A/N: This is a repost. It was formerly the last two chapters from my fic Cruel Melee,which I dug up out of the pit and reread a couple days ago. I realized I could not remember the plot. It eventually started to come back to me (sort of-the plot was overly complicated), but I still can't figure out how the hell the last two chapters connect to the rest of it. So I deleted them and decided to repost them as a short stand-alone piece. So here it is. Features Ganondorf, Link, Roy and Marth. They fight. For the billionth time. Critique/comments appreciated.

Disclaimer: The following contains characters and concepts that are NOT the property of the author. They are the intellectual property of Nintendo, HAL Laboratories, and their associates. The author has made NO monetary benefit from this piece of shit.


Tears from Altea

The arena came in and out of focus, bright lights glaring from darkness, delivering split images to his tired eyes. He was falling, and some quiet part of him resigned to the inevitable: this would be his end. But another part of him refused to believe. Instead, he forced his legs into motion, no longer feeling the pain. And though his sword carried a heavier weight than before, he would not admit to himself that his arms were weakening. He also chose to ignore the realization that the blood pooling at his feet was his own, just as he avoided the thought that Marth had betrayed him.

One of his opponents charged at him, long heavy sword cutting a mid level, horizontal arc. Blood dotted the boy's face and armor, streaking crimson, as intense a shade as his hair, onto his green cape. Ganondorf instinctively threw his shield. The strike was deflected, and Roy's blade clashed ineffectively against a red barrier. Ganondorf dropped the shield to rush forward. His uppercut slammed into Roy's chest, cracking bones as it burned a path skyward. His opponent's head snapped backward, and the smaller fighter flew several meters away before landing roughly on the floor.

Suddenly, the blur of Link's arrow appeared from the corner of his eye, speeding at him with unstoppable power. Ganondorf spun, pulling off a narrow dodge, as the projectile breezed past the back of his neck. Link started to draw another arrow, but Ganondorf had stepped off the line of trajectory. His heavy legs carried him, rushing into a sliding kick. The collision swept Link's feet out from under him and brought him toppling to the floor.

Ganondorf stumbled, the impact dizzying him. He moved in for the follow up, but moved too slowly. Steel of a sword whispered at his ear. As he turned, he felt the blade break through his skin. It sliced the back of his neck, then drew a curve along his ribcage, nearly from spine to sternum. Only the tip cut him-almost elegant. And the swordsman-a boy with dark blue eyes, in black clothes and a cape the color of blood-wore a mark of broken loyalty in his hair.

Stepping off line, Ganondorf backpedaled, struggling to put distance between them. All too quickly, he realized the numbness in his heels, the deep throbbing pain in his knees, and the loss of feeling in his arms. A cold sensation burned from his cuts. He clutched his side with one hand; then looked down to stare at the blood coating his glove. Marth was making him weak. Worse than that, he made him feel.

Raising his head, Ganondorf felt Marth's sword pierce his shoulder, sinking deep through armor. He clenched his teeth against the dull, heavy pain. Only a feeling like ice remained when the blade withdrew. Ganondorf struck out, sweep kicking his opponent's legs. Marth fell, rolled, and recovered. The blade flashed out again, but Ganondorf was ready. He sidestepped. His own heavy sword came up, an impossible weight against his weary arms. He parried at close distance, cutting his blade into Marth's sword hand. With a startled cry from its master, his opponent's weapon cluttered to the floor.

Ganondorf went for the grab. Even after taking so much damage, he could still lift the smaller fighter off the floor. Hands in fingerless black gloves struggled against his grip, smearing their blood together.

"Don't mock me," Ganondorf hissed, a mixture of anger and disgust in his voice. Radiance appeared around his hand, growing into a sphere of crackling electric energy, intense and blinding. "If you want to kill me, then kill me!" In a surge of heat, the ball of light exploded between them, rocketing both bodies away from each other.

Marth didn't hit the floor until he almost reached the end of the arena's platform. Slamming into the floor, he slid and lay crumpled on his back, unmoving.

The ground streamlined below Ganondorf's feet before it reached up and tripped his legs out from under him. He fell, skidding to a stop on one knee. Gasping, chest heaving, he tried to catch his breath, one hand reaching to the floor to steady himself. In that second of distraction, a fierce battle cry shook the arena, and Ganondorf looked up to see Roy coming in, sword swinging, a berserker's rage in his eyes. He raised one arm to block, attempting to throw his shield, but he was a moment too late. Roy brought down the blade and slashed deeply into Ganondorf's arm. The tip also cut his neck, releasing a spray of dark blood.

Strength failing, Ganondorf managed to lunge forward. With his good arm, he threw a solid punch that knocked Roy off his feet, head spun to the side. But Ganondorf couldn't keep his balance, and his own lumbering weight caused him to stumble. At this time, another one of Link's arrows found its way into his lower back. He choked on a cry, voice strangled, shock in his eyes. Fighting to stay upright, he turned to find Link staring him down from across the arena, no fear in his face, only strong determination and a steady understanding that Ganondorf, not he, would be the one to fall here.

Roy recovered, struggling to his feet. His hands found the grip on his sword, and he charged Ganondorf again, driving the blade into his opponent's side, below the ribcage. It made the dull, wet sound of metal sinking through live flesh. Ganondorf, impaled on the Sword of Seals, choked and gasped again, unable to move. Across the arena, Link drew another arrow, held the bowstring taunt, and then released it. The sharpened point honed in and embedded itself into the flesh of Ganondorf's thigh.

He fell to his knees. The wound tore, but he couldn't feel it. Nor could he feel Roy's blade drawing out of his body. The arena lights blinded him again; the crowd, roaring louder than the ocean, filled his ears. Roy brought the sword down on him once more, splitting a gash across his chest with metal that burned. Link came running, his weapon drawn. Single-handedly, he thrust it into Ganondorf's upper back, through flesh, through bone. The cracking of his ribs was the only thing the dark wizard could hear in that moment. He coughed, spitting blood, reaching with one hand for the ground. Wetness met his fingers, and he could only stare in amazement at a pool of his own blood, spreading dark and viscous on the arena floor.

A third form appeared next to him. Slowly, he turned his head to meet Marth, who held his divine blade with one hand, prepared to attack. But his eyes belied his stance. For a brief moment, he faltered, unable to move. Only a moment though. Then Ganondorf watched as the blade came at him, hitting low but arcing upward, slicing into his stomach muscles and collarbone in a single swing.

They fell upon him with their swords, the sound of tearing flesh accented by bones crunching, ligaments and tendons popping, wrenched apart. He could do nothing as three blades cut and stabbed into him, only watch the lights seem to flicker, watch the world tilt above him until the back of his head hit the floor. Blinking the blood out of his eyes, Ganondorf saw Link standing over him. His opponent's face, like stone, was grim. The sword was raised above him, inverted, its tip aimed at his throat.

They would let Link have the final blow. As it should be, Ganondorf decided.

He chose to meet death with open eyes.


Pale light slipped down, filtered through his fingers, before falling on his eyes. He had never had the courage to look straight into the false sun, even though he knew it was not real.

The wind cutting across the temple roof was no more real. But it felt as real, as real as fingers tugging on his cape, running through his hair.

He took his eyes from the delicate blue sky to cast a look around the stage. The place seemed to harbor secrets, despite its existence as a mirage. Sophisticated programming made the light glint off the Falchion's hilt and made his shadow move like a dark puppet on the ground. Even the stones were not exactly identical.

A sudden noise made him freeze, and then a taller, darker shadow engulfed his own.

He turned, the movement subtle, reaching for his weapon with one hand.

Ganondorf returned his stare, standing motionless; only his cape fluttered in the wind. His eyes locked on Marth's for a moment; then traced a line to the hand at the sword's hilt. Though his mouth never smiled, something in his eyes did.

Even if it contained little joy.

"Good day, your highness," he greeted with an insolent bow.

Marth returned the acknowledgement with a wary, skeptical expression. "How did you do that?" he asked.

Ganondorf feigned surprise. "Do what, my prince?"

"The stage was unoccupied when I entered. A siren should have notified me of your arrival."

In response, Ganondorf only gave a secretive smirk. "Ah, yes. It should have. Must be a program error."

"I doubt that," Marth answered.

Hollow laughter tumbled from Ganondorf's throat. He looked over the young fighter with slight interest. A creeping leer played on his face. "I hope you don't believe," he ventured to say, "that the designers of the world are infallible."

"That is not what I meant," Marth said.

"No," Ganondorf agreed after a pause. "That is not what you meant. However, my question still stands."

Marth looked at him with consideration. "Nothing of human design is perfect. But as for the universe itself...I have no answer for you."

"Oh?" Ganondorf pressed mockingly. "You believe in fate, don't you? All the great princes did."

An intent gaze came back at him.

"And you?" Marth asked. "If I am not mistaken, you were considered a prince among your own people. Do you believe in fate?"

Instead of answering, Ganondorf strode past him, as if ignoring the question. He paused in the space between two pillars and stared out over the high ledge. If not for the cape on his back, stirred by the wind, he could have been a statue. After a long time, he finally spoke, his voice wavering between cynicism and something indiscernible.

"My people..." he began. "In their lives, they knew no guarantees. Generations before mine, they had been driven from the greener plains and into the harshest of environments. There, they carved out a fragile existence in the desert. Our lives were brief, marked with nothing but hardship. Every season carried in storms riding on the winds. Each one nearly brought our tribe to the brink of extinction. And as a reward for our perseverance, the gods cursed us by killing every male child before it was born. My delivery into the world was, itself, an act committed against divine will.

"You would not understand. Fate may exist. I may concede to its being, but I will never believe in it. I have no faith in it. I became what I am through my efforts alone. I only believe in my will."

He spoke with his back to his audience. The wind persisted. Tilting his head up, Ganondorf searched the sky and stared straight into the false sun, trying to remember the lost melodies of his youth. Behind him, the Altean prince said nothing.

Finally, he turned and found Marth watching him.

Neither moved for a shared moment. Then Ganondorf watched as Marth took a step back, grasped his sword, and slowly drew it. "Fight me," the young fighter challenged, his voice a whisper.

Ganondorf raised an eyebrow.

"If I win," Marth continued, "you will tell me how you were able to manipulate the program and silence the alarm. If you win, I will owe you something in return."

Strangely, Ganondorf shook his head. "And ruin this serenity?" he admonished sarcastically. "I will not have it."

Marth tilted his head quizzically. "It was designed for this purpose."

Ganondorf chuckled. "Yes. As were we, it would appear."

"If that is true, you have no reason to refuse."

A sneer curved his lips. "Well then, if only to save myself from dishonor..."