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The sun is as red as blood—a circle of light that beams down upon this sacred carnage. Ruin and beauty. Zelda presses her palms against the still-warm marble and lifts herself gingerly, mindful of the wet floor. The iron cloaks the inside of her mouth, the taste of it heavy on her tongue. Cloying.
A voice comes from the dark hallway ahead, calling her name, and she heads in its direction. The limp to her steps is barely noticeable in the hallowed shadows, and there is no one but empty, half-broken skulls to see the trail of holy white she leaves behind.
They’d arrived at the site some time last week, a team five people strong, and immediately began building camp and settling their heavy equipment around the area. It was a new site, barely researched, although Zelda’s meetings with the locals confirmed they were aware of its existence long before the HU “discovered” it. The Tomb of the Demon King, the family’s matriarch had told her over the food they’d shared, shaking her head. Dangerous place, cursed place.
Zelda did not believe in demons, ghosts, or spirits of any kind; she hadn’t spent the last eight years of her life slaving over textbooks and sweating out on the fields, knee deep in some ancient civilization’s sewer systems, to give up. It was her first time appointed as research leader after all, and she could not—would not—afford to show weakness on her very first project. Damn all those in the history department who thought she was nothing but a little princess living off her father’s funds. She would show them, show them all.
“Boss!” came a voice from one of the ditches, startling her from her musing. “We found the door!”
The Demon King’s Tomb. Zelda put her field journal down, fingers tracing the running Gerudo script before closing it. They’d taken a break during the sweltering Hours of Madness, and now their small team returned to the site with renewed vigor, led by their senior Gerudo consultant Pelkar, spry and full of energy despite the fact she was easily the oldest person on the grounds. The tomb revealed itself to be bigger than their initial expectations, half-buried into the sands as was customary of these old, pre-union gravesites; if it had any decorations, all of them must’ve been on the inside. What they had uncovered of the walls was smooth and clean, and Zelda refused to believe the red sands had erased all traces of the beautiful stonework she’d seen on other tombs.
“You did?” she asked, quickly making her way over. On the bottom of the shallow trench stood Kiko, her second-in-command and colleague from the HU, his red eyes sparkling with excitement as he showed her what must’ve been the very top of the door frame. “Oh, Nayru be kind… ”
Indeed there stood the door—wide enough that a horse carriage might ride through it, and likely just as tall. Voices rang around, high and clear, and the team quickly filled into the ditch, much to Kiko’s amusement. Zelda paid them little mind, her attention solely on those six or so inches of hand-worked stone peering above the ground level, and only moved when Illura needed to take pictures. Excitement filled the hot air, burning even brighter; her own heart hammered in her chest like a trapped jewel-bird, a smile tugging on her lips.
“What are we doing, boss?” Kiko asked, giving her an encouraging grin.
This was, perhaps, her first mistake. She should have called back to the HU, to her research’s overseer, told them they’d found the tomb’s entrance. She should have asked for a larger team to be sent, perhaps for some tests to be made. But she was young and naive, drunk on this discovery, stars in her eyes. Her blood sang. She finally had the chance she’s been dreaming of for years.
“We dig,” Zelda said, pumping her fist into the sky, spade gripped tightly. “We dig, until we get to that goddamn door! I swear to you, before the moon’s turn, we will leave our mark on history. Dig!”
Foolish, foolish girl.
Dig they did, for days on end, gently removing the soil that hid the long-forgotten tomb. Zelda kept her journal updated, one entry each evening, noting the odd lack of artifacts around the smooth walls. They’d only found a handful of animal bones in the higher levels, and Pelkar had explained those were likely the sacrifices the locals mentioned. They had no livestock to offer to the spirit supposedly living within the tomb, nor could they buy one with the scarce allowance HU had allowed her as a first-time team leader, but there were other items to offer that were just as, if not more, valuable. And so they prepared perfumes and incense and food, set them away for the coming days, and kept digging.
Time was lost to her, and Zelda found she had grown near obsessed with this project, as if some sort of madness had possessed her. She woke up before the break of dawn with the shovel in her hand and left the field last, sand and soil underneath her once finely-kept fingernails. One day she’d almost stayed out during the Hours and Illura and Sera had to all but drag her to their tent while Pelkar scolded her from almost getting a heatstroke. But it was all to no use; even if she wanted to sit still, it was impossible. Her blood burned, and she moved as if in a trance, as if some other being was pushing her to keep going. Her sleep became uneasy, dreams haunting her nights and disappearing leaving without a trace the moment she woke up—and yet in the mornings she felt fresh and filled with energy, even when everyone around her complained about the heat and the sound and the howling desert winds.
The day they finally cleared ground level in front of the door was one of celebration and cheer. Zelda had been relegated to bone-cleaning duty after she’d tripped into her own shovel and scraped her knee against some particularly rough stones, and she sat off by the side gently removing the soil with her scraping knife when she heard name being called. Days of sleep deprivation—she’d begun to wake earlier and earlier, eager to get to the bottom as soon as possible—reared their ugly head and in her excitement she grabbed her knife’s blade instead of the hilt, hissing softly when warm metal bit into warm flesh. The cut was not a deep one but it stung awfully, little droplets of red running down the middle of her palm like a string of rubies.
Oh well. She’d already bloodied herself when she tripped before, her knee wrapped in gauze, what was a little bit more? She raced over to the door, knife thrown away, distractedly wiping her hand on her shirt.
There it stood, tall and absolutely majestic, a wondrous beauty beyond anything she’d ever had the honor to witness—twice her height, looming high above even Illura’s lean frame, with twin serpents worked into the red stone, guarding what lay hidden behind. From the back of her mind a tiny voice whispered that perhaps a gate of this size was too ornate to match what was supposed to be a small structure in the middle of the open desert, but Zelda paid it no mind, gleeful like she hasn’t been in weeks, months, years. Her eyes shone with a light of their own and she gingerly reached forward, running her fingers over the mud-brick seal, leaving a faint trail of blood with her wounded hand.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, something she could not quite describe settling in the pit of her stomach and purring in response.
“Zelda… your hand is bleeding.” Someone pulled on her shoulder, and she turned to see Sera looking at her with concern in her pale gray eyes. “You should go rest. The Hours are almost upon us.”
Rest? Rest, now? Zelda wretched herself free and shook her head, not noticing how she almost knocked the other woman to the ground in her haste. Her heart beat ever faster, a deafening drum in her ears. How could they rest when they were so close to their goal? All they needed was the offerings, and then— Then she could break the seal. She could see the tomb. She could walk these ancient halls and see what lay inside, see the beauty long lost to them—
“I will rest when this is done. We have to clean the sand from the bas relief before sunset, and make a fire for the offerings. Go, go!”
Perhaps if she turned around she would’ve seen the look of worry shared between her coworkers. But she didn’t. That energy had returned to her, a near-manic light in her eyes, her body unable to stay still. She would see this project through its end, carry it into her own hands if she had to, or die trying.
It took them the entire afternoon to finish the clean-up, with the hope that they’d break the seal in the morning and take their first steps inside. Kiko bound Zelda’s hand and made sure it was cleaned before insisting she take a break, and thus once again she was left aside while the rest of her team worked on the gates. No worries; she took the time to draw the bas relief into her journal. Oh, they had pictures aplenty—Illura had just gone to their tent to download them into her laptop—but after several digs back when the three of them were still studying for their master’s, Zelda had learned that some hand-drawn sketches made up for good research material. Her hand ached when she moved it, more than one would expect from a wound so shallow, but the pain did not distract her from her work, pencil clutched between her fingers.
Before long night fell, the sun blazing red across the western sky, spilling crimson light over the sands. Their work completed for the day, Pelkar and Sera went on to make dinner while Kiko and Illura stayed to help Zelda build the fire. It was just like their days back at HU, nothing but the three of them, the hard ground and some miraculously scavenged wood, and yet… It was difficult to focus. Locusts swarmed her mind, unwanted visitors, and Zelda found her mood far more irritable than it had any right to be; she snapped, bit her tongue back to swallow insults that had no place in her mouth, grit her teeth to hide annoyance. Perhaps the long day of work had tired her out. Perhaps she just needed a good night’s sleep before tomorrow, before she’d had to sit down and type out a long and boring email to their supervisor and ask for further assistance on the site’s full excavation.
The fire burned merrily, a beacon of light in the darkness, and she took a seat as close to the flame as she could without getting burned. The way its light reflected in the stone made the serpents seem alive, glowing with a golden shine of their own, and the smell of freshly cooked food had her stomach rumbling; a reminder she hadn’t eaten since that granola bar in the morning. Oh well.
Sera uncorked the bottle of wine the locals had stopped by to give them and poured its contents over the ground right in front of the doors, its sickly sweet smell filling the air. The portion of food they prepared for sacrifice they threw in the fire, letting it scorch and burn down to ashes, before lighting the incense. The different smells proved cacophonous, mixing together into one monstrosity of a scent that sent Pelkar coughing, and she complained that even after over thirty years on the pipe she was yet to smell something as horrible as their concoction. Zelda sat and inhaled the smoke, let it cloak the inside of her lungs; found it sweet, almost, a relief from the cold desert night.
It was midnight by the time she’d finally dragged herself from the flickering flame and allowed Illura to guide her to their tents, and that was only because they had no more wood to feed the fire.
Drip.
Drip.
Zelda turns around, something soft and light moving around her legs. Her steps echo in the cavernous hall that surrounds her, and yet she walks calmly; she knows the way. Around her light and shadow dance, twirling around each other, the wind playing its song; tugging on her hair, on her dress, caressing her bare arms. Further and further she walks, deeper and deeper, and yet miraculously there is still light. The air is fresh and sweet in her lungs.
The altar appears before long, golden and gleaming like the sun itself, light rays carved into its surface; the domed ceiling is ink black, gem-stars twinkling, calling her name. Zelda lifts herself easily, her lily-white skirts pooling around her thighs, and shivers when the warm metal presses against her bare skin. Her head falls back, sunlight hair spilling over her shoulders; a hand catches it, pulling further and further until her scalp aches. A warm mouth assaults her neck, tongue and teeth playing a symphony against her pulse.
“Spread your legs,” a voice rasps, the point of a sharp fang tracing the tapered end of her ear. A breath is all she has before a second hand joins the first, ripping the front of her skirt open; claws delve between her thighs before she can pry them apart, heedless of her little sounds, and palm her center. Honeydew already drips from her folds. “Good girl. My glorious Queen, you have missed me so much… ”
It is slow, torturous. One by one claws dip inside of her, deep and yet deeper, almost as if they mean to tear her apart. Zelda moans and trashes, but there is nowhere to go; the hand’s twin has moved to her hip, an arm as solid as a tree's trunk wrapped around her middle. Flames lick her back, her flesh black with burns and melting from her bones, and she cries when the mouth bites, sinking fangs into her shoulder until blood pours across her skin. Deeper and deeper. The thumb crushes her clit under its pressure, drawing moan after moan from her, and the fingers push and push against her insides as if seeking for something.
Her orgasm is a terrifying thing, a tidal wave sweeping everything away. Her eyes roll into the back of her head, her form convulsing, foam at her mouth. Sunlight pours from the cracks in her flesh, the burns leaving milky skin and soft down in their wake.
“Beautiful… ” A clawed finger runs over her cheek, leaving a thin line of red in its wake. “My Queen, how glorious you are. Worry not… I am coming for you. Nothing will keep me from you, my own. Nothing.”
Morning found them up early, as was customary of the desert; if you wanted to get something done you had to start at dawn or earlier, or risk the Hours eating that time away. Zelda was up before everyone else, a routine they’ve made, but instead of running off to the site she took the time to make some food for everyone. An odd iron taste clung to the back of her throat, and it took two cups of the sweet, sharp-smelling tea the Gerudo favored to make it go away. There was a faint red scar across her cheek, and after rubbing some disinfectant into it, Kiko concluded she likely scratched herself in her sleep.
“Your nails are getting kinda long,” Illura noted as she twisted her hair into a braid. “You trashed a lot last night. Nightmare?”
She did? Zelda shook her head and sighed, then glared at her palm. The cut was yet to begin healing over, and when she removed the gauze to wash her dish it started bleeding anew. Kiko took care of it quickly, making sure there was enough pressure applied to stop the blood flow, and somehow found a glove small enough to fit snugly around her hand.
“I don’t remember anything,” she murmured, flexing her fingers, satisfied to find the supple leather provided enough freedom of movement. “Did I make any noises? I’m sorry if I woke you up.”
“Nah, you’re good. I was up for some water either way.”
The air rang with a different energy today, everyone excited to be the first to take step in the tomb. They all knew that soon the relative peace and quiet would disappear. If Zelda’s theory that the underground portion of the Tomb went deeper was true, it meant they needed a far larger team to help excavate the entire site. She’d already drafted an email to the research center detailing everything they’d found so far, as well as one to their supervisor back at the university. The western frontier was littered with museums dedicated to long-buried tombs like the one before her, and before long the dusty grounds would be filled with a swarm of people taking apart every piece of the treasure trove she was yet to glean.
The thought gave life to an odd, ugly flame in her stomach. This was her project, her pride and joy… She couldn’t afford to have someone else to take it from her. No, the email could wait until tomorrow morning. Or the morning after. No one would know, and she and her little team would have the time of their life examining the halls. Yes, she kept telling herself over and over, they deserved this. She deserved this. She’d worked so hard, spent so many years trying to make her voice heard. No one, not even the Goddesses Themselves, could take this fucking tomb from her.
The opening took the majority of the morning; mudbrick was not so easy to get through, and they had to be extremely careful, for any and all damage to the stone gates risked one of them getting hurt, or worse—ruining the beautiful art. Zelda worked restlessly, once again in her element, glad to feel the strain in her arms, the delicious burn in her biceps. The serpents seemed to follow her every move and she wondered if they, too, were excited to finally show the world their trove of knowledge. When she finally put her knife down and gazed upon the gap that had formed between the two doors she could not help but grin, brilliant, all the light of the sun caught in her smile.
No words needed to be said; the rest would remain in history. It took plenty of effort, but between the five of them they managed to finally push the giant doors open. For the first time in millennia sunlight filled the Demon King’s Tomb. Zelda could only barely hold back the cry of utter triumph that rose within her. Something compelled her to move forward, a sweet song baring her wants and her needs. It called her, it pulled her in, and she could not ignore it, could not deny its demand. So she gave her team a blinding smile before she turned towards the shadows, and raced into the depths.
Zelda, Zelda, the darkness sang her name. Zelda, come to me…
“Zelda!” someone cried behind her.
I’m coming, she thought, relishing the stale air as if it was the first breath of spring. I’m coming…
So, so foolish.
Wondrous glyphs and stone carvings surrounded her from all sides, mosaics and murals decorated the stone walls, and yet Zelda did not even glance their way as she walked by; she only had mind for the voice that kept calling, the song that rang in her skull. Each breath brought her one step closer to her goal, each beat of her heart meant one less second waiting. There was someone running behind her, chasing her, but she did not care. Nothing but this, nothing but him , mattered. The ringing grew louder and louder until she could not hear her thoughts, until its heavy rhythm was the only sound in her heart.
The magnificent staircase wrought with gold appeared on the end of the hallway, leading deeper into the ink-black darkness. She reached it in no time, her breathing ragged, and gripped the railing, sweat dampening her temples. Someone called her name; she knew not if it came from behind her, or it was all her mind. Did it matter? She never had a choice. There was only one way, and that way led down.
So her theories were true; the tomb was far, far more extensive than they’d thought it to be. The staircase seemed to stretch for hours, and she almost slipped several times. Sand clung to her palms. The air was warm despite how removed from the surface this section seemed, and by the time she reached the bottom and looked around, the walls were no longer made of stone. The staircase ended on a black marble platform, just as beautiful as the filigree that decorated the golden railing, a stark contrast with the rough hewn rock that surrounded them.
“A cave,” she whispered, looking around with wide eyes. Lanterns of blue-green light lined the circular room—hall?—she stood in, and Zelda took one of them in her hand. All her instincts screamed to leave, to drop this cursed torch and run for her life, but she couldn’t; curiosity and longing mixed into one and gently urged her to keep going. The stale air filled her lungs, and she coughed in her palm before turning towards the wall opposite from the staircase. “Here we go… ”
Many passageways were carved into the rock walls, each of them gleaming with lanterns, leading deeper in what she could only assume to be a rich and maze-like natural cave system. Her legs shook with fear, but she swallowed it and gripped the torch tighter in her hands.
Zelda…
“Who’s there?” She cried, her voice echoing back at her, making her flinch. “What are you? What do you want from me?!”
There was no response, only a sound she could only describe as laughter, deep and wicked, that had her ears fold down and her stomach twist. One of the blue flames flickered as if gently blown by the wind, and she stared at it for a long time. Slowly, step by step, she drew near and peered into what seemed to be an endless passageway. Her eyebrows drew together.
“This is where you want me to go, isn’t it?” she asked, looking at the pure nothingness that surrounded her. A breeze blew by her, tickling her thighs, tugging on a stray strand of her hair. She grit her teeth. “I see… ”
There was no choice. There was never any choice, Zelda now knew.
For hours she wandered—or at least that was what her phone, untouched for the majority of the day, said when she stopped to take a break, the screen blinking 18:47 back at her. Her first water bottle had almost run empty, and she had no food rations on her person, everything of value left in their tents aboveground. Not that she thought she might’ve needed them. Her stomach sat curled on itself, a reminder she had not eaten since sunrise, and even beneath the glove her hand ached; a horrible, painful sting.
And so she peeled the glove off. It was likely as bad a decision as any, but she’d already made so many of them, what was one more? Her palm was red from the irritation but when she unwound the gauze she breathed a sigh of relief, glad to discover it had at least stopped bleeding. Skin raised and feverish when she touched, the wound seemed to pulse with a life of its own, and the sight of it caused something odd to stir within her belly.
“This is your making, is it not?” she asked softly, staring at the silent walls. “Something of your own pleasure… ”
The stale air did not respond—did she expect it to? Zelda didn’t know anymore. The mere fact she’d rushed into an unknown underground maze system with no care for her crew or her own safety clearly showed she had lost her mind, and whatever waited for her at the end of the tunnel was likely responsible for it. So she spared as much water as she could from her dwindling reserves to gently pat at her burning welt, wincing at the sting and hastily wiping her eyes away, and then kept on going.
Hours and hours she wandered; with every moment that passed she seemed to lose it more and more. It was not long (or was it?) before she started hearing things. People calling her name, people calling for help in the dark. The first scream came in what her phone judged to be about an hour after her last stop, and it rang in her skull for a long time after, making her twitch and flinch at even the sounds of her own footsteps. The caverns echoed everything, every little pebble rolling beneath her boot soles, and like a frightened doe Zelda jumped at each and every one of them.
There was nowhere those screams could come from; she’d begun to hallucinate too, had she not? This tomb had been sealed for centuries, millennia—her crew were the first to discover it since it was buried. No one could be inside. And yet the screams remained a bright, burning gash across her mind, making her whimper every time she heard them, making her press herself into the cold walls and beg that she, too, would meld into the stone.
Drip, drip, drip, the sound of running water began to cloud her mind. Zelda barely held back the hysterical laughter that filled her chest and forced herself to check and then recheck her scarce provisions. I’m going insane, she realized, and covered the manic smile on her face with both hands. Pelkar had warned her about the heat sickness and how it played tricks on your mind, and she knew from past experience that the Hours of Madness had their name for a reason, but this was a level of hysteria she had not expected of herself.
“This is how I die,” she whispered. “Buried in some ancient Gerudo tomb, lost to the sands, with no one to mourn me but the worms.”
And she was yet to find a single worm.
At long last—she had lost track of time long ago, and looking at her phone had by now become pointless—the tunnel grew wider and wider, and soon she stood at the edge of yet another giant hall, its ceiling lost somewhere in the pitch darkness above her head. A row of the same ghostly blue lanterns lined the walls, the only light in this hell, and made what she could only assume to be crystals shine like stars upon the black dome. In the middle of the room lay an obsidian pedestal, one not unlike the one that had welcomed her at the bottom of the stairs, and on it, a gorgeous altar of snow white marble and gleaming gold.
And resting across the altar was a tattered corpse, its white hair soiled with blood.
Bile rose up her throat, acid burning the back of her mouth, and Zelda clapped both hands across her lips to silence the incoming scream. The smell of iron hung heavy in the air, sweet and cloying. The torch clattered when she dropped it and lit up an eerie blue pathway across the time-weathered stone of the cavern. Keep going, the light commanded. Keep going.
Oh, but how could she, frozen solid? Her scream had died but so seemed to have the air in her lungs, for she found it difficult—nay, impossible—to breathe. The blood dripped from the altar, rivers of glimmering red light running down the white marble and leaving their mark on the platform. She took one small step forward, then another. Her heart drummed against her ribs like a caged animal begging to be let out, screaming at her and her foolishness. But she could not stop. No, there was only one choice. Her steps rang across the holy hall. The echo made her ears burn. Before long she reached her destination, and the sacred carnage before her made her choke on her own tears.
Kiko’s body was torn open down the middle, broken ribs sticking out of the mass of destroyed tissue. Something had turned his throat, shoulder, and the lower half of his face into a burnt, blackened mess, and Zelda believed the only reason she recognized him was for the fact they’d spent each day since their first at HU joined at the hip. The nausea grew stronger and stronger, and she could not bear to look at the bloodied hollow of his stomach, little bits of intestine the only thing remaining. Goddesses. Tears blurred her vision and she took one sharp breath, and then regretted it immediately; the smell of death choked her, wringing her throat, and all she could do was grip the altar’s edge and attempt to hold on as the tremors took over.
She retched for what must’ve been hours, acid on her lips, on her tongue, a little puddle of vomit forming at her feet.
The body’s limbs were broken, angled in ways they would’ve never been in life, one shoulder—the one that had not been burnt to a crisp—torn from its socket. Try as she might she could not look away from it, finding an odd, bizarre fascination with the way the bloody pool seemed to glow in the blue light. Her hands moved on their own accord, and by the time Zelda realized what she was doing her fingers hovered mere inches above the twisted mass of blackened flesh. She pulled back with a start, releasing a cry drowning in her tears, and collided with one of the altar’s golden spires.
“My Queen, I’m glad you enjoy my offering. It’s been so long… ”
Pain burned bright and hot at the back of her head, and it mattered so little— That voice! The voice that had spoken in her dreams, the voice that had called, summoned her down to the pit of this rotten hellhole. Zelda gripped the golden spire and urged herself to stand, her knees weak. The magic that had carried her for so long had abandoned her and she felt weak, a whimpering bag of skin and bones and red flesh.
“Who is there?” she called out, her voice small and shaky in the empty void. “Who called me here?”
“I did, Goddess,” the voice’s owner spoke, breath blazing against her neck. “I have returned to you.”
Zelda whipped around as quickly as her body allowed and would’ve slipped in her own vomit if not for the hand that took her waist and steadied her. A massive hand, one that easily covered her stomach; a hand armed with wicked black claws and bejeweled in gold. She took a step back and then another, but the hand’s owner would not have her run, breathe; before she could fight her feet left the ground, and she was deposited on the altar’s seat with shocking gentleness.
“My Goddess,” he spoke, full of reverence. “How it soothes me to see you again… my own. My precious.”
The man before her had walked as if out of the shadows—a colossus of a man, twice her size if not larger, miles and miles of stone-hewn muscle and a mane of hair as red as wildfire. His eyes, the color of molten gold, the shine of the sun, bore upon her, and a smile as lovely as the sunset lit up his kingly face. Beauty was woven in each line of him, each dip and curve, and the light he seemed to emit was that of the Divine. Godly, almost.
The Demon King stood before her clothed in shadows and crowded in gold, and belatedly Zelda realized she could not breathe.
“You… you called me here,” she managed, her voice broken down to a whimper. A hand came to cradle her face, and where he touched her she burned; so warm was he. “You… You did… ”
“I did what I had to, my love,” the King soothed. “Shhh… It is okay. I am here now, precious. I will not leave you again. We will be together again, together until the end of time. No one will take you away… ”
A giant of a man, and yet he moved so lightly; Zelda shivered when he knelt before her like a holy man knelt at the altar. Up so close she could not bear to look away from his face, so magnetic, mesmerizing. Like the corpse it pulled her in, stronger, far more powerful than what little Hylian maids were meant to take. Oh, he was so beautiful, glowing as if the sun itself had taken form. Her trembling hands rose to touch him, palms on his face, and again she burned. A sweet burn, however; one that filled her completely and left her yearning, one that made her cunt ache. Empty, empty, she was so empty .
The first kiss was a soft, gentle beast; a press of lips to burning lips, a choked breath in the back of her throat, a burst of warm air against her skin. His eyes glowed like twin suns in the suffocating darkness, and when he smiled and whispered her name against her mouth, Zelda swore he’d torn her open and taken the twitching muscle behind her ribs.
The second kiss, he consumed.
Blood-stained tongue and knife-point fangs. Deadly claws. Iron and ozone. She was slipping, slipping, falling deep down under, and the Demon King became her anchor, dragging her further. The shadows swirled around them, warm and comforting, and Zelda moaned softly when he stroked the roof of her mouth with his tongue. Trembling hands moved from his face to his hair, fingers tangling in tresses of fire and tearing intricate braids apart. They moved, perhaps; somewhere far away she knew he’d pulled her legs apart, felt the press of a burning, scaled palm across her mound. But up here breathing meant fighting when he shoved down her throat and taking when he stole her air. He’d set her on fire and every tender caress made the flames burn brighter, and somewhere between his quiet growls and the heat pooling between at the pit of her belly she forgot about the corpse in her feet.
“My precious,” the Demon King crooned, pulling from her enough that she could catch her breath. “Oh, treasure, my Goddess, my Hylia, what have they done to you?”
Hylia— why would he call her by that name? Zelda did not know, and frankly in that moment she doubted she cared enough to know. Her vision blurred but her hands never stopped their movement, carding through his glorious mane, feeling the liquid fire as it trickled over her palms. The soft sounds he made when her nails dragged across his scalp were her everything.
“Whatever do you mean?” she asked softly, forcing herself to speak when he tilted her head up.
“My Goddess— ” A hand crept under her shirt, claws stroking the small of her back, and oh no, she melted. “What are these garments you wear? What is this sacrilege?”
Oh. Her face flushed, ears scarlet red. No, there was no escape; the hand moved, taking the sweat-soiled cotton along, lifting it over her head. Fingers fiddled with the clasp of her bra, then the zipper of her trousers, and each time Zelda helped him, whispering sweet nothings as the great beast took away her clothes and replaced them with his touch. Her soaked underwear he tore free, and lifted to his nose to sniff and nuzzle into, tongue lapping at the tattered satin.
“Where are your silks?” the Demon King asked, thumb idly stroking her hip. “Where are your jewels? My love, this is unacceptable. You are a Queen! Only the richest treasures are fit for you, and yet the single garment you have of quality you wear beneath.”
“Life is… different than you remember,” she tried to explain, oddly sheepish now. Poor King, millennia old; he didn’t know anything. Was it to her to teach him? “I am no Queen, but a simple woma— ”
“You are my Queen.” How could four simple words mean so much? Zelda burned. Her heart sped up once more, a trapped birdling, but one that sought no escape. No, freedom was not for her—freedom was the pool of gold in his eyes, the bite of his claws as he urged her thighs apart. “And that, Zelda, is all you need to know.”
She was his Queen, and that meant everything.
The fires took over slowly. First was her neck; he smothered her skin with kisses, hungry and yet hungrier, wove a collar of purple blossoms around her throat. Bite after bite he bejeweled her, and his tools were none but his own lips and fangs. Oh, to be worshipped! Divinity flickered to life inside of her. Her hands clutched at his hair, at his crowned head, and Zelda shuddered violently beneath the heat of his mouth. Shoulders, chest, stomach; not a single inch of skin did he leave unadorned. Her breasts bore the mark of his hands, a holy symbol, purple fingers against skin of amber and ivory, and more such marks he draped over her hips, her thighs. Slow was his descent, but beautiful— a gentle landing.
Then he drew down to his knees and buried his face between her legs, and Zelda fell apart.
The Demon King took her slowly, toying with her like a hunter toyed with his prey—he kissed her folds, pet her clit with the tip of his tongue and nudged his nose against it, teased the softness of her entrance. Never did he allow her to escape, no; his hands held her hips firmly, held her snug against the altar’s edge, and she had nothing to do but hold onto him and pray. And pray she did, fervent like she’d never been in a temple, voice rising into crescendo as he wrung song after song out of her. Her body flowed for him, a spring to sate his thirst, and by the time his tongue finally slipped past her gate her soft petals were tinged purple and her thighs painted red with her lifeblood.
“I can’t— Goddesses, please, I cannot go further,” she cried, nails set against his skin, fingers torn and bloodied from his crown.
Her King hummed, voice deep and most delicious, and brought his gaze up to meet hers. His beard dripped with her honey, the bottom half his face soaked, and she shuddered as she watched him lick his lips. His tongue was unreasonably long, thick and broad; the things he could do to her haunted her darkest fantasies. “Do you tell me to stop, Goddess?”
No.
“Never,” Zelda breathed.
His smile was a blessing—never had she felt more loved than she felt in that moment. The God between her legs kissed her once more, teeth scraping her abused clit in just the way to make her sob and cry and trash, and then gently pushed his tongue inside of her. Wet and slippery and yet impossibly warm; he burned and scorched her walls like he intended to mark her, to ruin her for all else, and Zelda couldn’t garner the strength to be upset about it. Mothers, she wanted him; if being his meant ruin, she would gladly hand him the tools herself and watch him wreck havoc on her.
But the King needed no tools but those of his own and soon he had her singing again, her cries and pleas and sobs echoing in the black stone that surrounded them. He burned her, branded her, took all that made her Zelda and made it his, and for that she loved him. The tip of his tongue reached so deep it hurt, teasing a part of her she had never known; made her trash and scream and scratch bloody red lines into his shoulders as she begged for mercy.
Mercy he gave her some hours later, with her sweat-slicked back pressed into the white marble and his cock between her legs, one hand around her throat and the other bruising her hip.
“You are so beautiful, my own,” the Demon King whispered as he pushed into her, his breath wildfire in her hair. There was no way he would fit, not when he was the size of her forearm and thicker around, and yet he thrust and she screamed as he rent her flesh from bone. “Sing. Sing for me. I’ve missed your voice, my love, my precious, will you not sing? For me?”
“ Yes,” was her only reply; a prayer sung with blurry eyes and kiss-bruised lips. Tears ran down her red-painted cheeks. “Yes, yes, my love, my King…”
He claimed her slowly; perhaps he feared to break her, perhaps he wanted to savor their first joining after so long. Did it matter? Zelda cried and sang and screamed herself bloody, and tore red ribbons into his shoulders. Love, it was love what they made, a holy union beyond that of mere mortals. Divinity burned through him and into her as he loved her, golden light pouring from his skin, glowing in her tears. He snarled and sang for her, and ran his tongue over her face and her neck, and cradled her like the treasure he named her, precious. She was loved, loved, loved.
His hips pressed down against hers, her rear cradled perfectly into the curve of his thighs. “Beautiful,” the King told her, stroked the bulge of his cock where it distended her stomach, made her cry again. “Just a little bit further, my precious… Open up. I need your womb. I need to have you, all of you, will you not open up for me?”
Open up. Yes, yes, for him—yes, she could do it. Pain flared through her, the head of his cock hitting her gate over and over, his grip on her hip almost bone-crushing. It hurt, and it was the most delicious burn; when he finally pushed past that useless barrier and claimed what belonged to him, Zelda saw white.
Unconsciousness faded to sleep, deep and heavy, but it mattered little, for the King mated his Queen into the dwindling night, and his roars echoed long into the empty halls of his tomb.
His name was Gan. He was her King and her God, and he loved her.
That was all Zelda needed to know.
They fell into a routine quickly, because Zelda was a good and smart girl, because Zelda loved her King and his happiness was her own. He’d made the cavern a home for them—somehow he'd found her belongings from the aboveground and brought them to her, and had her books and her writing materials neatly sorted for her in a little nest at the foot of the altar. Her clothes he had burned (“A Goddess deserves nothing but the finest of silks, my love,”) and replaced with long, flowy dresses of white and gold, ones that made her shine like the crystals set into the black ceiling; her hair he wove jewels into, strings of fat rubies and blood red diamonds that rang like little bells with each step she took, and her wrist and ankles he adorned with bracelets and hair-fine chains. He made her beautiful; made her gaze at her reflection in a little pool of crystal waters and tell the woman that looked back at her that she was beautiful, that she was Divine.
Her neck he left unadorned, save for the flowers he painted on her skin each and every day, and for that too she loved him.
There was no day or night deep down under—there was only the flicker of the torches every once in a while, the shine of the crystals, the stirring of hunger. Gan fed her well; he’d managed to bring the rest of the supplies with him and made sure she ate each time she felt the need for it, that she had plenty of treats and sweet spring water to drink to keep her sated and sane while they mated. Sometimes he gave her bits and pieces of his own prey too, fed her from his bloody mouth and made her clean the gore from his lips, and she obeyed him with no reservations; this much she hungered for his praise.
And praise, it turned out, he gave aplenty.
He loved her. He loved her hungrily, needily, selfishly, and Zelda could not get more of what he gave her. She rose with him buried inside of her and fell asleep with his seed scorching the walls of her womb; there were times he took her while she slept, and she would wake to the sound of him in his pleasure, to the feel of a mouth on her shoulder and clawed hands at her hips—those times she loved the most. He made her feel so small, for he was giant and so strong, and yet never cruel to her—he carried her when her legs refused to, he licked at her blood and kissed the pain away, he whispered sweet nothings when she cried and let her hold him when he did, let her kiss the tears away and keep him safe sheltered in her arms. He loved her like no one had loved her before and she could do nothing but worship the ground he walked in return.
“Little Goddess,” the King greeted her as he returned to their nest, smiling bright as the sun with his mouth a carnage, and brought the smell of the desert along.
“My love!” Zelda left her books, uncaring of all else but him, and laughed when he picked her and spun her around. His kiss tasted like iron and she savored the feel of his tongue as she clung to him, his latest kill falling somewhere behind them. “I missed you… ”
Any other person would’ve responded with a reminder they’d seen each other some mere hours ago, but Gan did not—he kissed her again, and again, and purred as he carried her to the altar, hands tearing through the pretty white silks as if paper. “I missed you too, my own. Have you been good? Spread your legs… ”
She did, of course, the good girl that she was, and opened herself for him, throwing her head back when he delved into her weeping cunt and began pulling the string of jewels he’d buried within. Rubies and sapphires the size of an eye, warm and wet from being inside of her for so long; Zelda moaned and arched her hips into his touch, shuddering when the golden chain dragged against her swollen clit.
“Beautiful,” Gan whispered, kissing her face and licking her reddened cheeks. One of his clawed hands rubbed the soft bump on her belly, stroked the black ink etched into the milky white of her skin. “Such a good girl. I love you, I love you… ”
She smiled brightly, short of breath and quivering upon the gold platform, and sighed when his mouth soon replaced his fingers, her hands moving to his hair. He was always so hungry after hunt and she eagerly pulled him in, petting and encouraging him as he took his fill between her legs, all but fucking her down on his tongue. Sometimes he did it for hours; Zelda was oft to pass after the fourth or fifth orgasm, too weak to continue, and would later awake with him hilted inside of her and his mouth flowing with honey. Her stamina grew with each day, however; her King promised that one day she would be able to take him in his full splendor and not lose herself, but for now that fantasy was something far away from her.
Today was no such day; Gan rose from his knees not long after her second peak, licking the mess of blood and honey on his mouth, staring at her like a man famished. He kissed her again, forced his tongue into her mouth and fed her her own fluids, crushed one of his massive hands into her hip. Zelda moaned against him, choking and coughing when he pulled from her and let her breathe, saliva dripping from her mouth; sighed when he only licked that up as well. He consumed her, left nothing behind; she loved that too, loved being so cherished.
“I need you,” he whispered in her ear, low and gruff, and stroked her quivering cunt with his fingers.
“You have me.” Her hands cupped his cheeks, held him close as she kissed him, desperation bleeding red. Her body burned, a most delicious sensation. A thousand prayers on her tongue. “Please, please… Love me. I am yours.”
The Demon King had need for little bidding; his eyes blazed, shadow and golden light pouring from his skin, and kissed her once more before gently lying her onto the altar. The little left of her dress slipped away, ribbons of white silk tickling her skin, and then he was above her, covering her, mounting her the way he loved the most, and Zelda cried when with his first thrust he was already halfway inside of her. Fire stroked her belly, tickling her walls, her womb; she clutched at his arms desperately, wide-eyed and watering at the mouth, and calling his name when he began to slowly move in and out.
Their love was a beautiful thing, and most beautiful in moments like this; the moments they became one. Their bodies moved together, a slow rhythm of decadence and bliss, soft cries and guttural grunts echoing back at them as they loved. Her King moved with a ruthlessness she couldn’t help but adore, keeping one hand on her hip and the other bracing himself next to her head; with each thrust he fondled her ass, her clit, tugged at her walls to make her burn all the brighter. How much he indulged in her, how much he did to please her…
He was her King, he loved her.
He was her God, he loved her.
Zelda smiled (“Yes,”) through the tears (“Yes,”) that ran down her face (“ Yes,”) and cried his name again, begging him to never-ever stop, begging him to never let go. He was her only in this world, his laugh and his smile the only happiness she would ever possess. Her body, her mind, her soul—she’d given them to him, watched him tear all she was with bloody teeth and praised him for the destruction he wrought on her. Nothing mattered, nothing but the way he whispered her name, the way his cock marked her as his property and his treasure; his Queen, his broodmare, his Goddess.
He loved her.
By the time he found his pleasure she’d nearly fallen asleep again, her body warm and soft and supple, her throat sore for screaming, blood under her nails. Hips snapped, his shoulders tensed, and then he roared, a sound as deep as the end of this endless cavern, ringing in her skull. Tears ran down her face when she felt the spilt of his seed, lava-hot, scorching her walls; compared to his her own pleasure was meaningless, and all she could do was mewl and whimper her orgasm out, shuddering violently.
“Good girl,” her King soothed, cradling her tear-stained face in bloodied hands and licking at the wetness from her cheeks. “You treat me so well, little Goddess, my Hylia… You were made for me.”
“I love you,” she choked out in reply; it was the only thing she could say.
His smile gentled, and he kissed her lips. “I know, my own, I know.” His teeth gleamed in the soft twilight. “And now again, yes? My sweet… ”
Again. Again. The word rang in her ears, and Zelda let out a pathetic little sound as she nodded, and curled herself against the warmth of his chest. Her abused cunt squeezed weakly around him, her tired hands seeking purchase in his bloodied shoulders.
“ Again,” the Demon King whispered, and rocked his hips into hers.
Zelda could no longer tell if the wetness on her face was tears or blood.
Food began to run out about four months in, and Zelda found that with each day that passed her King grew more and more affectionate.
It was not an unwelcome revelation; she liked his touch, liked the warmth of tight arms and burning breath, liked the soft whisper in tongues long lost as he played with her hair. For hours he’d hold her in the nest they built together, kissing away at her bare skin, ducking to suckle at her breasts or to lap at her cunt, force little orgasms out of her body for his amusement. He was a kind lover, her precious Gan, and he always made sure she was happy and content and sated before he forced her down on his cock and rocked her up and down, holding her like the pretty doll he’d helped her become.
But food was running out and hunger crept deeper and deeper, and after a while her body could no longer hold down the bloody meat he fed her.
“My Hylia,” her King whispered, his eyes dark, as he moved one hand to wipe away the gore around her mouth. “My sweet, stay with me… ”
She’d vomited again, a splatter of something red and goopy in her feet; the smell of death and stomach acid painted on her tongue. Zelda stared at her God with dazed eyes, and opened her mouth like the obedient little girl she was when he held a cup of water to her mouth. Yes, water—it always made her feel so much better, light in her empty belly. Sweet nothing in her ears, her King holding her so gently…
“Zelda,” he said after several minutes of silence, her name the sweetest blessing on his lips. “We cannot stay here any longer.”
“I know,” she whispered, her face buried into one ink-painted shoulder.
“We need to leave.”
“I know,” she choked into his skin, the I want to stay going unsaid.
Why would ever want to leave this holy place? She’d never felt at home like she did here, she never had been of use like he had made her. Her King, her God, the air in her lungs—he’d made her beautiful, he’d reminded her that there was good in the world, that she could be good. He’d given her a goal, taught her to get on her knees and worship like she was meant to, and Zelda did not want to leave the sweet solace of this home they created together. Her fingers clutched at his arm, and she let out a shaky, whimpering breath, tears slowly rolling down her face.
“I know, my own.” Gan bent his head to kiss her temple. “I know. But I cannot afford to lose you again, do you understand? I will be lost without you—there is no me without you. I am your King, but you are my Queen… ”
“Gan…”
“I was so lonely.” He rocked himself against her like a child needing its mother’s comfort and at once Zelda melted, curling herself into his lap and offering comfort as best as she could. It always came easier for her to think of him and his pains than her own; the hurts that made her heart bleed lingered beneath the surface, and she did not want to dig them out. Warm lips brushed her brow, his nose buried into her crown. “I’m not going to let you leave me again, do you understand?”
“Yes, my love,” she soothed, her voice a song, a lullaby. “I understand.”
A heartbeat. Two. Three. Then, a soft sigh. “What will we do, then?”
“I know not. At least, not yet.” Her King nosed at her hair, breathed her scent as if it was his panacea. “But finding a life under the sun… Surely it will not be so difficult. Not with your brilliance, not with my might.”
“You are too kind… ”
“I speak the truth.” He cupped her face, one clawed finger tracing the now pale scar across her cheekbone. “My Goddess, my little love, your mind has no equal… Even here, in the shadows of the temple that became my death, you continue to blossom. You write each and every day, and the songs you weave grow stronger as we speak. You are magic, my own, and the world must know of your brilliance.”
Her cheeks flushed darkly and Zelda averted her gaze, much to his amusement. His thumb ran over her mouth, tugging on her bottom lip until it opened for him, the tip disappearing inside.
“Not to mention,” he continued, voice dipping into a low purr, “you are spectacular in sucking my cock.”
“Ganondorf!” she cried, the sound quickly dissolving into soft tinkling laughter, her face pillowed against his chest. She swore she felt him smile where he nuzzled at her hair, his breath easing. “You are incorrigible.”
“I’m simply stating facts. Your light shines so brightly, my own, and I crave for the world to see it and revel in it as much as I want for everyone to know that you belong to me.” The Demon King yanked at her hair then, pulling back so her neck nearly snapped, and hungrily plastered his mouth over her own, holding her still as if he didn’t care for the bile that still clung to the roof of it. “There, good girl… You will show them all how good you ride me, won’t you?”
“Gan.” She’d tried countless times already; Zelda had long lost faith that he would understand that particular bit about the evolution of society. “Public sex is no longer a thing people do, my love.”
“I don’t see what is stopping us from changing that,” he said, nonchalant as ever, and kissed his way down her neck. “I am a God, my sweet, and you a Goddess… these poor mortals will surely have better things to do than angering us and getting in our business. Right?”
“Gan— ”
“Right?”
His voice, sweet, commanding; his eyes, burning as he gazed down at her, one clawed hand moving from her wild hair to her windpipe, stroking the softness of her throat. He smiled, the kind of smile Zelda loved most, unrestrained and full of the adoration he bestowed upon her each time he loved her. She closed her eyes, breath easy now, and stroked her own hand over his; her cunt betrayed her even if her heart did not, leaking, showing just how well he’d trained her body. Her clit throbbed. She wanted him inside of her, wanting to feel the spill of his seed, the heat of their tangled bodies.
“Right.”
His nose gently brushed her own. “I love, my Hylia. My treasure… ”
URGENT NEWS!
A MIRACLE IN THE MAKING: LOST RESEARCHER FOUND IN THE GERUDO DESERT (pg. 3-4, sect. 1)
Several months ago an archeological team dispatched from the highly esteemed Hateno University of Humanitarian Sciences (HU) was lost in the Kantara region of the Western Gerudo Desert, much to the grief of family and friends. The team was led by none other than Miss Zelda Allyria Harki… daughter of the late prime… alumna of the HU with honors and…
…
…
After months during which all team members were thought to have perished, Miss Harkinian was discovered in the hospital of Paani Village (pict. 2), no less than 30 miles from Anasi Town, center-point of the search efforts. Miss Harkinian is in less than perfect health and still recovering from the harrowing experiences she’s gone through, and thus was unable to share with us her account of the events in which she lost her colleagues, but her fiance, Mr Ganondorf Dragmire, a local and the person who (in her own words) saved Miss Harkinian’s life, had agreed to sit with us and disclose his portion of the story.
A long day of traveling through Ka… Howling of jackals… blood… frightened dogs… bones and go… unde woma… to the hospi…
…
…
Miss Harkinian is making a steady physical recovery from the injuries she’d suffered during the repeated attacks. The remains of her colleagues have been cremated in Gerudo tradition and sent to their families, and Miss Harkinian expresses her deepest sorrow for the lives that have been lost, and guilt for the fact she had allowed such things to happen under her watch. (When asked about anything she might’ve wanted to say about her colleagues the young woman burst in tears, and we were asked to give her space for several minutes.) Miss H has elected to not return to Hyrule and to instead stay in Paani Village with her fiance—the two are expecting their first child by the end of this year, as well as arranging a small traditional ceremony. Miss H is also seeing a therapist on account of the traumatic experience she went through, but any further detail on her mental health is not known.
When asked about the historical site her team visited, the one dubbed The Demon King’s Tomb by the local populace, Miss H denied commentary, and Mr Dragmire requested of us to leave the premises of their home.