Old Wounds, Fresh Scars (Ganondorf)
|Old Wounds, Fresh Scars (Ganondorf)|
|Date of Cutscene:||02 August 2019|
|Location:||Gerudo Town Castle|
|Synopsis:||The Poeblight continues to ravage the Gerudo, and Ganondorf's determination is steeled.|
|Cast of Characters:||7039|
Old, pale clay cracked from the force of the blow. Blood seeped from knuckles, dripping onto multicolored tile.
The Great King of Evil's eyes were wide and empty. His lips, twisted into a snarl. Nothing. Nothing! Nothing! The graveyard he had pinned his hopes on held nothing. Worse than nothing. No miracle cure. No herb, no magic spell, no artifact. All that the Mirage Graveyard had yielded was a cruelty. The gods of the desert were mocking gods indeed.
Song of Healing!
Ganondorf's other fist slammed into the wall. Another crack, and more blood. He ignored it. Song of Healing indeed!
It was his fingers that had killed Ekaife. His hands, across the strings of the harp. His fingers, running through the notes. His eyes, watching her fade. Watching her sink back against the wall with a contented smile. Watching her breath rattle in her throat. Watching her head slump sideways. Watching her die mercifully free of the blight, and knowing that he had killed her.
He had known her since childhood. He had grown up with her, like every other sister. She had dreamed of seeing the grass of Hyrule Field, the great, endless plains of grass and rolling hills that were to the Gerudo like a dream. Dreamed of the wind across her face, cool and refreshing rather than hot and scourging.
And his hands had been the ones to kill her.
Another punch. These hands. These hands! These hands, her executioner! This was his fault. He had sent the Hero of Courage and his allies to the graveyard. He had hoped for the Hero's death, true, but he had wanted too to see that kindness. To hope that some spark of that kindness would be rewarded. That some small momentary flux of destiny would work to his advantage, just once.
His bloody hand went to his face, smearing it crimson. What a fool. Hoping for destiny to take the side of the Great King of Evil...no. No destiny belonged to the Gerudo King but defeat. No, once again, the side destiny would take was Hyrule's. It was always Hyrule's.
The architects of despair! Hyrule! The architects of suffering!
His fingers closed around his face as he pushed off the wall. They dug into skin as he strode through the palace. Black ooze leaked at every step. Malice, pure and simple, spilled from his body, pools of liquid hate staining the beautiful mosaic of the palace floor. It roiled and bubbled in his wake, yearning to reach beyond the walls, to cross the desert beyond the open windows and surge into the green fields far away.
Ganondorf slumped in the Gerudo throne. His eyes gazed at the opposite wall as his fingers tightened around the handrests. There was nothing to be done of the Poeblight but invasion. Once again, diplomacy had failed. Kindness had failed. His heart grew harder with every passing moment, every passing second.
He would not let Ekaife be buried here. He would bury her under the grass she yearned for. He would sweep the Hylians aside like a storm and grind them beneath his heel, and force them into the desert they so feared. Let them bleed and die here. It had made the Gerudo strong enough to take back what was theirs. His damaged hands clutched at the armrests of the throne. Let the Hylians learn what it meant to be desperate. For he was desperate, now.
No more promises. No more helping villagers. No more quid pro quo.
The Gerudo would take what they wanted. It was the way they had been given. It was the way they had made their own. And all the pleas for diplomacy would not be enough.
He stood, and went for papyrus. When he sat down again, the quill was clutched between bloody knuckles, and the words he wrote were in ink mingled with blood.