Chapter Text
He was Ganondorf.
Son of the Gerudo, King of Thieves, Wielder of the Triforce of Power, and Harbinger of the Calamity.
And also, he was a horse.
Worst case scenario? Literally nothing else. What in Hylia’s cursed name is going on?
The last thing he remembered was a piercing pain and a flash of light. His eyes had begun to fail him then, vision slowly dying. He could not move or speak, consciousness barely there, adrift somewhere he did not know; perhaps a purgatory of some sorts—then, one day, Ganondorf opened his eyes and awoke.
Only, he awoke to hooves instead of hands. And he was also in the middle of nowhere surrounded by a herd of horses.
Ganondorf let out a frustrated shout—or at least he tried to, but his best cannot be expected when his vocal cords have been reduced to the range of a deranged horse. A series of angry neighs left his muzzle, causing his fellow horses to look at him warily and back away from him.
A slight discomfort wells in his throat from all the aggressive neighing, and he finds himself hoarse. Two for two, I suppose.
He trots around the area, searching for a source of water. After all, a desert area like this must have an oasis nearby to sustain all these horses.
Vaguely, he wonders if he could be near Gerudo Town. He decides that a visit to his hometown would be one of his top priorities, just second to gaining back his power and obliterating the puny hero and his little princess. Because Ganondorf is many things–evil, cruel, nasty, crusty–however, he will always be a filial and loyal son of his nation.
When he finally spots the tiny, pathetic puddle of an oasis, he knocks away one of the horses who had been drinking from it and desperately takes large sips. Once he is satisfied and the disturbed water returns to its peaceful state, he observes his new appearance. What looked back at him was a cruel mockery of his once renowned charm, as he had, quite literally, been turned into a damn horse.
He had kept his height, towering far above the other horses, and his red locks had been somewhat maintained–if only in the form of a dry, somewhat orange mane–and instead of his once bronze skin, he had now been given a black coat infested with fleas.
He tried to scratch the itchiest part of his body, but with no fingers to reach and satisfy the itch, there was only so much he could do. Ganondorf grunted angrily, dissatisfied with the results of his stubborn efforts. A nearby neigh drew his attention. One of the horses, a white one with black spots littering its body, stared right at him. Once sure it had Ganondorf’s attention, it headed to the lone tree beside the puddle and began to rub its head against it aggressively. It looked at him pointedly, an obvious inclination that he should follow suit.
Then suddenly, he felt a rumble in his stomach, one that told the tale of a long trip to the bathroom. As if in sync with him, the horse with the black spots promptly stepped to the side and dropped his business. The waste within Ganondorf’s own stomach almost fell as well just watching.
He had to find a way back to his original body. Fast.