"O, how the gods intrepid clash anew,
Bourne up by Hero's blade aglow with life,
Thrust down by ancient Mandrag's sorcery.
Gods of light, respond thee to my query:
Can our world dare hope to survive this war?"
Barti Yonn, from The Dark World
A dozen voices shouted in Link's ears, frantic, disembodied. His sword was the loudest, buzzing near his head, urging him to hurry, shooting pulses of fine vibrations into his back to push him in the right direction. He heard the ring of his triforce as well, a high-pitched, wordless wail, and he thought he heard another, a soft desperate cry for help, in the sobbing voice of the little queen.
He followed the voices, hoping that he was not falling prey to some trick of sorcery, some bait used to lure him away from the battlefield; at the same time he desperately wished that a trick was all it was, that Zee was safe and sound and he was a fool for thinking he heard her. But both his sword and the hand that wielded it shook with anxiety, and he knew better than to ignore those tremulous pulsations of magic.
He followed the force of the gods' power. Steering him like the needles of a compass, a pair of lights, blue and gold, urged him through the castle grounds, past the great statue of Ganond, and into the north wing. When he pushed past the oak doors, the grand hall was empty and quiet, and he saw no sign of strife, no sign of a struggle, and no sign of Impa. He rushed up the stairs, toward Zee and her handmaids' quarters, but his triforce shivered, forcing him to skid to a halt. He glanced down the long corridor, toward Zee's room, then down another, leading to the armory. Somehow he knew he would not find her in either of those places, nor in any halls between them. And he knew that Impa would soon discover that for herself, wherever she was.
He turned around and bolted the opposite direction. He could feel the little queen, distantly—he could sense her power flowing at his feet like water. He had only to slog upriver, to follow the current, and he would find her.
He wound through the corridors of the north wing, spilling back out into the wider halls, meant for dignitaries and guests and audiences. Benches stretched beneath stained glass windows, and at the end of the hall a staircase curved upward, decorated with glistening silver and a plush purple carpet. The stench of magic, deep and dark and bloody, flowed down the stairs like a stretched sequence of little waterfalls. The aura foamed with heat and cold, a suspiciously rova-like witchery, but there was a brighter, sharper light to it—a clear sign of Zee's presence.
"Of course," Link growled. He lay a hand over the hilt of his sword and carefully ascended the stairs to Ganond's throne room.
He did not know how the King did it—he didn't know how he had evaded every trap, every wave of fighters the United Uprising sent his way. He didn't know how he had managed to scale the wall and infiltrate his own castle, he didn't know what he had done with Zee's guards and handmaids, but he couldn't afford to theorize. The King was here, and he was waiting for him.
When Link reached the top of the stairs, he felt as if he had left his heart at the bottom. A dark pit of fear and rage stirred in him, and his hands trembled as he lay them on the heavy, intricately carven oak doors. He leaned forward, grunting and glowing with effort—and the doors yielded for him, releasing a scream from their hinges as they swung to reveal the throne room.
Link told himself he knew what to expect. His sword, his triforce, assured him of what he would see, but when he lay his eyes on the King and Zelda, his breath left him.
His tiny queen hung limp, suspended by one arm, wrist caught in Ganondorf's steel grip. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open, her little boots poked out motionless from the hems of her padded trousers, dangling helpless in the air. A smudge of blood dotted her face, sending Link's heart into his throat—the King's gauntlet was covered in it, showered up to the elbow. His breastplate and mail were similarly soiled—even his face was not spared, streaked with dried, brown blood from the corner of one eye to the other.
Link drew his sword, sliding his shield off his back and onto his arm. The King did not seem to notice. He stared at the child in his grasp, transfixed, golden eyes glinting under the stains of blood. He squeezed, clenching his fist tighter round the little queen's wrist, and watched as a vein of light pulsated from her, flowing from her hand into his. Motes of speckled gold trembled around her with every wring, and she released a moan, a hoarse, unconscious cry for help.
"The poor thing," Ganondorf muttered. He wrung another few streaks of god-light from her, breathing it in like fresh air. "She is trapped in a nightmare right now." His eyes wandered to Link, standing paralyzed in the doorway, sword ready. "You have tried to crush her with such a terrible weight."
He set the little queen down. She slid to the floor, a soporific half-sob falling from her mouth. She was pale, too weak, too quiet. Link's stomach turned inside him, but he stepped forward, coaxing the light of his triforce into his blade.
"What have you done to her?" he growled.
Ganondorf stepped over Zee's twitching body. He wore a calm, almost amicable smile. "I've never had all three pieces in the same room before," he said. "This is so strange, is it not? Tell me you can feel it."
Link could. He could feel the sheer explosive force radiating from each of them—even little Zee, half conscious on the floor. It rebounded off the three of them, swirling above their heads, amplifying into searing, oscillating waves of sound and light. It was as if the gods themselves were in the room with them, and it was utterly unbearable.
"Now I have two returned to me," Ganondorf said. He stepped into a beam of glowing stained glass—the sun had begun to set behind the distant mountains, filling the room with a gold as powerful as god-light. "There is only one left."
The King shifted, subtly. Link did not know if he blinked—he must've, because suddenly Ganondorf was no longer before him, no longer glowing calmly in the sunlight—he was nothing but two glowing spheres, converging faster than Link's sword could parry. A searing pop, a contained explosion of light, and Link was knocked backward, wind forced from his chest. His heels scraped against the marble floor as he slid, attempting to regain his balance. As soon as he stood once more, raising his blade to defend himself, a strong grip wrapped around his sword hand, crushing his fingers painfully into the hilt. He couldn't move, he couldn't turn the blade against the darkness that held him, no matter how he urged to fight—the King was all around him, strangling him with tendrils of magic, at once physically unstoppable and seemingly bodiless.
His sword screamed, his triforce trembled, and Link felt something begin to drain from him. In great waves it flowed, like blood, though he knew his blood stayed firmly in his veins, his life in his body. He realized that the glow of god-light was being siphoned rom him, quickly, mercilessly.
He tried to cry out, but he could not raise his voice. No matter how he struggled, no matter how the trifroce inside him resisted, no matter how his sword begged to be swung, he could not move his muscles.
"It is rightfully mine," the King said, quietly. Somewhere beyond the choking darkness, Link could make out the hulking form of gold and black armor, of a red cape flowing in the ethereal wind. The King seemed muffled, as if he was speaking from a distance—but his grip on Link was all too tight. "You are not fit for such blessings. Even the gods know you have only misused it."
Link grit his teeth. Unable to move, unable to cry out, he was helpless to the King's will as when he'd been a slave in the stables. A burning, freezing wind gripped him, mixed with the unassailable light of the gods' power—the magics mixed perfectly, black with white, fire with ice.
In the throes of paralysis, Link realized he had been an utter fool. The King had been raised since birth to wield this power, he had been trained since the moment he opened his eyes to bend the gods' will to his own. He had a millennia-old lineage of dark magic flowing through his veins, he had lived with the triforce for years and years before even taking it into his body. Link had nothing but a diary, and the desperate wishes of a dead man, a failure of a hero.
A hand lay itself around Link's neck. It was warm, almost gentle, and as it squeezed him, he felt his strength drain from him. He was weak, hopeless—but in that hopelessness was a freedom, a release from the pressure, a way to drop this burden from his back.
He almost gave in. He almost went limp, he almost closed his eyes—but from the edge of his vision, he saw Zee lift her head. Obscured behind shimmers of magic, she stared at Link, pale, weak, but seemingly unharmed. Link tried to call out to her, to tell her to run, to tell her to save herself before the King turned and saw her rise, but he could do nothing.
Zelda struggled to her knees, and Link did not know whether to curse the gods or sing them praises. Just as he felt the final vestiges of their power leave him, he saw a flicker of light return to the little queen's eyes. It was faint, it was difficult to see through the waves of dark magic holding him in place—but he swore he could see a yellowish glint in her gaze.
Hope rose in him like the undead. It was malformed, weak, it struggled feebly against the assurances of the King's magic, the will of the gods themselves that their artifacts be returned to their rightful owner. It clawed against the lies that Ganondorf instilled in Link's head, it held him upright as he watched his queen rise to her feet.
She didn't rush toward them, she didn't flee. She only stood, closing her eyes once more. For a moment Link feared she would faint again, but he saw her chest rise and fall, slowly, at a deliberate, uneven pace, just as Garona once described, right before she—
Zee screamed. A wave of sound, more forceful than her voice, more forceful than any magic she'd ever displayed before, threw Link off his feet. Both he and the King tumbled backward—Link writhed and flailed, extricating himself from the grip of dark magic, ears ringing, breath stolen from his lungs. Then he hit the floor, rolling along the length of the marble as limp as a rag doll, pain shooting from his feet, his back, his elbows. He heard his sword clatter to a halt somewhere beside him, and the hulking form of the King landed soon after, rolling to a stop with a grunt and a swirl of thaumaturgy.
Then Zelda took a breath, deep and desperate. As the air filled her lungs, Link felt a wave of power flow toward her, like water spiraling down a tunnel, her gasp drawing in pale light from every corner of the room.
The windows shattered. All along the throne room, between each intricately carved pillar, shards of glass flew inward, dancing with a thousand golden glints. A terrible force shook the hall, and Link found himself clawing at the floor to keep himself in place. He snatched his sword and held it to him, gripping the marble with the leather toes of his boots as glass and dust blew in the hateful wind. When he lifted his eyes, shielding them with the back of a gauntlet, he saw Zee, panting and spent, but still on her feet.
She glowed with radiance, but he did not have time to bathe in her light, he did not have time to revel in the sensation of his own power returning to him. He struggled to his feet, knowing that the King was doing the same.
"Go!" he shouted at the girl. "Run, go find Impa!"
She wasted no time. Hands shaking, still smoldering from her spell, she rushed past Ganondorf, past Link, and did not glance back at either of them. She panted, releasing little sobs as she threw herself through the open doors. The jingle of her child's armor faded down the long stairwell, and Link dared to take a deep breath. He raised his shield, he gripped his sword, and approached the King.
The Mandrag's blood-smeared eyes shot upward. He remained crouched for a moment, and Link feared he would throw himself toward the doorway and howl down the stairs after Zelda. But he only sighed, closed his golden eyes once more, and stood. Dark tendrils of magic whipped around his feet, trembling at the high-pitched ring of Wormtooth as it was slowly drawn from its scabbard.
"Impudent little shit," he muttered.
Then, without another word, without even a hint of warning, the King thrust toward Link, shining blade arcing with the speed of his strike. Link raised his own sword and met it with a desperate shout—metal clanged against metal, and a spark of gold flew from their meeting, ricocheting around the room, from the ceiling to the throne to the pillars. The force of the blow threw both Link and the King backward, spinning, reflections of their swords shining in the scattered glass.
His triforce pulsated, now firmly back in his own body, and his sword rang in his hand, guiding him, urging him forward, propelled by an unmistakable feeling of familiarity. As their blades sparked against each other once more, Link's sword buzzed with a clear voice, his triforce resonated with a song he recognized. Something inside him burned to life, pushing him, withdrawing him, guiding his feet around the King's while he swiped and parried and sidestepped.
Every blow he thrust was tinged with a thousand memories of hardship, a thousand wars, a thousand defeats and resurgences and rediscoveries. Every time he raised his shield to block Wormtooth, he was led not by his own mind, but that of the golden light, spilling into him from the Wolf and every fool who came before him.
The Verdant Knight knew he was mad, he had been assured of this several times—but in his madness he somehow knew the rhythm of this dance, he knew he had been here before, and he would be here again many times. He would raise his triforce against its sibling again and again, trapped in the whirling eddies of time, as long as the Mother Worm feasted on her own tail, as long as the world was made and unmade and made again.
End it, screamed a voice in his head, louder than the ring of metal, clearer than the sparks that flew from their blades and into the sea of broken glass. End it here, end it now.
Whether it was the gods' voices, his own, or the fell King's, he could not tell. He could only drown it out, screaming as he lunged forward, sliding the tip of his sword near enough to Ganondorf's face he could see a sliver of blue light reflect in his bloodstained eyes.
The King stepped aside, graceful, silent, allowing Link's sword to glide past him. He raised his hand, and the scent of fire singed Link's nostrils. A flame followed, pouring from his palm, arcing past both of their blades and making for Link's heart.
He raised his shield—quickly enough to meet the pillar of fire, but not quickly enough for him to truly brace himself against the impact. The shield heated and warped, sending waves of pain up his arm, cracking along his brace, his gauntlet. He pulled back, releasing a shout of pain, and freed himself from the heat—his shield clattered to the floor, but his gauntlet still radiated, his chain mail glowed with tiny circles of fire.
Ganondorf rushed forward, gliding over Link's shield, raising Wormtooth. Link could barely dance out of the way, desperately keeping hold of his sword, his footing, his triforce. He could still feel the lingering pull of the King's magic, trying to siphon his power away, but he held fast, mind stretched between his sword, his shield, the pain of his burning arm, the golden light that flickered a warning in his hand—
When the next explosion of magic hit him, it was a pillar of ice, aimed directly at his chest. It shattered against his mail, flinging him backward, sending him tumbling over his heels and onto his back. He struggled to rise from the debris, and he found himself at Wormtooth's tip, poised, ready for the kill.
The world slowed for a moment. Motes of shattered ice still hung in the air, lit bright with the blaze of fire, and the King stepped forward, summoning the strength of his triforce into his strike. Link knew he did not have time to raise his own blade, he did not have the strength to parry this blow, he had no shield, no balance, no chance.
Then a note, sharp and harsh, sounded through the hall. It resonated with a destructive timbre, banishing the ice, dousing the fire, halting Ganondorf's steady hand. The music resonated up the length of Wormtooth, redirecting its trajectory, vibrating the metal so violently it loosened the King's grip.
Link did not need to look to the open doorway to know who stood there, harp in hand. He thanked her, profusely, in his mind, and did not let the chance she gave him go to waste. He threw himself to his feet and struck, slamming his sword into the flat of the King's with every ounce of power he had.
Wormtooth flew from Ganondorf's grasp, spinning in the air, spraying light. After a terrible, prolonged second, it lodged itself in a pillar of stone as easily as soft wood. Link lost no time—the notes of Impa's song resonated up and down his sword as he swung forward, leaving a streak of blue light in his wake, aiming for the King's exposed arm—
And then he wasn't there. Ganondorf's flesh was nothing more than a wisp of dark air, and the sword passed through, harmlessly, bloodlessly.
Link struggled to regain his balance, to reorient himself, and when he looked over his shoulder, he saw the King barreling toward the open doors to the throne room, each hand ablaze with power, straight for Impa.
The King's men had reached the grand square. Waves of United Uprising soldiers rushed to meet them, blades glinting through the thick smoke. It looked like the full force of the Knights had been dispatched to guard the palace gates—and likely a good thing. The blasted metal was barely fortified, held together with hastily welded bars of iron and planks of thick wood. It would be as easy for Palo to climb as it would be for the King's army to break through it.
Bloodletter clearing the way, he dashed through the chaos and made his way toward the gate. He moved as stealthily as he could, but he knew eyes were drawn to him. He figured it was probably due to the fact that he was soaked from head to foot in fresh blood, with a naked sword slung over his shoulder—and he was clearly in a hurry. A few men, friend and foe alike, recoiled from him, a few attempted to move in and end him, but he cut those down easily enough. His arms were weak, his body was desperately sore, but he would not allow himself to die now, not after coming so close.
It was a relief to slide behind friendly lines. He breathed a sigh when he tumbled into the shadow of Bo, shining in white Ordish plates, as brutally heroic as one could expect. As soon as Palo rushed past him, he took out nearly all of his pursuers with one massive swing of his axe—accompanied, of course, by a paralyzing war-cry. Beside him, Kasheik made quick work of the stragglers who escaped his blade.
Bo paused to eye Palo almost suspiciously. He lowered his axe to watch the deadseer stumble by, inviting an opportunistic (and ultimately fruitless) strike to his impenetrable breastplate.
"What foul magic have you been concocting, deadseer?" he asked, casually removing the head of the soldier who attacked him.
"Not now," Palo grunted. "Gotta get to Talm, make sure I stay alive while I climb the wall."
"You're alive?" Bo asked mirthlessly, crushing the helmets of two soldiers together with a satisfying clang. "By the blood on you I'd've guessed otherwise."
Palo ignored the Ordishman, he ignored whatever stray glances Kasheik might've sent his way. He slung Bloodletter back into its sheath and hauled himself up the wall, arms burning. He could barely breathe, his muscles burned with agony, and every one of his bones ached from their destruction—and rapid reassembly.
But he was alive. He had to be. The ancient god could not renege on such a deal. Not after Palo had given it what it wanted, not after he had only taken as much as it granted him. Its very nature was reciprocal.
Palo hoped Agahnim was having as grand a time in hell as he had. He hoped the necromancer was writhing in agony, heart breaking again and again as the very god whom he served ripped it from his chest and devoured it. He figured the necromancer may have enjoyed being chewed up and spat out again by his patron deity; in fact, he may have considered it something of an honor.
At the very least, Palo was free of him. There was an emptiness behind him, a void where there should've been a column of cool air and a whispering voice, but he could not say that he would miss it. And it would be gone for more than seventy-two minutes, Palo was sure. He did not know exactly how long the ancient one would torture and digest his loyal servant, that was between the ghost and his god. All Palo knew is that it worked out. He had paid a price, he had received his due—somehow, between the soul of a rova and a talented necromancer, between the gallons of blood that Palo had spilled today and the lives that he skimmed off the top, it all added up. It could not be any other way.
A few men attempted to shoot at him while he climbed the gate, arrows rebounding off metal or burying into wood, but after a few furious shouts from Bo, the bolts ceased to fly. Palo's hands were slippery with blood, but his grip was sure, and somehow, he made it to the top of the gate alive.
He flung himself onto his feet, balancing precariously on arcs of welded iron, and darted to the barbican next to the gate. Halfway there, he caught sight of Talm—and by the look on her face, she caught sight of him too. When he pulled himself over the battlement and landed at her feet, she wasted no time in interrogating him.
"What the fuck happened to you?" she nearly screamed. "Are you hurt? Where—"
"Have you seen the King?" he asked her.
"No! What the hell, Palo! Explain yourself, what happened?"
"I can't," he said. "Where's Zee?" He looked around. "And Link, and Impa?"
"I wish I knew!" she cried. She wheeled her chair around to look over the castle grounds—thankfully devoid of the King's soldiers (for now). "Zelda's supposed to be here to hold the gate. I sent Impa to go get her, and Link followed—and none of them came back. I don't know what the hell they're doing but I need them out here, now."
"Shit," Palo muttered. "You're sure you haven't seen the King?"
"Oh, I've seen him," she growled. "He's everywhere at once. In the boulevard and the east district. Every time I see the smoke rise or see any sort of light I think it's him. Shit, where's Link?" She turned to the nearest messenger boy and shouted: "Go fetch the Verdant Knight!"
The kid stammered and set off, but Palo followed shortly after, stomach dropping to his knees. "He's already here," he muttered.
"He's what?" Talm asked. "Who?"
"The King. He's either inside or he's going to be soon." Palo sprang across the battlement, calling over his shoulder, "Whatever you do, Talm, hold the gate!"
"We can't!" she nearly screamed.
He didn't linger to reassure her. He only tore down the stairs and into the yard, limping on his sore hips, gasping with his freshly renewed lungs. He was in poor shape to fight, he was in poor shape to do anything, but as long as his panic drove him, he had to make it. He had to intercept the King before he reached Link and Zee, he had to lend his aid—and if he couldn't do that, he could at least give the King hell for murdering him.
He didn't know where he would find Ganondorf, or if. But he tried his best to follow the sparse scent of dark magic, not too unlike his own. He wondered if he could sniff out the King's trail like hunting an animal, if he could stalk him through the castle grounds the same way he stalked prey in the forests around Kakariko.
He hadn't even decided on a direction to start off in when a harrowing screech met his ears. The shrieking of metal, followed by the unmistakable sound of splintering wood—he didn't dare tarry, he only limped faster, away from the gate, toward the three black towers. He didn't need to look behind him to know that the barrier had given way, and the King's men were pouring onto the palace grounds.
Impa's fingers danced along the harp, spewing the resonant waves of her most powerful song, but that did not slow the King. She held her ground, even as Link shouted for her to run—playing notes of such violent intensity he could almost see them pierce the King's armor, he could almost see them force the golden light of his magic to flicker like a dying candle. The song slashed at the King, screeching across the metal of his armor, his crown, his bloodied gauntlets—it bought Link time to recover, to grip his sword and regain his footing, but there was little he could do for Impa.
She was in the middle of a cadence when Ganondorf reached her. Link cried out, uselessly, desperately, as the King raised his hand and struck her with an explosion of icy magic. She flew backward, slamming into one of the open oak doors. She gasped, arms shaking, nearly losing her harp—but she recovered enough to dodge the King's next brutal strike, which left a circle of singed black on the floor where she had just been.
Link stumbled after them both. Instinctively, he raised his sword and struck at the air—an arc of blue-gold magic flew from his blade and traveled as if through water, clipping the tip of the King's cape as he bore down on Impa. But it did not help—she had no time to draw her sword, no time to slide her fingers across her harp. Swiftly, savagely, he struck her across the face, sending her reeling once more.
Link cried out, gripping his sword in both hands and swiping upward—the arc dragged itself across the floor, too slowly, too weakly, warped as if in a terrible dream. The King had already moved—he already had Impa trapped in his grasp, and Link could do nothing but watch his magic fly past them both, crashing into the nearest pillar in a burst of blue.
Ganondorf grasped her shoulder in one hand and her harp in the other. He wrenched the instrument from her grasp with a violent jerk of his arm. She paused for a fraction of a moment, a horrified look crossing her face—but swift as a shadow, she dropped her weight. Blood streaming from her injured lip, she shifted her stance and reached for her sword, drawing it across the arm that held her lyre. The King did not seem to notice—the sharp metal passed harmlessly over his gauntlet as he lifted the harp, gritting his teeth.
The neck of the instrument fractured in his grip. Wood splintered, pins screeched, strings snapped in agony, falling limp and useless as common thread. The look that crossed Impa's face nearly brought Link to his knees—her eyes widened with horror, a scream caught hoarse in her throat as the King destroyed in seconds what it took her years to master, as he desecrated one of the last vestiges of Kakariko, the elder's gift to her, her very voice.
She froze for a moment, knuckles white on the hilt of her sword. Then she crouched in fury, preparing to strike—but Ganondorf did so first.
Link did not quite see what happened. The King's attack was obscured in a flurry of dark magic, but he heard Impa scream, he heard her sword clatter to the ground. He saw her dodge, desperately, throwing her weight away from the King—and he saw her fall, tumbling along the marble in a streak of blood. When she slid to a stop, writhing, Link saw a dagger-sized fragment of her own harp jutting from her thigh. Flecks of red splattered the gold inlay, and a few strings hung dead and hopeless in the slowly expanding pool of blood beneath her legs.
Her face contorted, a terrible melange of horror, rage, regret, agony—but she was alive, she was breathing enough to cry out in pain, and Link would have to keep her that way.
He prepared himself to strike at the King, to call his name and redirect his attention, but Ganondorf only stepped forward, slowly, almost cautiously. Something of a shocked look played on his face, half amused.
"Sheikah," he said, more to himself than to either of them. He clenched his golden fist at his side, light pulsating. "This resonance… how did you…" he glanced up to Link, a cruel smile playing at his lips. "What have you brought me, stableboy?"
Impa grit her teeth, shaking hands desperately gripping the giant splinter lodged in her leg. When she spit at the King's feet, her saliva was pink with blood.
"Get away from her," Link growled, striking the air once more—the arc of light flew between the King and Impa, leaving a trail of smoldering heat in its wake.
"Hm," Ganondorf grinned. "This is better saved for after I kill your stableboy. Watch closely, Impa, this will be the last time you see him alive." He stepped away from her, treading over the remains of her harp and crushing the wood under his armored boots. "I will have no more interruptions."
He waved a hand at the oak doors. They slammed shut, every crack and trim secured and sealed by golden light. Then he turned back to Link, smile bright in the red light of sunset. He did not seem concerned that he had lost his broadsword—he strode toward Link barehanded, armed with nothing but the potency of his magic.
Link took one last look at Impa, bleeding on the floor amid the pieces of her lyre's corpse. Her eyes were bright with dismay and anger, her teeth were bared in agony, her hands shaking over the splintered remains of her greatest weapon, still lodged deep into her muscle.
He wanted to tell her it would be all right. He wanted to tell her he loved her, deeply and truly, he wanted to tell her she would live, that he would make sure she lived, that she would play the harp again, even if it was not the cherrywood lyre Elder Merel had entrusted to her years ago.
But he said nothing. He met Impa's eyes for only a fraction of a second—brief, infinitely meaningful. Then he grit his teeth, took his sword in both hands, and threw himself at the King.
They met with an explosion of golden light. Link's whole body burned, the entirety of his being flickered with desperation—his heart raced, and his mind disappeared into a painful glow of golden light. He channeled the energy of his triforce into every blow, pushing through the fire and ice, the streaks of darkness and light. It took him over, clearing his mind of hesitation, of thought, of Impa, of Zee, of his own body. It did not take him long to lose himself again in that familiar dance—he was emptied of everything but his godly power, glowing down his arms and into his blade, sparking with every quick strike. Link was gone—only his sword remained, instinctive as an animal, cutting, slashing, parrying, destroying.
The King held his own, equally lost to the ritual. Fire engulfed the room, licking at Link's feet, pillars of ice burst from the marble floors, shattering into sharp fragments and flinging themselves toward him. He parried without a second thought—the tip of his sword was faster than even he could see, slicing through the ice before it reached him. He felt no pain, he felt no fear. Only necessity, only the pull of the god-light as it guided his hand.
The King hurled spell after spell at him—first a cold wind, then a burst of fire, then a shaking ray of gold, every incantation imbued with the power of the gods. When Link parried blades of ice and burst unharmed from the flames, the King conjured a mixture of the two—with a cry of effort, he slammed his glowing fists into the ground, summoning a powerful blast of smoke and steam. It engulfed them both, choking the air from Link's lungs and filling his eyes with burning black. But he subdued his cries of pain, he held his hands steady, and when his sword thrummed a command into his ear, he obeyed.
He saw his chance, barely visible through the steam—a slowing of Ganondorf's arm, a brief hesitation, a perfect opening. He leapt, arms aflame, and struck at the King from above, throwing all his might into a decisive downward swing.
The King caught his blade. Palms open, harder than steel, the Mandrag's hands met Link's sword. Sparks flew, the smell of singed flesh met Link's nose, but Ganondorf held the blade at bay, palms glowing with power.
A furious scream tore through Link's throat, and he drove his sword down harder, throwing every ounce of his strength, every fiber of his being into the strike. He saw blood drip from the King's palms, he saw the look of frustrated pain in his face—and he knew he just had to hold his blade there, he had to keep pushing, he had to force through the dark magic and the smoke and the might of the gods themselves.
His arms shook, his blade bent, his lungs burned—but he kept pushing. Desperately, he prayed to the triumvirate, he prayed to Hylia, he prayed to Wolf and Irma and the god-spirits of the mountain. His vision narrowed, his throat was raw, every inch of him was on fire, flowing with golden light, terrible, painful golden light—
Then the pressure relented. Something gave way, and for a moment Link knew he had cut through Ganondorf's hands—his blade would slide through the King's skin, through his muscle and bone, and Link's weight would carry the strike onward, soaring through the air and meeting the Mandrag's forehead, right where his jewel dangled from his crown, cutting through metal and skin and skull, lodging directly between his eyes.
He nearly cried out in triumph. He pushed through the strike, stomach in his throat—until he saw a dark line run through his blade, beginning at the King's hands and ending at the hilt. His shout turned into a gasp, his eyes widened, disbelief and dismay wrestled for his heart as time slowed, protracting the fissure's journey up the length of of his weapon.
The Goronic steel gave way. The metal cracked, the core bent, wailing, and Link's sword shattered into pieces.