Heart and Soul

By taitofan

Rated T for implied sexual situations

Disclaimer: I don't own The Legend of Zelda or its characters.

Author's note: I've been trying to write Ghirazant for ages, and it took falling back on my favorite clichéd trope to finally finish something. Go figure.

Comments are highly appreciated. Finished 09-28-2016

There's an imperfection on Ghirahim's otherwise perfect body, and he hates it.

He's a sword spirit, and swords don't get the same ridiculous little bonding marks that the Hylians and other such races receive, yet when he shifts into his more humanoid form, there it is—a name written in a language that Ghirahim has never seen. It designates the name of his so-called soul mate, and the very idea is laughable. He exists to be his master's sword, and there is no more to it than that.

Ghirahim hides the mark under his gloves, thankful that it isn't noticeable in any form he takes but that one. He refuses to let anyone see it, not even in the hopes of finding someone to translate the strange language marring his skin. Whenever he looks at it, he tells himself that he doesn't care—it isn't as if he ever asked to have a soul mate in the first place. He certainly doesn't need one. He doesn't want one. Ghirahim is perfectly content being Demise's sword.

Or so he tells himself.

Ghirahim finds himself in a new realm from his own—similar, yet strikingly different in many ways. Demise is gone, long since defeated, but his reincarnation is there. Ganondorf is powerful and imposing, and Ghirahim is pleasantly surprised that he treats his underlings far better than Demise ever did. Ghirahim doesn't mind being Ganondorf's sword, but his new master doesn't want that. He wants Ghirahim to be one of his lieutenants, and that is fine too.

The thing that most makes this world feel so different from where he came is the other lieutenant he now works beside.

Zant is a strange man who once served a different Ganondorf from his own time, and the eccentric king goes from serious and intimidating to a crazed, petulant child with seemingly little warning. Still, he's an excellent tactician who Ganondorf wants to keep around, so Ghirahim has no choice but to put up with him. It isn't as hard as he had once feared; off the battlefield, Zant is mostly sane. As sane as Ghirahim himself, he supposes.

"…Your wrist."

Ghirahim pauses, glancing down at his wrist and seeing that the fabric of his glove had shredded enough during the battle to show the name that resides there. With as much nonchalance as he can muster in his fatigued state, he pulls the whole thing off and flings it to the ground. He can always conjure up a new one once he has his strength back.

"What about it?" he asks, pretending as if he isn't upset that someone is seeing the repulsive thing. That Zant sees it. "Are you telling me that your race doesn't receive these absurd things?"

"Do you know what it says?"

Ghirahim is too shocked by Zant's oddly soft tone to be upset that his questions are being blatantly ignored. He wishes, not for the first time, that Zant would remove that hideous helmet of his. Zant, Ghirahim has found in the few weeks they have fought together, wears his emotions clearly on his face. Thus the need for the helmet, Ghirahim assumes, but it's an eyesore all the same. And now, he very much wishes to know what Zant is feeling.

"No," he admits, pained to confess this shortcoming, silly as it may be. "The language is utterly foreign to me. But it seems to me that you might know what it says."

If the language in question is Twili, Ghirahim thinks, than that explains why he cannot read it. It also implies things that he doesn't know if he wants to entertain. Never before has he thought that the mark on his wrist could name someone from the future, but enough odd things involving time travel and interdimensional travel have been happening as of late that it doesn't seem quite as ludicrous as it would have in the past.

"Yes. It is written in Twili." That's all Zant has to say, but Ghirahim doesn't fail to notice Zant grasping one hidden hand to an equally covered wrist.

"Well?" he snaps when Zant doesn't continue, stirring Zant out of whatever reverie he's lost in. "What does it say?"

"It does not matter." Zant turns to leave, but Ghirahim, without thinking, teleports directly before him. He frowns up at Zant, not about to let him leave the conversation at that. "Move."

"I'm not leaving without an answer unless it's to go find that little imp and have her translate." Zant doesn't so much as flinch at the threat. It's crazy, but he thinks he's on to something. "Perhaps she's seen your wrist and would not be particularly surprised to see what mine says?" Zant is still quiet, though he makes no move to leave. "It says Zant, doesn't it?"

"Why do you care?" Zant finally asks, his tone a mix of frustration and curiosity.

Why indeed?

Ghirahim doesn't want a soul mate. It's a ridiculous concept that he has no time for, and the thought of Zant having been his soul mate all along is even worse. How many years in the future is Zant compared to when Ghirahim first served Demise? Something like that would be…

Destiny, he thinks. Two people, bound by a red string of fate. Is that not what a soul mate is, simply with more sentimentality? The idea isn't quite as bad when he thinks of it in such a way. Perhaps the silly little mark he's borne for so long isn't such an imperfection after all.

"Because if you are my soul mate, then I have every right to know, do I not?" He steps closer, pleased when Zant doesn't move away. "If my name is on your wrist, then you've gone all this time without telling me, and that's hardly fair. So tell me, or better yet, show me, Zant. Show me what name fate has granted you."

Zant says nothing, but he pulls up his sleeve—Ghirahim is written in Hylian upon Zant's wrist. It's Ghirahim's first time actually seeing Zant's hands, and he's intrigued by the varying length of his fingers, as well as how long Zant's arms are. If this is what Zant's sleeves are hiding, what else is there for Ghirahim to discover? The very thought is appealing enough to override any lingering doubts Ghirahim had. Zant is unstable and violent, but Ghirahim knows he'd be a hypocrite if that was a deal-breaker. Besides, Zant is a brilliant strategist, strong in his own right, and oddly attractive. If he has to have a soul mate, he certainly could have done worse than Zant.

"Well?" Zant asks as he hides his hand back in his long sleeves, trying to sound composed—he's failing. When he releases his helmet and Ghirahim can finally see the distressed expression Zant wears, Ghirahim is hardly shocked. "Are you satisfied?"

"Satisfied enough," he replies, a smirk growing on his face. "For now, at least. Seeing as you've only just now seen fit to let me in on the nature of our relationship, I suppose I can wait before bringing you to my bed. Wouldn't want to rush you."

Zant frowns at the teasing, before he seems to realize the implication. Ghirahim delights in seeing Zant's face flush.

"Listen here—!"

Ghirahim laughs before pulling his flustered soul mate down for a kiss. It's a little awkward—he'll bet his life on Zant having never kissed before—but the sensation warms Ghirahim to his core. And the high-pitched whimper Zant makes when Ghirahim pulls away? He's never heard anything as enticing in his life.

"Come now, my dear Zant, we've wasted far too much time as it is. I do believe it's time to get to know each other on a more personal level…"

Zant doesn't resist when Ghirahim pulls him along, and Ghirahim doesn't even try to fight the smile that finds its way to his face. No, he thinks, maybe this whole soul mate business isn't as terrible as he'd once thought. Perhaps it will even be a good thing.

After that day, Ghirahim stops wearing his gloves. He has a lovely mark on his perfect skin, and he wants everyone to know about it.