A/N: Dedicated to the best character in BotW. I've taken a few liberties with canon.

The Dance of Death

They really were all women, Link thought. He'd heard the stories – who in the castle hadn't? – but he'd dismissed them as tales the older squires told to impress the younger. But here they were, girls and maidens and crones with hair the color of radishes and skin the color of baked apples, staring at the two of them with undisguised astonishment as they marched through the dusty, sand-hewn streets. No, not at them – at him. He flushed to the tips of his ears, and only partially because of the abominable heat. He was the first male to step foot in Gerudo Town in generations. Gerudo tradition was famous for being iron, but the end of the world necessitated many exceptions. What did the Gerudo call him? Voe? The term reminded him of a deer, seen down the sights of a bow.

He shook his head. If he was to be Champion, attention would be the least of his battles.

But did they have to look so hungry?

"Isn't it wonderful?" Zelda said. "You don't see architecture like this in Hyrule."

Link grunted. Zelda had been here many times even before the Calamity reared its head. The two of them had left their retinue – the royal carriage, two dozen knights, an equal number of horses and half that many mules – back at the canyon stable. Since then, the world had been misery. Neither the Champion's tunic nor him, country boy raised in the temperate grasslands of Central Hyrule, were designed for the heat, and all his years training with horses did nothing to prevent his sand seal from bucking him off no less than eight times on the ride here.

(Zelda rode like a desert-born. She seemed to relish finally being better at something physical than he was.)

Compared to Hyrule Castle, Gerudo Palace was unexceptional. A single set of steps led up to an archway without a door, flanked by guards wielding claymores. Inside was mercifully cool. An escort ushered them into an airy throne room open to the desert. The absent far wall was a mural: sun shining on sand like molten gold. The palace was marble statues, crystal chandeliers, gemstone-encrusted bowls, lined with a carpet so thick Link felt like he was sinking into a swamp. Whatever modesty the builders had to forsake on the outside due to the desert elements, they spared no expenses inside.

The court had been waiting for them. A dozen Gerudo officials stood around the throne with Urbosa seated at its center. Next to her sat a strange helm on a pedestal.

"Welcome, Princess Zelda. And her Champion."

The pause did not go unnoticed, nor did the use of Link's title. Did she even know his name? He kneeled.

"Gerudo Chief Urbosa," Zelda said, bowing. "In these troubled times, Hyrule comes to you with a request…"

The ceremony was a formality. Urbosa had known about the request long before Zelda arrived, and Zelda had known Urbosa's answer long before she uttered the words. Link's life had often been a formality lately. After the Master Sword chose him, he hadn't known what to expect – honors, of course, and parades, and a sizable salary boost. What he had not expected were the long ceremonies, the constant travel, the nobles who turned their noses at a commoner saving the world. They'd welcome the apocalypse over him. The Gerudo, at least, didn't harbor such prejudices. At least not regarding his station.

"Princess of Hyrule, I accept your proposition without hesitation," Urbosa said. "You have my word. I won't rest until the Calamity falls."

She leaned back, legs crossed in a manner that would've cause a scandal in a Hylian court. Her entire outfit, in fact, and the outfit of any other Gerudo, would've caused a scandal in Hyrule. Link didn't know where to look. The Gerudo queen – chief, Link corrected himself. Queens don't lead wars – was very tall and very beautiful. A plume of red hair framed a face high-cheeked and regal. Green eyes looked out on the world through heavy lids, as if perpetually bored by what they saw, and her blue-painted mouth enunciated their language without a trace of accent. Compared to other Gerudo, Urbosa wore more jewelry (though she wasn't nearly as adorned as some of the women of the King's court): a pair of crescent moon earrings, three neck rings, a necklace of gold. A ruby-studded tiara sat on her brow, and, above it, entwined in her hair, she wore the Gerudo crown of six swords.

"You there. Champion. Do you possess any talents at all, or does that darkness-sealing relic choose its owner based on how pretty they look?"

The words came so unexpectedly and so rudely that Link looked behind him, wondering what poor sap had angered the chief so. Was this one of Urbosa's jokes? Zelda often said that Urbosa was a prankster, though having finally met her Link couldn't imagine how, and right now, with her eyes glaring daggers and her mouth equally sharp, he decided that no, she was entirely serious.

"Link's more accomplished than he looks. I full-heartedly trust him with our future," Zelda said, and Link had never been so grateful to anyone his whole life.

"You must be exhausted after your journey, Princess. My chefs have prepared a feast. You need not join us, Champion. We will dine by ourselves."

Well, Link thought. At least it's a better first impression than Revali.

He ate lunch by himself in a room at the back of the palace. Curry pilaf and sautéed peppers, with wildberry juice and honeyed fruits for dessert. Gerudo cuisine consisted of the sweet and the spicy, either of which would be overpowering alone but which combined to create a surprisingly refreshing taste. Mostly he was glad Urbosa had deigned to give him anything to eat at all.

Afterwards, he sat on the balcony under the shade of a banyan tree, facing the desert to the south. Sand stretched into dust storms on the horizon. The dunes rolled like waves. Except for a smattering of cacti, the desert lay perfectly smooth. It was said the Gerudo Desert spanned the edge of the world, that if you walked far enough you would see sand cascading like waterfalls into nothingness. In the distance something glittered – bones, Link realized, the bones of something massive. He remembered another story from the older squires: monsters lived beneath the sand, so large they swallowed mountains in a single gulp.

Spice and safflina perfumed the palace. Somewhere a lute played. Eyes closed, Link kicked his legs on the railing. For the last few months, he had been glued to Zelda as her protector, a role that initially annoyed them both. But Zelda would not need protecting in this town of women-warriors. Perhaps now there was time for that most hedonistic of luxuries: a nap.

A knock on the door.

He dragged himself from the sun-drenched balcony, already dreaming of horses and pumpkin pie and a time before swords.

A Gerudo girl stood at the door. She was his age, wearing a brown-and-purple sari that left her abs exposed (and subsequently made him wonder if he wasn't working out enough). When she saw him, she averted her eyes.

"Sav'aaq. Chief Urbosa sends her regards. She offers these voe clothes to help with the heat. You are to join her for tea in the solar."

She spoke quickly, as if she had rehearsed the words and wanted to get them over with, and had a thick accent that turned the r's to v's. Link took the bundle of clothes. But the girl did not leave.

Head down, she remained fixed at the doorway, fingers pulling on the edge of her sari. For a horrified moment Link thought she was going to stay while he changed, but then she blurted out, "It's really you! You're – "

The Champion. The Hero of Hyrule. The Wielder of the Blade of Evil's Bane.

" – a voe! Are there really more voe in the wild?"

Her face turned the same color as her hair. She looked at him expectantly, as if she hadn't just asked the most bizarre question ever asked, and though he had seen Goron eat rocks and Zora swim up waterfalls and Rito sleep with their eyes open, this girl, he thought, was the strangest thing he'd ever seen.

"Yeah," he said after several moments. "Half of us."

"Do they all look like you?"

"No. Everyone's different."

She seemed disappointed. But she bared her eagerness like a blade. Uncomfortably, he shifted on his feet, wondering if that because Gerudo were only women, they had lost all sense of privacy. Surely the goddesses made two sexes for a reason. She was quite pretty – were all Gerudo dusk-skinned beauties? Did they all have green eyes, red hair, cinnamon skin, sharp profiles, wide hips?

Their eyes met, and she yelped and ran off.

He closed the door and changed into the desert clothes. After struggling with the puffy pants, cinching the belt, and fixing the shoulder guard, he looked for the shirt, only to realize there was none. Gerudo men, it seemed, wore equally revealing clothes as their women. The mortification of walking around half-naked was outweighed by the danger of refusing a gift from Urbosa, and, besides, it did feel cooler. The clothes fit well but had a frayed texture, not so much worn as never been worn at all. One male every one hundred years. Perhaps that was the last time anyone wore these.

He found the solar after much searching and asking for directions (during which the guards stared at him and made appreciative clucking noises). He had expected Zelda to be there but she wasn't. On a pile of cushions, Urbosa waited for him, elbow propped against an upraised leg.

"You're late. Sit."

He sat.

"Zelda's asleep," she said as if sensing his thoughts. She poured out tea. "I wanted to speak with you alone."

Carefully, he took a sip. In private, Urbosa did not refer to Zelda as princess. She had ditched the crown and traded some of her chief's authority for a woman's grace. Sunlight streamed through open windows, shifting the silks that lined the solar and made it seem lighter than air.

"They told me you were young," she said, eyeing him as if he were a particularly slimy Chu. "You're even younger up close. How old are you, Champion?"

He told her. She clicked her tongue.

"Not even old enough to drink at the canteen. Your King places too much faith on this legend. The Gerudo are not so pious. We follow the old ways – only the strong are worthy. Do you know how we choose our chief? It is hereditary, just like yours. But if the people do not like you, if you cannot command their respect, then any woman may challenge the throne. That is how I became chief – by slaying the incompetent fool that dared rule before me. Can your King even wield a sword?"

Link confessed that no, he'd never seen him do it.

Urbosa scoffed. "Those who cannot fight, cannot command. I'll never know what she saw in him. If it were up to me, we would lead a charge to cut out the heart of the beast. Instead we rely on bedtime stories. Tell me, Champion. How did this magical sword choose you?"

Many times he asked himself. Who was he? First son of a knight of small renown. Not even a knight himself but a squire. And a commoner, as the nobles never let him forget (perhaps the sword's made a mistake, your majesty. Enchantments, after all, no matter how great, cannot be expected to remain perfect after ten thousand years). The tea burned his tongue, a voltfruit blend. Somewhere in the palace a woman was singing. The melody was nostalgic, even though the lyrics were alien. That was what had drawn him to the Master Sword: music. He had heard the sound of chimes, and followed.

"I picked it up."

Urbosa stared at him and laughed.

Her laughter was the sound of birds in spring. Her laughter was the sound of an arrow whistling through the air, the sound of bells ringing at midnight. Speechless, he watched her, wondering if that austere countenance on the throne was capable of producing so beautiful a sound or if someone had replaced the Gerudo chief with this fey woman laughing across from him.

"The Champion has a sense of humor," Urbosa said, one hand over her face. "That's a compliment, boy. I'll never trust Zelda's life to a man who can't make me smile. Let me see the sword."

He unclasped the sword from his back. He had brought it with him; he hadn't even thought about it; he brought it everywhere he went. Urbosa took it and inspected the hilt, the cross guard, the blade that shone like fire in the desert sun despite being, goddesses, ten thousand years old? At minimum. In his dreams it whispered memories far older. But out of his hands the blade lost its luster. Urbosa returned it to him with disappointment.

"A well-made blade, but nothing more. It cannot compare to the glory of the Seven. My scimitar, Champion. I'll give you the honor of holding it. Take care not to cut yourself."

He gave it a few swishes and shrugged.

Urbosa's eyebrow twitched.

"Such arrogance from a voe who looks like a vai." And she laughed again, and sheathed her scimitar with reverence. He'd seen mothers look at their children with less love. The scimitar was beautifully crafted, but privately he thought it a tad too ornate for battle. Sipping her tea, Urbosa looked at him with an expression that might've been respect, might've been scorn. She drained her cup with a flourish.

"You need not be so modest with me. Courage. Even we have heard the stories. And in that, at least, you possess some modicum. But courage alone cannot protect Zelda or stop the Calamity." She rose with a low, dangerous smile, towering over him once again. "I suggest you get some sleep. You've a long night ahead."

He woke to a hand over his mouth. The unmistakable sharpness of metal against his throat.

"You're dead, Hero."

Briefly, he struggled, appreciating the irony of dying before he ever faced the Calamity. The pressure vanished. The whisper of a blade settling back into its sheath. He jumped up, facing his attacker.

"Are all Hylians so defenseless in bed? You sleep like a vai in her lover's arms." Urbosa gave a bark of laughter, but softly in the dark. She whispered, "Get dressed. Desert nights are cold."

He threw on the Champion's tunic and followed her out. He had the sense of a prisoner marching to his own execution. There was no point in asking her what they were doing; he couldn't refuse, and soon he would find out. They exited the palace and walked through deserted back alleys, avoiding the guards and the lamp-lit main streets of Gerudo Town. Like a shadow, Urbosa slunk through the darkness, footsteps quieter than the wolves that howled outside the walls. Link could only follow by the fleeting glints of moonlight on her scimitar. She had not always been chief – that was what she told him.

The wind had teeth. He shivered violently. When he saw where they arrived, he froze with horror.

"What happened to your courage, Champion?" Urbosa said, her grin like a sickle's edge. "Zelda's warned me of your ineptitude with our sand seals. All you'll have to do is hold on tight."

She mounted her shield – a green-and-gold parma with a ruby at its center, too beautiful to be used so mundanely – and took the reins. Hesitantly, Link got on behind her, wrapping his arms around her torso. "Yah!" she cried before his feet barely touched the metal. The sand seal rocketed forward, slamming his face into the back of Urbosa's armor. Her laughter trailed behind them.

Their journey through the darkness should've been cold but Urbosa was warm; heat radiated from her skin, and she took the brunt of the wind. At night, the desert sky was flawlessly black, stars breaking through in pinpricks. Urbosa smelled of earth and wildberries and something else, something exotic. He barely came up to her shoulder. They rode eastward, past broken stone columns and rock formations and bones like the ones he'd seen earlier in the day, white spines jutting out of the sand like walls.

As they rode, Urbosa told him the legend of the Seven:

"In ages past, the Gerudo were a scattering of tribes. We waged terrible wars against each other, and the desert drank oceans of our blood. Eventually, we realized that we were only bringing about our own destruction. But our feuds ran deep, and pride would not allow us to bow. So each tribe sent forth their chief – their greatest warrior – to the coliseum of Korsh O'Hu, and for seven days and seven nights, the chiefs battled to determine the supreme ruler of our race. But at the dawn of the eighth day, when the sun lit upon the blood-splattered sands, each chief saw that the others still stood, and they understood the strength of their sisters, and they threw down their weapons and acknowledged the futility of war. The Seven emerged as one from the coliseum, and the Gerudo were born."

She stopped. Link stepped off the sand seal, squinting his eyes to the wind. They stood at the heart of a valley surrounded by a circle of statues. Ten stories tall, each statue depicted a woman wearing a strange crown, holding a sword bigger than Hinoxes.

"You tread on sacred ground, Champion."

She stood with her back to the moonlight.

"We stand at Korsh O'Hu. In sight of the Seven, you shall prove your worth."

She drew her shield and blade, but he had already drawn his. In his heart he had known what it would come to; perhaps he had known the moment he laid eyes on Urbosa, and perhaps she on him, one warrior to another. The heft of the Master Sword was comforting, as was its glow.

"Let me warn you, Champion. If that sword chose based on the skill of its wielder, you are lucky I did not pick it up first."

She flew across the sand as if winged, scimitar crashing against his shield with a ring that must've shattered the silence for miles. Raggedly, Link shook off the last vestiges of sleep and threw his weight behind his shield, driving her back, but she was impossibly fast for someone of her size, dodging his follow-up strike with a graceful backflip. He charged forward, sword swinging. She seemed surprised by his ferocity. Her shield – Daybreaker, he suddenly remembered – groaned against his blows, metal splinters flying, but he could not get through that shield like a fortress, and in the middle of his barrage her scimitar flashed out, a streak of silver on the periphery of vision. An arc of blood scattered the moonlight.

He leapt back, a shallow cut along his chest. The cold bit into it like a starving beast. Urbosa came at him once more, not so much fighting as dancing, and he was not slashing at her so much as slashing at sandstorms. One moment she was in front of him, and then she was behind him, and then she was above him, so light she almost seemed to be carried by the wind had not her blows felt so solid. His shield arm numbed. His breaths came out in sharp, painful gasps. He slipped and almost fell onto her scimitar. He was not used to fighting in the sand, in the darkness, in the cold.

But Urbosa had made one mistake: She had allowed him to use the Master Sword.

With a cry, he threw down the fragments of his shield. He clenched both hands on the hilt. Warmth flooded him, light flooded him, the ringing of chimes. He blinked and saw a golden grove. Then the world snapped into focus once more. She dove at him, no doubt trying to take advantage of the loss of his shield, but had she always been so slow? He ignored her feint, ducked under her first slash, sidestepped her second, smashed the flat end of the Master Sword into her stomach. She doubled over. He spun around, sword coming from the other direction. At the last second, she blocked it with Daybreaker. The force of the blow knocked both weapons out of her hands and sent her careening. She cried out in pain.

Slowly, he walked over. The air, once cold, was cool against the sweat of his skin. He raised his sword as if for the deathblow. There was no need, of course, but having traveled this far, he could at least savor his victory…

Urbosa raised one arm in protest – and snapped her fingers.

Instinct made him forsake victory, made him drop back and flee. Lightning struck the space he had been. He looked to the sky. Dark clouds covered the moon. Thunder boomed, so close it muted all other sounds. It wasn't possible – a storm in the desert. Lightning without rain.

But truth was crashing around him, lightning bolts so dazzling he closed his eyes and saw them imprinted on the back of his eyelids. Slowly, Urbosa stood up and retrieved her weapons, clutching her abdomen where a livid purple bruise snaked from her hip to her chest. Their eyes met – her, breathing deeply; him, gaping – and she was upon him again.

He became the dancer, jumping ungracefully between lightning bolts and scimitar slashes. This was insanity. Heat scorched welts along his arms. Each time he blocked Urbosa's scimitar, a shock of electricity coursed through him, and it was all he could do to simply hold onto his sword. Lightning struck to his left, so close it singed his sleeve. Urbosa knocked his clumsy blow aside, thrust at him, a feint, reversed her grip and slammed him with the hilt and he lurched three steps, four, threw himself to the side to avoid a bolt of lightning, got up just in time to avoid the scimitar that gouged the sand and this was insanity, he caught a flash of her face in the lightning and she was laughing, goddesses, was she fighting in heels? Deafened, blinded, he staggered backwards until he felt hard, unmoving stone.

How did you control lightning? He looked down. The sword –

Urbosa advanced. The air sizzled with the tell-tale smell of ash. The hackles on the back of his neck rose. Seconds now.

He raised his sword to the sky, took aim, and threw.

Urbosa's laughter stopped in a moment of such perfect amazement he wished he had a way to capture it forever. He watched her watch the sword as it spun through the air, slow, inelegant flight – you try throwing a five-pound block of metal not meant to be thrown. Almost casually, Urbosa brushed it aside with her shield. Lightning struck.

In a searing white burst, the bolt ignited the Master Sword and traveled down Daybreaker, emeralds and rubies taking fire in a shower of sparks. Urbosa lit up as if on a stage. She screamed. The smell of charred meat. The world whited out, impossibly bright, and Link shielded his eyes and still saw Urbosa's face twisted in the rictus of a perfect O that might've been pleasure or pain.

She swayed briefly, then collapsed.

Clouds dispersed. The air lost its electricity. Smoke curled around her, wafting into a star-filled, stormless sky.

Link half-ran, half-stumbled to her, the thrill of victory blotted out by the impending fear that he may have just started a war between the Gerudo and Hyrule –

Urbosa's arm shot out. One hand grabbed his, the other holding her scimitar against his neck.

"Not yet," she gasped, and fell into his arms.

Soot covered her skin. Her armor had shattered; what remained was hot to touch. The singed edges of her sari glowed like embers. Her hair had come undone, frayed strands still sparking. An unrecognizable lump of metal – the remains of her hair clip – nestled in the tresses. Wet, glossy burns ran along her limbs, and when he accidentally brushed against them she flinched. Gently, he picked her up, but she pushed him away.

"You look like a worried vaba." Urbosa gave a dry, raspy cough, propping herself upright. She winced as sand mixed into her wounds. "This isn't the first time I've been struck by my own lightning. You can't learn how to use a weapon without getting cut."

Nursing his own wounds, Link sat beside her. An acrid smell wrinkled his nose. Smoke stung his eyes. Sound returned: the rustle of wind, the distant howl of wolves, a vulture screeching above them. Around them glittered white crystalline pools of glass. The Master Sword, even after being struck by lightning, remained flawless, though when he picked it up from the sand the hilt burned him. He could almost swear it was angry at being thrown.

"You learn something new every day," Urbosa said. "Lightning's not so easy to control after it strikes, eh? But you fought well. At least we're not pinning our hopes on a boy who can't even swing a sword." She chuckled, then grimaced, clutching her side. "I trust Zelda, but she's too optimistic for her own good. I could not, with all my people's faith, place our hopes on an outsider chosen based on legends so ancient they could fall apart at the touch."

He looked at her questioningly.

She smiled. "You pass, Hero. Vas'araq sur almat. The dance of death. And a fine dance it was. In old days, a suitor could only court a girl if he survived a dance with her. Short of love-making, the dance is the best way to understand a man's heart. Times have changed. Even the desert is rich now, and skill with a sword is not as prized as it once was. But some still follow the old ways. You pass, Link. The Gerudo will throw their support behind this plan of your King."

She kissed him, long and full.

It felt like sharing a bed with a lover. It felt like being mauled by a beast. It felt like nothing at all, because he had never been so surprised since he placed his hands on the sword in the stone and felt it tremble.

"The ritual is complete," Urbosa said, rising. "We have a long journey ahead of us."

Their shields were broken; they could not ride the sand seal. The animal had fled during the storm. The desert stretched before them, so vast he couldn't even see the lights of Gerudo Town. The sky was brightening. Soon it would be dawn. What would the court think, when they woke to find their chief missing? When she returned burnt and bruised, Hyrule's Hero in tow?

Exhausted, sore and bleeding, the best he'd ever felt, Link trudged after her.

A/N: Fight ending was inspired by that clip of Link throwing a boomerang at a Hinox just as lightning struck the boomerang. I hope you all enjoyed reading.