Chapter Text
Velunai(Gerudo Capital), Great Desert.
The sun was rising over the tall hills surrounding Velunai when a man clad in black and gold stepped out onto the high balcony, roughspun banners of black and red framing his position, flapping in the hot wind. A thin haze of sand and heat partially obscuring his view of the masses below—thousands of his kin from all walks of life who had come at his request, stretched into the distance of the palace grounds.
His emotions swelled as he looked upon his people, and they looked up at him expectantly. Not a sound came from their lips.
He took in a deep breath, feeling the dry air catch in his throat, the sand settle on his tongue.
In spite of the wind, in spite of the distance, his voice boomed across the space—empowered by spells and the acoustics of his perch.
"When our ancestors crossed the deep desert and found fertile lands beyond, they also found the Hylians—a foreign land, a fledgling kingdom. With an offer of blood and steel, we forged a pact to claim lands we could call our own."
The words he spoke had been told to him in his youth, as they had been for every Gerudo before him. He kept his tone steady but the indignation—that centuries-old wound to his people—was rising in his chest.
"When the blood was spent and the steel sheathed, the Hylians gave us that promised land—but what they offered was barren and harsh. We were in no condition to object. Their bargain fulfilled, they turned from us, blind to our suffering, deaf to our struggle."
With a slow, sweeping motion he dragged his hand across the railing, gathering sand until it filled his palm.
He raised it to the sky and let the sand trickle through his fingers—a trail of dulled gold in the sunlight—until there was no more and it scattered into the wind.
"When storms broke our homes and famine stole our strength, we humbled ourselves. They gave us scraps. When we cast our voices before their court, we were shunned—pushed to lesser stations. When our people cried 'Enough!' and bared steel at these indignities, they cast us out and named us bandits."
His hands gripped the railing. He leaned forward, eyes scanning the crowd, seeing the same pain, the same anger, mirrored in their faces.
He let a hint of emotion colour his voice.
"I give you my solemn vow, my comrades, my kin: our humiliation ends here, our deprivation ends now. I will deliver us from suffering—bring you green pastures, and bountiful hills. With our blood, your steel, and your trust... I will give you Hyrule."
His voice was thick with feeling. He swept his arm over the crowd then pointed east—toward the green, fertile lands, long dangled out of reach.
The crowd's voice began to build.
They chanted; thousands of voices crying out with hope, with a hunger for justice, crying out a single name.
Ganondorf.
He let their cheers wash over him. Then slowly stepped back from the balcony, the thunder of voices still ringing in his ears.
He passed through the heavy curtain into the palace's cooler interior, leaving the sun behind.
As he walked the dim corridor, Ganondorf's mind swam with purpose—preparations, contingencies, futures imagined and tempered by old anger.
The longer he walked, the hotter that rage grew, until at last he lashed out—
—but his clenched fist stopped just short of the stone wall.
He looked down at it, drew a long breath, and opened his hand.
He laid his palm gently against the red stone of the palace.
These walls had not built themselves. Thousands of Gerudo craftswomen had laid them with care, with purpose, with sweat and sacrifice.
To damage this in his anger would be to disrespect them. And Ganondorf would not let his fury fall upon his own people.
That rage was meant for others.
With a final, steadying breath, he turned and walked deeper into the palace.
There was still much work to be done.