The sky darkened, purpled, as the sun sank lower into her cradle, and Zant felt his heart begin to break, again. He cast his magic out, a gentle cascade of Twilit particles snapping into existence on the horizon, softly dimming the sky around him.
He felt the Sword's approach, saw the swirl of his ruby cape as Girahim came to a stop beside him. Their Master had not emerged from the Arbiter's Grounds in hours—not since they'd rid his homeland of its pestilence. He was mourning, grieving for the souls he had condemned because of his actions, actions he had only undertaken to save his people.
His god's melancholy was seeping into their souls as well. Zant could not turn his thoughts away from his own people.
"Tell me something, Girahim. Do you ever feel a strange sadness as dusk falls?" Zant whispered, watching the spinning remnants of his magic dissipate as the purple of the sky paled to silver. Girahim watched him silently, not responding. Rare were the times that they coexisted peacefully, but this appeared to be one of them.
"…They were so still. Ages passed them by and they did not so much as nod to them. Staying the same, mired in their traditions and their ways, they did not look far enough into the future or deep enough into the past to ever truly learn to live. I hoped to save them from that, save her from that." Girahim moved, and Zant slowly lifted his head, watching as the Sword slowly sat on the stone beside him.
"…She was so bright, so beautiful. So different. I thought she would change things…and she turned her fierceness against me. I gave her every chance, and she couldn't see her own folly. She chose to stay stagnant, to wither away in her half-life until even her fire died. And she condemned our people along with herself."
He bowed his head again, closing his eyes.
"Foolish. We all find weakness in those like us." Girahim's words were cold, but his tone was subdued.
"She was supposed to be a shield—my shield. I was to be the Hero's blade. But when I saw her soul…I intervened. She wasn't something blunt, something heavy. She was sharp, delicate, strong. I reforged her body. Hylia never forgave me, cast me out. But Fi never abandoned me. Not until I allowed Demise to wield me." Girahim tilted his head, his snow-colored bangs lifting off of his face, revealing the black scars that consumed his left eye.
"I don't regret it. Why do you?"
"I loved her." He said it simply, without fanfare. A cruel, cold sort of smile parted Girahim's lips.
"Don't mock me, Sword. You love him as much as I, but you loved her first too." Zant didn't speak harshly, but Girahim's eyes lost any expression.
"Stand down, Girahim." Their Master's voice was hoarse, rough, and both of them looked up, startled, as he dropped down beside the Sword. Girahim obeyed, though the hostility in his posture drained away slowly.
"The Sheikah will put their souls to rest." The Sword finally murmured, gaze almost hesitant as he looked at Ganondorf. A bitter smile touched the King of Evil's lips.
"I did not think he survived." Zant frowned, confused.
"Who?"
"Finding him will be difficult, but...he would be willing. They were his sisters, once." Their Master's voice was little more than a breath of air, a soft sigh. The bitterness seemed lodged in his eyes, but his words were soft, gentle.
Zant felt Girahim's jealously like a physical force, sudden and hot. He reached out, hand grasping the Sword's wrist tightly.
He was in no shape, physically or mentally, to keep the Sword in check—but that was his duty, to keep Girahim from losing control. And he returned the favor, when Zant lost it in battle. They did not like one another, no, but they needed one another.
Nails dug into the flesh of his wrist, and heat seeped across his skin, but Girahim did not so much as tense.
"…I tried to save them. We needed a miracle, and the Triforce could have granted us such. And instead it splintered." A humorless laugh shook their Master's broad shoulders, metal clanking gently against metal.
"I had the Power to save them, but without Wisdom I lacked the finesse needed. One cannot simply order nature to do one's bidding. And when I had it…Courage defeated me. Again, and again, and again. And they wasted away with nothing left to save them until the Hylian troops came to slay them in their beds."
The Sword was no longer tearing into his wrist—rather, he was pushing at the cuts in that idle way of his, widening them, forcing blood to bubble out of him. Zant couldn't feel the pain—Girahim was, through spells Ganondorf had woven to ensure neither harmed the other to any serious extent—but it was not a pleasant feeling. He didn't draw away, solely because it was keeping the Sword calm.
"Light destroys all, does it not?" Girahim mused, and he let out a soft, breathless sort of laugh.
"They will pay." Zant said quietly, glancing up at the sky. Twilight was gone now, black-blue sheaths of velvet having fallen while they spoke.
And so, he realized, was the time for reminiscing.
Ganondorf stood, and Girahim's hand slipped free of Zant's wrist as the King of Twilight followed suit. They both sensed it, the finality in their Master's mind.
"Come. It's a long march to Hyrule."