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The imposing king of the Gerudo was not a man partial to the Hylians’ judgemental and sanctimonious gazes. He had withdrawn to his quarters, away from the fear and hate of the ignorant. They would no doubt find some way to twist it against him that he was shutting himself away with his sword.
But it wasn’t just any sword.
Polishing the obsidian-like metal, Ganondorf could feel the slumbering soul within under his touch. As a father, he was reminded of having a sleepy child on his lap. And Ghirahim, the spirit of the blade, had certainly become like his child. He needed it. It seemed as though no one had ever actually cared about him before. He had been through far too much…
And the evidence of that only became clearer.
The blood rust coming up began to change. The meaty smell of centuries of blood became something very different— something acrid and even wrong as the millennia were turned back in grisly annals of war.
The smell went beyond just a smell. It burrowed into all of Ganondorf’s senses like roots cracking open a stone. This was no ordinary bloodstain. It was reaching out.
~~~
“Nagnas. Why? What have you done?!”
“I am Demise. I have come for what is rightfully mine.”
“Master…”
The voice, Ghirahim’s voice, was barely audible. The spirit was afraid. Afraid of both his master, and what he was going to do.
“Rightfully—?! You destroyed half of Lorule over some petty jealousy?! You had everything, Nagnas! Why?! Why?!”
“Everything? Hah. Everything but the Triforce, Lore. The weapon of the unworthy. Give it to me, and I might even let you live…”
“You are MAD.”
The sword spirit’s fear and dread reverberated as neither of the two gods backed down.
“Th-there are other ways, the— the integrity of the dimensions could— Master…!”
Demise lunged. Lore fell. The blade was withdrawn from his chest.
And reflected in the metal was a horrified, screaming face, and a pair of hands as though clawing at a window…
~~~
Ganondorf snapped back to the present with an abrupt gasp.
He sat frozen in shock, mind scrambling to make sense of what he had just experienced. Was that… a memory? A memory in ancient blood? Gods, it must have been part of the beginning. The rise of the Demon King. A traumatic memory from Ghirahim…
Ganondorf held the sword close. He wouldn’t ask about it, not right away. Ghirahim’s past contained far more trauma than even he had realized. Uncovering it was not his priority right now.
Ghirahim was.
He felt the energies in the sword settle, like falling into a peaceful sleep after a nightmare. Soothed by his presence.
It seemed that every day, his desire to protect Ghirahim grew stronger— and with it, his burning vendetta against Demise.