Chapter Text
Do you sleep still?
She isn't sleeping at all, and he knows it. He's only mocking her.
He didn't take her just for that purpose , he promised. But “Why take the moment for granted?” was what he said, before the bed came into sight.
He is an abhorrently large person, and she has never had to fight in a dress before, especially not one adorned so delicately and fancily, and with these horrible itchy gloves. Nonetheless, even though she knew deep down it was a losing battle, she didn't stop hitting and kicking. Not when he lifted her off the ground, not when he sat her on the covers, not when she could hardly breathe under the weight of his hand keeping her pinned.
Once it started, once it touched her, her body froze for her, like it was telling her not to be so stupid and so reckless. It's not like fighting him did much anyway - her nails didn't come close to breaking skin, he likely barely felt her fists or her troublesome shoes colliding with him.
Her body made her give it up and shut her eyes, and wait for it all to stop.
Oceans, oceans, oceans, oceans, oceans as far as the eye can see.
He could see what she was thinking about, but that was all. Picturing the freedom of treading about in the ice cold ocean, surrounded by miles and miles of nothing and no one, just the breeze and the seagulls. Sweet sweet freedom and the thrill of being one with the great blue sea.
Far away from this. Far away from anything.
The excruciating pain of it all sort of melded together, until she didn't know what was going on anymore, and didn't realize that he'd finished. She only realized it when she heard the creaking of the doors, and the wading of water. And then a familiar gasp, and her terror - there is no worse feeling than feeling that anything is bigger or more treacherous than she is, she used to be mighty and untouchable, the master of her own fate - nearly melts away entirely. He's not invincible, he's still just a child like she is, but he's something, at least.
Still, her body won't move. She can't hear much of what he is telling her dear friend.
What she does hear is his dreadful cackle, chilling her to her core, and then the sound of crackling, shifting, snapping - and then her dear friend is at it, battling him. With weapons and a sword she wishes she'd had just a little while ago.
The hero is already exhausted, but it seems Ganondorf is more fired up than ever before. He rants and he raves, Zelda- Tetra- … Zelda lying in an unconscious heap on the floor. Is she unconscious? He can't tell. Her face twitches here and there, grimaces and flinches as Ganondorf tells his tale and his intentions, and of his great euphoria at having the three pieces of the triforce right in his grasp. He is so thrilled about it, in fact, that he faces the hero with an eager grin, and the hero finds himself, his shield basically useless, being socked in the face to one side- then the other, the master sword flying out of his hand, just a couple of inches short of Zelda's head- and then another time, this blow sending the hero to the floor, his cheeks pulsing with pain.
Zelda is not unconscious, the hero realizes, when Ganondorf grabs hold of his arm and lifts him, suspending him in the air, at the angle where the hero can just barely see her.
Her eyes are suddenly wide open, watching him with great and fearful intensity, like she's afraid Ganondorf may kill him just then, squash him or tear off his head, as he absolutely could, now that the hero is unarmed.
But Ganondorf doesn't. He tosses the hero carelessly to the side at the sight of the triforce, reformed and here for the taking.
When the king comes to them, soiling eternally and irreversibly Ganondorf’s grand opportunity, the hero takes the chance to peer over at Zelda.
She's not looking at him anymore - rather, she's staring at the king now. Something about his presence seems to give her the courage to get up, and she does, even as Ganondorf laughs and laughs and laughs at his own pain, his own life-ending fury.
The hero forces himself up on trembling hands to sit. Zelda grips the sword tightly as she makes her way over to him.
She joins the hero's side, and when the hero, hunched over sorely and clutching his arm, turns to look at her, she doesn't look back at him. She glares at the back of Ganondorf, her face red and her jaw set.
He doesn't recognize that expression. Even as she looks now, in her royal garb like those that came before her, he still saw Tetra before, that snark and that fire.
Now, she still looks determined, sure, but not like the girl before, as herself, as the pirate Tetra, who went and pounced on Ganondorf herself - came to his rescue, put up one hell of a fight, and got him out of the fortress.
Slowly, like she's not sure if she should, she hands his sword back to him. In return, he gives her the bow of light, and he gives a quick side glance at Ganondorf. She nods, understanding. He needs her to cover him.
She readies the bow, tensing and somewhat coiling in on herself when he vows to show them what hope holds for them, what their future holds for them,
the worth of their precious Triforce.
She envies her dear friend, when he drives the sword into his head. She wishes she'd gotten to. To feel the blade tear through tissue, muscle, bone, his brain, so deep inside of his head that it slices off his uvula. Maybe it would quell this desire to scream, to cry, to hurt, to destroy. She hates crying. It feels so murky, so sticky, so… so… much. Why sit in your woes, when you can engage in the sweet thrill of breaking something, throwing something, working, running - anything else?
Getting to take his life would've done her some good.
She's thrilled to be out of that dress. She missed breathable fabric that doesn't feel like sandpaper clinging to her body.
Her dear friend is on deck, while they escort him back home to Outset Island, buying Tetra time to do what she must do.
The dress and all its accessories are crumpled up under her bed. She locks her door, wields her knife, and tears the damn thing apart. She destroys the souvenir of who she's meant to be, according to some stupid, worthless prophecy. The thing that led him to her in the first place, the thing he lifted up, the thing his hands crept under so he could crush her sides and her torso with his steel grip, squeezing and bruising, tainting and grimy and dirty fingers-
she hates crying. She loathes it more than anything else.
The knife has made plenty of leeway, anyhow. She swats away those meddlesome stupid tears and picks the dress up in her hands. She pulls and pulls, relishing the sound of snapping stitches and ripping fabric. The way it reddens and burns her hands, until one can't even tell what shape the dress was to start with.
She can't bear for her crew to find this ugly thing. If they see her in such a display of feminine vanity, would they see what happened? What she let some beast of evil do to her?
Her hands are sore, she's made great progress, but she's still crying. It infuriates her to no end, making her cry more. She stands, paces, but the pain in between her legs infuriates her even more, and she picks the knife up.
She flings it at the wall with a bellowing war cry that she hopes would strike fear in him if he were still alive.
The knife doesn't even stick - it clatters to the floor pathetically, and it just reminds her of her failure.
She gives in to the burning of her nose. Giving in is all she seems to know how to do anymore. Fate smothered her with that hideous garb and it stole her strength, her power, her dignity. Stole everything Tetra took pride in.
If she destroys Zelda-
well, she's no one then. She's as good as dead. Just like him.
The thought of him, once again, brings a wave of rage, terror, sickness, hopelessness, immense solitude, and hence, another wave of tears.
She's not used to it. To the business of feeling and emoting. Feelings come and go, they stall you. They stop you in your tracks. There is no time to stop, Tetra doesn't stop and stall. She moves forward, always.
None of this funny business - sitting on her knees, rocking back and forth, hands clamped over her mouth to keep the sobs and wails from escaping.
That's not her. That's not her at all.
If her crew saw her like this-
that puts a cork in it. The feelings dissolve like magic, and she's numb.
Perfect.
She wipes her face, takes a deep breath, hides the remains of her meaningless ancestry, and heads on back up to go find her dear friend.