Chapter Text
A cold wind sweeps over the stone dungeon, hidden away deep within the Palace of Twilight. The cool makes for a nice break from the usual stale and stagnant air, Zant thinks, although his shackled hands rebuke as little needles of dreadful chill stab through the metal encasing them. Certainly there must be more than a simple hex preventing his escape imbued into the wretched things, likely a sort of sadistic addition just to add to the torture—always painfully cold or tight to the point of agony or some other creative punishment. And the sudden bursts of wind can be nothing but a manufactured torture themselves, as no natural air flows so freely in such a miserable pit. It angers him beyond measure, and the fact he can hardly move to properly lash out only proves to exacerbate his wrath. If he were to ever get his hands on that pathetic creature the Twili call their princess...
Oh, what's the point in daydreaming? His fate is to waste away in a cell until his day of reckoning arrives, where he will face the full power of unfettered daylight and pass into nothing. There is no hope left for him: his powers have been rendered useless, his kind have shunned and abandoned him, and his god is...his god is dead. That sweet taste of kingship passed him by far too quickly and turned so very bitter, yet he yearns for it again. As long as he's living, he'll long for it so desperately until he can almost taste it's sweetness once more. The allegiance, the confidence, the power to conquer with hardly a word. How terribly he missed such power.
A noise, something brushing against the stone walls, startled Zant out of his forlorn musing. The sudden jolt sent a sharp pain through his hands and up his long arms, eliciting a hiss of pain past his needle-like teeth. Still baring his teeth like a blade, he considered calling out, but disregarded the urge when he recalled it was likely just another urchin eager to gaze upon the sorry state of their former king. Barbarous fiends...the Shadow Beasts suited them better for such savagery, he'd only made their appearance match their incivility when he made them that way. Lowly, useless brutes—at least he'd found a good use for them as thralls.
A giggle from the darkness confirmed his suspicion.
He couldn't stop from voicing himself any longer, his native tongue reverberating through the empty chamber, "[So another dullard has come to gawk, have they? Be my guest, cretin, you do not faze me.]"
To his surprise, the thing replied. To his further surprise, it was not in the Twili language. "Ohh, what a rude one you are! And here I was about to offer my aid, but if you're going to be like that then I suppose you don't want it!"
Zant strains against his tethers as best he can, but the mystery figure is still just out of his sight. He replies, in the language of the stranger now, "Pray tell, how can anything you offer benefit me? And who do you think you are, to understand my language and refuse to speak it back to me? You're useless to me."
"I'd mind my tongue, if I were you. Making assumptions of me is the last thing you want to do, given you want a chance out of this dreary basement."
"Do not tantalize me, whoever you are. I'm certain you're only being cruel, trying to make me feel hope, but I won't fall for your sick games. Now begone."
The stranger goes silent. Zant believes he's won until he hears that infernal giggle again. "Have you ever heard of a little artifact your ancestors used before they were trapped here?"
With chagrin, he couldn't help himself but to answer, "I know of the Fused Shadow."
"No, no, not that one. I far precede that relic."
"You?"
"Yes, before the Interlopers had ever conceived of the Fused Shadow, they had me to assist in their machinations. They wouldn't have been able to create such a feat of magic without my help, but once they were finished they tossed me away! They sealed me in this realm, but what irony it is that they would end up sealed here along with me."
"You call yourself an artifact. How can that be so? Surely I haven't deigned converse with nothing more than a clever object."
The visitor laughed, but paid no other heed to the slight. "It's simple, really. Long before I was sealed here, my spirit was sealed inside a mask. The Interlopers used my mask and the powers I granted them through it to do wonders beyond their imagination. I escaped from this realm for a time before I was defeated by some boy who called himself a hero. At least I'm free from that mask, but now I'm stuck here again—it's so unfair! Don't you think so?"
"I think you're either a very creative liar or a lunatic. Why else would you hide from me? Show yourself and give me reason to believe you."
"If you insist..."
Out from the shadows steps something bright, with so many colors they're almost difficult to look at. Certainly no Twili, that much is obvious. Horns of different colors protrude from the top of its head and around its ruddy face, and long violet hair ends in magenta tresses swooping upwards at its shoulders. It wears intricate garb completely foreign to his knowledge of different tribes, with stripes and odd symbols and so, so many colors. Despite all that, it's eyes are the most striking, glowing orange with crazed green irises—they almost seem familiar…
Because he's seen them before. Never in the flesh but in old manuscripts, texts almost as old as the Twili themselves. Those same eyes drawn in ancient documents, on a mask no Twili could ever decipher the origin of. Those eyes, embossed onto the Fused Shadow itself...
"Ah, how odd," the mask spirit says with a snide grin, exposing a mouthful of sharp teeth to rival Zant's own. "You suddenly have this more docile way about you. How very curious. What possibly could have caused it? Could it be that you recognize me from somewhere? Oh, but of course that can't be it, we haven't even been properly introduced. I suppose it will remain a mystery." It shrugs before waving a dismissive hand. "Well, whatever. Do you want my help or do you not?"
Zant is stunned, afraid to so much as breathe in the presence of such a creature. Then this must be true. He knew of no Twili with shapeshifting abilities as proficient as this, and...and now what? If he hasn't gone completely mad and this is all true, then this creature is partially to blame for his tribe's rot in this miserable realm. But not quite either, he supposed. Just as the Twili shouldn't be punished for the sins of their ancestors, then certainly this spirit should not be blamed for something it inadvertently might have caused. Yes, that's right, and especially not when it's offering something so very enticing.
"Well?"
The usurper king, although with a bit of bruised pride, said in his most diplomatic voice. "Your aid would be invaluable to me in this hour of need, as such I accept your offer."
"Say please?"
Zant tenses.
"Aw, come on! It's the least you could do after all those mean things you said to me earlier. I'll take this as your apology."
A growl forces itself from his chest. How dare this befallen spirit speak down to him, much less make such a vile request? Even if it were once a powerful being, with the sorry state it's in now trapped in this realm, there simply are no grounds to make such demands of a king. But, clearly, it knows not to whom it speaks, so only this once he decides to humor it. He takes a breath to pry the cursed supplication from the deepest pits of his soul. Through gritted teeth, he hisses, "Please."
"Good. I suggest you practice that, if you want me to continue being your ally."
Feeling the anticipation rise ever higher, Zant squeals at an embarrassing pitch, "Just release me from this forsaken place!"
The mask spirit takes a step back, hand at their chin and inspecting the chains like a puzzle. "You know, that princess must be awfully confident in the magic of those bonds of yours, without a single guard in sight. If I had to guess, I'd say if I break those chains the magic will alert the guards or something. Probably the same thing will happen if I try to open the door."
"What, are you trying to say you can't help me after all? Don't tell me this has all been one sick joke."
"Fret not, you underestimate me! It is true that my magic hasn't yet been restored to its former glory, but it's still nothing to scoff at. No, what I'm saying is we need to be quick about this, in case my intuition is correct. So what I'm going to do is break your chains and teleport us both away from the palace all at once—how does that sound?”
Zant's heart races in his chest until he can feel it's pounding in his head. So close to freedom, so very close he could almost taste it. He nods feverishly, unable to form words.
"Then brace yourself, this might not be pleasant."
In a flash, faster than he can properly comprehend, he is far outside the palace, his hands free of metal and dizzy from the sudden shift. As he holds a hand up to his forehead, the bones in his wrist pop from disuse. It feels heavenly after so long confined. Reorienting himself, he notices how far they are from the palace, in a pseudo-wooded area on the outskirts of a small Twili village. He takes a deep breath, savoring the sensation of anything but metal against his hands and the view of twilit skies that seem almost unfamiliar after so long.
"Well, aren't you going to thank me?" The mask spirit inquires. "Or ask my name, at the very least."
Zant lets himself collapse against one of the black, artificial-looking trees, its branches twisting towards the heavens. Without much thought, he responds, "What is your name?"
"My name is Majora, and Majora knows an opportunity when she sees one.”