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blackopals-world · 11 months

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I Found Home

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4)(Part 6)(Part 7)(Part 8)

Implied relationship

Part 5

Notes: This wasn't supposed to happen yet but I'm working on several chapters at once so this got posted first due to timing. This chapter was meant to go last. (besides I'm not going to pretend that most of you didn't just come here for this guy. I just want to get this over with.)

Malleus

"The Hero"

Grimm wasn't the most social of the kids but he was finally learning how to play with others. From what the child development book says he had a rich imagination and took part in imaginative play with others. He had even shown interest in things like singing and dancing with other kids.

But when art time came Grimm looked upset and yelled at another girl. Yuu had to apologize to the girl and her father. They had an argument which caused Grimm to lose his temper. He wouldn't say what it was about either.

When it was time to go Grimm waited by the car and stared at the crumpled drawing he made in his hands.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" Yuu asked helping Grimm into his car seat.

Grimm shook his head.

Yuu nodded and decided to leave it alone.

When they got home Grimm went to his room without much fuss. Even bathtime was quiet without his usual crying.

When it was time for bed Grimm still clutched the paper ball.

"Mama?" He asked for her while he was deep in thought.

"Yeah, sweetie?" Yuu pulled the covers over him.

"Where is our family?" Grimm unfurled the pater to reveal a drawing of her and him in crayon.

Yuu's voice was caught in her throat. She wanted to wait until he was older to explain this.

"We are a family." She said simply.

"But Erinn said that families were big like hers. A mommy, daddy, sister, brother, grandma, and grandpa. But I only have a Mommy." Grimm asked confused. "I told Erinn that I only had Mama and she said that we weren't a real family without that. So I got mad."

Yuu knew she had to control her emotions and try to explain but it was getting hard.

"We are a family. All the family we need. Erinn is lucky and has a big family already and she doesn't understand what other families look like." Yuu said stiffly "I'm sorry if I'm not enough. If I could, I would give you the family you deserve but I'm only one person."

Yuu quickly finished saying goodnight before retreating to her room. Tears of frustration blinded her.

It wasn't her fault.

She wanted a family too.

Ever since she returned to her world and old life she had tried to find her place. Friends and family were happy to see her again but they had moved on after years of her absence. Everything familiar was now strange. Then came the questions about where she was and what happened. She couldn't answer, no one would believe her. They turned on her with suspicion and called out her lies. News media caught wind and police had questions as well. Everyone wanted to know but she had no answers.

Rumors were everywhere and even the people who trusted and wanted to help Yuu had mud slung their way. She did what had to do to protect them and left. She escaped as far as she could to a place where no one knew her. She wrote her books in solitude and kicked out everyone who tried to profit from her newfound fame.

Conspiracy theorists and true crime fans still hounded her but she had a life where she could be in relative peace.

She had a son now and could live a normal life. Wasn't that enough? Can't she live her life?

Yuu cried for herself, for her son, for their future.

"Are you sure we shouldn't wait until tomorrow, your Majesty? Yuu may be asleep by now." Silver asked pushing aside the foliage with a ball of light he cased in the other.

"Of course, my child of man has always stayed up late in the night. She is undoubtedly awake." Malleus said proudly leaving Sebek and Silver to clear the way. Trails of Will o'-Wisps marked their path to find their way back.

Lilia flew above the group as he enjoyed the scenery. He seemed even more relaxed these days. Silver and Sebek had finally taken over their roles as captains of the royal guards. Malleus was firmly established himself as the ruling king and let his dear grandmother retire to her castle on the coast. She was certainly enjoying the sun in her scales.

Malleus had been hard at work revitalizing his kingdom. Bringing his kingdom into the current Era took effort but he had reached out to Shroud's heir for his assistance. Now the youth of his kingdom had new jobs to look forward to and new citizens had begun to move into their land. Malleus had also reached out to over classmates and found their help invaluable.

Kingscholar and Viper had been invaluable political partners and expanded trade between their lands. Rosehearts had joined him in laying out new laws compatible with technological developments. Ashengrotto had great knowledge of how to take advantage of natural resources in the area. Schoenheit offered assistance in starting an entertainment business hub like filming to take advantage of the vista.

Malleus had developed strong friendships with each of them but none of them could compare to the one that changed his life. Something they all agreed on.

"This place is so nice. So many stars but you can still see the city lights in the far distance. Are we close to the shore?" Lilia couldn't wait to visit another world and go touring with Yuu. His boys may be reserved to just seeing her but he had plans.

"The terrain is dangerous. It's rocky and likely has many dangerous creatures lurking about. How that human can stand being so much peril is beyond me." Sebek huffed.

Silver shook his head and ignored his co-captain.

As the group journeyed through the forest they noticed a small sound break up the buzzing of cicadas. Small sniffles and whimpers echoed and wrapped around the trees.

Lilia as if sensing a child's distress told the group to be quiet as he tracked down the whining.

Tucked into a hollow at the base of a tree a small boy huddled with a stuffed cat clutched to his body for dear life. The poor child cried for no one but himself.

As the group got closer they lit up wisp light around the area. The soft light alerted the boy as he drew closer.

"Hey, there. What are you doing out here so late?" Lilia crouched down to the boy's level to not scare him. "You should be at home."

The boy shook his head.

"You're parents are probably looking for you." Silver said.

"I can't. I'm bad." The boy rubbed his red puffy eyes.

"You're bad?" Malleus asked holding out his hand to Silver who immediately grabbed Sebek and grabbed a handkerchief from the half-fae's pocket. He then gave it to his king.

Lilia took the handkerchief and held it up to the boy's nose and told him to blow his nose. (Crying gets very messy with kids his age and makes it hard for them to breathe with clogged sinuses. Not mention kids have a hard time blowing their nose on their own at a young age.)

The boy wrinkled his face as Lilia cleaned his stuffy nose with practiced ease. The boy tried to weakly fend him off the same way any child does when you try to clean a smudge off their cheek with your thumb. Once he was freed and cleaned up he finally responded.

"I'm a bad boy. I made Mama cry. She said cus of me." He said remorseful.

"Why don't you just say sorry then?" Sebek said tactlessly.

Silver elbowed him and the crocodile shrugged with an expression that said 'What do you want me to say! I'm right!"

"Because I always make Mama cry. Mama is always sad. So I'm going back so I can't make her sad again." He said defiantly.

He was going to help his mother even if he wasn't going to be with her.

"Where are you going?" Malleus asked kneeling beside Lilia.

The boy looked that Malleus's horns with wonder.

"Mama found me here in these woods. But she told me a story of a dragon that lived far in the woods. The dragon was nice and helped the lost princess so I want to find him and ask him to help Mama." The boy sounded really proud of his plan.

"A quest. What a brave boy you are." Lilia ruffled the boy's hair. The boy tried to dodge but failed.

"Hey, are you the dragon?" The boy asked pointing at Malleus's horns.

"I'm a dragon-fae. The king in fact." Malleus responded.

"And you can help my Mama? With your magic? Can you take her nightmares?" The boy asked pleading.

"I will try to help if you lead us to her." Malleus wanted to see Yuu again but he knew he had to help this child first. Reuniting this family was more important right now than petty wants.

Yuu couldn't sleep. She just needed the check. Maybe she was excessive but she just worried. Almost every night she would cheak on Grimm, just in case. She just need to see he was alive and breathing.

Some times she just had nightmares where he...

The parenting manuals said that this was perfectly normal. Her fears were natural and these impulses were a product of evolution and prevention of S.I.Ds.

Wait is there a cut-off point for S.I.Ds? Could Grimm still get it?

Yuu took a deep breath, she just needed to see him.

Yuu opened the door quietly to find...an empty bed.

"Grimm?" Yuu called out.

She began checking the bathroom in case he needed to go potty...nothing.

She checked the kitchen in case he wanted water...nothing.

The living room, The study, her bedroom, the attic, the garage

Nothing, nothing , nothing, nothing, nothing, NOTHING!

Yuu searched everywhere as she rushed outside and called for him. Soon the hysteria kicked in as she banged on her neighbors' doors. Frantically she gathered people to help her find her son.

The group was no less enthusiastic to help as they treated the boy like a little hero on a quest. Unfortunately, this hero was very tired and needed to be carried by the dragon king. Lilia was desperate to have his turn but the bat was way too energetic right now.

Lilia was secretly praying that Yuu lived with children so he could play with them.

Grimm was fascinated with Malleus. He studied the dragon's horns, eyes and fangs.

"Mama said the dragon was best friends with the lost princess. Is that true?" Grimm asked touching Malleus's sharp ears.

Malleus let the boy explore as he thought of a response.

"I cared deeply for a friend who was far from home. She was my best friend."

"What was she like? I like the princess most." Grimm said cheerfully.

"The princess, I mean she was beautiful like any princess. But she was better. She was kind and selfless. She made friends everywhere she went." As Malleus said this little fingers pulled at his lips to get a better look at his teeth.

"She's so cool. I wish I could meet her."

Malleus quickly handed the child off to Sebek. Sebek received no better treatment as the boy pulled on his ears and cheeks. He has pincer-like fingers and speed.

Lilia laughed. Silver was the same way.

Sebek practically tossed Grimm to Silver to deal with. Sliver was fine with Grimm but Lilia's silent pleading made him hand the boy over.

Almost immediately Grimm was asleep as Lilia rocked the boy to sleep. The group sighed in relief.

"So," Sliver spoke up only for a chorus of 'Shh' to stop him. He was just going to ask about the stuffed cat that looked exactly like Grim. Or the fact that his name was Grimm. Just him? Okay.

But the blissful silence didn't last as sirens and shouting were heard.

"Grimm?! Grimm?!" Voices shouted as groups of people searched for the boy.

Safe to say his mother was looking for him.

The group managed to dodge the cops as the found a familiar young woman still wrapped in her night clothes shouting Grimm's name. Bright searchlights haloed around her.

"Yuu?!" Malleus called out as soon as he saw her.

The woman squinted to see through the lights before she gasped. She quietly scrambled through the foliage. She had trouble due to still being in her house shoes, she couldn't even think of changing when her son was missing.

"Mal?" She called trying to see if she was hallucinating.

"Malleus please, you have to help me. My son, he's gone." Yuu begged her hand clutched over her chest.

Malleus didn't know how to respond at first. No words would help. The only thing to ease her is her child.

Lilia came forward and handed the sleeping boy back into his mother's arms.

Yuu's eyes lit up with unimaginable joy like finally breathing after unending suffocation. She fell to her knees as she held him close to her.

"My baby. My sweet baby." She mumbled pressing kisses to his head as tears of relief flowed down her cheeks. "Thank you. Thank you."

The situation took time to clean up as everyone was alerted that Grimm was found. Everyone sighed in relief and returned home. Except for that crotchety old woman next door. Yuu would expect a strongly worded letter soon.

The reunion wasn't what anyone expected but Yuu was no less grateful to her friends.

When they explained the situation, Yuu's eyes dimmed.

"I see, it's my fault." She sighed.

"He was just trying to help you. He doesn't know any better." Sebek rolled his eyes.

"That's the point. He's a child, he doesn't know any better. It's my responsibility not to make him feel responsible for my emotions. He should never see his mother cry. I tried to hid it." Yuu berated herself.

"Yuu, from one parent to another you need to hear this. It's hard, it's always going to be hard, but you're doing great." Lilia said gently pulling Yuu into a hug.

All the stress she had been carrying since she assumed her role as parent bubbles to the surface. All this time she had been carrying the heavy weight of expectations and constantly questioned herself. Everytime she got something wrong she panicked. Every crying fit and scraped knee she blamed on herself. Judging herself based on every parenting manual and blog she read. It all came to the surface.

She felt like she was going to break into pieces.

Suddenly another pair of arms wrapped around her then another and reluctantly another.

This was what she needed. Reassurance.

"Who dares intrude upon my lair." Lilia cackled wrapped in a black blanket.

"I do! Grimm the dragon prince!" Grimm stood proudly over Sebek's(slain in battle, r.i.p) body with a plastic sword in hand.

Grimm had taken to wearing a pair of fake ram horns and pretending to be a dragon recently.

Yuu raised an eyebrow as she drank her tea.

"If you wish to save the princess you must face my minions!" Lilia said waving a hand and sending Silver out to duel with the boy.

"Don't worry! I have my own minions! Go dragon king!Save the princess!" Grimm said sawing his hand this time.

Yuu snorted and held back her laughter as she looked up from her notepad.

Malleus of course assisted as he pretended to battle Lilia.

"Mal are you a king or a minion?" Yuu laughed.

"Are you a princess or are you just wearing a cone hat?" Malleus retorted.

"You've become more sassy with age. Now hurry up and save me." Yuu pouted taking off the pink cone hat.

Malleus picked up Yuu in a princess carry as Grimm cheered.

"My heros~" Yuu giggled as she wrapped her arms around Malleus's neck.

"Where too now my dear princess?"Malleus asked.

"To the study my stead!" She shouted.

Sebet tried to say something before Silver kicked him from their downed position.

"I'm a stead now, am I?" Malleus teased as he carried her off.

Grimm payed no mind. Grandpa Lilia said that they need space. The boy instead leapt onto his uncles who grunted as the air was forced from their lungs.

Upstairs Malleus placed Yuu on her desk chair as she began typing out her new book.

"Finally designed on a name for it?" Malleus asked resting his head on her shoulder.

"Yep, The Lost Prince and the Dragon King"

"Hmm, I like it."

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yiga-hellhole · 5 months

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TWILIGHT FOREST, TWILIGHT KING: CHAPTER 16

the next chapter is live! does the promo art look a little familiar? :3c

Ghirahim is forced to face his mistakes. Perhaps he'll make a couple more.

again thanks to @bulgariansumo for proofreading!! additional credits go to twilit conlang and the enochian decoder. you'll have to do a little puzzling this chapter if you want the full context.. heehee

ao3 mirror

cw this chapter for referenced mutilation and self-neglect

It was a fool’s errand, but one only he could dare to run. Ghirahim made his way through the Temple as if mounted on tracks, heading right for his Master’s offices. He knew he’d be angry. That he wouldn’t care for his company and, by all means, could put him right back in the crate where he came from. Yet, at that moment, that kind of absolution was all that could bring him peace. After the buzzing that haunted his mind the past few days, he felt the wrath of his Master would at least set him straight.

A knock at the door, a grumble allowing him entry. Ganondorf was working documents at a great, dark oak desk, framed by the reds of a roaring granite fireplace behind him. The same gold filigree that seemed to spontaneously grow throughout the Temple sprawled here, too, fanning out across the furniture like twisting vegetation. Ghirahim’s entry was not acknowledged any further, leading him to the nerve-wracking decision to approach him on his own accord. He padded across marble, across tapestry, until at long last he stood beside the Gerudo. His dark bronze skin was lined with fatigue, though it was an indulgent one. Ghirahim didn’t need to touch him to confirm the divine power that now surged through his veins. Shreds of mortality were stripped from him that fateful battle upon claiming the Triforce of Power; now, simple concepts like ‘hunger’ and ‘exhaustion’ only held their truest value in nostalgia, lingering to commit to a humble memory until he needed them no longer. All that power and Ghirahim had disappointed — no, enraged him. Somehow, remorse had to be conveyed, lest his loyalty be questioned. But before he could speak, his knees buckled. He fell forward, grasping at the fabric of his clothing to keep himself from collapsing to the ground. It was pathetic. And pitiful. And somewhere, he was thankful for it. To faint into him was a far more succinct way to beg for forgiveness than any words could have conveyed. The Demon King looked down at him and let him stay.

For a while, they remained silent. Ghirahim kneeled beside his Master’s seat, his cheek and folded arms resting on his thigh. Perhaps this was the mere quiet before the storm, simply lying in wait while Ganondorf thought of a suitable punishment, but he didn’t care. The fireplace cast him in an amber light, warming his skin but incomparable to the heat Ganondorf sent through him.

His eyes fluttered shut and he let his force surge through him. Like a cyclical breath, golden power entered his body, sparked in his core, and flowed back out. Lights danced behind his eyelids, deep magenta Malice joining hands with shining stars and weaving together into one single glorious aura. It was so, so familiar, but so far from him he could cry. The vague impression this embrace gave him was nothing compared to the tidal wave he felt when Demon hands clasped around his hilt and encouraged him to kill.

His eyes lazily creaked back open when Ganondorf began to speak, still not looking up from his desk. “I trust that this warning will have sufficed, Lord Ghirahim. My patience is running thin.”

The scratching of the quill halted. Ganondorf was considering his words enough to pull his concentration from his work. “I have tolerated petty distractions and selfish ambitions. I have allowed you your whims, yes, for I find nothing as distasteful as keeping reputable men on a leash.”

“It is your duty to understand that I did not hire you for you to act as my disobedient pet. What I will not allow, is for your reckless behavior to lead to failure. ”

Ghirahim winced at the resumed sounds of quill scratching on paper. The sharp noise and his scolding combined enough for it to feel like the words were being scratched into his skin.

“I will not let you down again, My Master. I only hope that you understand my plight. Disobey you, I would never, but I cannot help what I was forged for.”

“You are crossing a line, Demon Lord,” Ganondorf growled, lip curling as he tapped his nib irritably against the parchment. “I will not repeat myself. Your failure to set your ambitions aside poses threats to my army. Threats which I will suffer no longer.”

Ghirahim stiffened. Indeed, Ganondorf could not have made himself any clearer and should not have had to. He clutched him, pressed himself against him fearfully as if he were not the source of that fear.

Something warm placed itself on his head. His Master was stroking his hair. A sigh puffed out of Ganondorf. The contact and the almost wistful noise were enough to make Ghirahim melt to the touch. “Perhaps… When this war is over and the throne is in my hands, I may consider returning you to my scabbard.”

A perhaps, a maybe, a promise not to let him defend him in the glory of war, but to be strapped at his hip as an emergency measure. It was humiliating, teeth-grittingly so, yet to his frustrations, he felt a fluttering feeling in his gut. In the end, knowing he would be wielded made him happy, no matter the circumstance. Ganondorf was a deliberate man, organizing him carefully among his now many commanders, whereas Demise would have seized him long ago. Ghirahim huddled himself tighter to his leg, closing his eyes again under the comfort of fingers stroking through his locks.

No, he wasn’t Him. But he was Demise’s promise. So long as that Kingdom stood firm, there would be those who opposed it. To Hyrule, it was a curse, but to Ghirahim, it was his grounding beacon. If he could not serve his true Master, then he could join those who shared His Hatred and inherited His power as the torchbearer. It was all a weapon could do — what a weapon should do.

He had a purpose and he lived to fulfill it. There simply wasn’t room for anything more, nor did he have the right to wish for it.

Face digging into the fabric of his breeches, he swallowed down the lump that formed in his throat.

A rapping at the door interrupted them. Someone outside cleared their throat briskly, and from that sound alone Ghirahim recognized who it was. He had to restrain a sigh.

“Milord, you have received correspondence from the Deku Lordship in the north,” announced Yuga from outside the room. “Shall we review it together?”

Ganondorf craned his head to face the door, then glanced back down at Ghirahim from the corner of his eye. “You are dismissed. I trust you to see to the trainees for today.”

His body was sluggish and hesitant to pull away from the warm comfort of Ganondorf’s lap, but his spirit was firm in its obedience. Ghirahim rose his head with a nod, gazing up at him one last time. Before Ganondorf could bid the sorcerer beyond the door to enter, the sword spirit had already blinked away.

—

Of course, he didn’t have to attend to his duties for long. His relentless drilling of the Demon King’s lower-ranking commanders had made fine warriors out of many of them. The training fields beyond the Temple’s vast gardens were occupied by hundreds, be they demon, Gerudo, undead, or aberration, all equally eager to show off their skills before their esteemed lieutenant. Pride surged through him as he walked through the sparring masses. He was far too busy enjoying the fruits of his labor to notice all the distasteful displays of footwork and clumsy swings among the common soldiery. His commanders were immaculate: elegant and deadly; quick to punish. There was hardly any need for him to intervene in their training. If he did, it was only ever for his amusement. Yes, every single one of these small-fries, he’d left them in good hands.

They were holding up just fine without him.

That realization was subtle at first, budding as a comfort and as proof that he had instructed them well. Watching from the sidelines, his foot began to tap onto the trampled dirt with a nervous tic the more he saw the commanders swoop in to correct their pawns. Had they done this the entire time, with such efficiency, in his absence? He felt branches grow, tendrils, bearing thorns and pointed edges that dug into his pride the longer he stood and watched. He couldn’t stomach it. A being made for combat should not merely watch as others have all the fun. The Demon Lord was many things, but redundant, he was not.

Before he knew it, he’d pulled one of his commanders aside, and barked the command to clear a path for them. Eyes were on him again, feeding a ravenous desire to be marveled at, as he pulled his sword on living armor almost twice his size.

Demonstrating footwork and simple strikes would have been wasted on such an opponent. He went straight for the jugular. Before long, the monster's parrying grew more and more frantic, and he drove the two-ton menace back with each slash and jab of his obsidian blade. He could feel the training sword chip and scratch with every strike, screeching and groaning under the force of his jabs. No longer could the Darknut keep up. Ghirahim was hitting armor, leaving scratches and dents, kicking at joints, and piercing through gaps. Piercing, piercing, carving, something soft, something-

An ethereal cry came from an otherwise empty helmet, and with a puff of smoke, the commander’s arm fell to the ground with a hollow thud and rattle.

Ghirahim paused. His sword faded from his hand in diamonds. The whole training field was silent, then, for a moment, until some began to cheer in morbid delight, others whispered among one another. His defeated opponent merely held his arm in his remaining hand, somewhat dejectedly trying to reattach it but failing to do so.

An example was set, he supposed. His place in the hierarchy was justified and reinforced. Yet, he couldn’t find any satisfaction in it. How strange. Wanton violence never failed to invigorate him, yet this time, he just felt more bored than he did before. So, he turned, offhandedly gesturing for a Poe on the sidelines to tend to the duelist’s injury, though he didn’t bother to look behind him to check if they did. With his departure, their little arena quickly dispersed, and the training field was back in formation like he’d never disrupted it.

Once again he returned to the halls, staring out the ceiling-length windows to keep an eye on the little specks of soldiers from afar. How dreadful it was, to have nothing to occupy oneself with! Ghirahim sighed, seating himself on the windowsill. He gazed out over the mansion’s property, though he registered very little of what he saw. It was simply staring for the sake of staring, passing images through a blank mind. The outside world began to tire him as the first drops of rain tapped on the window before him, gently ushering him out of a self-inflicted trance. He perked up and instead turned his attention back to the hallway, where his eyes landed on a painting he could swear wasn’t there a day or two earlier. It bore a purple frame, matte and dark as if absorbing every bit of light and obliterating it for the crime of taking away from the figure depicted inside. Surrounded by a haze of swirling violets was a young woman, perhaps sixteen-to-nineteen years of age (though, mortal lifespans always puzzled him). She looked eerily familiar, now that he paid attention to it. In some ways, she reminded him of the Spirit Maiden and every incarnation before her, but some things were drastically different. Her hair was dark and wavy, and her eyes held fatigue and sorrow no frightfully optimistic Zelda he’d known could ever carry. Whoever she was, her painter held a fondness for her. Having been at the other end of the easel, he knew how the Lorian Sorcerer could fuss over her models, how she’d preen their hair and scold any slouch. The tired yet endeared smile Ghirahim had carried then, was reflected on this girl, too, and it had been immortalized affectionately on the canvas.

Yuga. Perhaps she was up for company today. With some luck, he’d get another portrait or two out of it. The atelier wasn’t far. He hopped down from his seat and winked out of view, leaving that strange, purple girl in her own company.

Ghirahim arrived at the painter’s workshop to find it unoccupied. He supposed with a sigh that the Demon King must have been keeping her busy. That left him with more time to waste than he’d care for. Well, there wasn’t any harm in looking around. He’d known Yuga’s atelier back at Gerudo Palace, but he hadn’t yet displayed himself lavishly in this one, surprisingly enough. Much to his amusement, he found it laid out as a near-carbon copy of her other atelier. There was a wooden cabinet, though a touch smaller, with little labeled drawers that held her countless pigments. The place was a mess of props, curtains, and sketches, though most were covered to protect them from the sun, should it peek into the room. For this atelier was a bright place. Whereas the atelier at Gerudo Palace was more shrouded in darkness, keeping out the merciless desert heat, this room faced the West with tall, floor-to-ceiling windows, fashioned with rose mosaics at their pinnacles. It was certainly lived in — right at her little balcony, Yuga put up a chair, where a piece of parchment and a handful of oil pastels left behind the hints of an idyllic spare time picture. This must have been where she’d sit to paint the sunset, Ghirahim figured.

All very fascinating, to poke around somebody’s business while they’re not present, but he’d much rather speak with the person than consult with images he’d conjure of her in his mind. He turned back to the center of the room, where bright, red-and-gold curtains hid away an easel that stood before a podium. Making his way over, he found a canvas, perhaps an arm’s length, covered by a white sheet. His eye fell on the podium first, finding it set up with a luxurious embroidered curtain for a backdrop, and a small still-life next to a similarly concealed piece of furniture.

Someone had been posing there. An initial spark of annoyance lit in him when he realized there were only a few candidates for her to paint, and that it hadn’t been him. Before he could decide which option ticked him off more, his eye fell on a collection of sketches that had been pinned to the wall beside him. The sight of a sharp, aquiline nose, and a well-groomed beard instantly made him whip around and grip the edge of the sheet. Something in him fumed and thrummed. Whether it was with rage, jealousy, or fear, he could hardly distinguish, but it drowned out any polite hesitation that kept him from peeping and forced his hand to rip the covering clean off.

White fabric shook, billowed, and fluttered in the air as if frozen there, before it flopped lifelessly to the ground, dropping from an enraged fist that lost its strength. Ghirahim’s core sank at what he saw on that canvas.

The room was silent, save for the insistent pattering of rain on the windows, but Ghirahim was deaf to it all. Captured in paint was an image of his Master. Ganondorf was splayed comfortably on the scene on the podium, boots casually kicked off on the ground, but his powerful form still inspired grandeur. Yet, there was an intimacy to it. His provocative smirk and the subtle spread of his legs were inviting. The way his undershirt flared open at the chest suggested that the invitation had been accepted more than once. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the subtle scarring between calloused fingers, and the shimmer of his jewelry… Such details would have been lost by any who hadn’t been able to see him up close — to touch him — yet here they were, depicted flawlessly.

What shattered within him wasn’t mere childish jealousy. The whole foundation of his being began to crack and wobble. He’d wasted too much time. Nights he spent in the arms of a stranger should have been spent where he belonged. An ungrateful, frivolous wretch he’d been for dancing around his purpose. His habit, his curse, to repeat the same mistakes had cost him dearly. Now, the one he’d devoted himself to… No, who owned him, had chosen the company of someone else.

Listlessly, Ghirahim hung the sheet back over the painting, not caring if it was affixed properly or not. He could bear to look at it no longer, and so he turned from it.

His feet dragged him back to the window, drawn by the trails of raindrops racing down the glass. Their little rivers split and joined endlessly, rearranging themselves at the mercy of the deluge. Such a horrid little reminder of how his fate had been toyed with! One little droplet had gotten in his way, and now he’d veered off course. Dropping himself into whatever seat found itself below him, he peered out into the distance, drowning his sorrows in the roaring sounds of the rain. The vines and thorns that crept their way up to the window were beaten in the downpour, removing them from their last shreds of vibrant life. How gray that garden looked without its petals.

When Yuga returned she encountered him lying on the couch across his easel. It was covered by a sheet, presumably to protect it from dust, but Ghirahim knew it was the very same one from the painting. It smelled just like their King. He’d even found one of his hairs caught on the thin white fabric. He draped himself on there, sleek white and glittering, yet desolate as a discarded bridal veil, face tucked into the nook of his elbow. Peering past his lashes, he found Yuga looking quite peeved. He could only guess the painter saw how the cloth covering her painting had been moved, and now knew her secret was out.

“I see you’ve taken the liberty of letting yourselves into my private affairs,” Yuga said with a tilt of her hips and her arms crossed.

Ghirahim narrowed his eyes. “Private affairs,” he mocked. “I am his Blade, Yuga. An extension of his being. There is nothing ‘private’ you can have with him, without my involvement.”

Yuga scoffed as if it was a bluff. Ghirahim’s eye twitched subtly behind the curtain of his bangs. It never should have been a bluff; yet in this world, it was. The Lorian spoke. “Is that so,” she sneered, hands at her sides. “Then what’s that sulking on my set for? Surely you didn’t discover anything new.”

Such a despicably smug attitude! He supposed that when walking into the lion’s den, he needed some way to get the upper hand. Oh, yes; he could think of a thing or two that could sweep her feet out from under her. “What is he to you? You glue yourself to him as if you have any right to belong there. If you think Master is taking applications for pets, you’d be sorely mistaken.”

Her lip twitched in annoyance, but her poise remained firm. “Ganondorf is my Muse. That is all you are entitled to know.”

A non-answer, but he’d gotten under her skin. To the sorcerer, just about anybody with a pretty enough face around these parts was a Muse. The Demon King’s army just so happened to be a lush garden of supernatural and powerful beauty, ripe for the picking. At least, that was the picture he’d gotten of her. To be at the receiving end of her curt, blunt responses meant he was getting close to snapping her flimsy patience.

After glaring him down for another few seconds, her fiery gaze fizzled out into bitter ash. She had the clear intent of making some jabs of her own. “Zant. What did you do to him?”

Ghirahim jerked his head up with a scowl. With just the uttering of his name, Yuga just had to remind him of what he managed to stave off the past few days. He’d banished any thought of the Twili, locked them away, and swallowed the key. Now, with scorched brown eyes squinting so fiercely at him, he could feel that blasted key crawling its way back up his throat. “To him?” he hissed. “How presumptuous of you. I’ll have you know I long decided to let that distraction slide. I’ve nothing to do with whatever he’s moaning about.”

Yuga bit back instantly. “Don’t feign ignorance on me now, boy! I send you to go talk with him, and all of a sudden, we don't see hide or hair of him for days on end? You did something,” she spat, accusing a manicured finger at him and staring him down. When he refused to answer, she clicked her tongue. “… Go on! You’ve already pried into my business, so in turn, I shall pry into yours. Tell me!”

He shifted uneasily in his seat in response. Chin propped on his hand, he turned his gaze out the window. “I fail to see how his fickle mental state is my problem.”

His deflection was met with shrill, bird-like laughter. “That’s rich!” Yuga exclaimed. “For months, you’re all over each other, and suddenly, he’s no longer your problem?”

The gray outside world was doing absolutely nothing to distract him. Again he shifted, pulling his knee in to tuck himself closer to the armrest. Such a reminder was unwelcome, and he took it as more of an accusation of his negligence to his duty, than any perceived slights to the Twili. He squinted his eyes and furrowed his brow, hiding himself from her gaze with his hair.

Wood creaked, the sound of feet walking up on the podium. Yuga’s voice mellowed some, but behind that restrained softness, anger still lurked. “… Is that what this is? Did you break up?”

“There was nothing to break up,” Ghirahim snapped back through gritted teeth.

Yuga groaned, tapping her foot on the floorboards before making her way over to him. For just a moment, he peeped at her through the gaps in his hair, but the unrelenting, gargoyle-esque snarl quickly made him reconsider. She ran her hand down her face in exasperation, dramatically yet with great care not to smudge her make-up. “I may be the last person in the world to be saying this, but… Ghirahim, you can’t simply up and walk away. You know how he is!”

He wanted to struggle, to object to her accusations, but he found no words coming out. And even if he had any, they’d have no room to squeeze between her ravings. She dropped down on the couch next to him and sneered her plummy little ultimatum. “There are two options here. Either you reel him in, or you let him swim. All this leading him on is just cruel.”

“Cruel!?” To think he cared about such a thing! It was laughable. He couldn’t decide whether the hilarity lied in the accusation with him as its receiver, or for the accusant to be Yuga, of all people. Nevertheless, he felt eager to shed himself of blame. It sloughed around him like shedding skin, and he wanted rid of it. He turned to her with a frown. “I’ve made myself perfectly clear to him. We are high-ranking commanders. That Zant wishes to fall apart over juvenile pass-time has nothing to do with my decision to-“

“You are a commander in this army, indeed. You are also an adult,” Yuga hissed with a jab at his collarbone. “Now how about you act the part, and go on over to him to settle this? Without Zant, our forces will suffer. His feebleness gets him killed, and it would be your fault.”

Such insults he would not take! Ghirahim smacked the hand at his chest away from him with the air of dismissing an insect. Blame still stuck to him, sewn back on by bony hands with something almost unprecedented. Guilt.

The quarreling pair stayed locked in an exchanged scowl, and though it hurt his pride, he was the first to break away. To argue with her was a pointless affair, especially when their points of view came from such different worlds. He swept his cape around his shoulder and rose from the couch, offering Yuga nothing more than a curt nod to announce his departure.

Nevertheless, she had one more sneer to give before he left. “The nerve you have to stick your nose in my business when your own affairs are in such a state… Out of my workshop! I’m fed up with you, Demon Lord.”

She didn’t even have to ask. For once, he opted to leave a room through the door, if only for the chance to slam it behind him.

—

Once again, he found himself passing through the hallways of the Temple. Normally, he was perfectly capable of keeping petty ponderings at bay. Those times, though, he’d at least had a distraction. With nothing but the foggy, looping interiors of Cia’s mansion to occupy him, his mind circled as much as the tiles below him.

Yuga was right in that the mansion had seen very little of the Lord of Shadows since that day. From his lingering in the hallways, Ghirahim hadn’t seen Zant leave even once. The only sign of life coming from that decrepit room was an occasional servant that either came to deliver or retrieve a stack of documents, exchanged with a pallid hand slipping through a crack in the door.

It was puzzling. Ghirahim expected him to sulk, certainly, after his unspoken rejection. But alongside Zant’s habits of holing himself up, he’d also expected his token sounds of wailing, in torment of the ghosts of nightly visitors. Yet, there had been nothing but silence. He couldn’t imagine him dreaming quietly in a state of tantrum. Perhaps he hadn’t slept at all.

The thought alone made him grit his teeth. Zant hadn’t eaten — certainly, the man’s reptilian appetite wouldn’t kill him with a few days’ break — Zant hadn’t slept. He was wasting away in that room, interrupting his self-pitying only to pour over his duties. And anyone aware of it had the gall to blame him for it. Undoubtedly including Zant himself. It was infuriating. It was sickening. It left a lump in his throat he couldn’t swallow and an icy pit in his core that wouldn’t thaw, no matter how much he paced there in an effort to summon enough burning rage to melt it all away.

Of course he wasn’t responsible for this. All this time, Zant had ignored the realities of the one he’d gotten so charmed with, forgotten that it could only ever be temporary. Ghirahim wasn’t his to take, for he belonged to another. Certainly, the Twili had tried. He’d coaxed him into unfamiliar waters, luring him to plunge into the depths with him until their affection alone could warm that strange, cold abyss. But no matter how he’d toyed with such distractions, and how he’d snagged him, the leash of destiny kept tugging firmly at his throat. And he adored that leash, he’d worship it and let it drag him back to kingly hands even if it wore down to a single thread. He’d made a promise to Demise, then, an oath older than the lands themselves.

Yet his feet took him elsewhere. While dwelling in his mind, he’d kept walking and ended up at the end of the hallway leading straight to the lieutenants’ chambers.

He had almost forgotten. His collar was fitted with two leads.

With separate ends tugging at him at once, Ghirahim was forced to weigh his options. His instinct drew him to the obvious and forced him paces back. He knew who was meant to hold him, who was Demise’s worthy successor. Ganondorf had, in his own words, ‘spoiled’ him. The shreds of affection he’d given him were precious, unprecedented in their fondness. This Demon King was kind, in his own way, but no matter how much he indulged those needs for closeness, he’d denied his greatest need of all. He would not wield him. Perhaps when that incarnation had split his power off for his servant, that with it went the part that wanted him.

Ghirahim could deny it no longer. It was all too meager compared to what Zant had showered him with. For every minute Ganondorf spent with him, the Twili had given him hours. Zant threw himself at him with blind trust time and time again. Doing so once would have been stupidity, but to repeat it could only mean a desperate cry for affection. Where one man had cast him aside in a wooden box, the other grabbed hold of him fiercely and eagerly, only to let go if all his fingers were amputated. With all sensibilities, Zant could have been a simple, power-hungry lunatic, eager to get his hands on a legendary blade. Yet, somewhere, he indulged in the thought that Din had smiled upon him for once, and Destiny had meant for him to be wielded by hands that loved him just as rambunctiously as he would love them.

They were mere fantasies, wishful thinking, and he felt thunder rumbling in him for the blasphemy of it all. But, oh, Hell’s Realms. Zant was a mortal man, after all. Ghirahim decided he could afford to pretend a little longer.

Yet, as he stood before the doors, he couldn’t think of how to proceed. Was he to knock? Call out for him and await his response? It wasn’t that he was afraid, but he was in haste. Every second he’d spend dawdling at this door made the risk he’d turn and run greater. Childishly, shamefully, he was clutching the feeling that raced in his core, of how he desired to see him and test what mortal affection meant. He didn’t know how long he could stave off the sense of duty he barred away, for it already started growling in the back of his mind. Were he to announce his arrival, he saw a baffling chance that Zant would reject him. If there was anything he would not do, it was beg.

He fell into old habits as a result. He snipped his fingers and appeared at the other side of the door.

Frankly, the door should have been a hint. Unlike the other lieutenants’ chambers, this one had been bare, lacking in the personal touch Cia had given to each of her underlings. It suddenly struck Ghirahim that before this, Zant had never been to Cia’s dwelling. She’d revived him, certainly, but had let him reign his terror in the Twilight Realm only. There hadn’t been a need for him here, and thus, no chambers. The Usurper King was staying in a spare.

The inside was pitch dark. Thick curtains were nailed to the walls where windows must have hidden behind. Not a speck of light entered from the outside — Rather, the only light seemed to come from Zant himself. A dim glow of burned gold shed light on the little furnishing he had, their contents spilled on the floors. Darkness ruled so thoroughly here, it was almost thick enough to taste, bitter and dry like a furnace fire.

It was the sound that alerted him to the shape draped on the bed. A droning hum blared from it, but through the noise, he could hear breathing, raspy and soft. The room was as viciously rejecting him as he rejected it, kept only at bay by the wafts of teeming Twilight radiating out from him. He did not belong here. The Temple was making it known.

Ghirahim’s presence hadn’t been noticed yet. How could he have been? So quiet and small was he amid this brewing storm of shadow. He bit through the vertigo and spoke. “Zant.”

The breathing stopped with a gasp. Zant’s figure stirred, shifted, and rolled over to push himself upright. Slowly, and heavily, as if rising from water, he uncurled his spine bit by bit to sit with a hunch. Glowing eyes turned to him, surfacing from a pure black silhouette. “Entering without my permission,” Zant replied, his voice an eerie calm. “Have you come to berate me again?”

If he had prepared any words in his mind prior to facing him, he couldn’t recall them now. But what he could remember was confusion, a feeling that drifted in him like a passing ship every minute they spent together. An idle curiosity about Zant’s infatuation with him became all the more troubling when he realized it became mutual. He knew attraction, he knew lust, he knew devotion. The intricacies of mortal attachment were entertaining to him from afar, how the Twili could amuse and comfort himself with something more fleeting than the beat of a wing. But he was never prepared for it to be infectious. Berate him, no. Perhaps it would be cathartic in the heat of the moment, but it would get him no further. He wanted answers, so perhaps he could know what to do with the guilt that ate at him. If he could do anything at all.

“What do you want from me?”

It was a laughably simple question. A stupid one — not in its simplicity, but in how it laid him bare. It bared every card he had, boldly displaying his insecurity. He knew what Zant wanted. He simply wanted to hear him say it, so in the meantime, he could think whether he could squeeze his way out of what reciprocation would ask of him.

Zant saw through him at first glance. A sullen laugh shivered its way out of him. “You have left me here to rot this long, and this is how you come to greet me?”

He froze where he stood. Thinking back on the times he’d clicked his tongue, curled his lip, or frowned at him, he wondered where his past self had summoned all that nerve from. Looking at the gaunt, shadowy shape, drowning amidst the expanse of his flowing robes, he couldn’t think of a single contort.

His silence was met with a softening gaze. “… It’s strange, Ghirahim. I’ve mulled over it for days, growing bitter ever still. I thought I would be angry with you, should you come knocking at my door, but…” Zant’s voice hitched and shook, tripping its way past a lump that matched his own. “Now that you’re here, I can only feel glad to see you again.”

Just like that, he was moving again. He expected to feel the leash acutely, but something else pushed him forward. Whatever force propelled him forward was an indulgent one. Drawing ever closer, the Twilight parted for him, lifting the dark on the silhouette of his Twili. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks. He noticed it when first entering, but thought it only a trick of the light. Zant reached out for him, taking his hand to stroke his palm with his thumb, but no amount of cooing and fondling could distract him from what froze him in cold horror.

An unfamiliar asymmetry drew his gaze. At the second fin from the tip, his right ear had been cropped down.

Eyes pried wide open, and mouth slightly agape, Ghirahim sat next to him. Not merely as a plea for intimacy, but because his legs wouldn’t hold him any longer. In an instant, he remembered. The blade to his ear, the pain of shame far greater than that of steel carving through false cartilage. How a hand big enough to engulf his entire head then reached out, and rubbed at the fresh, bleeding injury almost affectionately, as if the pads of His massive fingers might cauterize the wound. He remembered hoping that they never would, that he could keep bleeding ichor into His hands forever and stain Him deep enough to rival midnight’s black.

But most of all, he remembered the fear.

Zant, too, would have had to conquer that alone. He couldn’t explain the pit that thought left in his core.

The runes on his forehead glowed softly, blinking with the rhythm of the circles Zant rubbed into his gloves. Zant didn’t meet the eyes that stared at him with such cold desperation but spoke nonetheless, his voice deep and dusty like one that would haunt a crypt. “You have been darkening my doors for days, Ghirahim. Do not look surprised. No shadow can be cast near me without me knowing about it. Yet, all this time, you avoided entering. What changed?”

Now, Zant’s eyes flitted up to look at him and they wouldn’t release him. Ghirahim steeled his nerves against the sorrow that shook him just earlier. “What changed is that I’ve figured out the source of my confusion. You haven’t answered my question.”

It was bold to demand things from him, bold enough to offend him. Zant released him from his gaze again, and the hold on his hand loosened. “Neither have you mine, not directly. We are talking in circles. I don’t care to be the first to listen.”

He fought against the weight on his shoulders, tried to convince himself it wasn’t guilt, and lost. Once again, he left a debt unpaid, an imbalance in their dynamic. He’d forgotten too quickly about how Zant offered to right his own wrongs mere days before. The least he could do was acknowledge it. “… I’ve hurt you.”

“You have,” Zant stated gravely before he could even fully finish speaking. “You’ve toyed with me, led me to great heights only to push me off of them. But you were not the first, and to hope for you to be the last would be wishful thinking.”

It was Ghirahim’s turn to grasp his hands. Were he to let Zant retreat further, he would lose the thin threads he had left to hold on to. If anything, he wanted to chase his curiosity, though he didn’t dare to think of where it would lead him. “I know, and I have hurt you, which is exactly what vexes me so. Everything we’ve done and said is against my nature as a sword, and you know this as well as I do.” He paused for a moment, trying to gauge Zant’s reaction, but found his face hollow of intent. “Yet, you continue to pester me, even if it hurts you so, and I can no longer trust your intentions. I’ve come to you today because I need answers.”

Zant let out a short laugh, teetering on the edge of scornful and intrigued. “Answers, hm… And this is your way of getting them? To barge into my room, pout with confession, and ask for forgiveness?” He shook his head, lowering their hands into his lap. “I don’t think you know how. Not from mortal men like me.”

Ghirahim narrowed his lips into a thin line. If he could not appeal to him in this way, in the closest approximation of a grovel he could manage, he had nothing. He was at a loss for words.

Zant took advantage of his silence. “I’m sure you think I want an apology. I do not. Frankly, apologies often serve much more to ease the conscience of the guilty, than to soothe the one who’d been wronged. I’m led to believe that you are such a person too, Ghirahim.” He smiled at him, but not from kindness. It was a dreary smile much like the one Ganondorf had shown him, of fondness against one’s best judgment. “I will not give you that relief just yet. You have not earned it. What I want, is the truth.”

Again Zant dominated the clasping of their hands, cradling his fingers in his before raising them to his chest. Zant’s brows furrowed, his face leaned closer to his, and he felt compelled to follow. “Ghirahim, what are we?”

His question was almost timid, like he feared whatever the outcome might have been. Ghirahim found himself in the exact same spot. What were they? Was Zant not the one to have asked him for their first kiss? Was it not Zant who came knocking on his door to drag him off to whatever corner of Hyrule he desired to see? Did he not propose an ‘anniversary’, mark him with a gift, and attempt to court him mere days before?

Ghirahim had humoured him for all but one. He couldn’t fathom why he had to be the one to put words to them. “What do you think?”

Zant frowned, squeezing his hands insistently. “No. You will not appease me so easily. I ask you for your idea of this relationship. I want to know how you view us, without my words to shape your thoughts.”

Ghirahim blinked up at him. The thoughts Zant was asking for were hardly in a presentable state. Frankly, he hadn’t the faintest idea. It wasn’t that he was inexperienced; such a conclusion was silly. He’d known many flings and a handful of trusted companions, but neither bond approached what Zant had dragged him into. The bond most natural to him had been that of Master and Servant, and it was the only one near the intimacy they shared. At least, near the intimacy he yearned for in such a role. For this, there had been no equal, not once in his millennia of being. Few had dared to come close to him, and nothing had dared to do so unscathed. Zant, similarly, had not escaped unharmed, but he was the first to come crawling back. He wondered what word he could borrow. “… We are lovers, no?”

It was an innocent enough word, but Zant latched onto it like it’d been wreathed in gold. “Lovers?” He teased with it, but beyond that playful surprise, something of far greater gravity reared its head. “Do you love me, then?”

It was idiotic how the question almost startled him. Despite placing the bait himself, he was cornered by it nonetheless. The only love he knew now was the one for his Master, that lulled him into comforting subservience, yet drove him to strive for greatness. The love he knew could reduce the world to ashes. It was dedication, it was relinquishing his every will to the hands of the one who wielded him, even if he shattered in His palm.

Zant sought something else. Something without fear, without dominion. He had to, for he had rejected every attempt at such a dynamic. For mortals, love was an illogical force, at least in his eyes. It was a fragile, temporary thing, that made the flesh-born impulsive and complacent. A sensation so fickle, with no goal but to claim a person for one’s own in such a brief lifetime, seemed enough to risk one’s life for. As he sat there, his hands cradled to a beating heart, the thought of it felt oddly charming, as pathetic as it sounded. Perhaps the stupidity Zant forced him into, the desire for attention he’d awakened in him, came close. “I… I suppose I do.”

Big, amber eyes blinked at him. Zant swallowed, his voice low and hoarse as he pleaded. “Then say it.”

Ghirahim paused. “Zant, I…”

I don’t know if I can, said the voice in his mind, but his lips did not move to say the words. Instead, something else surged forward, bursting free from whatever fissure he’d locked it in after it’d gnawed itself free from its chains. So forcefully it had wedged loose from him, yet the words came out so quietly, so softly, like a peck on the cheek. “I love you.”

Zant reacted to the words as if he’d been branded by hot iron. He forced a shaky breath into his chest, one that stiffened his body and straightened his back. That once pallid face turned red. “Again,” he stammered. “Please.”

The piercing look in Zant’s eyes, how his pulse hammered in his chest and his ears twitched and fluttered, told Ghirahim he made a promise he didn’t know he could keep. But whatever his mind could not comprehend, a little dagger within him took to with joy. Zant loved him, it was a fact as true as the sky was blue, yet he understood nothing of how to reciprocate. It was an alien concept to him, the damning implications of it dangling above his head, but shrouded in the dark as he was, he could not see its shadow. He couldn’t put into words what he felt if he tried. He didn’t know, he didn’t know, but perhaps he could learn. He was struck by how he wanted to learn, how simply saying the words bloomed so warmly in his chest. “…I… I love you,” he obliged, spoken almost like a question.

His Twili loomed closer now, enough for the feverish heat from his cheeks to hover over his cool skin. Timid hands found his face, ghosting their fingertips over his jaw. Zant laughed shakily, blinking away the dampness of his eyes. Tears speckled with orange and blue as they ran down his face. Whatever composure the Twili had mustered was now shattering. Such vulnerability normally would make Ghirahim see red, but now, all he wanted was to cradle it in his hands. Zant’s voice escaped him, as if he’d trapped it but decided to let it slip through the bars.

“Again,” he whispered, quivering and squeezing his hands, eyes filled with hunger. “I beg of you,” cracked free under hushed breath.

Whoever steered his body now, Ghirahim did not know him. He was a stranger in his own skin. His hands sought out the other man, one laying on his shoulder and the other arriving to stroke his face. The pads of his gloves ran past the faded grooves of his scarring, testing the waters of the strange bits of tenderness Zant had shown him many times before.

“I lo-“

He was interrupted by the sudden presence of lips against his own. Though he could not finish uttering the words, their meaning still carried into the breath passing between them. Before he knew it, he’d thrown his arms around his neck and tumbled the pair backward into the flowing mass of robes and blankets. Pressed so firmly against him, he could feel every bone that jutted from his skin and taste the blood that dribbled from chapped lips. By Demise, he’d ruined him. The eager lust that had motivated him before faded in an instant, instead overtaken by the urge to apologetically kiss the tears off his cheek.

Grey, withered hands found their way around him, digging their digits into the fabric of his cloak. Zant took his distraction as an opportunity to speak, a bittersweet smile gracing his face. “My answer to you, Ghirahim? I return to you, time and time again because I adore you. To rip you from me now would be to tear out the blade wedged into me, and spill out everything that keeps me breathing.”

A whimper got stuck in his throat, but his hand found his face before it found his ear, stroking a finger past his earring. “You’ve hurt me, antagonized me… I wish to be close to you, and if doing so burns me, then I will wear those blisters with pride. By the Gods, Ghirahim — those words, I’ve wanted someone to say them to me in my entire life, more than anything. I could not be happier that it’s you.”

Ghirahim sought the words to respond, but he buckled before he could find them, instead falling back into their embrace. It was desperate. Pitiful, almost. And he was thankful for it, for falling back into their lip-lock conveyed his affection far better than any words could. Any more thinking, and he might have come to the conclusion that he’d been wrong, that entangling himself further with this man was a mistake. The second he left this room, there was a real possibility he could. But for now, he fluttered his eyes shut, and let the heat this lunatic sparked in him take over.

The rest of that day was spent in timid togetherness, in prodding at the edge of boundaries to see what stuck. Neither was certain now how to proceed, having said words they could not return but feeling mutually strange after the distance they’d been forced into. No measure of distance could prevent Ghirahim from preening his newly-found ‘lover’ to a more presentable state, though. Greasy hair, dirty nails, and an unwashed face were distasteful enough for a King, but completely unacceptable for anyone wishing to associate with the Demon Lord. Ghirahim had been no stranger to taking care of him the past months, but now, every little touch felt much more deliberate. Slowly, but surely, the pale creature perked up, even if short-lived. A lack of sleep pulled him away from the dining table before the fussiest of their co-lieutenants could even think to inquire about the events that’d taken place, and they were back in the hall to their chambers.

As they arrived at the doorway, Ghirahim froze. The second that door closed, the illusion could fade. So he grabbed his wrist and prevented him from entry.

“Zant,” he whispered, meeting the eyes that warmly looked down at him. “Won’t you let me stick around?”

——

Days, weeks passed, with the Demon King in hiding while he experimented with his new Power. The other King, in his own right, similarly had not sat still. With the improvement of his health came Zant’s return to the library, and Ghirahim had skillfully ignored whatever squeaky little voice in the back of his mind told him to mind his business. The first aftermath of such nosiness showed itself that very day when Zant came to him wearing far more layers than usual and coaxed him into yet another ‘expedition’.

Hands joined, shadows whispered, and Ghirahim quickly squinted from the blinding white that overtook his senses. The pair found themselves at the top of a hill in the Lanayru region, overlooking an expanse of ice and snow.

Ghirahim tucked his arms to his chest, hiding them from the cold under his cloak. “I must say, Zant. It did not take you very long to drag me into your nonsense again.”

Zant laughed, the sound muffled by his thick, woolen scarf. “I have a feeling you will have very few complaints about this particular outing.”

“Will I now?” He chuckled, looking down into the valley below. A vast, frozen lake lay at its very bottom, once fed by waterfalls from the cliffsides all around them. In the winter, it had to make do with the occasional icy trickle. They’d been here before, but Zant had been the last one to see it frozen. He’d taken them to Lake Hylia. “The choice of location already puzzles me. Sending us directly into enemy territory is a bold choice.”

“On the contrary,” Zant said, taking a crunchy step forward into the snow. “Most of the Zora migrate upstream to a seasonal town in Eldin this time of year, or so I’ve heard.”

“Right,” Ghirahim hummed, stepping after him. “Something tells me that whatever you’ve got planned, anyone that’s still lingering will want to give the place a wide berth either way.”

A mischievous little giggle escaped the Twili, then, and he turned to look at him. “So you’re going to humour me?”

“Have I any other choice?”

“There are always choices, Ghirahim-ili. I’m merely glad mine has landed in your favor today.”

Ghirahim shook his head in a fondly feigned annoyance, before joining by his side and patting his arm. “Go ahead and show me your devious little plans, then, Twilight King.”

“Very well,” Zant smiled, reaching into his sleeve to retrieve a grimoire… Or, well, a leather-bound mess of bookmarks and notes that served as one, at least. “I’ve narrowed down the summoning circle for a beast I expect to be quite useful in guarding the Desert Palace. I was hoping you could assist me in the ritual.”

Ghirahim hummed, eyes darting between the book and the valley. “I see. And we’re doing this at Lake Hylia… Why, exactly?”

“Well, the ice, I reckon, will make for a good canvas to scratch the sigils into. Furthermore, it is a sand-dwelling creature, so the cold will save us the trouble of pacifying it ourselves.”

Ghirahim pursed his lips in thought.“… Won’t the cold kill it, then?”

A little hoot escaped him. “Not if we transport it to the Desert post-haste, it won’t,” Zant turned to him, wearing a toothy smile.

Ghirahim blinked at him. Realization hit, and his face twisted into a grimacing grin. “So that’s why you brought me along, hmm,” he inquired, digging his nails into his arm in emphasis. “To be your packing mule?”

“Your words, not mine, Yima Dinifen. Let me show you the sigils. We ought to finish up before noon,” he chimed, hiding his smirk behind his scarf while his clammy fingers flipped through the pages. Ghirahim merely growled, begrudgingly looking past his shoulder to peer at the pages. Clearly, it took the mad scholar a few tries to get the sigil down perfectly, as the ink smudges and wobbly scratches from the previous pages bled into the one he showed him… But on a technical field, it was a flawless circle.

Ghirahim hummed, peering intently at the image to burn it into his mind. “Down to the coordinates, I take it?”

“Verily,” Zant nodded stately.

The sigil now memorized, Ghirahim withdrew from him, playfully patting his shoulder. “Then what’s keeping us?”

With a head start, Ghirahim took off from the top of the hill and leaped down. His heels dug into the snow, kicking up sprays of suddy snow behind him as he slid his way down the incline. His cape noisily whipped and billowed in the wind in his descent, soon joined by the fluttering sounds of Zant’s array of robes beside him. The Twili caught up to him quickly, soaring a ways above the ground but leaving a powdery trail below him nonetheless. It seemed the so-masterful mage did not feel confident enough in the physics of winter to dare to plant his feet in the snow just yet, Ghirahim noted to himself in amusement.

When the hill’s incline got less and less steep, so too did Ghirahim’s descent lose momentum, and he wasn’t fond of losing any ‘race’, even if in this case, he was the only participant aware of it. And so, with a bracing of his knees and flitting his eyes to his companion to gauge his distance, he jumped for him. Grasping his sleeve tightly and ignoring the cry of alarm, he snapped his fingers, and in a flurry of diamonds, sent the both of them to the center of the lake.

Ghirahim dug his heels firmly in the ice upon reappearing, sending both of them spinning in place with a cackle. Zant’s flying speed only then began to peter out. Now slowing steadily, Zant’s hand slipped out his sleeve to grasp onto his, joining him in mischievous laughter as his feet landed on the ice, and his wild spins slacked to an idle twirl around him.

“Very funny, Ghirahim,” Zant teased while he gained his footing. “I take it you will treat the rest of this duty with the same utmost gravity?”

Ghirahim clicked his tongue. “Oh, nonsense. Look,” he gestured to the ice, where the edges of Zant’s brass slippers scratched into the surface. “There’s your central circle. The first component is complete!”

Zant looked down, letting out an astonished huff as he saw what he’d done. “Why! Indeed, there’s the scope. I’d like it to be a little neater, but… I can give it a once-over.”

Another surprised hoot rang from the sorcerer as Ghirahim hopped up where he stood, only for black blades to manifest under his soles and land him in the trajectory of the circles. “What say you,” the sword spirit hummed as he traced over the ‘scope’, as Zant called it, and tightened its contour, “I take care of the broader lines, and you get to scratching the runes, hmm?”

Zant quickly stepped out of the way to let Ghirahim continue his round, looking down at the circles he traced in silent wonder. “… You truly are more magically inclined than you let show, aren’t you?”

Ghirahim simply hummed, shrugged, and blinked away from his finished circle, only to reappear a dozen yards over to trace in the next.

Metal and ice hissed and sang together under the force of his blades. Tight trails carved into the ice, circles, lines, ovals, and outlines, dusted with sparkling snow and freshly shaved bits of frost that scattered under his makeshift skates. The sigil was rather complex, not to mention having to scale it up quite a bit from the pocket-sized preview he was shown. He’d done the math — it was a beast of 65 meters long, and approximately fourteen meters in width, should Zant’s bestiary be believed — with some wiggle room, taking into account the mass of the creature — think, think, at that size… Yes, the outer circle would have to be 47.12 meters in circumference, at the very least. A grin stretched across his face. How long it’d been since he last indulged in such arcane puzzles! Wind soared past his false skin, tousling his hair and cracking the cosmetics on his lips with their frosty cold. He lowered himself, his fingers brushing past the ice as he took a harsh turn. The blades on his feet carved yet another circle for him, painting the frozen lake around it in freshly shaved frost. He slid to a halt, skates lodged in old tracks, and gauged his progress. Right there, another small circle was needed. He could jump there if he wanted to! If he tried!

He smiled enough to make his nose crinkle. Moving across the ice like a heron taking off in flight, he pushed himself forward, gliding past the grooves in the ice, and leaped —

Skates slammed back into the ice, carving harsh lines, but he stuck the landing. He would have retained his balance with perfect elegance, did not a harsh voice interrupt his whimsy.

“Quit showing off and focus,” Zant barked, pointedly focusing harder on his little grimoire as the tip of his sword scratched runes into his tracks. “I’m not even looking!”

“Oh, but you are looking, and you love it,” Ghirahim chimed in response, before with a jerk of his arms righting himself in his course again. Before he knew it, he’d rounded yet another circle and came back around to playfully poke Zant on the back. “You said it yourself, you grouch. You adore me. So humour my little tricks, lest I grow bored with you!”

“Fine! I need to see how the circle is coming along, either way,” Zant growled, carving the last strokes of his rune. Knees bent in his bracing and straightened back out to launch him into a jump. Several feet in the air, he came to a hovering halt, shivering momentarily in the cold of the open winter breeze. Certainly, the fool could pretend to be all business, but Ghirahim knew that the eyes behind that helmet trailed him before they watched his pattern. And so, he soared, he jumped, and he spun, laughing if only for the joy of moving his body with such grace. His hands trailed up his arms as he slid across the ice, dismissing his cape into a diamond trail after him. Now unimpeded, his harmonious movements seemed infectious. Wherever he’d finish his sketches, Zant would swoop down behind him, painting the finishing touches onto the ice. They worked in tandem, in secret joy. Glances were playfully stolen across the ice, quick but never fleeting. He’d thoroughly captured the Twili’s attention, forcing him into his company one way or the other. If it weren’t for the sight of his graceful form sliding past him, it would be his laugh or the sounds of his skates, or the occasional brush of his hand past his robes. And every time Zant’s front would break, splitting his stern, grey lips into a fond smile.

Taken to the skies again, an astonished grunt sounded from above. “Unbelievable,” Zant grumbled, purposely twice as loud as usual as to be heard complaining properly above the sounds of wind and ice. “Despite your tomfoolery, the Circle is as good as perfect, still!”

Ghirahim twirled one last time, lowered and his leg outstretched to make another small circle, his arms raised in counter-balance. Once he’d carved it out enough, he rose with a cheeky smile, turning in place to face him. “I never settle for anything less!”

“You make it look fun,” Zant teased, lowering himself on the ice to stand beside him. How the lanky thing hadn’t slipped yet was beyond him.

Ghirahim cocked an eyebrow at him, pursing his lips with a self-satisfied smile. “Is Magic not fun to you, then?”

“Of course it is,” he chuckled in response, dodging the puffs of frost Ghirahim dusted off his shoulder. “It’s simply… Well, it’s becoming on you, Ghirahim-ili. You truly take somatic conduction to a different level.”

Ghirahim rolled his eyes, coming to a halt beside him, finally. “Oh, just say you like my dancing, you dolt.”

A giggle erupted beside him. “There is very little I don’t like about you,” Zant cooed.

“That’s lip service and you know it,” Ghirahim groaned, sticking his hands in his sides as he dismissed the blades at his feet. “Well, that should be all of it. Go ahead and say your little magic words. I’m eager to get this over with and leave this cold behind us, already. You’re shivering.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Zant laughed, before once again paging through his grimoire. “Alright, then. We’ll have to take some distance from the Circle…”

Each took their own side of the circle, one making his way across the ice more smoothly than the other. Ghirahim wrapped himself in his cloak, arms folded while he watched Zant test the waters with this new magic. Just the sight of him flipping pages back and forth, muttering to himself in lack of certainty, made that comforting, familiar urge to bully him surface. He soon found himself grateful for having kept his mouth shut, because the sight of Zant seconds later would have fed whatever mockery he uttered directly back to him. Within the first two syllables, the markings on Zant’s forehead began glowing vibrantly. The same teal glow faintly, but surely, bled into the grooves of the sigil on the lake, slowly spreading over to Ghirahim’s side.

His voice was like the wind, icy and ubiquitous, a whisper that carried into every crack and groove in the valley and would haunt the deepest bottom of the lake. Ghirahim shuddered.

The final words were spoken, echoing through the valley until they last faded with the wind. For a little while, it was perfectly silent on the lake. Zant’s ominous presence lingered for a moment, causing even the lungless sword spirit to hold a breath. Their summoning circle glowed, albeit weakly. It took a minute, perhaps two, before the pair exchanged a frown from each side of the sigil, making the first timid steps forward to inspect their work for any mistakes.

A deep, resonant rumble stopped them both in their tracks. The inner lines of the sigil turned cyan blue, then a dull, sandy yellow, before blurring out altogether when the whole magic circle filled with a swirling light. Each man instinctively shielded his eyes but did not dare look away fully. Below the ice, a shadow slowly faded into view. It wobbled, it grew, it twisted, until Ghirahim realized it was a mere trick of the light. That shadow didn’t come from underwater but from the circle.

Light burst from the circle, followed by a sudden wave of sand. The summoned inhabitant was climbing into the skies. Tawny brown scales shone on a massive, fish-like head, trailed by the bristling black spikes down its serpentine body, Its maw split open into two floppy, pink, and bulbous halves, unleashing a bubbling roar from a toothless gullet. At its first few feet of surfacing, the beast sounded confused and enraged, yet as more and more of it twisted into the freezing air of the lake, it began to screech and contort with pain. As Ghirahim thought, the cold was growing fatal to the creature now blotting out the skies very quickly. More alarmingly, the frost clinging to its body seemed to be impeding its ability to fly. Slowly but surely, it writhed, it shuddered, and it sank in the air, right above the madly cackling Twilight King, whose hands were raised in triumph.

Before Ghirahim could utter even a single word of warning, the shadowy man disappeared, and mere seconds later, the beast crashed into the ice with a high-pitched screech, its whining echoing through the valley. The ice could hold the two men with no problem, but whatever this sandworm was, it weighed several tons. The lake broke apart. One second, the surface was cracking into a web, and the next, each little island jutted its edges upward around their new monster with a resounding shatter. Pillars of water shot into the sky, spewing out between the cracks in the ice. Their peaks whipped away into mist from the wind, though a non-zero, pesky amount found its way to Ghirahim’s feet. As did some of the cracks in the ice, he noted. The roaring deluge crashed back down onto the surface. Wind from the impact whipped through Ghirahim’s hair, while the waves coursed across the ice to lap at his ankles.

Right as he raised his hand to snap his fingers, a shadow loomed over him.

“Now would be a good time to retrieve our new asset, before either of you sinks to the bottom,” hummed a cold and deep voice beside him.

Oh, what impatience! Ghirahim had half a mind to let it sink, but it would be an awful waste of their combined efforts. Still, he winced at the thought of having to touch a cold, wet, sandy creature, who-knows-where the Twili ripped it from. Well, he’d put up with worse, certainly. The ice below him cracked alarmingly, shrieking from the weight of solid metal pushing down. He swiftly decided against a new gig as an anchor and snapped his fingers, yanking the madman hovering gleefully beside him into the aether with him.

Four hands planted themselves on a beast now too weakened to protest. Scales bristled, eyes rolled, and squeaks rang out, but the Molgera could struggle no longer. Perhaps if it’d known where it was headed, it would have struggled a little less.

With a single snap of the fingers, diamond magic and specks of twilight combined. Seconds later, Lake Hylia was silent, a yawning crater left in its ice.

#zant #ghirahim #ghirazant #hyrule warriors #tftk #beararts #bearwrites #yuga loz #yuga albw #ganondorf #tloz #the legend of zelda #ganghira #yuganon #<- real btw

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10piecechickennuggy · 6 months

Text

Magic and Secrets, Chapter 4 - Sanji x Witch!OC

WARNING: Mature content ahead!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own One Piece or the art featured above. This is a fan-created work featuring an original character.

Read Chapter 3 Here

Read Chapter 2 Here

Read Chapter 1 Here

Soot stained fingers grazed the pane of glass, a black smudge appearing over the photo beneath. Tearful eyes gazed back at Vera, unblinking in their frozen misery. The boy looked how she felt; frustrated despair at his lot in life. New marks joined the glass, tracing a distinct swirl over the boy’s prominent eyebrow, as a smile formed faintly over the girl’s lips.

Vera had taken refuge in the coalstore. She wasn’t sure what had brought on her Stepfather’s anger today, but he had screamed and beaten her. New bruises were already forming, joining the preexisting splotches of purple and jagged scars which already littered the girl’s body.

Eventually, she’d managed to escape his wrath. A slave had begged Misericors to cease his onslaught, providing a brief moment of distraction which Vera seized immediately. She had run through her home, finding her usual hiding spot - the only one yet to be discovered - and curled up amongst the dark stones.

The picture had been hidden here weeks ago. At first, it was a symbol of her misfortune - a reminder that her current hell would lead to an equally miserable future. But in recent days, the boy’s face had become a cherished treasure. Her betrothed was clearly unhappy - her mother had described him as the disappointment of his family. Perhaps his circumstance was similar to hers.

Shaking hands brought the frame close to Vera’s heart. She knew that it was wrong to wish misfortune on someone else. But part of her hoped that he knew her pain. That he knew what a life of constant misery and fear was like. Surely he did, if the photos of his brothers beating the poor blonde gave any indication.

“He’s the runt of the litter, far weaker than his siblings. Perfect for a waste like you.” Her mother’s voice echoed in the young witch’s mind.

“Please.” Vera whispered. “Let him be kind.”

***

Deep wooden panels were the first thing Vera saw upon opening her eyes. That and a dim ceiling light, swaying with the movement of the ship.

Her head throbbed, her stomach cried, and her mouth was dry. How long had she been out? The last thing the witch remembered was a battle with some marines. There were cannonballs and chaos. Loud booms dominated the air. And bullets.

That was it! Vera had used her magic to spirit away all the bullets on the enemy ship. And subsequently fainted. She sat up and took in her surroundings.

She found herself in the sickbay, sitting atop a thin mattress with a sheet of white cotton draped across her form. Judging by the looming darkness outside the single porthole, the sun had been set for at least a few hours. Vera perked her ears and listened intently, but no sound reached her ears aside from the soft creak of the Sunny and the gentle lapping of waves along her hull.

Evidently, the battle had ended in a victory for the Strawhats. Otherwise, she’d have woken up in a cell aboard the marine ship or not at all. A sigh of relief passed her lips as she came to this realization. She was alive, and her new friends were safe.

Snoring interrupted the girl’s thoughts, bringing her attention to the far corner of the room. A figure sat, leaning against the armrest of an uncomfortable looking chair. Blonde hair and a disheveled suit revealed the visitor’s identity.

Sanji was fast asleep, his expression peaceful as a thin trail of drool fell from his lips. Vera almost chuckled at this before noticing redness on his nose and the skin around his eye. His lashes seemed to glisten in the dim light. Had he been crying?

Vera stood, padding softly over to her crewmate. Approaching, she noticed a glass of orange juice and a plate of cookies sitting on the counter to Sanji’s side. Both were untouched, leaving the girl to assume they’d been meant for her - to restore her energy levels.

Her lips curved into a smile that crinkled her eyes. “What am I going to do with you?” She whispered and gently reached outward, sweeping away the man’s bangs with the lightest touch to reveal his other eye.

Swirled eyebrows furrowed as Sanji frowned, his eyelids parting slowly. Cerulean orbs threatened to overflow as their eyes met, striking Vera with a wave of nostalgia.

She inhaled sharply, finding herself thrust backwards in time. An eight year old girl hidden amongst piles of coal, a picture held close to her chest.

“It’s you.” Vera breathed the words, barely audible to the confused man inches before her. “My salvation.”

***

The sun beat down, harsh light reflecting off gentle waves and white sand. Vera brought her knees closer to her chest, staying well within the circle of shade provided by the large umbrella.

Scents of caramelized fruits and cooking meat wafted through the air from the barbecue just meters away. Vera’s stomach growled audibly, though she did not react. Her gaze remained locked on the sand which shifted between her toes.

Nami’s voice could be heard, energetic and melodic. Whatever she’d said, it must have been quite funny. Sanji laughed loudly - a deep belly laugh that was sure to be accompanied by a breathtaking smile. The witch couldn’t bring herself to look though. She’d been unable to even look at the cook since her embarrassing statement in the sickbay.

If only she had an invisibility spell at her disposal. She’d have used it to evade the man these last several days. But alas, she did not. True to his nature, he had continued on as though nothing had happened. And so Vera found herself a silent, blushing mess each time Sanji tried to interact with her.

“Blackleg-ya sent this.” Vera’s gaze rose to meet golden eyes, adorned with dark bags. Tattooed hands offered a plate of kabobs, juicy and appetizing.

“Thanks, Law.” She took the plate gratefully, chowing down as the man sat beside her.

Trafalgar Law. He was a surgeon and pirate captain who’d allied with the Strawhats. He’d joined up with the crew recently, seeming to gel with the boisterous crew easily enough despite his dour personality.

Reaching over, he took a kabob from Vera’s plate and began eating, the dark lines of ink on his exposed torso capturing her attention. “Can’t swim?” The question sounded more like a statement through Law’s full mouth. When Vera raised an eyebrow in confusion, he only nodded towards the sea where the rest of their companions frollicked through the waves.

The witch returned her gaze to the sand, her free hand drawing absentminded circles. “Didn’t feel like it.” She shrugged before bringing another stick of meat to her mouth.

Law hummed in response, leaning back to rest on his arms. For a moment, he studied her form. She wore a black bikini and matching sunhat, a lace shawl draped over her shoulders. The end of a scar could be seen poking out from beneath the delicate fabric on her left arm. “Seems to me you’re distracted.”

Vera huffed, handing the now empty plate back to him. “If your only objective was stating the obvious, you could have started with it.”

Law chuckled in response, his golden earrings clanking as his head shook. “Just trying to understand.” He smirked at her then, his expression irritating the witch. “So, when are you going to stop sulking in jealousy and tell Blackleg-ya how you feel?”

Vera sputtered, her eyes wide and mouth agape as she turned toward her companion. “I-I don’t know what you mean!” Her voice came out louder than intended, drawing unwanted attention. She was a sea of emotions, the devious glint in Law’s eyes bringing panic to the forefront.

“I’m only making a suggestion. I’m sure he’d be overjoyed to have a proper confession.”

“A confession?” Vera jumped, caught off guard by Robin’s voice entering the conversation. When had she gotten so close?

“Who’s Vera confessing to?” Nami had joined the ravenette, her words and expression dripping with curiosity.

“What’s a confession?” Luffy tilted his head in confusion.

Usopp blushed, pulling his captain’s ear. “You seriously don’t know what they’re talking about?!”

Vera glared at Law, trying and failing to ignore the crowd forming around them.

“My oh my, can it be?!” Sanji now spun from his post at the barbecue, hands clutched in excitement. “Is love in the air?!”

It was all too much. Vera felt her breath quicken as her friends crowded the small area of shade, her nerves becoming shot. Quickly, she stood and shouted. “Everybody stop!”

The group fell silent, their eyes fixated on Vera’s left arm. Except for Sanji, who’d succumbed to a nosebleed at the sight of Vera’s bikini-clad body now on full display. Following the crews’ gazes, Vera realized what had grasped their attention so ardently.

Black fabric pooled in the sand at her feet, her shawl having fallen in her haste. Vera brought her hand to cover the scar, but it was already too late. Tears formed in her eyes, falling fast in hot trails that stained pale cheeks.

“Vera.” Nami reached out a hand, attempting to comfort the girl. But before she could make contact, Vera ran.

She bolted to the Sunny, sand tracking behind as bare feet met wood. A door. She needed to find a door.

Spotting the entrance to the girls’ dorm, she rushed toward it. She nearly tripped before slamming palms first into the thick panel. Shouts could be heard just off the sunny, stirring more panic to swell within her.

Uttering a spell with such speed that she almost questioned whether it’d be effective, she opened the door. Only once it’d been slammed shut behind her did Vera breathe a sigh of relief.

Reaching the girls dorm, Nami spoke to announce her presence before opening the door. She’d expected to find Vera within, likely attempting to hide. But the room was empty. When Robin had caught up, the two tore the room apart in search of their companion.

Their efforts proved fruitless.

Staggering to her feet, Vera moved to the window on the room’s opposite end. Despite the only thing visible being an endless void of inky black, the simple act of drawing the curtain closed brought solace.

Upon releasing the fabric, she turned to face a round mirror. Its surface was dusty and cracked, but Vera could still make out her reflection. She padded over, her feet scattering bullets and books. A small cup sat upon a vanity just below the reflective disc.

Trembling fingers rose as more tears fell, lightly brushing the marred skin. The mark was an angry red, glossy from its time healing. Four triangles and a circle. The Hoof of the Soaring Dragon - a mark of ownership. The label given to slaves of the world nobles.

#black leg sanji #one piece #one piece oc #one piece sanji #sanji #sanji vinsmoke #vinsmoke sanji #one piece x oc #monkey d luffy #roronoa zoro #cat burglar nami #straw hat pirates #niko robin #god usopp #tony tony chopper #trafalgar law #trafalgardwaterlaw #trafalgar one piece #strawhat pirates

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