The cracks in her porcelain skin unmade her, betraying him at a glance.
Zelda—to any other eye that may grace her as she was—had been reduced to a twisted shell of herself; her soul snatched away by a thief in the night. Her once beauteous looks were broken up by linear designs, the magical claws tearing at her flesh, reaching out from a hellish place of anguish and despair. It was a half-world, malformed and forgotten, from which such taint stemmed still. It had tasted her once, and though the light would ever remain a cage to hold it back, within her a seed of darkness bloomed in the shadows of a heavy heart.
Some may call it possession of a sort, allowing the twilight dipped hand of a demon to reach forth and grab you. Zelda preferred to think of it as a prisoner allowed to roam the prison yard, glimpsing the world outside their bars before being returned to their cell.
Crystalline eyes gleamed golden in the reflection of her shared form, and though she looked outward, he seemed to be looking in. A smile twisted her lips to move of their own accord, drawing back to reveal pearly teeth. They seemed somehow sharpened when he wore them, she found, honing the edges of her being to forge a mixture of their preferences.
The reflection smiled at her with a quiet and controlled flare, something haughty and hungry, greedy like a child spying a sweet but worn with all the lustful fancy of men. The Princess could almost taste his tongue where hers would be, earthy and weighed down with an accent foreign to lips, but so familiar to her ears.
From her throat thrummed the deep and resounding approximation of his tone, as best as her vocal cords could muster, strained beneath his will to form the sound befitting him.
"I cannot help but notice, Princess," she watched the corner of her mouth tip to smirk, and grew unsure of whom it belonged to. "That these visitations you allow me have been increasing in frequency, since the Hero went astray…"
Borrowed eyes flashed an unruly shade of hellfire as they descended upon the mirrored form of her, garbed in a cotton slip—she had drawn herself from bed and fitful slumber, beckoned by need and habit. She was forced to follow where his gaze would roam, tracing the curvature of her lithe frame.
When first she felt the Gerudo seeping into her flesh once more, he had taken her in full, resigning her back into the very corners of her own mind—he had been free to roam, and she had taken up imprisonment for it, confined within her own body. Zelda had watched him from within, silently observing the unadulterated nature of the man, growing used to his mannerisms. She knew intimately now his step, the gestures of his idle hands, the tics and itches and wants of her enemy. She had tasted the foods he favored, and the brandy he preferred over wine, sweet of tooth and partial to blood as he was.
He had perused her form, standing Zelda's body naked before this very mirror then, and took stock of Hyrule's most famed beauty with a discerning eye. Zelda had followed his gaze as it drank her in, every inch of her pale skin scanned with bitter curiosity.
The Princess knew she possessed neither the ample bosom nor the rolling hips he was accustomed to, spoiled for choice and beauty in his desert home of old. Her snowy silken flesh was not the copper toned steel Ganondorf had known all his life. Her eyes were not the piercing stare of a spirited and harshly tempered warrior. Her hair was soft and swayed with every subtle movement, without the coarse thickness a harsh sun would impose and the grit of sand to pollute it. She had been alien to him then, examined and turned about for inspection, stolen hands gingerly smoothing over her own features and through blonde tresses.
But he had grown lonesome in her form, bored and weary of it, once every facet of it had been studied and judged accordingly. The Gerudo had wandered her home next, exploring the castle much as he had its Princess, and no more than three days had rolled by before inward he turned to release her from such chains.
Zelda had banished him in anger that day, fearful and defensive, to cast him back from whence he came; paranoid of his influence. But much the same as he—having felt the ache of being so restrained and cut off from the world she knew—empathy and understanding had left her heart open to him.
And slowly, she had allowed him to return to her, answering his voice when it echoed forth in her mind at first and letting the rest of him join her in time. Hours she had spent locked away in her bedchambers, eyes closed to the world and silent, to converse with a split mind. She glimpsed him now in her dreams, crimson hair free and tussled over his broad shoulders, scarred skin as familiar to her as her own now. They had discovered one another in ways which others simply could not perceive or compare with, bleeding into each other as the months had passed by and learning the strained comfort to be stolen by such contact.
They fed each other memories and stories, drank deep of the history they shared and grew to be more of themselves within the other's presence. Light met the darkness, and now each stood in a secluded grey, basking in the twilight of each other.
The mirror was a fitting messenger—two sides of the same coin indeed.
A few moments had passed since he'd spoken, and Zelda felt the taste of him dim enough to lend her own voice back to her.
"I allow them as you request them, Ganondorf." She mused quietly, offering the mirror a pleasantly coy smile. "Link will forge his own path as he needs to, now, seeking a new destiny to replace the one he has spent… as will I."
Slender fingers twitched by her sides, idle as his spirit seeps to them; the darkness in her blood bringing a tingle to the flesh. They fanned out to flex, as if the Gerudo is testing her frail hands and comparing them to his own larger, calloused grip. Her fingertips brush her thighs, sweeping upward in a slow and intimate caress, bringing with them the soft fabric she has draped them in. Zelda relishes the feeling of it, knowing that this sensation is a shared experience.
His voice breaks away from her lips once more, harsh against her throat but filtered through a chuckle. "I don't imagine you would've married either way, Princess… but it is flattering, I suppose, that I've cemented such a stance."
Zelda watched the flash of gold in her eyes and smiled, giving no protest as he guided her hands and hem upward with agonizing patience. A hitch of laughter came of it as he passed her hip, ticklish, and neither of them could be certain as to whom the sensation belonged.
"I can see quite clearly what stance you're trying to cement, Ganondorf." The Princess smirked, and enjoying the little game, flicked her hands away to allow the slip to fall and cover once more. "…and I don't imagine you'd allow a husband to take the same liberties, even if I chose to have one."
A shock flew through her in response, arching her back with the sweet promise of it, and sucking a breath through straight teeth, the cracks upon her flesh grew more pronounced. Zelda felt her senses haze, stripped of some control and pushed further back into her own mind—not unlike the first few days she had spent with him this way.
She felt her face shift to form a grin, evil and filled with wanton intentions, as he allowed her head to loll forward and stare into the mirror one more. Her hands were his again, and he did not restrain himself nor did he allow her to stifle his movements as he tore the sleeves from her delicate shoulders, the slip falling away from her slim form. She shivered somewhere within, and he drew dark delight from it, letting Zelda see herself through his eyes as he drew her—his—hands to trace her curves in full.
"They could take every liberty you could offer them…" he purred, drawing out the low tones of his voice by gravelling her own, twisting the sound into a symphony that befit them in that moment. "…but no man could yield such reward from it as you and I do now… Zelda."
And as the Princess felt her own fingertips guided through the light tangle of modesty betwixt trembling thighs, teasing the tender flesh there with an expertise far outweighing what she could ever command of them herself, she found she couldn't help but agree.
Ganondorf was the only one who knew just how to pull his puppet's strings to her liking, and Zelda could only twist and twirl to the passionate rhythms he produced.