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Wheezing, languishing. The petty consequences of mortality. Injury needed rest. Recuperation. For a metallic soldier, all Ghirahim needed was a quick mending, and he could be back on his feet within the hour. Zant was not so lucky.
The siege was unexpected. Hyrule had taken out their watchtowers from an (admittedly, admirable) distance, and granted themselves generous time to penetrate into the Demon King’s northern defenses. Doubtlessly, they were after the Temple of Souls. Their Sorceress, Lana, knew its ins and outs, and must have been concerned with the artifacts still hidden within, and whatever their nemesis might do with them. Naturally, this was none of her damned business. But after today, the Temple was on high alert. Hyrule did not manage to take the Temple itself. But the border of their Hebra territory was now disturbingly shrunken inward.
Ghirahim stood looking at one of the causes of this failure, and the resulting consequences. Zant was very injured, and likely would be incapacitated for some time. Or, at least, until Ganondorf thought he’d learned his lesson… Or otherwise grew bored of his agony, and barreled into the room to put his bones back in working order. For the time being, Zant would remain precisely where he lay, bandaged, bruised, and complaining in every tongue he could.
“This is unlike you,” Ghirahim mused, his arms at his sides. The whining was perfectly in character, safe to say. But the way he’d been defeated… It struck him as odd. Zant had his bouts of inelegance, of recklessness. But he’d never foregone his own plans before. Not without reason. He was their master tactician. And still, he’d waltzed right into enemy lines, and gotten himself captured. That rescue mission alone cost them precious time and resources, and forced their army’s eventual retreat.
All that guilt weighing on him, and still Zant had the gall to lay there, groaning and crying, writhing under the covers. Such a pathetic show, of course, got any demon prowling the bedside. Despite Zant’s wincing, Ghirahim still traced a line from his belly button to his sternum, his touch feathery and fleeting. “What’s wrong?” he purred. “Need I cut you open, see where your ailment lies?”
“You tease me,” said Zant, pouting, but doing nothing in protest.
Ghirahim smirked with a quick flick of his tongue. “Perhaps,” he crooned, slinking away from him. Any other time, Ghirahim would take great joy in both soothing and agitating his suffering where he saw fit. Pressing a bruise here and there, cooling a wound… But he just couldn’t wrap his head around this particular instance. The events that led up to this point were just too distracting.
Had he… Sabotaged himself? Time to time, Zant had shown apprehension at their meetings. But they had only ever been hesitant disagreements with their Master. Neither dared to show more defiance in front of the Demon King. These injuries, then, could only be a sign of protest. Ghirahim could deduce as much. He hoped, for once, Ganondorf lacked cunning in this regard, and assumed it’d been mere incompetence.
His playful guise now shed, Ghirahim dropped down onto the mattress with a sigh, his arms folded across his chest. He looked the Twili up and down. Many cuts and bruises could be seen on the scarce parts of Zant’s body visible above the sheets. Below the sheets, he knew he’d find broken ribs, and splints, and many more jagged, sewn-up gashes. But his eye fell on the patch bandaged to his forehead, red and wet with fresh blood. Yes, head wounds could bleed powerfully… But this was awfully recent. “You’ve been scratching at your stitches.”
Zant blinked at him somewhat sheepishly, rubbing the sheets between his fingers. “N-no, these stains are – ah – from battle, still. I’ve not yet been bathed.”
Liar, Ghirahim thought, after humming agreeably. He could see the bits of fresh young scab below the Twili’s nails. What a childish quirk! “Then I suppose the cut on your lip is also from battle, and not you biting it?”
At this, Zant turned his gaze, sucking in his bottom lip to nibble at the subtly bleeding little gash.
“I truly have to do everything around here,” Ghirahim sighed, and promptly rose from the side of the bed. Zant looked at him a touch puzzled, following him with his eyes as he wandered to the other end of the room. The demon went to the washbasin stood on the infirmary’s dresser, pouring some water from the nearby pitcher jug inside. He knew Zant was looking along intently, but he opted to ignore that inquisitive stare for now. One small shower of diamond magic later, and his gloves were off. He’d want his bare hands for this.
Little suds and bubbles floated on the surface of the basin as he rubbed in a bar of soap. Wildberries, cream roses, and pine needles, the latter scratching just gently over the skin of his palm. Such a lovely winter scent, to enjoy at the cusp of spring.
Basin in hand, he returned to Zant’s bedside to set it down on the featherbed, just below the Twili’s left hand. He was given a bit of a puzzled look as he gingerly lifted the gangly, gray thing, until he lay it down in the water, and rubbed the soapy water into his skin.
Zant let out a pleased coo, his head rolling to sink more restfully into his pillows. “Ah… You spoil me,” he said, his eyes hooded with affection.
Ghirahim, of course, had only just gotten started, and acknowledged his words with nothing more than a smile and an exhale. First things first, he sought to clean him, firmly rubbing the pads of his thumbs over the blood-tinged nails. He gave a more gentle hand to the few subtle cuts and scrapes that accumulated over the tops of his hands, hoping not to loosen the scabs. All the while, Zant lay gently breathing, lazily watching the machinations.
The water grew clouded with a pale, diluted red, but there was no use changing out the basin just yet. Instead Ghirahim’s fingertips dug in more, squeezing in a rhythmic, circular pattern with the side of his thumb. He felt every bone, every sinew in the top of Zant’s hand, shifting ever so subtly underneath his firm touches. The bones of his fingers, too, flexible at every knuckle, yielded freely to him as he massaged them.
They were such fascinating things, Zant’s hands. Gray, and runed, their skin papery yet pliable, as if dehydrated. The index and pinky unnaturally long, but the middle and ring-finger no bigger than Ghirahim’s. And each made a satisfying series of barely audible ‘pop’s as he gave them a gentle tug. There was even a lingering bit of chipped polish on his nails. His shape was so alien, but his habits, so mundane. It was frankly, quite cute.
By then the water had gone quite murky, and Zant looked properly drowsy. Just that simple sight got a quiet laugh out of Ghirahim. He quickly dried off his hands, just for the chance to lean over and slip his hand between Zant’s cheek and the pillow, stroking the slope of his cheekbone with his thumb. At this, Zant awakened just the tiniest bit, but only for the sake of happily squinting his eyes shut, and rubbing the glands at the corners of his lips on his beloved’s palm. Ghirahim wondered just what his heat sense picked up then, in the cold metal beneath his false flesh.
Water changed, sides switched, Ghirahim soon got to work on the other hand. His dominant hand had gotten a cut or two more than the other one, but it was nothing Ghirahim couldn’t fix. After washing him up, he would simply have to apply a bandage. And it would be terrifically easy to do so, he gathered, for Zant had turned to putty in his hands. He could just barely see the glow of his amber eyes through the slits of his barely-closed lids, spying on him. But in body, he had gone limp, and would tolerate next to anything. Only when Ghirahim had washed, dried, and bandaged him, did Zant protest, when he looked to be leaving the room.
“Yima Oibedel,” he whined, “don’t leave me.”
Ghirahim stopped short of warping through the door. His hand was already on the doorframe, the shimmer of his satin gloves catching in the setting sun. He turned, feigning annoyance with a smile. “I thought you’d fallen asleep. What else could you possibly want from me?”
Or, rather, Ghirahim thought. Do you want to risk me, finding what schemes you hide?
It seemed Zant didn’t care. Even as Ghirahim eyed him suspiciously and lingered near the doorway, the bedridden Twilight King kept staring at him pleadingly. This fool would risk anything for another minute of his attention.
Ghirahim’s fingers found the roseate locks of his hair nonetheless.