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The Royal Libraries were filled with historical accounts, dozens of leather-bound tomes detailing the Demon King of the West and his bloody rise to power.
It was a history, like all others, written by the victors. It told tales of the valiant knights of Hyrule, of a princess of light whose intelligence and magic helped her defeat the usurper, of a green-clad hero who killed on the sanction of a goddess.
The Gerudo knew better. Nabooru knew better.
That first conquest of the Gerudo came on the heels of the boy they called Hero of Time. Ganondorf was of similar age to Nabooru, a few years her senior, and they were raised and trained together. He was born before his predecessor died, spending his youth free of the responsibilities of being king, and before he ascended to the throne he was treated much the same as the women. They all fought and stole and laughed and drank and trained together.
None of them understood the mark on the back of his hand or the powers he possessed beyond his trained skills with a blade and bow. He was unlike the kings that had come before him — no worse, no better, but certainly not the same. The Gerudo had long been exiles, if not officially then certainly in the eyes of the people, those who feared them for their dark skin and foreign features, for their strange laws of heritability. They saw the Gerudo as thieves and killers, but what choice was left to a people long since banished to the unforgiving desert?
When Ganondorf informed Nabooru, months after his ascension, that he was to visit the Eastern King, she had begged him not to go. It was a trap, she tried to tell him, they would never agree to hear out the King of Thieves. He insisted that they would, that they saw the benefits they could reap by bringing the Gerudo back into the fold. Peaceful negotiations, he promised, They have sworn to do no harm.
As she watched him cross the swaying wooden bridge on his great black horse, red cloak fluttering behind him and announcing his status of royalty, the sense of dread in Nabooru’s gut only grew. Weeks passed until his return, weeks with no news of either negotiations or her king, and the warrior ruled the Gerudo in his stead. The women looked up to her just as they looked up to Ganondorf and she knew they feared for him just as she did.
Upon his return it was clear things hadn’t gone according to plan. He was furious, pacing the training ring, swinging his scimitar in wide sweeps and gutting the sand-filled dummies with vitriol. Nabooru knew well enough to stay out of the lethal arc of his blade, watching quietly from the shadows as he tired himself out. Silent as ever, he still seemed to know she was there, finally turning to her with sweat pouring down his face, his broad chest heaving.
“What happened?”
“They would not listen,” he snarled, gold eyes flashing with something dangerous. “They saw the mark on my hand and they feared me for it. No matter that the king’s own daughter bore the same mark, the goddess’ wisdom; on a… savage like me it was a sign of danger.”
The easterners had barely tolerated the Gerudo’s presence over the past centuries, and a Gerudo king with goddess-blessed power would be seen as an offense to the society they’d built. Nabooru had feared as much, though she hoped in vain that Hyrule could see past its history of hatred. She stepped closer to him, into his space.
Ganondorf didn’t seem to notice her, lost in his own anger. “They requested I remove my crown in the king’s presence.”
Nabooru recoiled slightly in surprise, blinking up at him with wide eyes even as something bitter stirred in her chest. She reached up and brushed her fingers across his brow, across the smooth amber that rested there, inlaid in silver — that mighty symbol of the Gerudo kings. Ganondorf’s pride was his greatest flaw, and to insult him in such a way…
“I was not a King to them,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “I was not their equal. I was the uncivilized stranger who dared tread the dirt of my people across their pristine floors. They would not hear me out.”
“What did you ask of them?”
He spread his hands wide, a helpless gesture. “Trade, resources. Nothing they do not offer dozens of other kingdoms. They saw only the triforce on my hand.”
Resisting the urge to glance towards his right hand, Nabooru instead let her fingers trail through his wild lion’s mane of hair, that brilliant red the surest mark of Gerudo heritage. Ganondorf leaned into the touch slightly, his temper finally fading.
“You’re not alone,” she whispered, because it seemed the only thing she could say in the moment. As hollow as the words felt, they still seemed to offer him some solace.
They spent that night in each other’s arms, finding comfort in the heat of skin on skin, in fingerprint-bruises and shaking limbs, but in the light of a new day their woes appeared no less formidable. The sun had barely risen when scouts brought news back to the fortress: seven Gerudo women and one child had been murdered by Hylian soldiers. The King of Hyrule, fearing Gerudo invasion, had taken it upon himself to order preemptive attacks.
Amid the wave of grief and anger the news brought, Nabooru found herself in her room, Ganondorf’s huge frame taking up far too much of the small space as he paced, tugging at his hair, muttering softly to himself.
Finally weary of his restlessness, Nabooru placed herself in his path. “What do you propose, Ganon?” The nickname was one she hadn’t used for him since childhood, but even the fond memory brought no more than the barest upward twitch of his lips.
“The only thing I can… retribution.” The laugh that spilled from low in his throat was bitter.
“You know what retribution brings,” she warned. She, too, knew such an act couldn’t go unpunished, that vengeance always reaped more death, more blood, more vengeance. “We will not survive war.”
“I don’t desire war. I only wish to balance the scales and I will not become the conqueror they think me to be. But how weak will I seem if I let these monsters kill my people?”
Hyrule might never understand peace. The Gerudo could simply watch their own sisters get slaughtered without lifting a finger and the Hylians would still attack, still see the westerners as a dangerous threat. Only violence might discourage further bloodshed, though neither Nabooru nor Ganondorf had any illusions about the possibility of war. She could only pray that it never came to that.
But the attacks only worsened. The violence wrought change on Ganondorf, he slept less, ate less, grew far more prone to rage. What will they say of me, he once lamented, the king who led his people to slaughter.
Privately, Nabooru knew the stories would tell tales far worse, should the Hylians win. They would speak of the Usurper King who encroached upon Hyrule’s borders, who sought to conquer the kingdom for himself, who bore the power of the gods and used that gift for his own nefarious gain. History would never know him as she had, as the young man barely into his second decade of life, laughter in his eyes despite the weight of a crown bowing his shoulders.
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The Gerudo had been forced from their fortress, retreating into the desert to avoid utter slaughter at the hands of Hylian knights. Now the last of the Gerudo warriors, less than two hundred women, stood before the steps of the Necromanteion. Those who could or would not fight were sequestered inside.
Ganondorf’s boots echoed in the stone passageways, Nabooru silent beside him as they walked to the heart of the temple. Blue flames, eternally burning, flickered in sconces along the walls, barely piercing the darkness.
The easterners called it the Spirit Temple, but the word temple implied the honoring of a god. The Gerudo had no gods, they worshiped their dead as deities and buried them here, thousands of warriors and kings haunting the sacred grounds. In the very heart of the Necromanteion lay the first king, encased in stone for millennia. It was here that Ganondorf dropped to his knees, bowing his head before his predecessor.
“Sacred Spirits, I seek thee. First King Ur’baas, I seek thee. As leader and protector of the Gerudo I ask that you lend me your power in this time of need, add to my strength so I might save my people.”
For a long, painful moment nothing happened. Then, “What makes you worthy of the Spirit’s powers?” The voice hadn’t come from anywhere in particular, but it echoed through Nabooru’s skull with surprising volume.
“Nothing, sire” Ganondorf said, still kneeling before the crypt, “Except my desire to see my people through to another day.”
This must have been the answer it wanted. After another pregnant pause, the amber stone on Ganondorf’s brow began to glow, softly at first, then brighter. His hair turned to living flame, his dark skin awash in gold. When he stood, facing Nabooru, she saw little of her friend in him, his eyes like molten ore. The sharp smell of lightning filled the room, sparks dancing between his fingers, the power he had always possessed magnified tenfold.
Hesitant, she stepped towards him. The unnatural glow faded from his eyes, crown dimming to a gentle glow that appeared to pulse with faint power, the gem still brighter than she had ever seen it. He reached for her first, pulling her against himself, so close she could feel his heartbeat. “Protect them,” he said, his voice rumbling through his chest. “If I—”
“No,” Nabooru interrupted. “Do not go there.”
“You know how this ends, Nabooru.” The intensity in Ganondorf’s gaze was hard to look upon, but Nabooru forced herself to meet his gaze. “They will not allow me to live, you must lead the Gerudo until the next king can ascend.”
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Protect them he said again, blood on his lips, panting through his teeth, one hand pressed to the wound in his side. Nabooru’s sword arm, leaden, dropped to her side, the warrior falling uncharacteristically still despite the battle surrounding her. Just as she opened her mouth, perhaps to say something in return, he staggered back a step. His hands clawed at his chest, at the shimmering blade protruding through his dark armor.
Lunging, Nabooru reached him just as he fell, crouching before her fallen king. The few Gerudo left moved quickly, surrounding them, spears and swords forming a bristling barrier between the Hylians and Ganondorf. The green-clad boy who’d delivered that final blow had retreated, sword dripping red. He didn’t look triumphant, only stared down the Gerudo with a focused intensity — a wolf in human skin.
Ganondorf’s hand was around her wrist, his grip shockingly strong and almost searing with the magic that flowed through his veins. Nabooru could barely spare him a glance, warily watching the soldiers around her. The quiet was deafening, broken only by the harsh cawing of crows, neither side moving until, as though on silent command, the Hylians surged forward. Nabooru didn’t think, acted only on instinct as she brought her arms up in a defensive x above her head. Golden light rippled outward, brushing past the Gerudo like a gentle breeze: where it connected with the Hylian ranks, men were forced backwards, a shimmering barrier growing between the armies.
Nabooru had never possessed even a hint of magic, yet she knew exactly what this sudden source of power was: the last of the Spirit’s magic, ebbing out of Ganondorf’s dying body and into hers even as the glow faded from his crown. Protect them, he had ordered, and given her the strength to do just that. She knew what she had to do now.
Her fingers made quick work of the crown’s silver clasps. She rose from her crouch, moving for the golden light, her women silently stepping aside. She held out a hand, letting the wolfish boy see the amber nestled in her palm.
“In the wake of our king’s death, I now carry the crown. For the sake of the Gerudo, I surrender. Capture me, take prisoners if you must, but let my people live.”
The words were the most difficult thing she’d ever had to say. Surrender was not the Gerudo way, yet massacre was a worse fate and Nabooru had a promise to uphold.
It was the boy who stepped forward, bowing his head even as men behind him hissed in anger. Placing a hand upon his chest, Nabooru’s heart nearly stopped at the golden mark upon it. Courage. Understanding flickered in those cobalt eyes, even as her king’s blood coated his sword. He, too, knew sacrifice, knew what it was to bear the burden of destiny.
Nabooru felt, more than saw, the last of the magic, the final dregs of the Gerudo king’s life force seep from the amber gemstone.
It would remain flat and dull until the new king took the throne; until then, it rested on Nabooru’s brow, its cool weight a constant reminder of what Hyrule had taken from her.