hello beautiful people!

welcome to the second book of my four-part series, War of the Four Lands :)

if you're here then you probably read the first part

if you haven't

go read it!

this one will definitely be shorter than the first because there isn't as much as exposition necessary you know what i'm sayin

but, like the last book, it will be four 'parts.' this is just the prologue, first part starts with the first real chapter

it is not even close to being finished but I thought I'd post this because PATIENCE IS NOT ONE OF MY VIRTUES #noragrets

(full summary of the series in the prologue of my first book, if you need a refresher!)

enjoy

lemme know what you think, what you hope to see, what you think is gonna happen, ask me questions, anything! hearing predictions is my fav because I can either be like wow you're right or LAUGH AT YOU FROM BEHIND THE SCREEN HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

(jk i won't laugh at you)

(jk yes i will)

love forever and always!

xoxo

Prologue

The Prisoner in Cell 39

"Okay, who's supposed to feed him today?"

"Pretty sure you are, Rami."

"What? Me? But I fed him on Monday."

"Yes. And now it's Friday. It's your turn."

The young man with the bright purple hair and golden eyes and freckles, whom the others called Rami, began wringing his hands together and looking at each of his comrades with an expression of barbaric desperation. At the other guards who were on duty in the fifth ward, that is. Sitting at their table, discussing what was always the most important issue of every day: who would have to feed the prisoner in cell 39. The one in the straitjacket, who needed to be fed because the wardens (and the world, evidently) couldn't afford to let him out of the straitjacket. It had taken them years to get it on in the first place. But Rami was convinced that of the four of them, he was by far the most frightened of this prisoner. He felt, deep inside, that the prisoner felt a particular pleasure in toying with him specifically. There was always a look in his eyes that made Rami shake at his very core. As the other three guards looked at him with expectant gazes, he considered begging them. Considered getting on his knees and saying Please please no don't make me do it.

But he knew that none of them wanted to do it, either. He knew that none of his pleas would make a difference. He would have to feed the prisoner of cell 39 today.

They prepared the tray. Put on it the usual—a few pieces of meat, bread, a slice of cheese, a glass of water. They hadn't even cooked the meat. Juice seeped from its pink flesh onto the cracked, dirty plate on which it sat. The other guards didn't look smug or satisfied when they handed the tray to Rami. Rather, they looked pitying. One gave him a soft pat on the back and said, "Godspeed."

Rami took the tray and gripped it so tightly that his knuckles turned white as he walked down the hall of the fifth ward. There were so many other cells, he mused—so many other wards in this prison. The biggest prison in all of Hyrule. So many other prisons, even. Other prisons, other wards, other cells, other prisoners. And yet, he was stuck in Arbiteraris prison, the fifth ward, cell 39, the prisoner in the straitjacket. As he walked, his guard's cape billowed around him, and he wished that he had taken it off. He ignored, as always, the calls of the other prisoners. The jeers and the laughs and the pleas—dog of the queen—help me boy—dirty half-breed (it was obvious from his eyes)—get me out of here.

He kept walking until he reached cell 39. It was one of the special cells. What the other prisoners had come to call Blind Cells, because it was rumored that it was so white inside them that one could go blind from just being there. Rami thought it was a silly rumor, because he had been in there so many times and had never come close to blindness. Neither had the prisoner in the straitjacket. These cells, which were scattered among the wards, were saved for the prisoners that, more than being criminals, showed signs of insanity. Whatever that meant. Rami wasn't sure how it was decided who was thrown into the Blind Cells, but he had always agreed that the prisoner in the straitjacket needed one.

With shaking limbs, he approached the door to cell 39. (No matter how many times he had done this, it was frightening every single time to the same degree.) He pulled the key from within his cape and thrust it into the large, heavy metal door. It was surrounded by a white wall that made the cell stick out like a sore thumb among the other doors. Before he opened it, he knocked. Not really knowing why. Then he gently opened it and slipped inside, making sure to close it behind him. It almost shut on his cape.

At first, he didn't see anybody inside, and he felt his stomach churn. Had he already managed to screw up, allowing the prisoner in the straitjacket to escape? He stumbled a few steps, the plates and silverware clattering together on the tray. All of the walls were white, the ceiling was white, the floor was white—there was no hint of darkness or any color other than white. There was also no hint of the prisoner. Rami began murmuring hastily to himself, was close to hyperventilating, felt his heart racing.

"Where is he, where is he," he kept repeating, looking from corner to corner. "Oh no, oh no, where is he?" Rami even found himself looking up at the ceiling, as if the prisoner could have somehow stitched himself to the fibers there.

"Ah, good, it's you. The cute one." The voice came from behind him, whispering in his ear, so close that he could feel the warmth of a mysterious breath. Rami bit down on his tongue to keep from screaming and gripped the tray more tightly, lest he drop it from how startled he was. He didn't move his head, but tried to look at the source of the voice. The one who was standing behind him, was now leaning his chin on Rami's shoulder—the prisoner in the straitjacket.

He was smiling, his lips curled and hovering too close to the skin of Rami's neck. His eyes were nothing but black, a stark contrast to the white that surrounded them. Deep, heavy, purple bags lined the lids beneath his eyes, and came to sharp points. Although, more than bags from sleeplessness or stressed, they looked like he himself had put them there, with a steady hand and purple charcoal. Those eyes looked dull, yet full of life at the same time. A strange, vibrant kind of dullness. Sharpness, cruelty encased in those eyes and purple liner. And his skin, especially this close, looked painted. Gray—with a dark green hue. It didn't look like the skin of any race Rami knew. It was too smooth, too gray, too green. His mouth was the most frightening part, though. His lips were thin and constantly smiling and just as white as the Blind Cell. And, as someone else might fix her hair or chew his nails or stretch her arms, he licked those lips. Every few moments. With his long, pink tongue.

"I love it when they send you," he murmured. His voice was stretched and graceful, sent fear like a lightning bolt to Rami's core. "The adorable little half-breed."

Rami finally snapped out of his paralysis and turned around to face the prisoner. But there was no point in trying to hide his fear. It had poured into every crevice of his being. The prisoner in the straitjacket was much taller than he was, and he stood much straighter (Rami was surprised that being in a straitjacket for three years hadn't destroyed his arrow-like posture). His hair, as white as his lips, fell in unkempt tangles in a thick clump of hair on only one side—so thick it hid his left eye. His ears were longer and more pointed than a normal Hylian's. As Rami stood, watching him, the prisoner laughed a deep, earth-shattering laugh.

"Come to feed me like a baby again, have we?" he said. "All right, then. You should feel very special, half-breed. I do like you the best, you know." The prisoner in the straitjacket licked his lips and sat down, stretched out his long legs and leaned back against one of the white walls. He leaned his head back. "Well, I'm ready. Come feed me."

Rami moved forward to where the prisoner was sitting and crouched down beside him. He was glad to be able to put the tray down, because the sound of the plate crashing down against it was getting too loud for comfort. It betrayed his fear much too clearly. He put a piece of meat onto the fork and lifted it. The prisoner looked at him with a smile, that same smile that seemed forever on his lips, and opened his mouth. I should be used to this, Rami told himself. I've done it loads of times. He put the fork into the prisoner's mouth and waited for him to bite down. He slowly clamped his teeth around the fork, pulled on the meat, chewed it. Never taking his eyes off Rami. But Rami could not maintain eye contact for more than a few moments. He fed him the next bite. Some juice slipped from the corner of his mouth. Before Rami could wipe it with the napkin, he let his tongue fall from between his lips and licked it off himself. Then he licked his lips again, and Rami swallowed.

"What is your name?" the prisoner suddenly asked. "So rude of me for never asking. My deepest apologies. But better late than never, I suppose."

"M-my name?"

"Yes, my adorable little half-breed," he laughed. "Your name. You must have one."

"Rami."

"Rami. I suppose you got that from your mother. It rolls of the tongue rather nicely." He paused, and opened his mouth for another bite. Rami gave it to him, somehow anxious that this prisoner now knew his name. Wondering why he had given it to him in the first place. "I have a favor to ask of you, Rami. Won't you be a doll and tell them to bring me a comb next time? It's been ages since I've brushed my hair and it's beginning to get all tangled, you see. And I simply can't have that. No, no. Will you do that for me, Rami?"

Rami could do nothing but nod silently and bring the glass of water to the prisoner's lips. He was silent for a few minutes, watching Rami like a hawk, eating his food and licking his lips. Smiling. Always smiling. His sister had once asked him to describe the smile, but Rami had never been able to.

Suddenly, the prisoner's eyes widened and his mouth opened and he made a sound of agony. He looked as if he had just been stabbed through the heart, his face turned up to the ceiling, his black pupils transparently small and the veins visible from beneath the surface of his skin. Rami fell back onto his hands while the prisoner sat like that, not screaming and not speaking but making that same sound. Like a knife were being twisted inside his stomach. Rami had never seen him like this—beneath the straitjacket, his arms began to move, struggle, as if of their own will.

After a few moments, the prisoner blinked and lowered his face, closed his eyes, let his head hang. He looked as if he had fallen asleep. Rami had spilled the water.

Then, the prisoner began to laugh. Softly, so that his entire body trembled just slightly. After a few moments the laugh grew louder, louder, louder. Until he threw his head back and guffawed with a sound that sent shivers down Rami's back, made him so alert that he jumped up and stumbled backward. He watched the prisoner laugh, frozen in place by some invisible and deadly force. He wanted (and knew it was a good idea) to just leave and lock the door and tell the others that he was done, that he would not feed the prisoner in cell 39 anymore. Just then, the prisoner jumped to his feet swiftly and gracefully, so quickly that Rami would have missed it if had blinked. Like a string attached to his neck had lifted him up. How he had done it in the straitjacket...

"What a delicious meal," the prisoner mused between his laughs, which had died down again to soft chuckles. "Delicious, delicious, delicious."

And then, what Rami had only seen in his nightmares, happened.

The prisoner broke straight through his straitjacket, stretching his graceful arms out like wings. Cutting through it like butter. Before he could run, before he could scream, before he could even blink, the prisoner snapped his fingers and disappeared. Then in a flash of red and white he appeared, like smoke, right behind him. He put his hand, with his long untrimmed fingernails, across Rami's neck and put his other hand around Rami's waist, effectively trapping him against him. As he laughed into Rami's ear, his index finger ran along the skin of his neck, and his nail drew blood. Rami stood completely still and held his breath.

"How rude of you, my adorable little half-breed," he mused. "You never did ask my name, did you? Although I suppose it's of little consequence now. I shall be gone soon enough."

Rami suddenly felt the pressure of the prisoner's tongue on his skin, and he wished for a moment that he had never been born. To avoid this strange, terrible, agonizing feeling that overcame every inch of his body.

"The time is almost upon us. Ah, I can just smell it. The blood that will be shed—I can smell it as if it were right here." The prisoner lifted his finger, the one with Rami's blood on it, and licked it. Let the droplets of blood hang from the tip of his tongue. "It seems your queen has made a very terrible decision, Rami. A very terrible decision indeed."

Without warning, the prisoner (now without the straitjacket) let go of Rami and snapped his fingers again—and was suddenly at the other corner of the room, leaning against the wall, his face tilted back and his hand on his forehead.

"My name is Ghirahim," he said. "Remember it fondly, won't you? Now run along, boy, and tell them to get another straitjacket. Before the temptation to leave becomes too great."

He licked his lips one more time and, before Rami left, added, "And don't forget about the comb, my adorable little half-breed! My hair really does need it."