Disclaimers: See Chapter 1.


Thank Yous: dorepoll, E. Quicksilver, Kota Magic. Your support is appreciated!


A/N: No, Ganondorf hasn't done anything to Zelda...yet, that is! Eheh.


I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts...
- Julius Caesar, Act 3.

. . .

Up until now, her days had been dull and silent and cold except for the fleeting moments when Lord Ganondorf made himself known. He moved about the room in the dark, flowing robes of a Mudorian scholar, a trademark strut in his gait that remained unknown to her and, for the most part, unseen. She soon realized he had a morning routine, an evening routine, and midday visits which were a "treat." Zelda knew Ganondorf was never in the room to see her, he had not once made eye contact, but that folly was all she had while she waited for the arrival of her Champion. He, though it was shameful to admit, was her only proof that she was there, and not indeed claimed by the darkness that loomed as her constant menace. He was her last grip to humanity.


In a week, she was broken.


In the next, Nayru came to her.


Zelda wasn't quite sure how this had happened, or how the event had passed, but she was certain that during one of these countless nights where she could count the dark salivating minutes without relish, she felt small, white, holy hands upon her face, her shoulders, her body...just for a moment, then gone. The brief touch returned to her a resolve she certainly thought she had lost when -- in those rare moments regular sight was returned to her -- she began to look at her captor in a trembling mixture of not just curiosity anymore, but need. Was it what some of the old ones in Impa's village had whispered, that a captive would soon began to sympathize with his captor -- oh, she hoped never to find out! Perhaps it was but the Mark back of her hand...but, energized, she looked at Ganondorf once more with disdain and scorn and a dark knowledge. And
yet...


It turned, almost imperceptibly, to a gentle acknowledging of Ganondorf. Despite the holy hands that had been laid upon her, despite the Mark of Wisdom that remained her only light within the cell, her feelings softened (just for moments, just for fleeting moments, and then her resolve was back again), her helplessness melted in the subtle actions of the Gerudo. The way he moved across his massive chambers, his strides hypnotized, looking -- as he always had -- as if he spent a lot of time at sea or on horseback. How he pulled on his boots. The look in his eyes if he chanced a glance at the prison that symbolized Hyrule's ruination -- self-assured, arrogant, confident.


The Princess thought her thoughts and her actions over, ashamed that she should feel so for such a pitiful man, and relaxed. What had she been worried about, anyhow? The thought that she could hold any real affection for the man was absolutely laughable. Besides that, Ganondorf didn't even look at her, surely he wasn't planning to...to kill her. There was resentment and pain as she thought about her end that was certainly close at hand, but she didn't take notice because at her thought, the door slammed open and bright light from nowhere flooded the room.


Her Champion, in the flowing black robes of Lord Ganondorf Dragmire, stumbled into the room and collapsed onto the massive bed like a pile of laundry. In his left hand, she saw, or thought she saw, the bluest of blades, the Master Sword -- but that comforting thought was cruelly robbed from her when she blinked and looked again. He was unarmed? He was in Ganondorf's robes -- no, nevermind that, he was on Ganondorf's bed? What was going on?


His knees were on the floor but his torso was bent over the low bed and his hands clutched the black-violet sheets tightly, in the same way that Ganondorf Dragmire's strong hands clutched his blond hair a moment later. He moved, forced, onto the bed, his thighs against the foot of it, the rest of him sprawled out beautifully and delicately before the King of Evil; there was a sense of familiarity in his actions, in the way his mouth soundlessly moved as he turned over to lay on his back...and opened his arms, as if to admit him.


No. No. No. Her trembling hands, which knew the blinding truth, rose to her mouth, as alternating expressions of horror and disgust and hate twisted her sharply angled, Aryan face.


What are you doing? By the Triforce, what are you doing?


There were tears. Zelda cried them. Each drop splashed onto the mirrorlike floor of the crystal, and mingled with muffled sounds coming from the mouth of her Champion that she could barely hear. His head was pressed into a pillow, long fingers stretched, some bent grossly into the soft tick. And to think that Ganondorf hadn't even undressed -- hopefully, that wouldn't change. She saw the conqueror running a hand roughly, insultingly, up and down one side of her Champion's face, who turned his head to the side to breathe. Zelda saw his face: the closed eyes, the pallid and blunt lashes, the quivering lips and wavering strands of hair along his face, stuck in some places thanks to sweat. She saw his animation, his motion, the way his brows knitted and tightened, the flexing muscles in his jaw, his lithe body rising at Ganondorf's touch. Disgusting. He was barely touching him and this was obscene, disgusting.


She lowered her eyes to the floor of her prison and prayed silently for darkness now. Even if it wasn't granted, she wouldn't watch this -- couldn't. She couldn't witness her utter ruination, couldn't look into his eyes and see what she knew Ganondorf Dragmire must have wanted her to see, couldn't witness the grotesque profanity of this evil man polluting white flesh.


It wasn't comely.

. . .

Ganondorf stood a few minutes later. Put on his robes. Went to bathe.


Her Champion hadn't noticed her before, it had been...dark, but when Ganondorf left she felt his gaze on her. The Hero of Time looked at her, with such broken eyes, with tearstained cheeks, raw and ravaged lips. And she thought he knew she saw him. How she wished she knew what Ganondorf had told him!


Her world faded into darkness yet she stayed awake, still remembering those eyes, at first so full of a child's bliss, lust he confused with love, need. Ganondorf became more and more unsavory in her mind -- and his removal seemed now not just a lofty goal but a necessary undertaking. Her need for escape had turned to obsession, but her Champion was helpless before her. She had adored her Champion for everything he never could be. And now -- Ganondorf had so easily degraded Link, his worst enemy. And he'd done it so horribly, with such decadent vigor and life. Zelda had never seen such a passion, such a hate, though she hoped now to emulate it. And now she craved Ganondorf's immolation.