Deus Vult; e Resurrectionis
WARNING: This chapter contains gratuitous gore. Please skip this chapter if you believe it may cause you any discontent. Thank you. - Fundamental Diogenes
Earlier that day...
Ganondorf was alive. Alive, as his body began to purge itself.
Caught in a cycle of vomiting gore, and coughing up sludge, Ganondorf gasped for breath in the few windows of respite his body took to recover. His armor was terribly gouged, malformed, and dented, and mostly lay in pieces around him. In a brief moment of clarity, he seized the flapping leather strap to his destroyed breastplate between his teeth; when he next jerked forward to expel chunks of innards from his mouth and nostrils, he pulled the strap with him, allowing the breastplate and pauldrons to clatter to the stone riverbed. Abruptly, Ganondorf sensed the cascade of dark magic sputtering through his abused body sharply increase, throwing him into unceasing heaving as the purge began in earnest.
Blood and lymph broke through pores across his skin, flowing freely from his every orifice and seeping out of his bare serous flesh as fresh vital fluids were generated by the shadow's dark magic. Entire hunks of necrotic tissue would sever from his limbs and fall from his body, landing in the growing pool of congealed blood, clot, and gore with a wet smack. Bubbling boils ballooned across his bloated flesh, swelling to the size of deku nuts before lysing, exploding in spurts of xanthous pus and showers of saffron flecks, stale plasma filled with hundreds of lifeless corpuscles.
Every muscle contracting rhythmically, Ganondorf's reconstructing body hurled itself about in the growing ichorous quagmire of rust-colored cruor and excrement. The straining musculature tore itself asunder, but the tissue was immediately mulched with fresh blood and reknit into bonded fibers by the rejuvenating power. Worse still were the shuddering cracks of his bones resounding through his aqueous innards as they broke and remended, settling into their proper pockets of flesh.
Ganondorf's situation only deteriorated when the vomiting stopped. With nauseating squelches, his perforated organs slithered into their correct positions in his thoracic cavity, excreting their expired contents to ooze out the gaping wound through his chest and mediastinum. His underwrappings were soaked through with the most unspeakable, disgusting fluids, pastes, and chunky medleys of corpse. His armor wadding and underpadding had long since peeled off under the weight of bodily fluids bathing them.
The pain was inconceivable, impossible, and unknowable; the inferno of excrutiating, brutal, white-hot agony spiderwebbing throughout every nerve in his abused body precipitated extreme neurological damage. His brain, in shock, would begin the process of shutting down, only to be repaired and kept alive by the will of the shadow. Ganondorf's senses of smell and taste were, thankfully, spared from experiencing the constant expulsion of septic gore through his upper respiratory tract; stomach acid had melted the sensory receptors in his sinus, throat, and tongue. What he did feel, however, was the screaming, burning anguish of his interneuronal axions binding the sensory cortices as they were activated by the influx of neurotransmitters from the nerves' necrosis.
And he was conscious through it all.