cocked his head, watching intently. “Tending to it again? So soon?”

Zant only glanced at him before returning to his focus. “Our sword is in its infancy, Ghirahim. It has to be nourished in its first year.”

“You’ve done your homework,” Ghirahim smirked.

“You hardly gave me any choice, Ghirahim-hasir,” Zant smirked right back.

Another honorific! He laughed fondly, ever-so-amused by Zant’s habit of slipping into mother tongue. “That one is new! What nonsense are you up to, this time?”

“No more than usual,” Zant hummed, a touch of cheer in his voice. “Now get back under the covers and leave me to do my bidding. We must be in top shape before dawn, you and I,” he crooned, stroking the cloth down their blade in emphasis.

Ghirahim smiled, sighed, and complied.

That morning, Hyrule conquered the southern settlements in a matter of minutes. The market streets the pair had grown so familiar with, committed to memory through the smells of spices, pastries, and smoked meat alone, decimated at once. Not that they’d made it particularly difficult for their adversaries; a minimal amount of monstrous troops were stationed there. This was their bait. A little trick tucked in falsely heightened morale, to fool the Hyruleans into thinking them weaker than they were. Besides, the locals stationed within sight would surely be healthily enraged by the sight of their beloved settlement being torn to the ground. Zant had planned for a bloody start.

The two of them were thoroughly locked away in the North. The Gerudo Temple Complex was a dark and swirling thing, a monumental goliath of sandstone and brick, its dimly lit corridors designed to trap anyone outside the clergy in the bowels. Deep within, it hid the Coliseum. A holy ground to desert peoples, later desecrated by Hyrule and turned into an executioner’s oubliette. Better known as, ‘The Arbiter’s Grounds’. Since its reclamation by the Gerudo (according to Zant, one of the few good things brought on by shattering the Mirror of Twilight), Hyrule was to never touch it again. The labyrinth would guard it for as long as it stood.

In other words, it was the ideal place to watch the battle unfold from afar. Their intel detected signs of three commanders: Link, the Goddess’ favored hero; Lana, still missing her counterpart; and an unfamiliar Sheikah warrior. Knowing the Hyruleans, they likely had more tricks up their sleeves. They needed caution above all.

Zant was eerily silent for most of their stay, retreating within his helmet. Had Ghirahim not known any better, he would have suspected him of sleeping on the job again. On the contrary, the Twili could not have been more alert. The ace up their sleeve was heaving and buzzing restlessly deep underground below their feet. The Twilit Bloat, Queen Mother of Zant’s favorite pets, spent days spewing forth countless Shadow Insects, which he’d hidden away in every nook and cranny he thought would make a decent vantage point. They were acting as his eyes in the field and to keep track of them all required his utmost concentration.

Until at long last Zant withdrew from meditation, the segments of his helmet squeaking as he straightened himself and turned toward his co-lieutenant.

“They are inching closer to the oases. While they busy themselves there, now is the best time to start our preparations,” he said, beckoning him with a wave of his hand as he made his way through the keep.

Ghirahim, glad to finally have something to do, grinned. “You mean to set up the… Shadow puppets, you mentioned, yes?”

“I have told you of my plan,” Zant agreed, scaling the steps to the decrepit altar at the center of the Coliseum. His visor rolled up to reveal a grin. “But not yet of its execution. It should be most familiar to you, however,” he turned, his hand outstretched and palm facing the skies.

Ghirahim smirked and followed, taking his hand to have him lead him further up the steps. An arm curled around his waist, and he rested his on Zant’s shoulder in return. “How courteous of you, Twilight King. Won’t prancing about distract you from your own casting, though?”

Zant smiled in turn. With a small pull at his waist, they quickly sank into a rhythm, waltzing under the sunbeams that peeked through the stone walls. “We must enact our spell in utter synchronicity, Ghirahim-ili. This is the best way.”

A pulse coursed through him. Diamonds rose from their footprints, flickering with signs of their blooming magic. The beating of their feet and chiming of his core accompanied their dance like a dozen tambourines. Through their joined hands, sparks of power crossed into one another, melting together until the pictures in their minds became clear as day, a single being.

“I shall be the source, and you, my conduit. My power is yours to steer, puppeteer of mine,” Zant’s words echoed, but Ghirahim couldn’t be sure if they came from his lips, or snuck into his mind without his notice. How cheeky.

And soon, that power manifested into being. Rising from the shadows, Ghirahim’s second pair of eyes came into view – or rather, he came into its view. A second Ghirahim took shape, its features growing more defined by the second. Terrible vertigo struck him, causing a temporary lapse in his steps. There was a disconnect, a duplication of his sight, but no identical one. He could see through his own body but through his double’s, too. His core swirled as he looked himself in the eye, standing in the sand with its muted colors and stiff stance.

“It’s easier if you close your eyes,” Zant whispered with a low croon, “try not to think. Let me lead you, my Blade.”

Easier said than done, he’d say, did it not make such a drastic difference. Ridding himself of his second-sight made it all the easier to at least gather his bearings without the spinning surroundings there to distract him. But reaching this double somatically remained a challenge. It was like trying to steer a phantom limb. The tether was weak, but undeniably there, and getting it to move was akin to timidly pressing the keys on an old harpsichord. All the while this buffoon requested him to dance.

But that was the trick, wasn’t it? Channeling their magic? He was no stranger to their bodies becoming one, in many senses of the term. It wasn’t just his own magic he had to focus on, but the force linking its fingers with it, too.

Synchronicity. The picture through the eyes of his double became vibrant and clear as day.

His double twitched its fingers until they were veritably his, then took a stumbling step. Then another. Then more, stably, rolling its shoulders and bouncing on its heels. The shuffling of dancing feet was soon nothing but background noise, far removed from where his mind settled. Housed in this spectral clone, Ghirahim grinned, braced his fingers, and snapped.

The desert heat felt like room temperature. Or rather, like nothing at all, in this doubly-false skin. Having teleported himself, he stood a ways from the Southern Oasis, surveying his surroundings. Friend nor foe had spotted him yet, concealed as he was by the heat shaking the sights of their surroundings, but they’d have no choice than to witness him soon. He sprinted across the desert, intending to snicker to himself, only to find not a sound passed his lips.

A gap in their illusion. How embarrassing it would have been! What if he had attempted to taunt their foe, only to be caught missing his voice? He quickly suppressed the urge to scold Zant for failing to inform him of this flaw. To cause dissonance between his two selves would collapse their plans like a house of cards. Which, obviously, he couldn’t afford, as he was already perched on the walls of the Oasis Keep, staring right into fiery red eyes that pierced into him with malice.

The Sheikah man would be his first opponent.

His perch high up above did nothing to deter this stranger whatsoever. A long dagger whistled through the air just past Ghirahim’s ear, missing him only thanks to his own last-minute dodge. Ghirahim hadn’t yet the chance to righten himself before his adversary took a running start and leapt against the corner wall, kicking himself off to clamber up and meet him at eye level. It hadn’t even taken him five seconds to get to him.

This was going to be interesting. Ghirahim knew he couldn’t lose his composure so early in the battle, but a warrior so quick and nimble made the stars dance in his core. The Sheikah was upon him in a split second, a long knife in each hand, eyes red and full of death. His strikes were lightning-fast and precise, but not fast enough to break past Ghirahim. This man was an entirely different territory from that white-haired dog. Where Impa combined her tremendous speed with heavy blows, her replacement depended entirely on the fleetness of his feet. And it carried him well. The two of them danced across the walls, locking blades like a pair of cats fighting atop a fence.

But, truthfully, Ghirahim was only humoring him. Against another human, the slashes of the Sheikah’s knives would have been lethal. But to Ghirahim, razor edges struck his sword with gentle taps at most. He had to put this boy in his place. Hilt in both hands, he boldly raised his blade to bait him with an opening – swung down quickly, to bait a crossing of knives, and catch his sword in between.

The Sheikah were a near-ageless folk, living potentially centuries longer than Hylians, if they so chose. This very moment, the Sheikah proved his youth, his inexperience, despite his prodigal martial skill. He acted exactly as Ghirahim predicted.

Now locked, Ghirahim shot him a grin, before pushing his bulk into his sword and tossing him sideways. The Sheikah shouted in surprise, stumbled. With the assistance of a showy flip and roll, he dropped off the wall and down into the dirt, quickly righting himself in fear of being ambushed.

Not a second too late! Ghirahim leaped for him, point of his sword aimed for the heart. Or, rather, aimed for the dirt, as the Sheikah darted away quickly. The pair exchanged blows, barraged each other with throwing knives, but their mutual bulk and speed resulted in nothing more than superficial injuries.

Ghirahim couldn’t outspeed him. So, he’d just have to surprise him, instead. With only a small chime to announce his departure, Ghirahim disappeared into diamonds and landed himself square in the Sheikah’s way. The boy gasped in surprise, only barely managing to stumble out the way of the obsidian sword that flew toward him in a pitch-black streak. Now, all bets were on discombobulating his foe. The Sheikah was forced to face him more carefully, locked in a fierce combat. For every escape, every attempt at sprinting away for another trick, he was punished by the phantom that appeared in his shadow and threatened to rend him to pieces.

Dark blue Sheikah armor tore to show flashes of skin and bleeding gashes, staining a deeper red every second. But Ghirahim found himself not as unscathed as he’d normally be – this puppet was fragile, meaning even the small enchantments on this warrior’s knives could hurt him. It wasn’t the same pain as he’d feel on his surface when injured. This was a magical, conjured pain, manifesting as a headache and stuttering of his core. But, injuries or not, he was winning. The Sheikah was slowing, growing into an easier target for his thrusts and merciless cleavings with every pace. And there he darted off again, some desperate manner of escaping! Of stalling time! Blood hung in the air, its particles catching delectably on his lolling tongue. He chased its source hungrily, wishing so it was his true self instead who would get to kill this wretched little thing, a mere pup in comparison to his superior. Ghirahim ached to run him through with this blade! Just a few more paces, another leap –

There was a track in the sand. In the corner of his eye, he spotted another. The Sheikah stopped at the joining of lines, readying something curved and golden.

The harp. The harp! His eyes shot to the Sheikah, who grinned at him with a squint, fingers at the ready over his blasted holy implement. Ghirahim looked back to the ground, where he now spotted an outline… And himself spot in the middle of it. An ominous hum, a faded glow, resonant below him as fingertips tensed the strings. Ghirahim turned to flee, but a second too late. With a mockingly cheerful tune, the magic glyph was activated, and a blinding field of light magic launched him out the gates of the Oasis Keep.

He skidded to a halt, clouds of sand trailing his heels as they coursed through. In his concealment, he was fortunate to find his first flaw; a black patch, crackling on the surface of his puppet. Their illusion was falling apart.

Now is the time to flee.

They thought it simultaneously, with Ghirahim immediately annoyed by Zant’s meddling.

Shielded by this cloud of sand, he turned tail and fled. Soon enough, fleeted feet dashed through the sand a little ways behind him.

Just like he wanted! Bloodlust made blind!

The next phase of their plan was imminent. He had to cross the sands to get to the cliffs, where he could funnel this little songbird into its cage. This seemed easier said and done, because the Sheikah’s tendency to make pot-shots at the enemy made it increasingly more difficult to conceal the black cracks left on his surface. He kicked up as much sand as he could in his sprint to keep himself shielded from prying eyes.

It was a mad chase. In short bursts, his adversary seemed to be faster than him, leading him to blink around to get away from the scatter of needles flying his way. A haphazard, zigzagging trail of metal pins traced their trajectory. Yet, the Sheikah seemed to be letting him escape, at least a little bit. Did he hope he was fleeing to some kind of hideout, and lead him straight there? Oh, if only he knew!

It was a good thing he didn’t. They crossed into the Cliffs Keep, revealing a dead end. Realizing it’d been a trap, before the Sheikah could fully turn, the gates slammed shut behind them.

The enraged eyes of a cornered animal met with a dark grin. The two men flung at one another, daggers in hand. But Ghirahim felt weakened – the magic holding this form together barely persisted through its many cracks, and it was slowing his reflexes. To save himself some power, he dismissed the false cape, at once revealing the web of deep black fractures spreading across his skin.

This staggered the Sheikah for a moment, but baited him all the same. Daggers crossed, he lunged forward, and drove the tips towards his core. They tangled, tipped over, and landed in the sand, Ghirahim pinned between steel and soil.

For all this man knew, this was how a Sword Spirit died. The daggers sank into his chest, and Ghirahim let the illusion crackle into shards with a pained groan.

But not before leaving his parting gift. The Sheikah choked out a breath, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. Ghirahim had driven a dagger right into his side.

He didn’t have the privilege to see if this caused his opponent to collapse or not, for his eyes caved into dust soon after this deceitful blow. Then followed the rest of his body, leaving only a cackle to fade on the wind.

Deep black turned into an outrageously bright light. With a gasp, Ghirahim came to, finding himself held up by Zant’s arms. Never before had he felt this unsteady on his feet, this jittery like a newborn foal. His shadowy double was gone, which left him to deal with the dizziness of returning to his body. How convenient that this animate coat rack of a man was there to assist him in doing so.

Ghirahim patted Zant on the sleeve, wobbling to righten himself. “Deliciously dramatic timing, Twilight King.”

“Thanks. I thought so too.”

Zant laughed, patiently assisting Ghirahim through the last seconds of his vertigo. Once Ghirahim collected himself, Zant parted from him, again turning his gaze meditatively to the skies. “We shall let them struggle with this predicament for a little while. Then, I will take your place on the battlefield, Ghirahim-ili.”

The battle unfolded just about how they expected it would. The gates they so merrily left open were breached by opportunistic troops zealously at first, but with the imprisonment of their Sheikah general, anxious caution took the wheel. Nevertheless, critical movement took place: Lana, who had been moving through the desert, succeeded in capturing the Northern Oasis; while Link, having first guarded their home base in the Bazaar, crossed the southern sands to attempt a rescue mission.

This was their cue. While their demonic troops clashed against Link’s brigade, Zant hopped back on his feet, extending his hands.

“Care to assist me once more?”

Locked again in dance, they watched as a shadowy form knitted into being by their pedestal. The illusory shape of Zant, darker and more muted than usual, readied itself for its host. Much to Ghirahim’s chagrin, Zant was clearly more adept than he at shifting his consciousness, as his double was up and moving in mere seconds.

“You close your eyes too, Ghirahim-ili.”

“Then who will keep watch of where we’re putting our feet? Moron.”

Ghirahim jested, but nonetheless allowed himself a brief respite, and did as he was told. Behind his darkened eyelids, he saw (though subtly) the world through the eyes of Zant’s shadowy double. He briefly worried if Zant had been spying along with him, too. Then, he felt some smug satisfaction in the knowledge, as he thought he’d made for a riveting battle just then.

Not a second longer did Zant let his puppet stick around and promptly sent it away. Just in time for Ghirahim to spin the both of them around and prevent them from tumbling off the altar.

Ghirahim’s impressions of this battle were vague, bestowed upon him in flashes through Zant’s incomprehensible sense of sight. The world was a blur of overly saturated colors in the Twili’s eyes, splitting into sharply defined contours at every moving object. Of course, the rapidly approaching emerald green and blue was then clear as day, as was the glowing blade that cut through the air towards him.

But Link could not land a single hit on the Usurper’s false shape. Zant blinked himself across the sand and clapped his hands pompously, a playfully mocking tribute to Ghirahim’s favored spellcasting. At once, every gate in the battlefield slammed shut, isolating the three generals in their own death traps.

Wrathful Gerudo, Bulblins, and Stalfos poured from whatever crevice they could force themselves through to descend upon the now-isolated warriors. Whether they would surpass the Hyruleans in martial prowess remained to be seen, but surely, they’d leave not a shred of their morale untouched.

Yet Zant led the Goddess’ little hero away from the onslaught, seeming to prefer a one-on-one duel, though there’d be nothing honorable about it. This battle was an absolute waste of time, drudging Link along through the scorching desert to chase after his constantly teleporting apparition. Even if his opponent couldn’t hear it, Zant couldn’t help but giggle. With such a jovial mood, one would expect victory, but aside from Zant’s violent retaliations, his health rapidly failed him. Not only was his double on the verge of collapse, but nearly every hack and slash it endured bore down on its host. Dancing with a smile, blood gushed from Zant’s nostrils with every hit he took. Ghirahim doubted whether the desperation on his double’s part was an act – it contorted, stomped, flailing its arms and hurling wild bolts of magic at whatever blue banner-bearing shape it could see. But Zant seemed at peace, even as his puppet raised its arms to ready a bomb of pure, hexing shadow, only to find itself ran straight through by the Knight’s holy blade.

At once, the tether to their puppet was gone.

“... That’s it… Our first ruse is up,” Zant mumbled, before slumping forward, just barely caught by Ghirahim’s frame. The blood trickling from his nostrils was worrying still, so Ghirahim allowed him to collapse, lowering him carefully to sit at the edge of the pedestal. Yet, Zant declined any fussing over him, preferring instead to retreat into his mind again and survey the damage they’d done. With his ‘death’, every single gate in the battlefield flew back open – save for the Temple complex. Sitting side by side, Zant relayed what he saw through the eyes of his countless insect servants. Among the Hyruleans, there was relief, rallying cries spreading through the battlefield as they once again rushed forth to seize new territory. Their own forces still held fast. The defeat of their Lieutenants sowed seeds of anxiety, which their captains and commanders did not allow to sprout among the common infantry. Though the full plan of today was relayed to very few, every officer of repute knew not to lose hope when all seemed over.

They’d seen the captured beasts in their chains, after all, and had yet to see them surface in this battle.

One unexpected problem remained. When the gates to the Sheikah commander’s imprisonment were opened, he was already long gone. The trail of blood scaling the cliff wall toward the Temple clued them in where he could have gone. He was trapped in here with them, somewhere. Zant seemed to take nothing but amusement in that thought.

Now, there was nothing to do but wait. Wait for a surge in confidence among the Hyruleans that would raise their might and lower their guard. If this took mere minutes or hours, then the blood spilled to tip the scales would simply have to be an acceptable sacrifice. Time ticked away mostly in silence. On occasion, Zant orated an update from the battlefield with his vacant, manic gaze. Ghirahim stared at the man beside him, bloodstained as he was, and wondered how far the gray blight had crawled up his arms today.

Zant perked up sooner than Ghirahim expected and turned to him. “Their bases are almost settled. They are transporting their goods. Now is the time, Ghirahim. Will you do the honors?”

Ghirahim grinned. “Gladly.”

Within a blink, Ghirahim disappeared from the Arbiter’s Grounds and materialized far below the earth. Deluge streams of sand poured down from above – he found himself in an underground cave, discovered long ago by the Gerudo when digging for water reservoirs. Quicksand pools from above fed this ever-filling chamber with gold, like an hourglass that would never tip. Behind him was a nearly-buried gate leading to the old waterways. In front of him were cages. He didn’t want to keep the beasts inside waiting any longer; he’d kept them unfed a little too long. They frothed at the sight of him, spurred on by Zant’s blood caked into his suit.

“You’ll find something far tastier on the surface, my dears!”

One, two, three showy snaps of his fingers, and the chains bearing the monsters down disappeared. With a flex of his hands, his fist cloaked itself in glowing, purple magic. He took a running start, heading straight for the back of the cages (where the monsters’ eyes hungrily followed him), and launched himself at the massive lever that stood there. With one solid punch, the old mechanism screeched back to life, and past all its rust, the switch was flicked. A rattling that could only be produced by a machine at the end of its life echoed throughout the room. Tugged upwards by heavy chains, the cage doors were lifted, and out stormed their inhabitants.

But before they could make for the little creature that stood antagonizing them, a cascade of sand cued them in on the blue skies above. A ring tunnel of diamond magic pried open the quicksand pitfall in the ceiling and allowed these beasts the first glimpse of sunshine they’d seen in weeks.

Not to mention, the smell of fresh carcasses.

The Manhandla, a four-headed, man-eating plant; threw itself against the wall and clambered up through its web of roots. The Molduga, the very giant sandworm Ghirahim had stolen away scarce a month earlier; took to the skies and flew through the opening. The Lanmola, a cyclopean centipede; swam up the stream of sand.

But that was merely the first wave. This was the Southern Desert’s treat: the North would get its very own collection of nuisances. His next teleportation took him to the mesas in the northeast, where six pairs of eyes furiously eyed him down from within their cave prison. The caverns in these rocky mountains were straightforward tunnels, opening right into the deserts. After opening the cages, all he had to do was give them an incentive to break free.

So, naturally, he brought the entire cave to a collapse. As soon as the beasts panickedly rushed out of their prisons, Ghirahim snapped his fingers and perched himself on the Mesa’s edge, overlooking the monsters’ exit holes.

The first to break free were the two Dodongos, bulky, rock-clad lizards; curled up and rolling, shot out like cannonballs. Then came the Helmaroc King, a giant prismatic bird; shrieking wildly and leaving a storm of feathers in its wake as it beat its wings and flew off. Finally, poking out one head after the other, came the Gleeok, the three-headed dragon; with stout little legs and clumsy, serpentine necks, it sauntered to the mouth of the tunnel somewhat timidly. But at the first sight of prey below, it roared viciously and spread its draconic wings, and set off in pursuit of violence.

Ghirahim returned to his post at once, finding Zant just as vacant as he’d left him, but with far greater amusement sketching his face. The Twili didn’t appear to notice him as he sidled up next to him, hands in his sides.

“Satisfied by my handiwork, Twilight King?”

“More than, Yima Zeeioitneit,” he responded. Zant had cleaned himself up a bit in his absence, but was looking no less gaunt. “Would you like to see the fruits of your labor?”

“Gladly, I would,” Ghirahim said, keeping his apprehension about Zant’s intrusive, meddling magic to himself.

Zant shook himself out of his daze, at once standing with his eyes bright and glowing. “Then allow me some time to recuperate. I will share my clairvoyance with you in the meantime, Ghirahim-ili.”

Before Ghirahim could utter a word of questioning or protest, Zant’s shape turned pitch-black, becoming no more than a silhouette with shining eyes. A rustle sounded as the shade before him ducked down and turned into nothing more than a smudge, and, shockingly… Melted into the floor. Just like that, Zant seemed to have crawled into his shadow. There was the alarming presence of magic, certainly, but otherwise, he felt not a thing of it. At least, not until Zant fulfilled his promise. Ghirahim then learned, intimately, just what he meant by ‘clairvoyance’.

A sudden burst of droning visions took over his sight, shaking him into an unsightly stumble. Each flashed by for mere seconds before Zant flicked him over to the next, all blurring into the same haze. Only after sitting there, hands in his hair and groaning audibly, did he piece together just what he was looking at. It seemed that Zant had planted more of his Shadow Insects on the skulls of their monsters, and thus, allowed the both of them front-row seats to each individual rampage.

To the north, the Helmaroc crested to dizzying heights, carefully eyeing its companions. Yards below it, the Gleeok was circling the desert, scarcely avoiding flurries of arrows from piercing its wings. It found its point of interest in a line of provision wagons, which already had its many hands full with the giant lizards besieging it from both sides. Claws extended, it swooped down in an instant, plowing through the line of them with its razor-sharp talons.

Now out of a meal, the twin Dodongos sought their fortune elsewhere. They turned straight to the oasis, where they expected to rake in the biggest rewards, only to find the place heavily guarded. Grimoire in hand, Sorceress Lana nervously eyed down the two approaching beasts. She was a nimble woman, swiftly evading raking claws and blazing fire, but she did not take well to being surrounded. From the eyes of this Dodongo, she swooped in dangerously close. Just as the massive reptile thought to swallow her down in one gulp, a large, translucent cube was lodged in its gullet, and with the touch of the Sorceress’ hand, electrified. It shrieked and convulsed, reflexively clamping its jaws hard enough to crack its teeth, and just like that, collapsed.

This Dodongo was down for the count. But before its Shadow Insect died with it, it captured just a few more seconds. From the sound of blazing fire and the screams of their opponent, the beast’s twin appeared to hold fast.

The southern desert was similarly infested. The Manhandla had dug its roots throughout the sand, sprouting additional heads across the desert to drown it in a poisonous haze. Soon, only the dead could wander here, and the very bold. Those who dared approach the floral menace disappeared quickly past its massive teeth. Monitoring this monster led the pair of lieutenants to begrudgingly note that one of its four heads seemed to have gotten hacked off somewhere along the way. Though, they doubted they minded. If the victory was all too crushing, there would not have been any honor in it. Much less satisfaction.

This next vision was fully dark, until it burst with sudden light. How the fragile insect managed to cling on to this creature through all the sand was a mystery. From the shrill bellowing, these could only have been the sights of the Molgera, soaring through the skies in pursuit of prey. And what a target it had chosen! Skidding away from the sandworm, bow and arrow boldly drawn but visibly alarmed, was their favorite green-clad menace, his blue scarf long lost in the scuffle. He had felled the Lanmola in record time. From the look in his eyes, that wouldn’t be his only trophy of today. Whether he would fulfill that ambition was another question. The Molgera roared and dove for him, but shrieked when an arrow pierced it someplace unseen, and veered off course. It burrowed beneath the sand once more, plunging their vision in darkness. Through the roaring of sand surging past the giant beast, there was a sound; footsteps, hurrying away. The Molgera homed in on its source and launched for the surface.

It breached, it opened its maw. A scream was heard, then muffled by the resounding clap of the Molgera’s jaws snapping shut. As the Molgera twisted itself through the air, not a trace of the Hero of Legend remained.

Cackles and shouts of triumph and astonishment echoed through the Arbiter’s Grounds. Had the Twili stood beside him, rather than lie hidden in his shadow, Ghirahim would have embraced him and thrown him around the arena for good measure. What an undignified end for the little Hylian! Ghirahim was ecstatic. Already he swell with pride over the thought of informing their Master of this victory. The pair of them sang praises of this magnificent sandworm. Even after they’d treated it so cruelly, it hadn’t let them down in the slightest. Whether it could hear their words conveyed through the Shadow Insect, wasn’t their concern.

Amidst their celebration, the Molgera suddenly groaned. Shuddered. Slowed in its flight. It contorted itself, squeaking in pain, until it tore its mouth open in a shriek. The Shadow Insect lost all functionality. Its host could only be dead.

What happened? It was in the air – how had it perished!?

Zant apparently had the same questions. He frantically browsed through the Insects still alive, until he found a proper view of the events through the eyes of the Manhandla. The Molgera fell from the skies, its spiked belly slit wide open. A rain of blood and guts splattered onto the ground before its multi-ton body hit the sand, sending forth an explosive dust cloud to shroud the battlefield from all.

Surfacing from that shroud, visible through the makeshift sandstorm by a glowing silhouette, was a newcomer to today’s battlefield. Fi, doll-faced as ever, but her blue gemstone surface now tainted with viscera, had surfaced from the Hero’s blade, and freed her ‘Master’. Offering her wing, she stuck herself halfway into the Molgera’s eviscerated stomach to pull Link free, soaked in mucus and blood. The morbidity of it all seemed completely lost on her gentle smile, as she stood watching him gather himself.

Ghirahim grit his teeth. “It seems they’ve taken a page out of our book, Twili… They’re hiding commanders!”

“And where there is one, there may be more. They think they have us for fools.”

With the appearance of Fi, a Hyrulean war horn sounded in the Southern Desert. The troops in the North responded. Surfacing from Lana’s shadow was none other than Midna, who immediately clenched a keratin fist around the head of an ambushing Bulblin commander. A sense of fury bubbled forth from his shadow, and lingered somewhere in Ghirahim, too. But as much as the arrival of the Twilight Princess spelled trouble, something about her appearance soothed Zant’s mood into a bubbly giggle.

She was an imp again.

The war horn sounded in the North. Two responded; one from the Western mesas, and one from the South. Through the eyes of the Helmaroc King, a far more alarming sight poured into the desert. The troops they had fought so deftly to thin out were filling their numbers again. Vast swathes of Zora and Gorons arrived through glowing portals and raced to assist the overthrown Keeps. Only to then clash against equally large numbers of frothing demon forces, pushing each other back and forth past a faultline of trampled steel. This visceral desperation of gnashing teeth and battered armor only left the frontlines in stasis for so long. The Zora Princess, her arrival announced by a tidal wave sweeping along her own troops in massive schooling, forced an opening through the simple measure of washing away everything in her path. She came out the other end of the first line of infantry clad in silvery armor, spear in hand, looking back at the dizzied and drowning mass of demonic forces behind her. This very measure would carry her to the northern desert, where she quickly joined Lana’s side.

Lana startled when the Dodongo just in front of her was sucked into a maelstrom and launched across the sands. When she turned to find Ruto, some sort of sentimental conversation was surely being carried out. Watching from the Gleeok still soaring above the keeps, neither Ghirahim nor Zant cared to hear it. Their despairing, confused prattles were far more interesting.

The Gleeok swept in closer, ducking out the way of an impending lightning bolt sent from the Sorceress’ grimoire.

“I don’t understand, Ruto,” Lana cried. “Ghirahim and Zant were defeated, but their armies haven’t slowed down whatsoever!”

Ruto intercepted an incoming belch of fire with a watery shield, bursting it apart in glittering projectiles as she dismissed it. The Gleeok shrieked when one of its many eyes was pierced. “Desperation, it must be. It takes a pair of cowardly men like them to rig such posthumous traps!”

“Are we sure it was really them Sheik and Link defeated?” Midna cut in, surfacing from Lana’s shadow to glare down the limping Dodongo in the distance. “Like you said. They’re cowards! I’ll bet my entire treasury that the foes we saw were nothing more than illusions!”

A troubled expression dawned on Lana, which soon turned to anger. She burst out in front of the Zora Princess, spellbook at the ready, and sent out another burst of lightning. Though, this one was different. It broke apart like fireworks, each spark lighting its own deadly branch, that darted in zig-zags through the air. The Gleeok, hopeless to dodge such a flurry, lost one of its wings to countless tears and perforations and then crashed to the ground.

Before the beast could stomp its way inside the keep, Lana blocked its entrance with a crackling barrier and whipped around to look at her companions. “Then- The real Ghirahim and Zant… They must be hiding somewhere, commanding from afar!”

“Oh, they can’t be that far. Those two draw to carrion more than a common fly,” Midna grimaced, squinting to peer out into the scorching desert. “Just so happens, I got just the trick up my sleeve to get to the bottom of this. Ruto! Cover me!”

Ruto nodded, readying her spear to join Lana’s side. Lana’s barrier did not hold much longer. Every passing second, the Gleeok was driven to madness by two voices balking commands into its triplet minds, and could only think to throw itself at the magical wards harder. Finally, it burst through, and wasted not a moment to start snapping at the two warriors in its way. Lana fought grimoire in hand, turning scattered parchment into razor-sharp projectiles, while Ruto threatened every impending bite with a thrust of her spear.

While the Gleeok was rapidly losing scales to the combined assault, Midna stretched out her hand, readying a spell amidst the chaos. A gap tore itself through the fabric of reality, manifesting as a spreading shadow on the ground, soon thrumming and glowing with runes.

Stepping out of the shadows was a little girl, no older than eleven, who curtsied under the protection of her parasol. “Agitha has waited patiently as you ordered, Miss Kitty! How can she be of assistance?”

Lana was almost as disturbed by the girl’s appearance as Ghirahim and Zant, but clearly for different reasons. “A-Agitha? But… The two of you can’t just go out there alone. There are still giant monsters alive!”

The Zora Princess glanced over her shoulder, the second of distraction nearly costing her a fin to the jaws of the Gleeok. “Sorceress, if you wish to accompany them, We will hold down the Oasis.”

“Ruto, are you sure? In this weather, the Zora-”

“Do not doubt the resilience of Our people,” Ruto interjected, jabbing her spear between the plates on one of the dragon’s jugulars. “We know where their limits lie. Place your trust in Us. Now, go! Waste no precious seconds!”

“My, what a shame,” a voice echoed from the dragon. “They’ve become aware of our little plan quicker than expected.”

Zant figured to broadcast his mockery through the Shadow Insect still perched on the dethroned creature. Bleeding heavily from one of its throats, its still-living heads contorted their faces into toothy grins, the Gleeok puffed out its chest and stanced imposingly. The spread of its wings blotted out the sun above the keep, casting it in shadow.

Ghirahim found it a fine idea. “Then let them come find us! We’ll finish them off right away!”

Thus, precious seconds were wasted. By some incomprehensible measure of lollygagging, Midna stuck around while Lana and Agitha made for the desert. The pair of girls slipped past the Dodongo only thanks to Midna’s uncouth taunts, who sent wolves yipping and nipping at its front legs. A little of Zant’s own hatred for the Twilight Princess must have leaked into it, then, because the beast took the bait hook, line, and sinker. So focused it was on the hounds and the woman cheering them on behind them, that it failed to notice its remaining surroundings. Its maw opened wide, readying a blazing inferno, and aimed straight for its annoyance.

Only for said target to dodge out of the way at the very last second, dragging the Zora Princess out of the trajectory along with her. Instead, the hellfire launched across, square into the chest of the already wounded Gleeok and melting everything in its way. A weaving path of coarse glass glittered in the sand, tying the two monsters by a thread of aggression. Their dragon could not resist retaliation and lunged for its treacherous comrade.

Thus, in the Oasis, two of the beasts were tearing each other down. In the sand wastes, one last beast made itself useful. The King Helmaroc, contrary to its name, was an obedient creature, and soared as high or hovered as low as they needed it to. Through its eyes, they saw Midna had joined the pair a little after her charade of chaos.

From this vantage point, Ghirahim and Zant quietly observed their desert trek. At least, until Zant clicked his tongue, seeming annoyed. “I see now why they brought the girl. I should have expected this.”

“Somehow, even when we share the same thoughts, you manage to puzzle me. Get to the point.”

“Look closely. They have a Goddess Butterfly. It will lead them straight to us, and the labyrinth will not keep them.”

Once again, silence fell between them. Less time wasted in the labyrinth meant fewer opportunities to whittle down their strength. With this many enemy commanders, such a head start was crucial.

Even so, the thought of their plan failing ever so slightly, filled Ghirahim with a strange sense of excitement. “An unfortunate twist, but… Frankly, I was getting bored. I’m itching for a fight.”

Then, as if Zant had taken note of his excitement, he felt the warmth of a smile inside his mind. “Ghirahim-ili… When they arrive here, let us fight our hardest.”

Of course, the Helmaroc understood nothing at all of such banter. It was far more focused on the triad of two-footed creatures zipping through the sand sea. To a bird, this entourage of warriors must have looked awfully like a line of ants.

It dove down for them, talons outstretched, as if they were.

The first to react was not the Sorceress, nor was it Midna. Instead, the young girl turned a pouting face to the sky and popped the cork off a glass jar.

In an instant, a massive, emerald beetle appeared from thin air and swung its horn full-force into the Helmaroc’s gullet. Their eyes in the sky shrieked. An explosion of feathers obscured their vision as the panicked bird flailed its wings, knocked entirely off balance by the throttling of this massive bug. Zant’s quiet marvel for the adversary’s familiar was drowned out entirely by Ghirahim’s rage. How preposterous! This massive bird of prey, knocked out of the sky by a mere insect!? He took the reins immediately.

The beetle now dismissed, the Helmaroc King chased after the girls on foot, pouncing at them with its claws and jabbing with its beak. But just as it started to get the drop on the group, the Temple complex was in sight, and the doorway they slipped through would never fit their bird.

When the Helmaroc was left behind them, squawking and pacing indignantly at the gate, the trio chased the little glowing insect through the Temple’s ever-twisting halls. Following this journey proved to be a pain. Zant had only set up Shadow Insects in so many corridors, and tracking their trajectory was a dizzying flurry of different angles and crowding soldiers. Yet, Zant managed to follow them in glimpses. Hyrulean and Demon soldiers alike had swarmed the place, fighting pointless battles in corridors leading nowhere. Undead gaolers were already scavenging the heaps of dead and injured, either locking those still breathing in chains, or ripping the bones from the freshly deceased to replenish their own limbs. Thus, the pair of women led a child over this carpet of corpses. The girl’s fighting ability mattered very little here – they were under the protection of Midna and her wolves, but even then, little ‘Agitha’, as they’d called her, looked too stunned to do anything but keep running.

Along the way, found tearing the talons of a Dinolfos to replenish his throwing needles, was the Sheikah warrior. He had forfeited his turban to use it as a makeshift bandage for the wound in his side. The group swiftly urged him along. Striking down whatever station guards stood in their way, they reached the deeper bowels of the temple, where lines of defense grew more and more scarce.

The three eldest of the company grew more skeptical with each step. Midna leaned closer to Agitha, whispering something the Shadow Insect could not perceive.

“The Goddess Butterfly is never wrong, Miss Kitty,” the young girl assured. She seemed to have full confidence in the butterfly’s sense of direction, and faltered not even a second in chasing after it. And that confidence was well within her right, for Ghirahim recognized these corridors. They would reach their location in no time flat.

Soon, the ground beneath the group’s feet turned sandier and sandier, until the stone tiles were completely covered. They reached a dark chamber, lit only through the cracks of ventilation slits above the massive stone door across them. The butterfly fluttered across without a care, landing on the dusty surface of the door, and fanned its wings in rest. Agitha was about to tromp right after it, but the Sheikah stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder. He pushed her back, right into Lana’s protective embrace.

Painfully slow, annoyingly cautious, the Sheikah inched into the clearing of the room step by step. He could check for traps, he could listen for mechanisms and dowse for curses or enchantments, but he would find none. Instead, something found him.

A stinger, tall enough to almost scrape past the ceiling, shot out from the sand, and jabbed at the intruder. Its menacing needle missed only by the grace of the commander’s reflexes, pushing the tail out of its trajectory with a talon dagger, but failing to crack carapace. Shaking itself out of the sand, the final bastion had revealed itself. The Moldarach, a massive scorpion of centuries old, screeched and chittered a word of warning. Its pincers snipped menacingly, tendons tight and fierce. Yet, under the threat of its lightning-fast stinger, the little girl was least afraid of them all.

Agitha looked up at the Moldarach in awe and rummaged in her basket, not taking her eyes off the creature once. “Ohh, I’d hate to hurt such a beautiful bug… I’m sorry, li’l one! But I don’t have a big enough bottle to keep you in!”

From it she retrieved an armful of glass jars, brandishing them as if they were explosives. Her entourage backed away hastily, clearly knowing far more about the contents of those jars than the Moldarach could. She tossed the jars with a sweep, racking them on the scorpion’s hard carapace at first impact. Out swarmed dozens of glowing, spectral butterflies, that headed straight for the first sign of soft flesh they could find: the Moldarach’s eyeball. The beast recoiled, pawing at its face in an attempt to shake the pests off, but it was fruitless. It could now only depend on the eyeballs hidden within its pincers, but in doing so, it revealed the soft tendons holding its claws together. Midna and the Sheikah exchanged a look, seemingly sharing an idea.

Getting up close to this creature proved to be a challenge. Lunging in to take out its claws also meant being subjected to the monster’s lightning-fast reflexes, and Midna found herself trapped in its clutches soon enough. It squeezed, digging the teeth of its claws into her flesh dangerously. They hardly even needed the Shadow Insect for this – they could hear her cries of pain through the door. A little more and it might have killed her, had the Sheikah commander not severed the tender meat in its other claw. Its grip on the imp loosened in its distress and she managed to slip away, evading its gaze long enough for it to lose sight of her. The clash of claw, stinger, and blade continued, though the Moldarach grew more fatigued by the minute. Butterflies continued to eat at its face and attached themselves to whatever nerve opening they could find. Thus the creature slowed, its jabs and lunges losing their accuracy, until at long last it ceased its attacks altogether. They saw no use in waiting until the monster fully died; their little band of foils took this earliest opportunity to flee and push through the door.

The door slid open, grinding down coarse sand of centuries old as it slotted into the wall, and allowed the quartet of Hyruleans into the Coliseum. In the center they saw Ghirahim, lounging atop the Keep’s crumbling walls and examining his nails.

Midna scowled, her fangs bared. She felt at the wounds on her chest, already scabbed over – so quickly? – and glanced to her side, where the child stood waiting expectantly. “Great work, Agitha. Now get out of here.”

At this command, Agitha looked to the Sheikah man with big, glittering eyes, smiling when he met her gaze with a nod. She curtseyed – if Ghirahim didn’t know any better, he’d think it was at him – and, with a dainty clutch of her frock, hopped down a Twilit portal.

“There you are, Demon!” Midna turned to foul, biting language the moment less-matured company was out of earshot. “Just you, huh? Go on. Cough it up! Where’s Zant? I don’t believe we got rid of him back in the desert. Not one bit!”

Ghirahim laughed, once again donning his gloves. Now more appropriately dressed, he hopped down from his perch and landed with a feathery flourish. Now that he seemed to be alone, and outnumbered at that, he decided he could afford a bit of taunting. He hummed, tapping thoughtfully at his chin with a wildly exaggerated gesture. “Oh, who can say? You make such a poor host out of me. All these questions, yet I’ve no intent to answer them!” Resting his hand on his cheek, he turned to Midna with a grin. With a puff of diamonds, he vanished, then reappeared before Midna, leaning down to glare at her with one pair of big, buggy eyes to another. “Say, I have one of my own. You look different. New haircut?”

Midna bared her teeth in a snarl, the fist at the end of her ponytail balling tightly until its fibers threatened to give. She lunged for him, the massive orange hand open and clawed. When his defending sword caught on the curved metal of her bangle, she leaned in with a grin. “Real jester you are! I take it this was your idea, then? That gaudy-masked imp told me to send you its regards.”

Majora. Ghirahim winced. It was getting a little too quiet on the Arch Demon’s front, he’d thought. But to rear its head again and mess with the Demon King’s enemies… There was no telling of its little plans. He turned his blade with a flick of his wrist, threatening to sever her hair at the shackle, and forced her back. “If I wanted you to be cursed, I’d ask someone more reliable.”

His eye flicked to the ground. Where he stood now, the low angle of the light stretched his shadow to that of the Keep’s walls…

Zant emerged from the shadows in an instant, mere inches behind Midna, and swung at her like wings on a windmill. She shielded herself with the hair-clad hand of her ponytail, only to realize within a split second that the Twilight King’s new blade cut right through it. Ducking quickly out of the way, she spun through the air, launching herself to stand closer to her two companions.

“It is a shame about your plight, Twilight Princess. I would have preferred to fight you in a more dignified form.”

When Midna forfeited a reply to glare him down, he laughed, turning to the altar behind him. “Nostalgic, is it not?” Zant waxed, his arms spread as he spun himself to the center of the coliseum. “The birthplace of our people. And perhaps, where the last of us will meet our end.”

Midna then made the grave mistake of taking his poetics as an opening and launched for him, the hand on her ponytail outstretched. The giant fist clenched around empty air when Zant promptly warped out of her way. Placing himself beside her momentum, he swung his scimitar down like a cleaver.

In an instant, magical wards were shattered. Showered in a foreboding glitter of gold, Midna cried out and smacked to the ground. But before Zant could lift his blade again and cleave her in half properly this time, the Sheikah dashed in to intervene. Only to then, himself, be driven to his knees by the daunting force of the Twilight King’s blade. It was two against one; each time Zant had subdued the one foe, the other would step in to try and take him out through his flanks. But Zant was too quick, his blade too sharp. Screeches rang out when the scimitar coursed past the edges of the Sheikah’s daggers, filling their cutting edges with worrying chips. Then, the first of them shattered to pieces completely.

Amidst it all, Zant cackled maniacally, madness tugging at his sweat-drenched brow with each swing of his sword. “Witness me, Ghirahim! We are unstoppable!”

But Ghirahim had very little time to witness. Lana had chosen him as her opponent and did everything in her power to keep him from uniting forces with his co-lieutenant. Frankly, he was a little amused that the Sheikah had not dared to face him a second time. But moreso, insulted, that the Demon Lord was not deemed a terrible enough foe to require backup to challenge. Tongue lolling from his lips in mockery and Annihilation in hand, he decided to make the Sorceress severely regret underestimating him.

Scratches tore through his robes and the strikes that hadn’t broken through his leather mail had surely bruised him, but Zant didn’t seem discouraged by injury whatsoever. Instead, he pushed through, seeking risk after risk and tearing through everything that opposed him. Soon, that boldness was awarded. Midna held up her hair-clad fist to defend herself, and Zant carved through two of its fingers as if it were made of wet paper.

Zant screeched with delight. “Your weeks of bedrest have atrophied your skills, Princess! While you lay there rotting in your own misery, I have gotten stronger!”

Midna growled, ducking behind the Sheikah to conceal herself from his bloodthirsty glee. Ghirahim, though, could see everything. Portals appeared in the shadows and from it surfaced a trio of wolves, each raising its hackles before bursting past the Sheikah and charging at the Usurper.

“Such cheap tricks will not work a second time,” Zant clicked his tongue.

Then, with a gust of wind, he launched himself backward and well out of range of the two warriors. With a single twirl, he drew a circle in the sand with his feet, and raised his arms to the skies. When he parted his lips to speak, every shadow stilled at once, slithering beneath the feet of each combatant, turning the air thick and heavy.

The air grew heavy, stopping every warrior in their tracks. A pale blue light shone from above, but none dared take their eyes off him to look for its source.

One by one, limbs limp and gangly in their descent, three creatures fell from the sky. Upon hitting the ground, their bodies contorted as they rose, each more bizarrely and stiffly than the next. They were massive, gray things, fitted with stone masks upon their faces and a mass of wet, slithering tentacles pouring from their faces.

Without even having to command them, the monsters galloped on all fours to throw themselves at the hounds. They entangled in a mess of rune and shadow, tumbling through the dust in a bestial scuffle. Midna looked on with horror.

Her companion had different concerns. Distracted by the sounds of magic, she whipped around. “That spell… How does he know that spell!?”

Just as Lana yelped, beset once more by the Demon Lord’s blade, Zant scoffed. “Did I not say I have gotten stronger!?” he taunted, knocking another brittle dagger out the hands of the Sheikah.

“Stronger!? And yet you rely on them?” Midna shouted, hurtling herself past her fellow commander to throw herself at Zant in a raging flurry. Where Zant could not parry her, he settled for shooting her from the air at point-blank with his projectiles. “How dare you utter even a word of affection toward our people, when you force their mutilated bodies to fight for your own gain!”

“Make your dogs stop attacking them, then,” Zant said, thoroughly nonplussed. At last, he forced both combatants off of him with a resounding shock wave, rattling even Ghirahim’s core where it rested in his metal.

When the ringing in his mind subsided, a different, familiar sensation took over Ghirahim. A blinking sound deep within him, imperceptible before, now alerted him to the presence of his kin. Fi – and by extension, most likely the green-clad knight tagging along – was fast approaching. “Oh, thank Our Lord, your cavalry is arriving. I was worried it would get a little too easy.”

Lana fell to the ground as Annihilation jabbed into her ribs. Its point bounced off stronger wards than he’d been met with before, and though Ghirahim didn’t exactly break skin, she clutched her chest with a groan either way. All three of their opponents exchanged a worried look, doubtlessly contemplating how to best gang up on them as they were bound to do.

Just as each of the Demon lieutenants took a step forward, deciding whose head to lop off first, new presences made themselves known. Pointing the glowing Goddess Blade forward in dowsing, Link entered through the stone gate, with Fi soon joining by his side. This second of distraction, a spark of hope for Hyrule, was just enough for the lot of them to scramble back to their feet and cluster into tight formation.

“Everyone, watch out,” Lana shouted, grimoire at the ready. “Only those with the Triforce can wield that magic!”

“He still has it?” Midna asked, eyeing Zant with her fangs bared.

Not expecting that reply, Lana turned to Midna, eyes wide with shock. “Still!?”

“Oh, so you remembered,” Zant chimed, making his way to the clustered group without hesitation. “Our Master is quite generous with his gifts. A small piece of that power is all I need to decimate the lot of you, who now have none at all. You would do better not to underestimate us!”

Midna’s eyes darted between her companions. A heaving, determined sigh tore through her. Then, her enraged expression twisted into a malicious grin. Her arms raised, she placed her hands on either side of her helmet. “Doesn’t matter. I could best you then, and I can do it now!”

The Coliseum was bathed in shadow. Midna drew darkness to her like a cyclone. Where Zant’s shadowy magic was warm and suffocating; a pulsing, all-consuming parasitic disease, hers was an eerie chill. From the pitch-black surrounding her feet, three ancient stone artifacts, the Fused Shadows, surfaced and encased her like a tomb.

When the first spidery legs burst forth from the bottom of the Twilight Princess’ stone-hewn armor, Ghirahim found himself beset by his own opponents. Link, drenched almost completely red with monstrous blood, ran for him, aiming right for his chest. Disappointed, almost, that the boy had learned nothing, he took hold of the blade with his bare hand, flicking it aside just in time to be able to step out the way of Fi’s impending kick. They were teaming up against him again, just as their other, more wounded companions were now piling on Zant. Where worry once would have possessed him, Ghirahim was now buzzing with nothing but thrill. The boy was already exhausted. He would get to tug the cords of his life from him strand by strand, and he hardly had to break a sweat to do so.

With that ever-lasting nuance and his dancing blade demanding his every second, Ghirahim couldn’t spare a glance at his battling compatriot. Not even as tendrilous arms, gnarled and glowing like smoldering branches of wicker, scampered around this battlefield, their incessant thumping shaking the rubble off the walls. Dust and pebbles rained down from above, only to be meticulously carved into halves by his sword. Some time ago, the duo of Link and Fi had bested him.

But back then, he didn’t have this blade. Annihilation soared and carved, striking hard enough to make even the stone-faced Goddess Blade wince as he parried her swinging legs. With this power, enemy numbers didn’t matter – he would win.

A twinge of anxiety simmered in him nonetheless. While he could indeed not spectate the battle behind him directly, he caught impressions from the piece of himself, wielded by his co-lieutenant. A screech of metal, a beast recoiled. Hair-coiled fists he so easily carved through minutes past now felt solid as rock. Midna could not find a way through his defenses, and the ground shook as she struggled away from his offenses. Those that dared to try left a taste of blood upon his blade, however slight. Weapons crashed into each other in such a cacophony he could no longer distinguish the flashes of light in his own battle, from the ones imposed on him by Zant’s hands. To any mortal, such a barrage of violence would render them collapsed in the confusion, but to Ghirahim, it was Paradise.

Yet, this could not last long. Caught in bladelock with Link, he swiftly kicked the boy off of him when an alarming sensation overtook him. The part of him resting within the Demon Scimitar overloaded him with visions. With the uttering of strange words, Lana had bypassed Zant’s wards. Metal groaned eerily, then exploded, shrapnel shooting into the sand. An inky-black fist clutched around an equally black steel javelin, then threw it whistling through the air. But Midna didn’t aim for the now staggered Zant – she aimed at the ceiling. Chunks of stone and wispy sands rained down, blinding all who waited below, until the dust cleared. Zant noticed it before anyone else, and burst out into a shriek when sunlight flooded every corner of the Coliseum.

They hounded him like a pack of starved wolves. More blinded than ever and his skin blistering, Zant couldn’t defend himself from the Sheikah’s assault, nor Link’s, nor Lana’s, all the while Fi kept Ghirahim across the arena. His guard dog, forced away from its flock. With every second in the sun, Zant was weakening. He simply couldn’t keep up, not while blinded and in agony like this. With desperate flings of their sword, he only barely managed to deflect the blows that would have otherwise sliced his head off. Blood stained the sand around him as strike after strike tore through his armor like it was no more than air. When his weapon finally fell from his hands, Midna took it as a sign, and grappled his battered body with a tendril for each limb. When he lifted his face, his stare was aimless, but full of malice.

“Sheik, now!”

Lana commanded, desperately eyeing the still-bleeding Sheikah commander. He complied with a nod too serene for such a boyish warrior. A glow gathered in his palms, abstract and foggy at first, until he grasped it, held it before him, and drew the string. Fuzzy sparkles shed from the light-made object, revealing its true form.

A bow. With a single blink, the Sheikah’s eyes turned from red to crystal blue.

It was the Princess! Ghirahim’s body froze over. In Zant’s current state, that single arrow would be fatal. What could stun their Master was deadly poison to his underlings.

An inhibition, once hard-coded into every fiber of his being, now shattered. Annihilation felt feather-light in his hands but crashed into Fi with the force of a stampede. A single facet chipped off her core, and would still be floating in the air when Ghirahim bolted to the center of the arena. Step, after step, after step, pummeling the sand into craters. The arrow nocked and braced, was then released. Ghirahim disappeared. A whistle, fletchings quivered in the air. Ghirahim burst into view in the middle of the Coliseum, arms outstretched. He grabbed Zant by the shoulders, and with a chime of diamond magic, they were gone.

The arrow pierced into the Keep wall. A piece of Fi’s core fell into the sand. Out of the five warriors present, none of them had been able to prevent their escape.

He needed shadows. There was only one place that would suffice. Around them, the world turned monochrome. With the Twili tucked carefully in his arms, he set his sights far beyond the labyrinth and took them both to the Palace. Nowhere would be darker than the quarters of the Twilight King.

Sheets hastily ripped off, bedding drenched in darkening blood. Zant lay stiff and unmoving, gasping like a fish, struggling none as Ghirahim ripped his clothes from him. A decorative fastening pin flew and clattered across the tile floor. Zant’s portrait above them looked on with a smirk.

Hyrulean weapons had gone right through his armor. He was a mess of red-stained wool and torn leather, gaping wounds pulsing fresh blood. Far too much of it. Ghirahim ripped the cork off a potion bottle with his teeth and shoved the glass opening to Zant’s lips, who coughed and sputtered as the thick liquid gushed down his gullet.

“Just this- Just this, and you will be alright. Stay with me,” Ghirahim hissed, keeping a close eye on the Twili’s battered body. Wounds closed up, but too many remained raw and open. Cursing under his breath, he snipped his fingers, keeping one hand – glove bunched underneath his grip – pressed heavily to a gash on Zant’s thigh. And what a useless measure it was. This wound was just one of many that needed his attention. The sheets he tore from the cupboards, drenched in water from his nightstand washing table and spilled bourbon, soon lost their white cleanliness to deep, deathly red.

Needle and thread summoned themselves with a snip of his fingers. Sewing implements, but Ghirahim had little else in his reach. Zant cried and whined when the makeshift gauze was now pressurized by a knee, Ghirahim’s hands too occupied with the needle. Bent into a rounded angle around his finger, sterilized with a flame. He thread the needle and set to pushing it through flesh.

“I’d say your crying brings me misery, Zant,” he grinned, an expression creeping on him purely from his nerves, “but do not stop. At least then I know you are alive and conscious.”

Pierce, tug, tie, and snip. Rhythmic and perfect, Ghirahim mended wound by wound. He knew how to carve flesh, so too, did he know how to sew it back together. Each wound bled with different severity. His midriff, his legs, his chest. There, he’d been carved down to the rib, surrounded by irritated flesh and glowing veins. The body tormented by these injuries cried and cried, but had not the strength to even writhe. As focused as Ghirahim was, his eyes still strayed and flicked to his right. Zant’s naturally pallid complexion helped him absolutely none in telling how much time he had. But his fading patterns did. Their teal glow almost ceased. Another potion. This time, he poured some of it directly on the still-opened wounds, hoping their sizzle would burn the veins shut. Zant was awake enough to swallow the rest of it, but not to protest against the drops that snuck into his windpipe. Only when Ghirahim had turned him on his side to tend to his back did the healing liquid’s magical effect rejuvenate him enough to rasp and hack it up. He shrieked immediately when the sudden jolt caused Ghirahim’s needle to stick him.

“Keep whining, please,” Ghirahim muttered. “If you have enough energy to act childish, then…”

Zant hissed, growled, snarled, every tug of the thread now an affront. His toes curled and his fingers dug in the sheets, weakly, but characteristically, either way. When every wound he could see was stitched, Ghirahim took the cords of lacing out the loops at his back and rid Zant of his final layer. Red, white, black; teal slowly returning, if it wasn’t simply the phosphorescent glow of the room around them. In a few days, this body would be a rainbow of bruises. Should he last that long.

Only then did Ghirahim allow himself to draw breath. Not as a necessity, but as a soothing tic, to come back to his senses and for a second empathize with a mortal man. He slumped onto the bed, his head resting on Zant’s chest. It was in this rest that the full gravity of the past minutes reached him. Rather, it jumped full force onto his back, its weight forcing him into immobility and sinking him into the bed. Ghirahim couldn’t recall when he started weeping; he’d been on auto-pilot from the second Zelda nocked her arrow.

Zant’s heartbeat thumped against his forehead, hard and heavy as it would whenever the Twili had a lump in his throat. Its pace quickened when Ghirahim spoke. “I almost lost you.”

Zant’s hand raised, then dropped onto Ghirahim’s back. Cold fingers stroked him softly. “You may still, Oibedelrik, Yima Daegge Esweteli,” Zant whispered hoarsely, forcing his words out with the nigh manual contracting of his rib muscles. “Odowuni kem idzidiy Iya, ee Iya-” he murmured, his eyes rolling to the backs of their sockets. His eyelids fluttered shut, then shot back open, revealing darting pupils as if he’d just remembered where he was. “I am not yet bandaged,” wheeze, “and when my blood returns to me,” wheeze, “I may yet fall to fever.”

“Shut up.” Banish the thought. As if he would be so negligent! A doctor, he was not, but as much as he could bring death, he could also spot its tellings, and he did not intend on letting it rear its head again. Ghirahim closed his eyes, listening intently to his pulse – as if it would slip away if he turned away for even a second – then raised himself to finish the job.

He had to go back to the battlefield. There was no telling whether all their beasts had been defeated or not, or whether they even had a chance to take down Hyrule’s commanders. He would return, alone if he had to, Ghirahim decided as he stroked a warm, wet cloth along the dried blood on Zant’s torso where his stitches did not taint him. But he’d only leave when Zant was stable.

In his spiraling, Zant’s hand had found its way to his hair, running its fingers through the strands. For once, Ghirahim cared not how bloodstained he would get. Zant’s weak voice muttered, slipping between heaving breaths. “All of them, at once… I foresaw many, but every caste and clade…”

“I know, I know,” Ghirahim responded, wringing the blood from the reddened cloth. “But the more we whittle down today, the less prepared they’ll be when Master strikes.”

“There is no ‘we’, Ghirahim. I cannot fight like this. I was bested once again.”

“I will take care of it,” Ghirahim muttered, a frown on his brow. He thought it ripe time to change the subject. “The Princess, disguising herself as a Sheikah... I’d almost say she exceeded us in trickery today.”

Zant sighed, his arm quickly becoming deadweight in his hand as Ghirahim took it for bandaging. That strange gray on his skin had spread almost no further. “Posing as a substitute for General Impa, I reckon.”

Ghirahim left Zant to his musings and grew oddly giddy with his own. The thrill of battle and clawing his companion away from death’s door scalded him from within, filling him with an inexplicable well of energy.

“But if the Princess is here… That’s good news, wouldn’t you say?” Ghirahim began to prattle, a manic tug at his brow as he pinned the last few bandages in place. “Fewer commanders are guarding the palace than we expected. If we hurry and inform Master Ganondorf, surely–”

“Ghirahim–”

But Ghirahim did not hear him. Whatever he said then, he could not even recall himself, so thoroughly he was caught up in a whirlwind of plans.

“Ghirahim, stop.”

The pair met eyes in silence, one still wearing a bewildered grin, the other lying grim and pale on what was almost his resting place. “There is no point. Your revelation will fall on deaf ears. We were never meant to leave this desert.”

Ghirahim’s expression dropped, managing only a slight grin in his confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Master sent us here to die.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ghirahim frowned, fighting off a pit of dread in his gut. This was just his usual delirium, he thought. The same madness shaken into him by fear and injury, like it had Volga.

Zant, however, did not take his struggle kindly. He frowned at him indignantly. “You call me ridiculous? You deceive even yourself. Face it, Ghirahim. We are two against seven of Hyrule’s finest commanders. This was a suicide mission from the start, as I suspected Death Mountain must have been, too.”

“... But-” Ghirahim struggled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Zant was a liar, he knew this. But now? To him? About something like this? Neither possibility, not Zant deceiving him so brazenly, nor being abandoned by his Master, computed in his mind. “We were- What could I have done to displease him to this degree? Why would he want to be rid of me? You speak nonsense!”

“You did nothing, Ghirahim. You are perfect. Your sole crime was associating with me. For me, it was only a matter of time until he did away with me. He is unworthy for the throne, and, one way or the other, I would have stopped him from seizing it.”

Ghirahim froze. Pieces fell on the ground before him but he didn’t dare to watch them assemble. Something hot and furious was starting to thaw the ice of his shock from within. “What?”

“Your surprise tells me he did not even bother to confirm his suspicions before abandoning you.” With a huff and groan, he shifted, trying to prop himself upright on his pillow. The grimace he pulled in his pain remained in his face, molded from rage and hatred. “I detest him, Ghirahim, and finally he has noticed it. He must have known I wished for his death, and that I intended to follow through.”

Ghirahim staggered away from the bed as if pushed. An instant revulsion forbade him from staying anywhere near the wounded man before him, and in his disgust, he willingly followed this instinct. He scowled at him, wide-eyed and vicious, tongue lashing and drenched with venom. “So your title was given to you for good reason. I cannot believe my ears. Immature little boy, you are! Our accursed usurper, unable to keep his grubby claws off any throne when he grows the slightest bit displeased. You ungrateful wretch!”

“Ungrateful? You know not what you speak of,” Zant scowled right back, tears of rage welling up in his eyes and his teeth bared. The Lord of Twilight turned to him unflinchingly, hunched like a pouncing beast as if his drive to convince him had filled him with fresh vigor. “In my time, Ganon was to me what Demise was to you. My God, I adored him,” he waxed, hands covering his face in grief. “I did his bidding. I worshiped him, freed us both from our decrepit prison. Yet, when I gave my life for him, he broke his promise to me. Instead of freeing my spirit to rule by his side, he took everything I ever worked for. And then- then-” Zant paused, hands falling limply into his lap. “When defeated by his little foil, when the strings of his soul dared touch upon mine to beg for my assistance, I denied him.”

Zant’s eyes turned to him again. The first hints of a smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “You understand, don’t you? It was no hero, no princess, who slayed the Demon King in the age of Twilight. The one to deliver the final blow, was me.”

That very second, a little part of Ghirahim’s world shattered. When he realized the consequences of plotting alongside a man so treacherous, the rest shattered with it. Right under his nose, Zant had made an enemy of his Master, and by extension, of Ghirahim. There were questions he wanted to ask, insults to be hurled. He could only think of one question, that bubbled to the surface of his heart like scum in a boiling pot. “How long have you plotted this?”

Zant lowered his gaze, for as far as the stare of a near-blind man mattered. “From the very start,” he admitted, sighing. “After such a betrayal, to awaken to another manifestation of my tormentor, and have him once again demand my services… He may as well have spat in my face. Though, I admit, for a little while, I buckled. Somewhere, I must have loved him still, drawn to his power and our shared hatred for Hyrule as I was. I wanted to see if I could trust this version of him, who seemed so noble. But after your stories, Ghirahim, how his incarnations cast you aside so carelessly… I made up my mind. Ganondorf does not change.”

“So then all of this was just a lie, part of your plans?” Ghirahim asked, his voice quaking. He didn’t care for Zant’s excuses, not when they pulled every minute he spent by his side into question. Not when they sabotaged everything he’s ever stood for. “I, too, just a little scheme for you?”

Zant gasped, inching closer to the edge of the bed to look at him in pleading. “No, Ghirahim. How could I have foreseen this? I came to you seeking an ally, and I found a new reason for my heart to beat. For every lie I have told you, I have spoken to you as many truths tenfold, in how I’ve grown to love you. It is only because of you I have made it this far. You’ve given me peace, soothed my soul when I threatened to bubble over. And, more importantly, Ghirahim-ili, you have made a warrior of me.” Zant urged, attempting a smile, his hand outstretched. “Which is why I ask you to join me.”

Ghirahim was too stupefied by his words to answer. So Zant took advantage of his silence to continue. “You know now of my hatred, my every motivation. Yet you stay loyal to him, even if you must know he will not spare you. He has not spared you, for he resigned someone so loyal to him to the same fate he did a traitor.”

His arms snaked around himself, his nails digging in the false skin of his arms. Ghirahim took another step back; the Twili’s presence alone made it feel like insects were crawling inside his steel, tunneling through him like termites. His mind hit a roadblock, reached a final terminal, and the logic Zant asked from him sat horizons away where his tracks would not reach. “... Then if Master wills it-”

Zant shot up in his seat, snapping at him before he could finish his sentence. “Do you know how it hurts me, Ghirahim? To see someone so precious to me tear himself apart over someone who would shatter him on a mere whim? After all you do for him, he denies you at every turn and punishes you for the barest things. It has taken every shred of composure I had not to tear into him when he threatened to hurt you. If I had not hated him before, the way he treats you would have convinced me to.”

He’d avoided his eyes up until then, but Ghirahim now shot his gaze straight at him. They exchanged a scowl, each gnashing teeth, one from hatred, one from love. Desperation seized him and sharpened his edge.

Ghirahim made for him and pushed him back into the pillows. “You know not what you ask of me. To think I would care what hurts you now, after what you’ve told me! You speak of whims? You’re asking me to abandon my every purpose for something as small as your mortal love. My purpose is all I have. It is me. To ask me to betray Demise is to doom myself to scrap, Zant.”

Zant had refused a squeak when he was shoved. With tears in his eyes, he simply laid there, glaring at him. He cradled a freshly ruptured suture through its bandages. “You are not yourself when you speak of him! Listen to the words you spew! Scrap!? So highly you think of yourself, you carry yourself as the priceless artifact that you are, yet when around him, you are degraded to the ranks of mere tools.”

Ghirahim gripped his hair in wild frustration. “Because- I am precisely as perfect as I am because of Him! Without Him, without a hand to wield me, I am nothing.”

Zant stared at him, perturbed, before groaning in his agony and sinking into his pillows. For a moment, he wilted again, speaking bitterly as he resigned himself. “Then you have been, and will be nothing, for a very long time.”

In an instant, his vision went red. “How dare you!”

Ghirahim pounced him, hands outstretched and clawed, landing square upon his chest, ignoring the grit of Zant’s teeth, his squirms, his pained squeaks. All he paid attention to were his wide-open eyes and the fear he could milk out of them. He gripped him fiercely by the shoulders and shook him as he spoke. “It’s all your fault, isn’t it!? Why he would not wield me! Why I could not gain his trust!? All because of your greed, he now sees me as a conspirator to your rotten betrayal.”

His hands found Zant’s throat and squeezed. Ghirahim leaned in close, fangs bared. Zant did nothing. Just the sight of those glowing pupils fueled the fire of his rage. “A thousand miserable years I’ve waited, working hard to see him again. Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? Your puny, mortal mind could never comprehend the lengths I’ve gone to!”

He reared back his fist, and still Zant did nothing. “Now I can wait thousands more, and he will never wield me again!!”

Ghirahim panted amidst his accusations, tears streaming down his cheeks the second they beaded in the corners of his eyes. He scanned the Usurper’s eyes for substance, for anything that wasn’t pity. When he didn’t find it, he snapped. Before he knew it, his fist connected to Zant’s cheekbone. Crack. “How could you do this to me? We were going to win!” Crack. “I would finally have been happy, after I’ve been alone for so long, and you RUINED everything for me!”

Crack. Snap. A whimper. There wasn’t an inch of Zant’s face untainted by blood and bruising, and still, that horrible fool did nothing to stop him. “I should kill you!”

He sent Zant’s head twisting left to right, right to left, with each punch. His heart had broken twice over today. First, shattered to pieces from all hope of becoming his Master’s blade. Then, its shards were trampled by the very man below his relentless assault, who had punished him so severely for daring to open himself to that mortal love. What a complete and utter fool he’d been. He should have expected to be punished like this, for entering a world he didn’t belong in.

And still, past the swollen, blood-smeared skin, Zant did not take his gut-wrenching eyes off of him, trying to fool him into loving him again to save his own measly life. It was an outrage! A betrayal this massive, and Zant had the gall to try and garner his sympathy. To assert they were alike in fate. There was only one who had lost everything, whose prospects were null, and who was only living on borrowed time. Only one banished from his home, his every goal snatched from before his nose. Only one whom his Master truly abandoned, to never be forgiven.

… No.

There were two.

Before his fist could crash into him once more, a convulsion tore through Zant’s body below him. Within the blink of an eye, he changed. His skin lost all color, turning a deep, shadowy black, while his patterns dimmed, and his hair bristled into a brittle white, like spider’s silk.

Zant was dying.

The ties to the Demon Scimitar pulsed in his chest. There lied that rebellious little dagger, the one that thumped against the walls of his core whenever this wretch would look at him in his strange ways. Did it not feel good? Its little voice whispered in his mind. Even if it was such a small piece of you in his hands, did it not fill you with joy? Master will not wield us, and this world has so few who are worthy of us. Is it not better to rest part of you in capable hands, than in nothing at all?

Ghirahim clutched his head, begging for silence. He could not handle even a second of doubt, of weakness. If this man were simply dead, everything would be so much easier. If he were the one to kill him, Master would forgive him. But are you ready for him to die?

He was. He would have to be. He wanted to be. It would be so simple. He just wanted to be wielded. To be held in someone’s hands, to be part of something greater.

He wanted to be loved.

Please, help him.

Oh, God. What has he done?

He detested the despairing little squeak behind him as he walked away from that deathbed. Even more, he reviled himself, for glancing behind and allowing the teeth of guilt to sink into him at the pitiful sight of that beaten creature.

What he hated most was how he’d been convinced to return after his brief departure, healing elixirs in hand, and seeing tear-drenched eyes looking at him with a bloody smile.

Don't look at me like that, you horrible man. You’ve ruined my life.

But that pitiful part of him felt relieved how Zant could smile at the sight of him still. How Zant was glad to see him, even after attempting to take his life mere seconds earlier. A withered hand shook as it reached out for him. Ghirahim took it and squeezed.

The room was silent as Ghirahim nursed Zant back to health. Far, far into the desert outside, chaos was unfolding. The few remaining giant monsters were now surely being slaughtered, and their troops would have to cherish idle hopes of succeeding in their reign of terror, in their commanders’ absence. Deep, deep below the ground, Gerudo and Bulblin who could not fight were taking shelter in the dungeons, waiting for the pounding footfall to fade away and leave them in peace.

Neither side knew they were here. They would sit in this room, disturbed only by the glare of Zant’s portrait, judging this pathetic display. Zant strained to breathe. His complexion had inverted almost to its original colors, while his hair returned to its original, rosewood shade. However, some strands retained that ghostly white from before. Ghirahim hoped it would be permanent. He hoped he would remember this accursed day every time he was confronted with his reflection.

Never before had shadows bothered him. Now, in the deep darkness of Zant’s bedroom, it suffocated him. Neither of them said a word. There was nothing to say, but in this stifling pit of nothingness, he began to crave the slightest noise. He wished he could go back to a time when this dark was comforting, to be filled with nothing but idle chatter and the grappling of their bodies. Like this, through noise, through touch, Ghirahim could only think to hurt him.

So, Ghirahim seized the bridge of Zant’s nose and cracked what cartilage he hadn't shattered back into place. He took hold of his jaw, counted to three in his head, and popped the crooked thing back in its sockets. If Zant had cried out in pain at any of this, he wouldn't have noticed. The ringing in his ears was just too loud. His handiwork now finished, he trusted the potions to do the rest.

Then, he waited. For anything, really. For the battle raging outside to dissipate. For their forces to come bursting through the castle gate cheering with glee, or for the enemy to come raid it of every worth and woman inside, and drag the two of them to the gallows, while they were at it. But mostly, he waited for any change in Zant.

Look at him. He cannot even raise a finger to hurt you. You could end this right here, right now, Ghirahim thought to himself. Yet he sat and did nothing. When his eyes met the ones that stared glossily back up at him, filled with agonized gratitude, that thought snuffed out, and its wicker would burn no longer.

Ghirahim swallowed his apprehension, inhaled sharply, and sighed. “What will you have me do?”

Zant opened his mouth to speak, but the shards of crumbled teeth fell into his throat as he uttered his first syllable. Ghirahim sat and watched as he choked and spat them out on his pillow.

“We are to wait out the right time to strike back for the throne, but today, we cannot. So we will have to fool them with one more ruse. Return to the battlefield, Ghirahim,” he wheezed, swallowing the blood from a dry throat. “Strike at whoever is closest. Be vengeful. Be fierce. You must fight like you never have before.

Zant breathed deeply. With each chug of air, another wound closed up, though their scars and deep black bruises remained. “You are to disappear with me. They must be convinced that I succumbed to my wounds.”

You should have.

“And, to their knowledge, you will take to the grave with me. Come closer,” he said. His hand searched beside his face on the pillow and retrieved a shard of tooth, long and pointy, almost complete. With a tiny crack, he then reached over, and fastened it to Ghirahim’s earring, to an empty link remaining there. “A memento, to convince them of my death.”

Ghirahim rose again in silence. A little piece of bone so small dangled from his ear, but the weight of its burden could tip him over. Zant continued to speak as if this was the simplest matter in the world. “Take our blade. My power rests within it, still, and it is all the help I can afford you.”

Listlessly, mechanically, Ghirahim rose from his seat before Zant even finished his sentence. The sword lay by his bedside, hastily thrown to the side along with Zant’s armor. He picked up that shard of himself and apologetically wiped it of its grime.

A roar reverberated from outside, echoing past the sands and through the castle walls. Zant called to his attention again with his glowing eyes aimed straight at him. “The Gerudo are innocent in all this. The least we can do is scare this vermin away from their homes. I trust you to have tricks up your sleeve, Yima Mionaida.”

Despite it all, his little nicknames stirred in his chest. Ghirahim clenched his fist harder around the grip of the Demon Scimitar, as if to smother it. His Diamond. The miserable, manipulative cretin that he was. And Ghirahim was doing all his bidding.

Just before he could turn his back to leave, he was halted one last time. “Ghirahim,” Zant started, but he knew saying his next words would only draw his ire. His face said every letter anyway. I’m sorry.

Ghirahim ran. Within a flash, he was back in the sweltering heat of the desert, bolting from the Temple Complex and kicking up sand trails in his escape. He tore past keeps, the slain corpses of their monsters, and field battles still unfolding between forces too stubborn to believe the war was won. Those who dared bar his way were dealt with swiftly, their heads rolling. He left the perfect trail like this. A pristine white lightning bolt with a sword sharper than the cruel edge of time, such a description could only fit one man. The eyes he sought snared onto him. Enemy commanders, skeptically scouring the desert and leaving not a stone unturned for a trace of Ganondorf’s finest. Now, they found him and were giving chase just like he wanted.

Blood and plate mail carpeted the vast sands racing below his feet. Rock outcroppings raced past; trampled patches of desert scrub – Safflina and a type of sagebrush. The smell of drying vegetation filling the air was the same as when Zant held sprigs from them up to his nose for inspection – and, finally, the gate to the bazaar, zipped past him. Almost, he, the false deserter, had gotten away with leading the lot of them out into the wider desert, until a familiar rumble ripped him from his concentration.

Ghirahim swerved to the side, narrowly avoiding a boulder that barreled past him. It skidded to a halt before him and unfolded, though he didn’t have to see that transformation to know what nuisance stood before him. There was, once again, Darunia, Chief of the Goron Tribes.

“Not one step further, Pebble.”

The sight of him was enough to startle even Ghirahim, though he was too jaded to find any delight in it. Darunia’s torso was heavily scarred, and his right arm, gone. In its place was a jumble of machinery, with pistons and gears whirring noisily to heave the weight of a massive hammer at the very end of the prosthetic limb. Beyond a solid steel helmet, the Goron Chief wore a wide grin, though one less eye stared back at Ghirahim than last time.

“Thought to slip by us, did you? All on your lonesome?” said the Goron Chief, brandishing his weapon. “I wasn’t looking forward to facing off against that nutcase anyhow, but a lil’ something tells me my siblings took care of that for me…”

Ghirahim looked back. The peaks of Gerudo Palace were no longer in sight. For whatever chaos he would unleash… This would have to be far enough. All he had to do was stall for time until the rest of the Hyrulean commanders caught up to him.

“You truly wish to keep me? Very well,” Ghirahim replied, holding the Demon Scimitar up to the sun. Sand powdered his bodysuit from top to bottom, crusting gray and gold in every crease. But their blade remained immaculate. Its silvery edge still shone into his pupils, like teeth flashing in a hungry grin. “Make this worth my while.”

Darunia’s hammer pounded into the ground fiercer than ever. The springs on his arm, hefty as it might have been, gave him untold speed and force with each swing. Ghirahim couldn’t stop the speed of that hammer anymore – where there were once bulging veins now sat machinery, forged from a steel he dared not chip the Demon Scimitar on. So, he had to settle for the rest of this massive creature. They clashed like this for what felt like hours, neither showing any signs of tiring. The resounding clanks of the warhammer striking upon resonant steel had surely deafened them both, and everyone daring to come near them. It was thoroughly inelegant. Ghirahim hissed, roared, lunged at him with wild swings wielding a sword leagues to big for his frame. Such wild desperation hampered him as much as it worked in his favor. A grief-stricken foe was always quickly underestimated. Even with his new accessories, Darunia would not leave this battlefield unscathed. A blade made from the heart would know how to find another without effort. As he riddled the Goron’s bulging ribcage with scars, a foreboding chime in his core once again alerted him of his pursuers. They were getting closer. He could feel it.

Then, for a second, he could feel nothing at all. A split second of distraction cost him dearly, when it allowed for Darunia to come within arm’s reach and drive his hammer straight into him. The flat of the giant hammer drove into the side of his head with such a deafening impact he thought his head might snap clean off. Instead, he remained intact, launched across the bazaar to tumble through ruined market stands and trampled carpets. When he came to a halt, all he could see was dust, the approaching Darunia not more than a shadow in the clouds of sand. Ghirahim stood up, a hand to his wounded cheek to find it just that – wounded. Through his false skin, he could feel chips taken out his face, like little razor-sharp dimples on his cheek.

The rest of them were approaching now, right outside the gate. Ghirahim found the least he could do was give them a proper welcome spectacle. Concealed by the dust, he launched forward at the shape of the Goron Chief in ambush. Its wicked, curved tip aimed at the jugular. Darunia staggered away, but every twitch of movement just made the scimitar slice him deeper. With just one more stumbling step, Ghirahim got the vengeance he wanted. An arc of blood gushed from the Goron’s collarbone, splattering to accessorize Ghirahim’s wounded face. Clutching his bleeding wound, Darunia thrust his metal arm forward to push the Demon away from him and hobbled back into the dust.

Ghirahim gave chase until he remembered his task. Wind whipped through his hair and took the sands with it, revealing at last his surroundings to him. Standing in an arc around him, barricading his way to the desert, stood the mightiest of Hyrule’s army. There was nowhere left to lure them, this would have to be his final stand. He could not fight all of them at once – not Link, not Fi, not Zelda, not all of the other pompous royals gathered here. But he could make them see. The blade, the tooth dangling from his ear. Now, he would make them witness his sorrow. To their knowledge, it would be grief for a fallen friend, but in the depths of his core, he felt nothing more than disgust for obeying the word of another.

Tears gushed from his eyes. He was doing this – he was betraying his Master. Ghirahim (was he even worthy of a name?) contorted his face into a maddened grin. The carnage, the destruction, the pure, unfiltered chaos this final gambit would unleash might have pleased Him, but it would not be in His name. It was moot! He should have accepted his fate in the Arbiter’s grounds. He should have stood patiently waiting in executioner’s row, to be pierced by the very same arrow that he saved his conspirator from. If his Master willed him to shatter, to turn to dust and forgotten in the eyes of history, then that was to be his fate, and nothing more.

Instead, the Sword Spirit glared down the approaching Hyrulean commanders with the same manic grimace, and readied his spell.

“Šamu dullu-ya, Majora! Bēlu ellāmu-adāni, Lā Naparkû Umṣu! Anāku bussuru kâti bursaggû, naqrabu napištu. Banû annûm āra-šu ašītu, baqāru tidintuka!”

He danced and danced through the sand, flickering himself atop every surface he could find to evade the grasp of his assailants. Midna and Lana were the first to stiffen, to call for someone to put a stop to this, but none of the arrows sailing past could hit their mark. Every word drained more and more energy from him. This was a true summoning, a bargain driven. Within the first uttering of the Arch Demon’s name, he could feel it watching, stalking around him like a wolf with gnashing teeth, licking its lips until it found his offer sufficient.

He would have thought it an infernal illusion, ripping him to some other plane of existence, did he not notice the straw hat atop the mask and the blue sky expanding behind it. The Skull Kid floated before him upside down, looking him dead in the eye. With a single tap on the nose, it shook him out of his paralysis.

“Took you long enough. Don’t let me get bored again, Ghirahim-ili!”

It mocked, it shrieked with laughter, and it rattled its mask. Arms to the sky, it hovered squeaking and groaning with strain, and then with the same great effort, swung its clawed little hands down as if pulling a massive lever. Then, it waved cheerfully and disappeared within a blink.

Silence. Nothing at all. The commanders still around him stood waiting with caution, alarmed by the Arch Demon’s arrival, and just-as-sudden departure. Only when a rumble shook the pebbles on the bazaar grounds did they think to look up.

Not Ghirahim. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the skies for even a second. He saw it the second Majora disappeared. A small dot, a mere speck in the endless blue of the cloudless heavens, approaching rapidly. The Moon was falling down on Gerudo Desert.

Cries of panic, of retreat. Chimes of magical transportation rang around him. Hyrule’s commanders were fleeing en masse. Perhaps he would not strike his intended targets, but he didn’t care. This battle would find no spoils or prisoners. Nothing but a wasteland would be left, leaving not the slightest bone for the vultures to scavenge. Swirling clouds of condensation shrouded the Moon in its rapid descent. It was hypnotic, almost, Ghirahim thought, standing in the center of its massive shadow. He considered then what would happen if he simply stayed here. The clouds dissipated as the Moon crossed their threshold. By all means, he was insane for dawdling here, and yet he took the time.

Head cocked curiously, but eyes blank, he peered up at a giant visage that scowled back. Like it challenged him, almost. He was forged to survive any impact, surpassed only by weaponry that rivaled him in magic ability. But he’d never been hit by a meteor before. Would it shatter him? Did that matter? Oh, how tempting the thought was. He was a dead man walking either way. Where would he go if he survived such an impact? Master would break him.

Ah, his trump card was getting a little close for comfort now. He could feel the heat of its approach on his skin, its tremors shaking the ground beneath his feet. There were mere seconds between this moment and the inevitable crater the Moon would leave. He turned his stare away from the skies and turned to look around. Not a soul remained in the bazaar, but the soldiers that fled – be they friend or foe – certainly weren’t far enough to escape the blast radius. They’d be dust soon, blend in with the sands.

Playtime was over. He’d fantasized plenty. Zant was waiting for him; whether he’d find him succumbed to his wounds, or in a prime state to kill him himself, he’d have to see when he got there. Whether he’d have the guts to see him to his end…

Now, to get out of here.

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