Author's Note: Trigger warning for implied non-con.

oOo

VII

WEDDING

The company came in sight of Gerudo Fortress three days after they descended into the desert.

Dusk stole across the sand, throwing the shadows of cliffs and fortified walls over the cavalcade. They passed through a labyrinth of lookout posts. Zelda stared up into the mazy stakes and sun-beaten platforms. Women with glaives and covered faces peered down at her, their eyes grim and golden.

At first, all Zelda could make out of the fortress was its ramparts—sprawling slabs of red stone that she could barely distinguish from the surrounding crags. The gates opened upon a tangle of barracks, watchtowers, and saw-toothed palisades. Zelda stopped counting the twists and turns and dour-eyed sentinels after a while. She looked, instead, for slivers of sky among the battlements and murder-holes.

But the sky did not reappear until the company reached the courtyard.

A second gate and stone corridor separated the cantonment from the fortress proper. The fortress crouched in the shadow of mountain, a heap of granite and sandstone that made Zelda think of little square houses all piled together. A long, steep flight of stairs cut through the buildings; with her eyes, the princess followed the flight up to a column-lined passage that ended in an archway. The entrance gaped black and empty.

Zelda dismounted, with the help of one her maids, and stood staring up at unlit doorway. Her body ached and her legs shook. Her throat was full of dust, her eyes full of sand, and the fortress blurred like a smudge on glass. She wanted to shut her eyes and sleep where she stood.

"Well?" Nabooru's voice made Zelda flinch. "It is not what you were imagining, I take it."

It took the princess a moment to register Nabooru, watching her with a smiling mouth and doubtful eyes, another moment to find words. "It is not what I imagined, no," Zelda began, "but—" She faltered. "It is… it is…"

Her brain was muddled. She could not think of what the fortress was, except not Hylian.

Nabooru touched her shoulder. "Nevermind. We've only just arrived. Will you join me for supper?"

Zelda summoned a smile. "I thank you." Her voice was faint. "But I think I will forgo food. I am tired."

The press of Nabooru's hand tightened. "A proper meal will wake you up," she said. "There are things we should discuss."

Nabooru's insistence drained Zelda of all argument. "As you wish, my lady."

"Do not mistake this for a command," Nabooru said, dropping her voice.

"Please." Zelda laid her own hand, briefly, upon the regent's, then slipped free. "You need not explain yourself to me. I will join you at your table."

"I would not ask you so soon. Only, Elder Koume will wish to meet you."

"Elder Koume?"

"Yes." Nabooru jerked her chin across the yard, where the old Gerudo woman, Kotake, handed off her horse to servant. "Elder Kotake's sister. That is how you must refer to them, now—as Elder. Or as the Twinrova, if you mean to speak of them both."

A flutter of white caught Zelda's eye. The princess looked up. A gaggle of women dressed in white trousers and short robes were approaching her and Nabooru from the direction of the endless steps. Their lamps winked feebly in the dusk.

Nabooru followed her gaze. "Handmaidens. They'll ready you for dinner. I will send one of your girls to show you to my rooms afterward." She squeezed Zelda's shoulder.

By the time the handmaidens had reached the princess, Nabooru had stalked off; Zelda watched her retreating back. She felt winded, as if Nabooru's departure had taken something from her. The princess was alone now, among women she did not know—among thieves, she thought, remembering the Hylian servant saying, "Thief Lord!" back in Lanayru.

It does not matter. She turned to look at the handmaidens, arrayed before her with their heads bent and eyes averted. I am a Hylian Princess. I shall not be afraid.

"Lady Princess?" One of the handmaidens stepped forward. She had a clear, sweet girl's voice, but her Hylian was awkward. "With us will you come?"

"Of course," Zelda said.

The women encircled her. They raised their lamps to illuminate the endless steps, and the princess followed them, squinting against the light, stumbling with fatigue.

The archway at the top of the steps opened upon an even longer flight that descended into the belly of the fortress. The stairs ended in a cavernous room. Dim shapes bloomed from the darkness: a circle of armless statues, a chandelier. The women led her to the right, down a series of corridors. Zelda's legs trembled with effort.

The braziers burning above her left watery patterns on the walls. She caught occasional glimpses of Gerudo calligraphy, scrawled in black ink along the stone lips of niches. The niches held painted pots, slender crocks of milk glass, and weapons. But beyond this, the corridors were empty of decoration, the flagstone uncarpeted. Zelda wondered. The Gerudo displayed such extravagance in their dress and ornaments. And yet their fortress suggested that they were more monastic than any desert-dwelling hermit.

She shuddered. She had spent the nights on the road imagining a Hylian welcome: tapestried rooms and hearths to ward off the chill, beds stuffed with eiderdown. The blank walls around her suggested no such comforts.

At long last, the women guided her down a corridor that ended in pair of massive double doors. Guardswomen flanked each door; they bowed from their waists as Zelda and her escort passed into an antechamber. "The Consort's Corridor," one of the Gerudo said, gesturing around. "This wing of the fortress is your own, Lady Princess. No woman nor man may enter this place without your consent."

Zelda tilted her head. "No one may enter? This place is entirely my own?"

"Yes, Lady Princess. To rule as you please. Such is the way of the Consort's Corridor."

Zelda's stomach stirred—but not, for once, from dread. She looked around, at the braziers plated in silver and embossed with Gerudo calligraphy, at the round-bellied pots, the doors painted with fading boar's skulls. From the direction of the ceiling, she heard a rustling that she took for a draft—or for Keese.

No woman, nor man—

"Not even the king?" she asked.

"No, Lady Princess, not even the king."

The corridor took on a new vibrancy, as Zelda followed the handmaidens up a third flight of stairs. This was her kingdom, within these Gerudo walls. She shivered with anticipation.

The women led her through a hive of rooms—for sleeping, for dining, for reading, for bathing. In this final chamber, Zelda undressed and stepped into a bath clouded with milk. It smelled of honey and spices. The women soaped and scrubbed her until she felt raw. Her feet ached when she stepped back onto the marble floor; her skin prickled beneath the pile of the towels, as a woman patted her dry. But she no longer smelled of sweat and hard riding. The bath had numbed her saddle sores.

They robed her in thin silk, braided her hair, and shod her in soft slippers. As Nabooru had promised, one of Zelda's maids materialized in the doorway. "If you would follow me, Princess." Her voice was stiff. "Lady Nabooru and the Elder Twinrova await you."

oOo

"So," said Nabooru, when Zelda had seated herself at table, "how do you like the fortress now?"

"It is still early." Zelda smiled faintly. The scented milk bath had numbed her brain; even the sweet smell of honey-drizzled figs that Nabooru was eating could not keep the princess alert. The Elder Twinrova were not in evidence, despite the Gerudo maid's words, and so Zelda allowed herself to sit back and rest her eyes. "Tell me about the Consort's Corridor," she said.

"It is yours," Nabooru said, simply. "When the ruler of the Gerudo marries, the corridor belongs to her—or his—consort. It is your space to do as you please. No one but you may preside in that wing of the fortress. Not even the king."

"I suppose it is a fair exchange," Zelda said, "now the consort has nothing of his own."

"Yes."

"What happens to a consort when the ruler is dead?"

"We send the men away, if the next queen will not take him. We keep the women and any children."

Zelda felt her body go still. She opened her eyes, sat forward. Nabooru was licking honey off her fingers.

"As consort—" Zelda's voice was a breath, and her stomach began to twist, "what am I expected to do?"

"Anything you wish, princess."

"But as—" Zelda's lips were dry. She licked them and clasped her hands beneath the table. "But as a wife, what am I supposed to do?"

Nabooru glanced sideways at her. "Your duties, you mean, day by day?"

"No. On my wedding night."

Nabooru looked puzzled. "What women do with their men, The usual."

"What… is that, exactly?"

Nabooru stared at her for a very long time.

Zelda looked at the bowl of honeyed fruit. She had known she would have to ask, at some point, about the exact things she would be expected to do as Lord Dragmire's wife, but Nabooru's comment about "any children," had forced Zelda to confront the thought that had haunted her ever since she had left Lanayru. She stole a glance at Nabooru. The regent still gaped at her. Zelda twisted her fingers until they crackled.

"You honestly don't know?" Nabooru said.

Zelda winced. "I know that to be valid, a marriage must be witnessed by the goddesses and… consummated before them. However that is done…"

"Did the Sheikah never tell you? Your mother?" Nabooru turned fully toward her. "Did you ever watch dogs rutting in the great hall?"

"My mother died when I was small. And Impa… she said I should love the man I give myself to… that I must think carefully about it and—"

"There isn't much room to think when your body is the coin of the realm, Zelda," Nabooru said.

The princess stared at her, wild-eyed.

"Hylians," Nabooru added, as if this were a particularly foul word.

They sat in silence. Zelda looked at the fruit bowl again. A pattern of burnt orange triangles girdled its base. She could see the shadow of her face in the glaze.

"First of all," Nabooru said, "it will hurt and there will be blood. Probably. Though if you relax, it won't hurt so much."

"Oh," said Zelda. Her hands tightened in her lap. "Oh."

A door opened, then. Elder Kotake entered, followed by her sister and a cluster of handmaidens. Azure braid embroidered the robes of one of the Twinrova; red motifs embellished the hems of the other. Kotake's hair was as scarlet as Zelda remembered; the Elder Koume's cropped mane was steely blue. But colors aside, the Twinrova bore more than a passing resemblance to one another. Side by side, it was difficult to see where one great, hooked nose ended and the other began.

"Princess." Kotake nodded. She sat, and her sister thumped into a seat beside her. Koume's eyes were heavy-lidded; she studied Zelda and her thin lips thinned further. She said nothing. Veiled women trailed in, a heartbeat later, carrying steaming platters and bowls of wine.

"We were just talking," Nabooru said. Zelda shot her a desperate look; the regent continued, "About the wedding. I am telling her what to do, once we reach the Spirit Temple."

"Of course you are telling the Hylian what to do," Koume shot back, in Gerudo. "What does she know?" Zelda deciphered the words slowly. She wished that she had practiced speaking and listening to the language more faithfully en route to the fortress.

"Be polite, sister," Kokate said, with a cool glance. She turned to Zelda. "What has Nabooru told you thus far?"

"Very little," Nabooru said, before Zelda could speak. "It is best I leave such explanations to you, Elder Kotake, Elder Koume." She inclined her head. "I know so little."

Her blandishments pleased Koume, who preened, but even then, the old woman did not deign to address Zelda or speak Hylian. She only interjected, now and again, as Kotake described the wedding ceremony—the celebrations, the journey to the Spirit Temple; the bathing and dressing of the bride. "You'll be married in the inner sanctum," Kotake continued, "before the Sand Goddess."

Zelda's stomach lurched. "Not before Din, Nayru, and Farore?"

"Do you fear your marriage will not be valid?" Kotake lips curved toward a smile. Her eyes were flat. "You need not fear. There will be a Hylian sage to bless you in your goddesses' name."

"Pah." Koume gave Zelda an underhanded look. "As long as he beds her, it'll be valid."

Zelda flinched. Koume laughed. "I tell you," she said, spearing a slice of roast goat and popping it into her mouth, "these Hylians know nothing."

And it was true, wretchedly so. Though whether Koume knew just how accurate her jibe was, Zelda never found out.

oOo

Nabooru held the princess back, when the servants had cleared away the dinner and the Twinrova had departed.

"Listen," Nabooru said, leaning her elbows on her knees and scrutinizing the pale, drawn face before her, "I'll tell you what to do. At the ceremony. Afterwards. Just… if you don't understand something, tell me." She shrugged. "I don't want to leave out anything."

"Yes," said Zelda. "Thank you."

But even as the words left her mouth, a thought struck her. She spoke before her better judgment could stifle it.

"Must I?"

Nabooru raised her eyebrows. Zelda hurried on.

"Must I go through with it? Not the wedding, but… after… is it so necessary?" The desperation in her voice made her cringe. She thought, fiercely, I am a Hylian princess. I will not be afraid.

But she was. Oh, goddesses be good, she was.

Nabooru grimaced. "You're the Mandrag's consort, princess. Or at least you will be. It comes with the territory." She opened her hands, as if in apology.

oOo

Afterward, Zelda remembered little of the day that followed her arrival in Gerudo Fortress. Her handmaidens dragged her from bed before the sun had risen; several hours later, a sedan, draped in silk and borne upon the shoulders of three Gerudo porters, carried her from the Consort's Corridor to the chandelier room.

People thronged the chamber: women resplendent in henna, trailing veils, and brilliantly colored shawls, dripping bangles, precious stones. There were a few men, chief among them the Hylian courtiers who had accompanied Zelda from Lanayru, and the Hylian envoys still established in the fortress. The scent of perfume, roasting meat, and candied fruit choked the air. The Gerudo porters carried Zelda's sedan to the foot of the dais. The princess stepped out into the roar of celebration.

Lord Ganondorf Dragmire regarded her from his throne. She curtsied as best as she could, for her handmaidens had loaded her down in a jeweled collar and peach-pale gown peppered with precious stones. Lord Dragmire rose as she straightened. He descended the steps. She craned her head to look at him. Her earrings snagged in her hair.

He held out his hand. Her body went hot and tight as she took it.

He led her to a divan arranged beside the throne. She sat, tucked her feet beneath the pearl fringe of her gown, and looked out across the gathering. Surely the crowd here surpassed even that which had gathered under her father's roof at the betrothal.

She perched upon the divan for hours, smiling until pain lanced through her jaw, nibbling at the delicacies retainers offered her until she felt sick. There was dancing, music, gifts—so much that the day began to blur into one great smear of color and sound. Her head ached.

The public ceremony took place in the late afternoon. It was brief: Zelda and Lord Dragmire both received a bowl of wine, and a Gerudo priestess blessed each at length. When she had finished, Zelda lifted her bowl to Lord Dragmire as Nabooru had instructed, tipped it so that he might drink. He tilted his own bowl and she sipped. The wine's heady scent smothered her nostrils. The liquid slid, warm, spiced, and syrupy, down her throat. It tasted of dates.

She and Lord Dragmire left in the thick of the celebrations. He took her hand, as he had in her father's house, and led her through a door behind the dais. Nabooru, the Twinrova, two sages—Hylian and Gerudo—and several Hylian courtiers awaited them, alongside a pack horse and a group of handmaidens.

The party rode into the desert as the afternoon slid toward dusk.

oOo

Where Gerudo Fortress sat jumbled like a cairn against its mountainous slab of rock, the Spirit Temple towered in solitude against the horizon, as clean cut and deliberate a work of art as the face and torso of the Sand Goddess carved into its crown.

Zelda stared up at the colossus as the party approached. The statue wore a headdress and strings of jewels. Her face was cool and arch, beautiful in the sunset, similar to sculptures of the goddesses that Zelda had seen back in Lanayru. The Sand Goddess looked like Din, Zelda thought, fire smoldering just below her granite skin, proud and roguish and deadly, all in one breath.

She tensed, when Lord Dragmire lifted her from her horse. Wind pulled at his mahogany robes and filled his sleeves; the sight tickled her, even as she combed the wind-lashed hair from her face. But then her eye fell on the temple entrance. She tensed.

The wedding isn't a long ceremony, Nabooru had told her. And you won't be coming back to the fortress, not for a day, at least.

Dread rose on a sick, toxic tide from Zelda's belly. She pressed her lips together and took Lord Dragmire's proffered hand.

A pair of acolytes, standing at the foot of an ornate staircase flanked by stone cobras, greeted the party. The acolytes gathered up the party's shoes and offered them slippers in return; Zelda felt the crunch of sand, the crumble of loose mortar, as she and Lord Dragmire proceeded up the stairs alone. The rest of the company followed the acolytes through a separate door into the depths of the temple.

King and princess walked until the ceiling lowered and the darkness thickened with incense. Zelda wished she could see the walls. The corridors tightened with every corner they took; she felt as if she were cupped in a giant, sweating hand. Her breathing quickened. Lord Dragmire's feet whispered beside her in the gloom. She heard his breath, slow and steady.

They turned a corner. Torchlight flared. Zelda and Lord Dragmire stepped out into a chamber even more cavernous than the fortress's chandelier room.

A full-body statue of the Desert Colossus sat before them, a hundred feet or more of sandstone woman, with a massive snake wrapped around her waist and a ruby set between her breasts. Her arms were outstretched, her face stiffly regal. At her slippered feet stood a platform lined with torches, garlanded in ivory white cloth.

That is where you will kneel, Nabooru had said, while the priests bless you.

King and princess knelt. Zelda watched, from beneath her lashes, the slow steps of the Hylian and Gerudo sages, emerging from opposite sides of the room, murmuring prayers.

They will anoint you.

The Gerudo's fingers traced an oiled path down Zelda's face, from forehead to chin. She tasted olives, coconut, a touch of linseed on her lips.

And then there is the wine. You drink the whole bowl this time. Sipping is just for the public ceremony.

The mingled scent and taste of dates clotted Zelda's throat, as Lord Dragmire tipped the bowl to her lips and she drank, too fast, the wine spilling, her throat closing like a fist around a stone.

He knelt, to accept the wine she held. She watched him drink, the rhythm of his Adam's apple, the quivering lids of his half-shut eyes.

And when you have drunk, you will kiss him. Seal the deal. Nabooru had shrugged. That's the end of it. The ceremony. He will bed you, later, in another part of the temple.

It was not the end of the wedding, not yet. Lord Dragmire's bowl was empty. Zelda lowered it. He opened his eyes and slid a hand around her waist, drew her down against him. The bowl fell from her nerveless fingers, clattered to the platform. She lost her footing, crumpled onto his lap. She gave a muffled cry, deep in her throat. He pressed his mouth to hers.

She convulsed. Her eyes combed the chamber, wide, frantic. Nabooru had promised it would not be so fast, so vicious, Nabooru—

The sages had turned aside. The Hylian sage's face creased with distaste. Zelda could not see the Twinrova, the acolytes, or the Hylian witnesses. A woman's shadow flickered at the edge of the torchlight. Zelda followed it and found Nabooru half-turned away.

The regent met her eyes. Splayed her hands. The gesture was an apology.

It comes with the territory, Nabooru had said, with open hands.

With endless regret.

oOo

A/N: Thank you, Seldavia, for your help with this chapter. I hope I've done your suggestions justice.