18: Pale
The hardships of the desert were not the only things Hylian nobility would have whitewashed.
There were times she loathed her ambassadorial role among Hylian nobility.
Nabooru knew the importance of peace and good relations, having been raised upon the strains of mistrust and the bloodied remnants of war. She had watched sisters be born, and watched their mothers fade. She had heard the awful sound of babes wailing in the night, nursed by an aunt who had lost their own child. She knew the pallid colour of their dying mothers, left weakened by labour, starved of water and nutrients to slip away in the night. She knew the dry, spine cracking cough of the sick and fevered, and the helplessness of knowing they did not possess sufficient medical supplies to relieve it.
A scratch in battle was as fatal a wound as any, were infection to sink its teeth and poison the blood.
Loathe as she was to admit it within her own stubbornness, her caring heart whispered of the necessity of trade and union. The Lone Wolf did not take kindly to being informed her people, independent and fierce as they were, required Hylian aid.
But the truth of it was to be found within fortress walls, bare and naked to her eye though they buried it well enough in the sands, obscuring the fact from themselves since the war.
Not a day had broken since without blood still shed, she supposed, as if the cuts left by the enemy wept with shame for their draw.
The Gerudo King had been bitterly steadfast in his denial, fuelling hers as well, and both leaders had spat upon the letters sent by Royal scribes at first. He had long blinded himself to their losses, when the smoke of civil war had cleared. Something in him had broken the day peace had been declared, and sometimes, Nabooru still wondered of it—it was almost as if he chased victory still, robbed of it as the other fiefdoms would default.
The Gerudo may have been the ones known as thieves, but it seemed something of their pride had been stolen in the wake of Hylian diplomacy, and the fight to regain it was one she and Ganondorf had held to with utter conviction. But, over the years, it had become painfully clear to her—suffering in sheer defiance of the crown was a suicidal tact, and it was her people that would reap the punishment of their leaders' well-intentioned tenacity.
Nabooru had been the one to swallow the acid on her tongue first, gently urging the first steps toward progress. The Lone Wolf had weathered many reprisals from the Lone Male, but when the hellfire in his eyes had calmed and she found herself able to speak over his hatred, Ganondorf had grudgingly complied.
The two leaders now held silence, as if mourning the state of affairs, unable to look one another in the eye as they found themselves caged by whitewashed brick instead of the sandy walls they called home. Biding their time and sucking air thick with tension and shame through their noses, Ganondorf sat upon the edge of her bed, head lowered and heavy hands between his knees. He watched his Second resentfully, as if it would never have come to this without her decisions, though privately he was thankful she had shouldered such a burden in his place.
From her place in front of a large and gaudy vanity, Nabooru tried her best to ignore him, fussing over her left earring from where it had gotten tangled with her hair. Drawing her fingers away, one final flick of her wrist freed it from the wayward lock, and she grimaced to her reflection for the trouble.
"We're going to be late, Nabooru." she heard him muse behind her, unnerved by how weary he sounded when she knew all too well the thunder of which his voice was capable.
Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, and knowing full well he would only stall in her place should she hasten, the Gerudo offered a dismissive scoff. "No, we're not. Just be patient... I'm almost ready."
Her gaze flicked to the image of him in the mirror and caught the disapproving frown he sent her way, and her heart cracked some to note the fire in his own eyes had dimmed some.
With a long sigh, he shook his head, his voice strained as if a great weight were upon it. "You're not even dressed." His eyes left the mirror as her shifted through glass to meet them.
"I'm as dressed as I need to be." she spat defiantly, hissing like a cat in water to slam her hand against the wood and glare. "This is the garb of my station, and those licentious bastards will find no issue with it besides the envy of their fat wives, as is to be expected."
Her teeth wrapped venomously to bite around each word, and though Ganondorf knew she would not conform to Hylian custom, he was also keenly aware of what punishment a brazen woman could incur among this culture. It was one matter to walk the streets of Castle Town with such flesh exposed, for a Gerudo could handle herself well enough to stave off physical assault. But amongst nobility—to stroll through the Hyrulean court with bust, belly and back on show—was to invite political turmoil for which there would be no defence.
Much as it pained him, he drew his hands to the sides of his face, rubbing temples as he willed the words to come.
"You were the one who warned me to be... considerate of myself for the sake of souring their opinions of us further." he ground out slowly, the barest hint of temper prickling his tongue, though his patience came more easily with her. "I have tailored my attire to be more suited to these affairs, Nabooru, and you will be expected do the same."
"I'm not wearing a dress, Ganondorf." she scowled, turning her head to leer bitterly over her shoulder. She bristled with the want to argue, she could feel the heat rising in her heart to scream and fight the matter.
But as her King stared her down, something of a rare pathos dulling his eyes from gold to a jaundiced, beaten down yellow, the Lone Wolf softened some to concede. She knew as well as he did what consequences something as simple as an outfit could have among the shallow and the pompous, and how crucial this impression was when set against the rest of their future dealings.
They were both sorry for it, but had only themselves to blame if things went further awry.
This was not about them. This was about their sisters, withering away in the desert sands while they would see silver platters sprawled before them in tonight's feast.
Glancing down at the ornate rug beneath her slippered feet, Nabooru's nails dug into the wood of the vanity. "...I will wear the shawl Aveil packed for me. After all, it will be cold tonight and... and you know how I hate the chill..." she managed, letting it linger between them as a broken whisper.
Her King returned but a sombre nod, saying nothing more on the subject as his attention strayed to the door. She knew he just wanted to have the whole ordeal over with, and she too would rejoice when finally they stood upon sand again, hopefully with better things to come.
Reticent as she turned to finish herself, reaching for the shimmer her eyes needed to sparkle that night, Nabooru's hand paused beside the cosmetics left for her usage by handmaidens. She stared at the black lacquer of the powder box, her fingers twitching with bitter curiosity as she lifted the lid. She said nothing when the creamy white of its contents was revealed to her, halted by the sight though unsurprised to find it there, if she were honest.
A tremble took her arm and the strength seemed to leave her all at once, lid carelessly clattering to the floor as her palms sought steady wood. The creak of the bed behind her soon led to footsteps, his shadow crawling over her shoulder as Ganondorf, too, took baited pause.
Nabooru did not watch his hand take to the powder box to snatch it up and hurl it clear across the room. She did not hear it shatter against a wall, nor feel the dust of it settling all around them to the loud string of native cursing—the thunder had returned to him.
She would appear in court bare faced, without a shawl, and he did not bow to another King when the time came. Whispers of savagery and disrespect echoed low in the dining hall over dinner, from pale lips to pointed ears. The Gerudo held their tongues despite them, challenging all in company to battle with golden glares.
Sometimes, the most potent insults needn't be uttered at all.