How awful it was to be alive.

This was no way to think, no way to live, yet what other choice did she have?

A test of strength, of endurance, of faith. Had any person ever lived through such a disaster as this? She was not sure.

She felt so small and powerless.

Power. There was something she could use now. It was in such short supply, monopolized by one cruel tyrant. In her dungeon cell, she felt her powerlessness acutely.

This cell was dark, damp, cold. She ran her dirty hands along them to remind herself that she was still alive. This was no nightmare to wake from. She had no father or mother or nursemaid to console her. There was no one.

Worst of all, there was no hero.

A single, foolish mistake she had made so many years before had set the world on this dreadful course. She had been so sure of herself then, so sure the desert man would be foiled, so sure of her hero's abilities.

He had been a fantastic hero. He had been true. And he had died.

And now the desert man was a Demon King. She bit back the wave of despair until it dripped out in short, painful sobs. Here in her prison she had an endless supply of time scrutinize her plans, and when she lost the strength to do that her mind would drift to recent memories. There was a sunlit courtyard, a nighttime reading binge, a favoured dish, her mother.

Her father.

He hadn't believed her warnings about the Demon King. It didn't matter now, she supposed, but wasn't it nice to consider, if her father had been wiser, what he might have done to this usurper. She thought of the proud men of her father's army, the great knights. Where were they now? The ones that had lived, anyway. Those thoughts were too restless and sad, and she put them away.

A day became several and then into a week and longer. In all this time, this desert thief, this new Demon King, made no appearance. And so, she thought, why should he? What was she now? Once, she was a princess of a great kingdom. After her father, she ought to be queen, but a queen does not sit in a dungeon. She was merely a prisoner in a new, dark world.

Is that really what she was? As she picked at her moldy bread, she had a thought so simple that it angered her to not have thought it before. If this desert man could make himself Demon King and lord of her kingdom, she would make herself a queen.

The tin plate made a fine instrument, though not as sweet to hear as a flute or a harp. Beating it against the stone wall summoned a guard, who came lumbering to her prison door.

"What?" he asked, growling, through the small window.

Standing on tiptoes, she was barely able to peer out, and glared with defiance at the man-beast. "Summon your master. I wish to discuss terms," she said, her strong voice ringing off the dungeon walls as the beast considered her words.

"Terms," the man-beast said back, before snorting and waddling away.

Two more days passed before an answer came in the form of the Demon King himself. She woke to the clang of a javelin tapping along the floor and the appearance of her man-beast jailer standing over her. He grunted orders to stand and she did so, slowly, and was impressed when he offered a scaly arm to steady her. Offering her thanks, she hugged her tattered clothing close and made her way along the winding dungeon corridors and up stairs to a building that looked as dank and dark as the dungeon cell had been, the only distinguishing features being fire and carpet.

Here was a large room, empty and cold and poorly lit. The ceiling rose high and cavernous. She tried not to think too much about her old home, light and bright, that stood here once. She didn't have much time to consider it.

"You have terms, do you?" A voice spoke from the shadow. It was a deep, bellowing voice, dripping with cruelty. She knew it instantly.

"I do," She said slowly, turning.

The voices in the room were deceiving, as if they came from everywhere and nowhere. She did not know where to look. She could feel a hundred eyes on her, peering pervertedly at her from the dark. A wave of heat hit her suddenly from behind, and there she found him, sitting on a dark stone throne covered in sharp spikes and surrounded by fire. A glamour of dark magic, she told herself, steadying her nerves.

"Ganondorf." The name rolled out of her like acid. She pulled tighter to the rags, and tilted her head back, higher.

"Zelda." He spoke her name like a caress and leaned forward in his throne. "I'm eager to do business. Finally."

"My terms," Zelda began.

"Impatient?" He interrupted with a devious smile. "You do not wish to give to me the courtesy of small talk?"

"My terms," Zelda sighed, restarting. "I lend to you the powers of the Triforce of Wisdom for the protection of my people."

"Such dry conduct. You Hylians," he said, dismissive. She ignored him.

"Those are my terms," Zelda said.

Ganondorf sat back, unmoved.

"What else?" he asked, unimpressed.

Zelda paused.

"What else do you want?" Zelda asked in a wavered voice.

Ganondorf stood and slowly descended the carpet stairs, his long, red cape flowing like a thin silken line of blood in his wake. In the light, she saw the gleam of his amber jewels and his thick, ashen armour. Her gaze followed him, even as he came to tower over her slight frame and she had to crane her neck to look at him. He was a freakishly huge man, and she knew he could crush her skull in a single fist if he wished to. She guessed he didn't want to. Not yet.

He stopped before her, folding his large arms, and she could smell leather and dirt and blood. She watched his yellow eyes, deep and almost beautiful, if not for their savage intensity.

"The Triforce of Courage was a fascinating prize," he said, tightening his right fist. "When I took Power, it was a rush, not unlike the first time I had killed a man, but so much more. Courage was different. When I took it from that simple boy, I felt a righteous energy."

She could see the outline of the three triangles on his hand, two glowing much better than the remaining, which in turn began to glow in harmony on the back of her own hand.

"And then there was Wisdom," Ganondorf said, looking to Zelda's hand. "You can feel it, can't you?"

"What else do you want?" Zelda asked with annoyance.

"Your lack of enthusiasm in civil conversation is irritating, Zelda, as is your lack of respect. I shouldn't need to remind you who is king here," he said, rumbling.

"Is that what you want? Small talk and a grand title?" Zelda asked, stifling a bitter laugh.

"Details," he shrugged and began to circle her. "I want Hyrule."

"You have Hyrule," she said, looking away.

He stopped his circling. "Your hero, though a boy, was a worthy task for me. In defeating him, I sent an important message. You, however, are different. I could kill you. I wanted to kill you, when you were a little whelp hiding behind your nursemaid's knees." His hand reached out to her, landing on her chin, and turning her face to his once more. "You were a clever little thing, then. I was impressed enough by your little ruse to hide from me in my own service, masquerading as the Sheikah boy. And then I found you, a woman grown." He turned her head, his eyes observing her closely.

"I won't marry you," Zelda said, as haughtily as she could muster. Ganondorf could only laugh.

"You think too highly of yourself," he said, his devious grin returning. "No, Zelda, I don't want to marry you. That's not the message I want to send."

Zelda felt her palms begin to sweat.

"I think, clever little thing that you are, that we had an understanding. Those are my terms," he said, as he watched for her reaction.

She tried not to think of the answer as she spoke it, and of the consequences of her choice. Zelda asked herself once more: what choice did she have?

This question haunted her. The Demon King wasted no time taking advantage of their new terms. She summoned her strength to block the pain, the sound of his voice growling her name, the smell of his sweat, the feel of his mouth on her. And as she sat up, clinging the dark sheets to her she asked herself the question again.

The bed shifted and a rough callused hand reached out and traced fingertips across her back.

"Now, Hyrule is truly mine," he said, raspy and breathless.

She said nothing, holding back tears, not of despair, but of rage. He was wrong, and she would prove it to him.

And she had a plan.