Zelda's first plan had been simple: lure Ganondorf into the Sacred Realm and seal him there with the hero's assistance.
No, that was wrong. That plan had been neither simple nor her first. Worst of all, it failed.
She had conceived it as a mere child, after the man dark clouds had stepped out from her dreams as a strange visitor to her father's court. Zelda worked out a secret plan to ambush the tyrant before he could do any harm, but Ganondorf had outsmarted her then. Of course he had. He was a seasoned man of intrigue and war, and she had been barely out of the nursery. She consoled herself with that.
How the hero had failed, that was on her. She could do nothing to protect him, and had watched him die. He had fought as well as any knight of Hyrule. He still failed.
After Link had fallen, Zelda was tossed into a dungeon in the lowest recesses of the Demon King's dark castle. She had no idea as to the fate of her fellow sages, the psychic link between them broken, she suspected, by some kind of barrier. The isolation had been nearly maddening.
Like most women in her family, Zelda possessed the ability to sense the minds of others. Sometimes this came as only dreams or premonitions. With others, she could fully communicate by thought alone. She had that bond with Link. They had dreamed of one another. And there had been others, close to her. Ganondorf seemed to have a similar ability, but ruled as it was by dark magic it had a number of limitations. He wasn't able to read her thoughts. She didn't think he could, anyway.
She was sure the castle itself was the barrier, but had not tested it. What she was sure of was that she needed her allies. Alone, Zelda would never be able to take on Ganondorf. No man could. Taking advantage of the bitterness of the various monster clans that hated the Hylians, he had called them to his service. Zelda would need to find her people, and the other races. She required the sages, too. And she knew Ganondorf would understand this as well.
She was hopeful that the sages were safe, and she could find them, and to find them she would need to figure a way around the barrier. This would be her first step.
The new terms Zelda had accepted had come with a few benefits. No longer did she spend her nights on cold stone floors. Her back and neck were grateful for a mattress and pillows. The improved food, clean water and clothing were also not unwelcome. She still remained a prisoner, never leaving the high tower room, visited only by a few servants that despised her, monsters as they were, and by the Demon King himself.
The room itself was round, with a high, arched ceiling and was surrounded by tall red and yellow windows. There were carpets strewn about and the furniture was simple and wooden. It was distinctively Gerudian, she thought, yet had much of Hyrule in it as well.
Ganondorf came to her nearly every evening, rarely staying long, often leaving after he had found his satisfaction. He did not sleep much in her presence, and always when she slept, too. He spoke little of himself. To be sure, she knew of his grandiose ideas, his thoughts on kingship, but never the details.
The rest of the long days she filled with prayer and preparation. Every day she took a calculation of how many days had passed. If she was able to write anything down, she kept note only of basic times and dates. The time crept by slowly, though she knew every minute brought greater suffering.
After a few weeks they had settled into a kind of strange, simple domesticity. He began to visit at more regular hours, and when he was not availing himself of her, he would look over books and documents, many in the Gerudian text she did not know. He felt at ease, she knew, as he discarded his thick, dark armour for a cool linen robe and a simple chain of amber jewels that he wore about his neck.
There was a night, about a month after their deal had been struck, and Ganondorf sat back in a low chair, quietly studying a long document. His face was grave and serious. Zelda sat in the bed that sat central, filed with woven pillows, and contemplated this strange man who was neither husband nor lover. What title best suited their relationship to one another?
Obstacle.
He stood between her and any hope of a future for her country. His hold over it ensured it's slow and sad decay. She frowned.
The robe he wore draped over his massive frame spilled open at his chest. His skin was dark and gleaming and toned. He stood much taller than most men. Was it the dark magic or something else? If he had been sired by a man amongst her people Zelda could not think of any so tall as him. And the women of his tribe were not so freakishly tall. It must be the strange magic.
His hands, so large that they could crush her skull, that had held her body against his even when she could not stop herself from pulling away. It was true that she had come to him, willingly, but there was always a moment when a little bit of panic slipped into her. She would, frantic, push away, turn her head, kick at him, and he would take her firmly, and with a calmness that struck her breathless.
"You can't run from me," he said once, before enveloping her with his body. A hand run down the length of her body, curling itself around a thigh, and pressing back. He would enter and cover her mouth with his own before she could protest.
At that, she would let her mind wander to something else, and let the act run its natural course, and afterwards he would leave just as quickly as he had taken her. Efficiency was a small gift.
And now he stayed just a little longer. Zelda wondered if this was done simply to annoy her.
She left the bed and went over to the windows, wedging herself into a nook between the wall and a high window ledge. The iron frames were black but surprisingly clean, and the faint light bled through the red and orange and yellow glass. Her temple rested on her hands lazily and she pretended she was in a temple somewhere. She pretended she was safe.
Zelda's mind drifted back to her childhood and the sunny, flowered courtyards of her castle home. She used to hide in the bushes there from her nursemaid, and first spied on Ganondorf when he came to swear fealty to her father. The memory made her giddy and, for a moment, she thought she could almost smell the summer wind once more.
She felt a hand creep around her waist as an arm wrapped around her chest, stealing inside the loose robe she wore, the hand caressing a breast, fingers playing with a nipple.
"What's so interesting?" He asked, the playful purr in his voice mostly uncharacteristic. He was in a strange mood.
"I'm tired," she said, sighing. The hand at her thigh reached between her legs.
"I asked a question," he said, rubbing a single finger along her folds. He leaned over, almost whispering the question into her neck.
"Nothing," she said, the word nearly catching in her throat. She tried to close her legs around his hands but could not match his strength.
"I have a gift for you," he said, kissing and biting at her ear.
"We have terms. I won't give myself to you whenever you want," she spoke with difficulty as the anger began to rise in her.
"You don't know how this works," he said, pressing harder. She tried to stifle a discomforting moan. "Or maybe you do." He continued to kiss her neck. "You forget that I was raised by women. My sisters taught me well."
Zelda drew in a sharp breath. "And did any of them ever tell you no?" He laughed into her hair.
"Stubborn, spoiled Hylian," he laughed.
"What did Nabooru ever teach you?" She asked. "You two were close. You awarded her great prominence amongst the Gerudo."
He chuckled lowly. "She was an interesting woman," he said. "And a traitor."
Zelda considered his words. He spoke of Nabooru as if she was… no longer. She would remember that.
"And you two-" she started to speak, but the words caught in her throat as she felt his fingers enter her.
"You're quite chatty today, aren't you?" His sultry voice turned to anger. "So determined to deny yourself of a little bit of pleasure?"
"There is only one thing in this world that you could do that would give me pleasure," she said.
"And what is that?" He asked through heavy breath.
"Die."
He stopped then, and swung her around, grabbing up her wrists tightly. She stared at him, sharp eyed and cold. His own eyes blazed with rage. He would kill anyone else a thousand times over for such a remark.
But not her.
As he seethed in silence, she started to grin, slowly. As much as his eyes swore he would crush her under his heel, her eyes knew better. He could not, would not hurt her. Not now, and not ever. It was not love, but something darker, and deeper. An obsession. And what good would it do to crush his obsession to dust.
He pulled her into his embrace quickly, and his mouth found hers, as hungry as she had ever known it. She could barely grab a chance to breathe as he pressed himself against her, crushing her to the cold wall.
In his cold, cruel passion he had taken her there, lifting her tiny frame against his, balancing her between his body and the stones.
And when he was done he stopped, breathing as heavily as if he had run a thousand marathons. She clung to him, because she had no other choice and because she felt she would fall painfully otherwise.
He moved a hand and took her face in his, caressing her cheeks with his sweaty thumb and turning her eyes ever so carefully to meet his.
"You will never be free of me," he said, chest heaving.
And her heart dropped when she realized she believed him.
