Author's Note: DarkPriestessOfHyrule (and all you other wonderful readers who have nudged me, over the years, with requests that I get this fic on the road): you are my heroes. This story is for you.

Also (anticlimactically), Zelda receives yet another upgrade in age: she is now 16!

… I'll stop now.

oOo

IV

NEGOTIATIONS

Zelda found Impa waiting for her in the antechamber to the king's study. Her lady stood, steel-straight, facing the study door, her arms knotted over her chest, her face hard with concentration. The moment Zelda emerged, Impa crossed over to her and peered into her face.

"Zelda…" Impa laid a hand on the princess's shoulder. "What has he said to make you so unhappy?"

Zelda shivered. Her body felt hollow, as if it had emptied itself of her heart, lungs, and viscera, as if her bones and sinew had turned to water and leaked out of her pores. But she had not considered her face, how it looked, what expression the hollowness had written into her eyes and mouth.

"My lord the King—" She stopped. Her mind felt empty, too, dried up. The back of her skull fizzed.

"What did he say?" Impa hissed. Her spittle flecked Zelda's cheek, and her strong fingers dug into the hollow above Zelda's collarbone.

"I am to be married," Zelda mumbled. Her mouth felt strange, wrapped around words that surely did not belong to her. But unfamiliar as they were, the words stole whatever strength Zelda possessed. Her knees buckled. She listed toward the floor, awkward in Impa's hands, and again she breathed, "I am to be married."

The words pounded through her. They tasted false and wrong on the back of her tongue. She felt her body sliding toward limbo, between the truth of her life as she knew it and the fiction of her father's announcement. Marriage. It was too big, too sudden a horror to be true. Surely it was not true. If she had dreamed of her father in his study, grasping her arm and commanding her to marry the Gerudo king, then she would be all right. When she woke up, her mind would be clear, and this nightmare would be over. She would have her heart, lungs, viscera, bones, and sinew back. Perhaps the Gerudo would be gone. Once she awoke, she would be safe.

Impa spat something unintelligible, voice trembling. Zelda sat on the floor and looked at Impa's face. The Sheikah's eyes had widened, the whites like little ghosts.

"So it's true." Impa's own voice was a breath. "It's true." She released Zelda's shoulder and straightened.

True. The word rocked Zelda backward like a slap. She closed her eyes, bent her knees, and cradled her forehead between them.

Impa began to pace, mumbling words Zelda could not catch. The fizzing in the back of the princess's brain drifted into her skull. Her head felt light, unattached.

"Oh Zelda." Impa bent down and pressed Zelda to her. "My princess."

Zelda shut her eyes and sank into Impa's arms.

oOo

She slept. Her father's face followed her down the twisted, thorny road of her dreams.

She again stood before him in his study. He clutched her arm, looked her up and down.

"Your mother is dead," he said.

"Yes."

"She jumped from an eastern tower."

"Yes."

"She jumped to get away from you."

Zelda's mouth moved uselessly for a moment. At last, "… Yes."

Her father let her go and pointed behind her. Zelda turned. A table had materialized. On top of it sat an open casket.

Zelda peered in. A woman's soft body lay there, dressed in bridal white, hands folded over her chest. A veil covered her face.

"Kiss your mother, now," said the king. "Tell her you are sorry."

Zelda dipped her face into the casket. She kissed the woman's hands. The skin was soft, warm, pliable. "I'm sorry, Mama." Zelda kissed the hands again. "I'm very, very sorry."

"Say it again," said the king.

Zelda's throat was closing. She tried to speak. The words felt like lead balls. Her mouth moved without sound. She began to cry, deep sobs that she disgorged, that clenched her body up so that she could barely breathe, barely see. She climbed into the coffin, gathered up the folds of her mother's funeral dress. "Please come back," she said. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry—"

oOo

Zelda awoke. Her body trembled. Mucus ran into her mouth and her eyes leaked tears. She sat up and wiped her face in the sheets. For a second, she could not remember her dream or the night before; she did not know why she was crying.

She stopped at last. She let the sheets fall from her hands and stared at the sliver of sunlight brightening a space between the drapes around her bed. Her head pounded on one side.

She rose at length, stumbled out of bed, and drifted toward her mirror. The glass was mottled blue and she had to lean close to see the details of her face. Her skin was blotchy, her eyes sunken. Her lips drooped. She thought, with a little jolt, there is nothing there.

She saw no life in her tear-smudged face, no character—simply a face, haloed in hair so pale it looked white. There had never been anything redeeming in that face, not when her maids groomed her for chapel or feast days, and certainly not now.

There is nothing there, she thought, again, touching the glass, tracing the reflection of her limp mouth and swollen eyes. She then touched her own cheek, the line of her neck, the curve of her breasts. She felt the weight of her own body, but it was as if the hollowness of last night still remained. It was in her blood, this hollowness; it emptied the life out of her eyes. Her mind flickered to the memory of herself as a small girl, clutching at her father as he strode in from hunting. She thought of him knocking her aside, her mouth hitting the stones. The way two teeth were knocked out and her skin peeled back, to let the hollowness inside.

You must not bother the king, Zelda, Impa had said to her. He might send you away.

And now Zelda was going. To the desert, with a man she did not know, to live among savage women, to die with her mouth full of red sand and her clothes stinking of boar.

You must not bother the king.

And yet she had, simply because she was alive; she had made his wife, her mother, jump off a tower, and now he was sending her away, because he could not bear the sight of her.

Murderer. Assassin. Matricide.

She shuddered and turned her face from the glass. Her thoughts slid out of her control, to her dream, to her father's stony face, to Lord Ganondorf holding her hand in the Great Hall, as if she were his queen already.

He knew, she thought, and her body clenched. Just as Impa knew.

She thought of her excursion to the chapel with the two courtiers, the younger one watching her before the goddesses' altar, whispering, "Nayru preserve us all." They all knew, she realized. And I am the last to learn of my fate.

Her body felt light, empty. She covered her face and sank to her knees.

They knew and I did not. The shame of her own ignorance, that seemed, suddenly, so indicative of her entire existence, crushed her. Her eyes began to water. She bent forward and touched her forehead to the flagstones.

There was no reason for her to cry. She was selfish to cry. She was good for nothing but the marrying off.

Selfish, she thought, with a violent flash of hatred for the tears leaking down her face. Do not cry. Do not cry. Do NOT cry.

Her brain felt split in two, between disgust at her tears and horror at her disgust. Another voice, small, breathless, echoed through her head. I don't want to get married. Goddesses help me, I do not want to get married.

A girl good for nothing but the marrying off! the gossiping woman had said, eyes popping, mouth round with the scandal.

Zelda imagined her own face as she had seen it in the mirror: empty, lifeless. That is what you are, the voice of her disgust snarled, in strong, grating voice. And this is what you must do: become Lord Ganondorf's wife. That is what you must be.

That lifeless face that lived for nothing, for no one.

Her father needed her to marry the Gerudo king. She could not refuse him.

The Gerudo King will save me. The thought raced, unbidden, through her. He will marry me, and I will have a purpose, and I will be saved—

But I don't want to be—

"Oh Princess—!"

Crash!

Zelda jumped. She looked up, gasped when the drafty air of the room struck her, and turned toward the door. A chambermaid stood there, hands open. The tray she had been carrying lay upended on the floor, and its contents—a wedge of fresh bread and a tumbler of wine—spilled over her shoes. Zelda and the maid stared at one another for what felt like an eternity. Then Impa swept in.

"Come." She snatched at the girl's shoulder and shook her. "This is the princess's chamber; clean your mess."

The girl's eyes widened. "I'm so sorry, my lady!" Her voice was a squeak. She fell to her knees, grabbed the hunk of bread, and began to sop up the wine with her skirt.

"Fetch the princess another meal," Impa said. "Quickly now, off with you and your clumsiness!"

The girl shot to her feet and fled, skirt dripping.

"Zelda." Impa crossed over to her charge and knelt beside her. "Why are you on the floor? Are you ill?"

"No." Zelda's voice was scratchy, disused.

Impa put her arms around Zelda's shoulders. "You've been crying." Her voice was fierce. "Oh, my princess—"

"No." Zelda straightened, pulled away. Impa, surprised, opened her arms. Zelda staggered to her feet.

"Zelda?"

"I've cried too much." Zelda cleared her throat. "Too long. I'm sorry. I've been selfish."

"Selfish?" Impa stood, quick and graceful—though danger sharpened the lines of her body, hardened her face. "You have been sold in marriage to a savage man—a king of thieves. Do not tell me of selfishness. Your father—"

"My lord the King," Zelda said, slowly, "is only doing what he must. Surely." Her voice sank so low on the last word that she mouthed it.

"What he must? What he must do is push for a treaty that does not include the sale of you, like some prize horse!" Impa's body tightened. She began to pace.

"I'm not being sold." Zelda's voice was breathy with exhaustion. "I am being married."

"Used, like money."

"But—" Zelda took a shaky breath. "I'm a girl. And that is what girls do. Get married."

Impa barked a laugh. "And what was I, when I was sixteen? A boy? A sword? A rock?"

Zelda blushed. "I am a princess."

"Zelda—"

"My father commands this marriage."

"Zel—"

"There is nothing I can do."

She shouted the last word. Her voice echoed through the chamber. Impa looked at her.

Zelda lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry."

Silence. Zelda, afraid that she had upset her lady-in-waiting, shrunk back a step—but then Impa closed in and enveloped her in a hug. The Sheikah smelled sharp and musty, of sweat and soot and the sword oil she used on the daggers she no longer carried but still kept wrapped in linens, tucked beneath her bed.

"I am sorry." She pressed her lips to the top of Zelda's head. "You have the right of it. Forgive me. It is just—"

"What?" Zelda mumbled. "It is just what?"

The Sheikah was silent for a moment. "Not now, my princess," she said. "Not now."

oOo

Lady Nabooru found a page standing outside of the door of the Mandrag's chambers later that morning.

The page—no more than a boy, as slight as spring grass in his slashed sleeves, fustian tunic, and narrow collar—wrung his hands as if he were in prayer. Every now and then, one of his fists flickered out to tap the door. He flinched each time he made contact.

Nabooru eased the door of her own chamber shut. "Child," she called. "What business have you with the Mandrag?"

The boy spun around.

"Have you brought a message?" she asked, stepping toward him.

The boy gaped up at her. She paused, opened her hands, and loosened her stance. "I am the stewardess of Mandrag Dragmire," she said. "If you have a message for him, you may give it to me."

The boy croaked.

"I'm sorry?"

He looked at the floor. "His Majesty the King Harkinian has a message for the Gerudo lord," he said. Nabooru heard the emphasis on king, on Gerudo lord.

"I see." She took another step and held out a hand. "I will take it to him."

He looked at her hand, at the skin that had cracked like baked clay, at the ragged stumps of her fingernails. "It is not a written message."

Nabooru lowered her hand. "Will you then recite it to me, then?"

"I am to give the message directly to the Gerudo lord."

Nabooru shrugged. "Well then. Come with me."

She led the boy into the antechamber of Ganondorf Dragmire's rooms, told him, "Wait," and let herself into the king's inner chamber.

The room was white with sunlight. The light caught the curves of the eagle-headed doorknobs, swam in the legs of two divans. It spilled through the double doors at the end of the room. The doors opened onto a balcony of white stone.

Lord Ganondorf leaned against the balustrade, robed in peach-pale satin. The sun was like water among folds of his robe. His hair was a heavy, rust-red braid along his neck. The sight of that braid was almost visceral; for one sharp moment, she felt the coarse texture of it, a memory tangled in her fingers, the scent of it—coconut oil, a trace of pomegranates—in her throat.

Nabooru coughed. "Ganondorf," she called. "There is a messenger to see you."

Ganondorf lifted his head and turned partway. His profile was hawk-nosed, thin-lipped. "Well?" he said. "Where is he?"

"In the antechamber."

Ganondorf raised an eyebrow. "Am I to be brought to him like a supplicant, Nabooru?"

"No," she said, though that had been exactly what she had meant to do. "No—I mean, would you like me to show him in here?"

"Yes." He swung around to face her. His robe was open to the waist and carelessly belted with a sash of oil silk. She could see his body down to the shadow of his groin. A touch of jade shaded his olive skin. Her breath caught. She looked away.

"I will ask him to give you a moment. If you wish to—" She gestured at his robe. "Dress, before you see him."

"Your Hylians," Ganondorf said, "and their sensibilities." He turned back to the balustrade.

Nabooru returned to the antechamber. The boy was fiddling with his collar. He faltered when he saw her.

"The king will see you in a moment," she said.

She waited three minutes, counting out of the seconds under her breath, hoping that Ganondorf made good use of his time. But nothing had changed when she finally gestured the messenger into the inner chamber. The king still leaned against the balustrade in his robe, the sinews of his exposed calves taut.

"My lord?" said Nabooru.

Ganondorf raised a hand. "Speak."

The boy began, "H-his Majesty, the ki… King Harkinian invites you and—" He glanced at Nabooru, "two of your escort to join him for breakfast. It is to be held at twelve o'clock in the king's solar."

He paused. Ganondorf said, "And?"

"And His Majesty hopes that you and your escort will find ample opportunity for respite and amusement within these walls. He says that your people may walk freely through the castle and the market town over the next fortnight, while all arrangements, regarding your visit, are under discussion. A public announcement is planned at the end of the second week, after which His Majesty hopes that you will join his court in their summer lodge for further celebrations."

There was another silence, longer this time. "And?" Ganondorf said.

"That is all. Sir."

"I see." Ganondorf straightened. "Go."

"His Majesty the King Harkinian wishes to know if you find his proposal of a twelve o'clock breakfast agreeable. Sir."

"Tell him it is indeed agreeable. Now go."

The boy bowed, stiffly, and left.

"Twelve o'clock," said Ganondorf, after a long while. "That is very late."

"No so late," Nabooru said, "for Hylian nobility."

Ganondorf turned. "You have suffered their company long enough that I suspect you sympathize with their chosen hours." He smiled. His eyes were cool. "Late as those hours may be."

Nabooru's lips tightened. "Their traditions are simply not ours, Ganondorf."

Ganondorf started from the balustrade and strode past her. "It is their tradition to prolong matters unnecessarily?" He swung himself down onto one of the divans. "Late hours, fortnights. Do they mean to make prisoners of us?"

"It is simply the Hylian way, my lord. What reason is there to be hasty?"

"What reason is there to spend more than two weeks in the heart of Harkinian's capital? No. I do not accept his proposition."

"To breakfast?"

"To the fortnight. I do not mean to stay in Lanayru for so long. We came with a single purpose. There is no need to dawdle. We will conclude our arrangements before tonight and Harkinian may have his public announcement and summer lodge within the next two days. But we leave this place on the third day."

"Ganondorf." Nabooru stepped forward and gripped the arm of his divan. "We cannot just go. Harkinian expects us to stay a fortnight. Excessive, yes, but we must at least stay a week. If we left after three days, he would think us ill-mannered."

Ganondorf lifted an eyebrow. "You fear to seem ill-mannered?"

Nabooru grit her teeth. "Courtesy is important to Hylians. We must respect them."

"And I am marrying their princess." Ganondorf rose. "Should they not, then, by the same token, respect us?" Nabooru was silent. "I will not fawn over the pointed toes of Harkinian's slippers any longer than I must," Ganondorf continued. "We leave on the third day."

Nabooru bit her lip. "Let them at least take their time with negotiations. And perhaps fete us two days. We are among Hylians, Ganondorf, we cannot—"

"Three days," Ganondorf said. He turned and started toward the open door of his bedchamber.

"Ganondorf."

The king did not pause or even glance at her to acknowledge that she had spoken. She sprang after him and grabbed a fistful of his robe. "Ganondorf, just because you are king does not mean you have the right—"

He turned, pushed her arm aside. "Do not presume to command me, Nabooru." His voice was soft.

"I do not presume to command." Nabooru stepped back. "Ganondorf, you do not know Hylians as I do. I housed their diplomats, while you campaigned in the desert; I lived and ate with them, I breathed the same air. For a year and a day, I fought to keep the peace between them and Koume and the other women who did not like them—Ganondorf, I know them. They will be offended if you give them no more than three days to conduct this business. This is their princess. Her engagement must be marked by some ceremony."

"A whole fortnight of ceremony?" Disdain tinged Ganondorf's words.

"She is their princess."

King and stewardess stared at one another, wordless. Ganondorf's expression darkened.

"These Hylians," he began. "You care for them as if they were your own flesh and blood."

Nabooru stiffened. "Do not say that to me," she said. "I love my people. And it is because I love them that I—"

"It is as though the goddesses appointed you champion of Hylians," he cut in, as if he had not heard her. He touched the underside of her chin and drew a finger down the side of her throat. "You are a different creature from the woman who guarded my throne, when I was on campaign."

Girl who loves the Hylians, sighs for them, stupid girl, useless chattel. Koume's words drifted through Nabooru's mind. Had she changed so much? she thought. Capitulated so far to Hylian sensibilities, compromised so often in the months that Ganondorf had been absent, that her king no longer recognized her?

Ganondorf flattened his palm along her collarbone. She shuddered. "I have not changed," she said. "I am only doing what needs to be—"

The king leaned close. Nabooru felt the shape of his next words as he breathed them against her cheek. "Have you forgotten the raids?" he whispered. "Hylian knights wearing bandit masks, emboldened by their disguises, cutting down our mothers, our grandmothers, grinding our daughters to bloody pulp beneath their horses' steel shoes?"

She squeezed her eyes shut. "Stop."

"Do you?"

"This isn't fair."

"Do you?"

"We did the same to them." Her eyelids trembled. "We were aggressors as much as they were. It has always been so. Always."

He pulled back. She opened her eyes. He stared down at her, his face expressionless.

"But they have always won," he said. "They have always lived here, in this province. Where there is water and good soil and cool wind. They have always won, since Din shaped the first Hylian and Farore breathed life into him and Nayru bound the soul of his tribe to this cool, green land. They have always won."

"Ganondorf," Nabooru breathed, "this is not fair."

"No," he said. "It is not."

"You cannot hate them for living here. The goddesses did not favor them with this land; they took it and cultivated it, just as we took the desert and cul—"

"You call the desert cultivated?" Ganondorf's hand closed suddenly at her throat—not hard enough to squeeze it, but enough that when she swallowed, she felt the slightest resistance. "Tell me, Nabooru—have you tamed the hot winds that flay the skin from our bones? Breathed life into the husks of our grandmothers, who lost themselves in sandstorms and died with their mouths full of the desert? Have you found a well that will never run dry, a patch of ground that will yield forth plants? Have you, Nabooru? Have you?"

She tore free of him and staggered backward. She collided with a divan and collapsed onto the pillows. "You think we live in hell," she spat. "After all our mothers—your mother—you —have done for our people, you think we live in hell." She stumbled to her feet. "Offend the Hylians as much as you dare, it won't change the desert, it won't make it green or make rivers burst out of the sand. But you'll make enemies of people who might be our friends, and then you'll see hell. They aren't helpless."

"Then why do their knights raid us behind the safety of bandit masks?"

"That was a long—"

"Why does their king cower and snivel and throw a shrinking, shamefaced wench into my bed?"

"You took her fast enough!"

The door of the outer room creaked open. Nabooru snapped around. Kotake stood there, dressed in red and gold robes, eyebrow raised.

"Come," she said. "We may be among Hylians, but that is no reason to act like them. I could hear you both down the hall. I thought you had been replaced by Hylian fishwives."

oOo

"Lord Dragmire!" exclaimed King Harkinian, "I trust I find you rested?"

There were four men already present in the king's solar when Ganondorf, Nabooru, and Kotake arrived: Harkinian himself and three older courtiers, with faces so wrinkled that their skin seemed made of running wax gone cold. Harkinian lounged at the end of the table, clasping a half-eaten peach. Juice stained his beard, his lips, the collar of his open-necked shirt. He laid the peach on his plate and wiped his fingers on his breeches.

"Sit, sit." He gestured, without waiting for the Gerudos to answer, toward the seat at the other end of the table. "The fruit is served; we simply await the meat and bread and Cucco eggs. How do you like my little domain, so far, my friends?"

"Well enough," said Ganondorf, as he seated himself. His robes were smalt blue, hemmed in black braid. Nabooru sat beside Kotake, as far away from her king as was polite.

"Well enough?" Harkinian snorted. "Give me half a day and you will be as bewitched as any boy sucking a maid's tit for the first time. Mark me, Dragmire!"

The king's companions looked stricken. Nabooru twisted her fingers beneath the table until they ached. She felt the sudden urge to laugh.

Ganondof offered the king a humorless smile. "I accept your challenge."

"Challenge?" Harkinian laughed. "Oh ho, I'll give you a challenge. We shall go hunting, tomorrow! Keep up with me and you will know a challenge." His eyes glittered.

"I have not doubt." Ganondorf plucked a cluster of grapes from a bowl close at hand. "I have heard tale of the Hylian hunt. My people do not hunt, by comparison. We but chase and snare in solitude; we but play games of stealth and trickery." He tilted his head and smiled sidelong down the table. "But a host of men and beasts, flying in mad pursuit of the lordly stag? That is an honest hunt, my friend."

"Without a doubt!" Harkinian slammed a powerful hand on the arm of his chair. "Mark this, Ganondorf: an honest day's hunt will indeed make you honest. Of course you cannot call what you desertmen do hunting. A pack of women skulking through the sand, chasing birds and groundhogs through an oasis? I would have you revoke the name 'hunting' from such child's play, Dragmire—it shames the valour our honest pursuit." He paused, smirked. "Which honest pursuit," he added, "you shall finally witness."

One of the king's courtiers looked shamed enough to swoon. A second was glancing toward the ceiling, as if beseeching heavenly intervention.

But before Harkinian could continue, two serving boys appeared, bearing platters of stewed meat and loaves of wheat bread, boiled Cucco eggs, and goblets of wine.

"Try the meat, Dragmire," Harkinian called, over the clink of dishes. "It's bear. I shot it myself."

The bear, Nabooru thought, was quite good, if heavily spiced. A mix of pepper and cumin scalded her throat. Her eyes watered. She slurped her wine, then choked when she realized that it too was laced with spices. She watched Kotake, mouth curled downward, pick at her eggs, which were coated in black cardamom. Hylians, Nabooru thought, regretfully, and their spices.

"You will forgive me, Harkinian," Ganondorf said, as the boys retreated. "But I must protest—not of what my people call hunting; no, on this point your wisdom shall be my own. But you must give me the credit of being an honest man. Surely, if I were not, you could not entrust your lovely daughter to me?"

The king paused, mid-chew, raised an eyebrow, and swallowed.

"My daughter? I do not fear to place her in your hands, Dragmire. You are quite welcome to her."

"Speaking of her," Kotake began, abandoning her over-seasoned meal with a flourish. She turned steel-blue eyes on King Harkinian and smiled thinly. "Why does she not join us?"

Harkinian gave a one-shouldered shrug and continued to eat. "The Princess will join us for dinner," one of the courtiers said. "She sits with her nursemaid in the morning, I believe."

"Her nursemaid?" Kotake's eyebrows lifted. "But she is a woman grown."

"The nursemaid is Sheikah," the man said. "The people of that tribe are loath to be separated from their charges, and the princess and her lady have established a routine, I am sure."

Kotake's nostrils flared. "I thought the Sheikah had perished." She fixed hard eyes on Harkinian, as if she awaited an answer from him.

"To the best of our knowledge," said the courtier, "the Lady Impa is the last of her kind."

"A pity." Kotake took a bite of bread.

"I would ask," said Ganondorf, "that this lady Impa did not accompany us when my wife and I return to the desert. There will be more than enough servants in Gerudo Fortress to see that the princess is comfortable."

Eyes shifted to him. The way he said, "my wife," made shivers run down Nabooru's spine. Harkinian just shrugged.

"Done and done," he said, around a mouthful of egg. "The Sheikah's getting old, anyway."

"I also ask," Ganondorf said, "that we reconsider the fortnight that you have planned for our discussions."

This grabbed Harkinian's attention. The Hylian King set his wine aside. "How so? Is a fortnight not long enough?"

Ganondorf wiped his fingers clean and folded his hands before him. "Negotiations need not last half so long as a fortnight," he said. His voice was soft, but it was edged in steel.

"Indeed?" Harkinian tilted his head and rested his own hands on the arm of his chair.

"Three days will suffice," Ganondorf said. "Let us draw up a treaty between this day and the next. Nabooru informs me that it is Hylian custom to celebrate an engagement with feasting; by all means, let us pass the third day in feasting. But my escort and I will leave at daybreak upon the forth day."

"What about the princess?" broke in one of the older Hylians.

"The princess will travel with us."

"Where does the wedding fit into this?"

"The princess and I," said Ganondorf, "shall be wed in Gerudo Desert."

The table went silent.

"I thought," said Harkinian, "it was understood that you would marry my daughter here, in Lanayru."

"I will marry her," said Ganondorf, "in Gerudo Desert."

"But that is not done!" one of the courtiers cried. "She must be married in the Temple of Time, before the goddesses."

"She will be married before the goddesses." Ganondorf lifted an eyebrow. "In the Spirit Temple, in Desert Colossus. Do you object?"

"But did you not come all this way to marry her?"

"I came all this way to negotiate the treaty and fetch my wife."

"This is not done!" said the Hylian nobleman again, looking to his fellow courtiers and his king.

"Ganondorf," Nabooru began. "Would it not make more sense—?"

"Hush." Kotake touched Nabooru's hand.

"Why?" Nabooru lowered her voice. "What is he doing? Why must he marry the princess in Gerudo Desert?"

Ganondorf's eyes slid to her. She flinched. His gaze was steady, touched with amusement. He looked away, before she could mouth her question: why?

"This simply isn't done," another of the courtiers complained. "No Hylian royalty has been wed outside the Temple of Time. The irregularity…" He trailed off, looking helpless.

"No Gerudo royalty has been wed outside the Spirit Temple," Ganondorf said.

"But the princess is Hylian," said the courtier. His lip twitched, involuntarily, toward a sneer. "She must be married among her people, before a Hylian sage."

"Must I not be married among my own people? Send us a Hylian sage, if you must."

"But—"

"Enough." Harkinian raised a hand. He had not bothered to look, even once, at his courtiers. His eyes were fixed on Ganondorf.

"Yes?" Ganondorf's voice was soft.

"If you wish to marry my daughter in your desert and temple, do so. I will not object."

"My lord—" began a courtier.

"I said enough." Harkinian flashed a hard glance in the man's direction. "You can have a sage too; I'm sure we can dig up one who won't mind the journey. As for the three days. Give us seven and you shall have your treaty, your celebration, and a proper Hylian hunt."

Ganondorf considered. "Five," he said.

Harkinian's lip curled. "If you insist."

Ganondorf's eyes gleamed. "I do."

A few minutes later, the serving boys carried the emptied platters away and breakfast was concluded.

The three Gerudos walked back to their chambers. Kotake excused herself and vanished into her rooms, muttering of sending a girl to fetch her edible food. Nabooru followed Ganondorf to his chamber. He opened his door but did not step inside.

"Yes?" he said.

"Why is it so important to you to marry the princess in the Spirit Temple?" Nabooru's brow furrowed. "Isn't it all the same—the Spirit Temple, the Temple of Time?"

"No." Ganondorf looked past her into the middle distance. "It is not."

There was something in his voice that Nabooru could not name and did not like—a hitch, as if some thought gripped the Mandrag's brain. "Ganondorf," she said, slowly. "What is back in Gerudo Valley? In the Spirit Temple?"

Ganondorf's eyes met hers. He smiled.

"The goddesses," he said. Then he slipped into his chambers and shut the door.

oOo

Author's Note: If you notice anything that needs to be edited like RIGHT NOW (spelling, grammar, and punctuation especially), let me know. I won't be able to look at this chapter straight for at least a few days.

Next chapter arrives next Friday.