He's got her now. Now, she's his, and there's no one to stop him. They're alone, in his castle of brilliant marble, the stone crawling with veins of onyx, like a complex spider's web, one from which there's no escape.
The bed upon which he has her pinned is sheeted with deep red satin, and he thinks this was a brilliant idea on his part. This way, no one —not that anyone ever came to visit anyway—would see the dark spots of blood she'll bleed when he takes her.
He smiles a little to himself, flicking his silver bangs from his face, just so he can get a better view of her luscious, perfect body, befitting of a goddess, he thinks. His piercing violet eyes rake hungrily over her form, drinking in her perfect features, savoring the delicious scent of her sweaty flesh.
She shrinks away from him, afraid, and he grins menacingly, showing pointed teeth, like shards of moonlight in his black, void-like maw. "Come now, sweet Goddess," he croons. "There's no need to be afraid."
But there is, and she knows it.
He licks the side of her face, his long, snake-like tongue white hot against her skin, and she trembles beneath him, becoming more afraid the closer he gets to her. His breath is like fire upon her flesh, and that alone is enough to make her want to scream. But she can't, because she's too afraid to do even that in his presence.
You didn't scream in his dominion, not unless you wanted pain beyond anything imaginable. He was perfectly capable of such a feat, and she knew it.
His hands, ebony spiders, crawl stealthily up her legs, gliding beneath her dress, slithering between her thighs, making her flinch away as if she's been electrocuted.
He chuckles, a harsh, throaty sound, like the dry rattle of a snake's tongue, slipping over pointed fangs. "Dear Zelda," he scolds. "You needn't be afraid. Nothing will hurt you here."
Except maybe me, he adds silently.
The look on her face says she clearly thinks his words are meaningless.
His ice-cold fingers scrape down her cheek, and she resists the urge to snap her head forwards and maybe take off a few of his fingers. That would wipe the smirk off his face.
She can't help but elicit even a small moan as he traces his hand down her neck, nipping with his sharp teeth at her collarbone, leaving small, bloody teeth-marks in the perfect, flawless skin. She shouldn't be enjoying this; she should be trying to push him away, to be so bold as to even strike him, to put him in his place. But she doesn't.
"You're a slut," he growls, his tone low and animalistic; his voice is almost a snarl as he speaks.
"How dare you," she hisses, and crawls further up the bed, out of reach where his vile hands cannot get her.
"You can't escape you know," he murmurs. "Sooner or later, I will find you. And when I do…" His lips twist into a cruel sneer, making his face with the black scar splitting his face like the mouth of a great chasm, appear almost monstrous in the fading light from the dripping tallow candles that resided on the vanity table in the corner of the room.
Shadows are thrown carelessly onto the walls by the wandering candle flames, projecting images of that of a loving embrace between a couple. How painstakingly wrong that is. If only it could outline the true form of events taking place.
Of how he is on top of her, nipping harshly at her neck and collarbone and running his hand down the full length of her slender body. The shadows say otherwise. Of how he is leering above her, the clean white dress she once wore now torn open and stained with blood. Of how he is groping viciously at her exposed breasts, his long, pale fingernails leaving deep red scratches on the flawless skin.
It frightens her, how the shadows seem to portray the exact opposite of the true events that are transpiring, how each one seems to have a mind of its own; they're dancing and leaping like puppets with their strings cut, they even seem to be mocking her that they are free, and she, a prisoner of the Demon Lord who has her pinned beneath him.
"Enough foolishness," he growls, and presses her deeper into the bed, which has now become like rock beneath her, hard and brittle against the nape of her neck as her arms and her legs slowly being pried apart by his iron grip.
"Stop," she whispers, her voice almost trembling as she stares, horrified at the psychotic monster that seems intent on ravishing her until she is begging for mercy. And judging by the frightened look upon her face, it wouldn't be too long before he got his wish.
Fear shows clearly in her sky blue eyes, her blonde locks tangled between his fingers, white piano keys splintered with black-lightning bolts in a crystal sky. She tries to move away from his leering face, but his arm shoots out and seizes her wrist, trapping her, preventing her escape.
"What did I tell you, Zellie?" he snarls. "There's no way out."
"Don't call me that," she whispers, disgusted at the way her thinks he can just throw names around like they mean nothing to him.
But of course, he's only ever known one thing: fear. Fear that others feel for him, fear on rare occasions, fear he has felt himself. He's nothing more than an echo-a creature whose soul is a whirling rage of gold and shadows, cloaked in a haze of fire and smoke, and whose heart belongs purely to darkness.
"And why not?" he growls. "What are you going to do, Your Grace?"
She can't think of an answer, and lowers her head in defeat.
That maniacal, machine-gun laugh explodes from his throat once again, and he lowers his face so that it hovers directly above her own, leering down at her like the face of some ghastly demon. "Scared?" he asks.
All she can do is nod and ask, "Why won't you let me go?"
He grips her face tightly in those claw-like fingers of his, the black nails digging into her flesh, drawing blood and sending pain shooting through her like a raging storm of agony and suffering. His voice emerges in a faint hiss as he talks. "Because that would be no fun."
He leans closer to her, his breath white hot silver on the nape of her neck, whispering, crooning vile and despicable words into the ear of the goddess.
"Come on babe," he whispers. "Let's get it on. What do you say?"
A shiver runs down her spine as she listens to his words, cruel and disgusting in her ears.
Shut up, she wants to say, just shut up. But she knows that if she even so much as mutters a word against him, he'll strike her and he'll strike her good.
His fingers close, like a vice, around her wrist, the ebony nails opening deep red scratches in her pale flesh. Pain shoots through her arm, and tears, salty and hot, spring to her eyes. Her face twists in agony as his nails sink deeper into her flesh.
Blood, black in the pale light, bubbles up from the fissures in her skin and runs down her arm in streams of crimson. The red sheets are now stained with droplets of deep maroon and her hair, the color of sunlight, is now streaked with rose madder, the color of her hair having lightened the tone of the blood that runs through it.
Ghirahim trails his hand through the sunlight waterfall that cascades down her back and over her shoulders. "Beautiful," he murmurs.
She flicks her head to the side, attempting to free her hair from his death-like grasp. Quick as lightning, his fingers snap shut, trapping the remains of what he still held, and making her cry out; it feels as if her hair is being uprooted at the core, torn out at the roots like a dead plant from the soil in which it once grew. And it is agony.
A strangled cry escapes her throat, and he takes this opportunity to kiss her, not softly, but fiercely, nothing like the kisses Link would often give her. His kisses were soft and sensuous, while the lips of the Demon Lord were cold and clammy, as if they were sucking the life from her with every passing second, kisses of fire upon her freezing skin.
Trapped in his deathly embrace, it is all she can do to push him away, separating his lips from her own, and gaze hatefully up into his burning violet orbs. A crazed grin forms on his lips, and he looks at her, gazing into her azure pupils with a lust that could only be described as, when coming from him, perverted.
Shivering in disgust, she tries to wriggle out of his iron grip, but her attempts serve only to enrage him further, and he tightens his grip around her waist, his free hand coming up to cup her breast, his thumb trailing lazily down her cleavage.
Slipping his hand stealthily under the hem of her dress, he runs his fingers, like icicles, up her legs, keeping her frozen in place. She knows if she moves even one bit, he'll break through her maidenhead like paper. He doesn't care about her honour, her only purpose is for her to be his prisoner, his captive. And the captive's captor doesn't follow the rules.
His iron grip turns to steel around her wrist, and blood, flashing red in the pale light of the ever-melting candles that still burn upon the vanity, drips onto the sheets, running down the pale skin of her wrist and staining the Demon Lord's ebony fingers a deep red, barely visible in the dim light.
The shadows that once danced merrily, insanely, on the walls are waning, becoming smaller in size as the candles burn themselves down to mere stumps of melted tallow on the dresser. Yet the images they portray still remain, like silhouettes of ash upon the wall's pale surface.
She glances fearfully over to the mirror, where ribbons of light dance and twirl in the glass, reflected from the dying flames. The Zelda she sees in the mirror is far different from the Zelda she knows she should be.
In the mirror, her reflection wears a mask of fear and agony, but inside, she knows she should not be like that. She's a goddess. She should be facing him, defiance in her eyes, and courage in her heart. But she does not. She cowers from him, afraid, and this simple action brings a victorious smirk to his lips, twisted and warped.
"Get away from me," she moans, wishing Link would come soon, though she knows he never will. She knows he would try; he would try if it killed him, but his efforts would all be in vain. She could see him now, delving into the hearts of the most dangerous places on the surface world, his blade flashing as it cut through monsters as if they were made of paper, a determined smile upon his lips, all to reach her, to reach the place where she was held captive.
Impa, her Sheikah guardian, had been killed by Ghirahim and his minions long before she arrived in this hellhole he called his home, and now, the hero was her only chance of making it out alive. But even as she thought of him, of how he would come to save her, the thought seemed more insane and impossible, and she began to think he would not come at all.
But instead of backing away, he slides his icy fingers further up the inside of her thighs and in one quick motion, thrusts them inside of her, making her cry out in pain as her hymen breaks beneath the pressure he is putting on it. Tears spring to her eyes and his fingers become streaked with blood. Her blood.
Angry now, she shoves him away from her, a look of hatred and venom upon her face that surprises him. He's never seen her like this before.
"I used to think I hated you," she whispers venomously, "but now, I'm certain. I hate you more than ever."
And he just laughs. His ebony hand comes whistling through the air and strikes the side of her face, sending her reeling with a cry of pain.
"Are you defying me?" he hisses.
A smirk appears on her bloodied lips, split open by his razor-sharp nails. "Yes. Yes I am."
He raises his hand to strike her again, to end her life where she sits, sprawled on the scarlet bed sheets, pain etched across her face, and as he does, she sinks her teeth into his hand. A cruel smile plays across his lips, and he tears his arm free of her mouth, uprooting a few of her teeth in the process.
Spitting blood, the goddess howls in pain and strikes out at him with her foot, catching him in the stomach and enraging him even more.
"You," he growls, "just made a fatal mistake."
His iron hands close around her throat, locking onto her windpipe and cutting off her breathing, choking her.
As he chokes the life out of her, a thought runs through his head. If I kill her, he thinks, I'll have nothing to play with. Then I'll be bored. I'll have broken my favorite toy.
Releasing his grip on her throat, he kicks her backwards across the room, and her head slams into the wall, resulting in a crack that splinters the wood it is made of, putting an enormous dent in the crown of her head. Blood mats thickly into her hair as the dent becomes a fissure, and it begins to bleed heavily.
She can taste the metallic tang of her own blood on her lips, and see the ominous shadow of his slender form looming over her. Frightened, she shrinks away, her cerulean eyes shining with a mixture of anger and fear.
As he advances upon her, she tries to hit him, but he grabs her arm and twists it harshly, snapping the bones within as easily as one might tear a sheet of paper in two.
This time, she cannot hold in her pain, and a shriek of pent up agony erupts like a long-dormant volcano from her bloodied lips. Hatred and fear and agony pool deep within her eyes in the gaze she directs at him, a gaze of all the things she wishes upon him. Hatred. Fear. Agony. Death.
Slipping his arm, a bone white grass snake, around her waist, he pulls her to him, his long, snake like tongue slicking up the side of her face, leaving a trail of saliva in its wake.
She tries her best to suppress a shudder, but despite her best efforts, she cannot, and it courses through her body like an earthquake, sending her entire body into a series of violent tremors.
He laughs in amusement. "Does my behaviour repulse you, my Goddess?"
"Stop addressing me as if I am your puppet. I do not belong to you."
Having been his prisoner for so long, she decides she can drop the façade of being Zelda and wishes she could put him in his place once and for all.
But Link is still her Hero, her Link. Simply because she has changed her identity, does not mean her affections for the hero have also been altered.
"And what are you going to do about it, Hylia?" he sneers.
"I swear, when I get out of here, you're going to pay," she hisses angrily.
He steps back, arms outstretched, and laughs. "Come on then. Come and get me. I've already taken what you can never earn back; what have you to take from me?"
She has no reply for that. The reminder that he was the one to take her virginity strikes her like a ton of bricks, harder than he has ever hit her before.
Another machine-gun laugh erupts, like a volcano spewing hot lava, from his maw. "I thought so. The mighty Goddess has been reduced to nothing in a matter of days."
"What manner of monster are you?" she asks, bewildered at how easily he has subdued her, when she was the one who sealed his master, a being far more powerful than himself, beneath the surface of the world below.
"What I am matters not. In my dominion, I can be anything I want to be."
Her stomach rumbles loudly, and despite the hate she feels for him, she glances up at him expectantly.
"Hungry?" he asks.
She nods.
"Well, I can't beat you within an inch of your life on an empty stomach now, can I? And I doubt you'll last much longer yourself if you don't eat either."
Reaching out, he jerks her to her feet, and drags her roughly out of the bedroom and into the hallway…