A/N: Repost. Second chapter. And that should be it. Though I did recently rediscover the incomplete Cruel Melee eighth chapter, which would be the third part to this. Maybe I'll get around to finishing it one of these days. Eh, it's only been three years. If I do, I'll update this. Otherwise, this piece is finished for now. Also, it could be noted that some things seem to be constants in my fanfic. One, the fight scenes are too violent for Smash Bros. So just ignore the fact that no one is supposed to die in Smash Bros. And also, one more thing...well, nevermind. You'll either notice or not care. Enjoy. Or not. 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

He watched as the sword was lifted high above him, ready for the last strike that would put an end to their age long war, a story that had been drawn out farther than necessary. Eyes open, he watched it end.

Only it didn't.

Instead, a shadow suddenly fell over him, springing up a red shield between his body and Link's sword. The strike did not connect, and Ganondorf only saw Link's look of surprise. The crowd fell silent.

"Marth?" Roy managed to voice. "What...?"

Slowly, Marth lowered his shield. From his knees, he stared at his two comrades, saying nothing at first.

"He's finished," Marth whispered finally. "There's no need."

Ah, leave it to the noble prince to prolong his suffering, Ganondorf thought bitterly. Are you squeamish, dear heart? Five seconds ago you were with them, putting these goddamn holes in me...

Link looked from his friend to his enemy, back and forth, hand still gripping the hilt of his sword. He closed his eyes and sighed. His hand shook.

"Marth..." Roy started.

But a deep, gurgling laugh interrupted him. Sputtering, Ganondorf coughed and choked on his blood, yet the eyes that met Link's were fierce and unwavering. His bloodied lips curved in a vicious smile.

"Be wary, hero," he hissed through clenched teeth stained red. "Betrayal can be...a boy with honest eyes...who wears honor for a mask...and has..." He struggled to breathe. "A mouth that lies." His eyes glimmered pain. Fighting to continue, he did not see the regret on Marth's face.

"My heart...has deceived me."

Ganondorf watched impassively as his opponent tried to stand. Marth stumbled against the wall, his grip still tight on the sword, his breathing labored. He clutched at the tears in his uniform and the bruised skin underneath it. With difficulty, he tried to stand his ground. But Ganondorf had already backed off, a casual look of dismissal on his face.

"Wait," the prince choked out between heavy breaths.

Ganondorf shook his head, appearing mildly disappointed. "This fight is over." Then, with a snide smile, "You do not have to prove yourself to me, prince. That little demonstration was indicative enough of your abilities." The wizard swiped distractedly at his cut lip with the back of his hand.

"You are not the first to fail to bring me down, and you will not be the last."

Silence passed between them. Ganondorf turned his back to the other, discarding further interest. His steps took him to the edge of the stone platform.

Marth waited long enough to catch his breath. Then, staggering slightly, he pushed himself off the wall and joined the other fighter. With one hand, he braced himself against the nearest pillar, hiding his pain and refusing to show weakness. The other man glanced warily in his direction, but said nothing.

Not for the first time, they stood together over the ruins of a once grand temple. Its crumbling pillars rose out of broken stone and patches of green. The mind could, with a little imagination, repair those cracks in the foundation, those ruined steps, and conjure an image of what it once might have been.

Finally, it was Marth that spoke again.

"Was it worth it?"

Ganondorf felt his body go rigid, teeth clenching. Anger threatened to boil through the surface.

Because he could never answer that question.

"You," he muttered, eyes closed, "are much too inquisitive for your own good."

Years he had spent fighting for Hyrule, striving to attain the unattainable, to own what the gods deemed he was unworthy of owning. Ages before this one was born, he had struggled tirelessly with fate. All this to no avail because his enemies had already chosen their champion in the form of a child of light.

But time would come to prove that even divine-sanctioned kingdoms could not last forever. Even this temple had fallen. Even that sun-drenched land beloved by the gods could not outlast time. Here it stood only as a memory, written into the program of a great machine. Illusion, only. And here he stood, alive and unbroken still...

But what did that mean? Could he really say that he had outlived those who bested him ages ago? Knowing what he knew, could he really believe that his presence here was any more genuine than the illusion of the broken temple before him?

He opened his eyes. No, he had not escaped the effects of time; it had taken its toll on him as well.

But what would the small-minded prince next to him know about such matters?

"The Sages," he said, "thought they could seal me away forever. And ironically, this served to preserve my existence while their treasured kingdom beneath the sun faded away with time."

"All things do," Marth replied. "Those who hold power are well sought out targets. It grants one many enemies." He lowered his eyes thoughtfully. "This makes me wonder what it was that drove you to seek out such power. The responsibility alone outweighs any luxuries."

To this, Ganondorf laughed, with more scorn than humor. Children were quite amusing, though better if seen and not heard. He turned to face the younger fighter.

"Would you, my prince, give up that responsibility in exchange for an unaccountable existence under the tyranny of another?"

In a surprising show of respect, Marth never met Ganondorf's eyes. "No," he admitted.

Satisfied, the dark wizard turned to leave, having had enough of the atmosphere, his solitude obstructed. Today was not a good day to relive the past, though he knew it would come back to confront him eventually. Probably in the arena, probably in the form of a cunning princess and her chosen hero.

The voice of the prince stopped him.

"From what I am told, you were the greatest tyrant in the history of that land."

Oh, of course.

"And what do you think of it, prince?" he asked.

Marth paused before answering. "I would say," he began carefully, "that history is written by its victors."

Ganondorf tilted his head slightly. Interesting...

"And if I were to tell you," he suggested, "that the Hylian rulers were in actuality the most successful and dominating tyrants of that time, what would you say?"

"I would probably call you a liar."

"Ah, yes." The older man grinned. "Yet the princess and her hero-they speak the truth."

His companion offered no response.

All humor left him then. "Go home, boy," Ganondorf said sternly.

A pause, and then Marth smiled. More sad than bitter. "I cannot." He looked down over the temple ruins. "Not any more than you can."

Ganondorf, his face turned toward the sky, cast a sidelong glance at Marth. The wind played with the young fighter's cape, rustled his hair, and Ganondorf remembered the heroic persona celebrated in legend, a face gazing out of a faded portrait, a name penned into the yellowing pages of decaying books. The figure of the legendary prince belonged to yet another story that history had buried. Another kingdom forfeited to oblivion among countless others. Time showed no mercy to the things it lost. So Ganondorf had to wonder if what he saw before him was real.

For a long time, the figure beside him remained still-a painted vision.

Then the prince closed his eyes.

And the Gerudo felt it. As tangible as the false wind and the empty sky. Ganondorf shuttered his own eyes, listening to the whispers that had started to arise within his head. He calmed his thoughts and welcomed in the wind. Invisible tendrils met each other in his mind, weaving, intertwining. He focused his powers, summoned his strength, and slowly, slowly . . . pulled.

The winds shifted.

Marth's eyes flew open. Inexplicably, the world had changed.

Hyrule Temple had flickered away, like patterns of light disappearing underwater. It became something else entirely. Stone walls grew like vines, arching towards the sky. Light fell from high windows onto the floor and caught the Altean prince, face lifted, staring in awe.

It was unmistakable: the royal carpet spread out in the center of the room, a nation's history played out in tapestries on the walls, and the noble family crest, engraved above the arched doorway.

Across from the entrance rested the seat of power, the king's throne.

Marth knew this room. Knew it because he had lived here once; as a child, had tested his weight against the barred doors; as a youth, had learned to ride horseback in the fields and practiced his sword dance on top of the aging battlements; as a young adult, had fought to return to it. Beyond the exit to the corridor there would be steps, and they led out to a view overlooking plains of green and mountains on the horizon. Outside, the sun was shining, and if he climbed to the highest point, he would be able to see the entire dominion of his heritage, the rivers and forests and royal hunting grounds, where his father once brought down a deer and told him to finish it.

The prince fell to his knees, head bowed.

The anchor of time kept him there, a boneless weight against the floor. Marth could not find the strength to move. Then, as a tall shadow closed in over him, he lifted his head to lock eyes with Ganondorf, a figure standing dark against a backdrop of light. The Gerudo's face was grim as he tepidly held out his hand. Marth stared for a moment; then reached for it with both of his own. Slowly, he closed his eyes and pressed his lips to the back of Ganondorf's fingers.

Around them, the illusion disappeared. In a flicker, the broken temple returned.

Marth was left with nothing, only a memory and the tears it summoned.

One thing alone, Ganondorf realized suddenly.

It took the former prince ages to find words.

"How ... ?"

Ganondorf lowered himself to one knee. He turned around his offered hand, palm grazing over Marth's face. He caught tears, warm and slick. Then, folding his fingers, he captured them within a loose fist, brought his hand to his mouth, and blew his breath onto it.

Marth searched the Gerudo's face with a look of incomprehension. Then, rough fingers grasped his wrist and turned it over, palm up. From Ganondorf's hand, a few small, glittering diamonds tumbled into his own. They rested there, solid gems.

For once devoid of arrogance, the dark wizard offered an answer to Marth's original question.

"Magic," he whispered.

Link gazed back at him solemnly. Not very tall, this hero, but he had grown since childhood. A young man, now, gold hair tied behind his head, beneath a hat of his team's coloring. His sword dripped blood, and his bow, worn across his back, was useless now that his supply of arrows had been depleted. Many of them rested their heads in Ganondorf's body. Of course it had to end like this. He had no choice but to die at the hands of this one. Destiny knew no other course. It could do nothing else with his failed, meaningless life.

Ganondorf felt fingers prying open his hand. Blinking, he forced his head to turn, to look straight up at Marth, kneeling over him. He felt tiny, nearly weightless fragments trickle into his palm. Marth folded Ganondorf's fingers into a fist and did not let go of his hand.

Now he had to struggle to see. It was difficult with the world fading. He blinked hard, staring through the gathering brightness. It glared and blinded him, but a darkness came from Marth, whose face was still visible.

Are you watching this, Princess? he thought. Where are you? Silently waiting in the shadows, I think. Are you satisfied? Undoubtedly you were the one who orchestrated this entire charade. Remember when you spoke to me as a young girl in the palace temple? A girl with the mind of a ruler. If your hero had fallen, would you have waited for me at the victory stand, a sharpened knife concealed beneath your veil? I would have expected no less.

Stories only ended well for heroes, he knew. Ironic, how they rushed headfirst into the very fate they sought to escape. Could it be that the act of asserting free will was merely another gear turning destiny's clockwork? What a travesty that would be.

They used you, Marth.

He wanted to say this to the Altean prince, and would have done so if only his mouth were not filled with blood.

And yet, Marth...

"Are...those...?"

The wizard only managed a whisper.

"Tears . . . ?"

Darkness held him, as ages of power and evil coursed through his mind and body one last time.

Then, the light won, and he could not see.