When was the last time you did anything for yourself?

You wonder. The thought haunts you, takes possession of you, bends you to its will. Your troops are marching across Hyrulean soil, across time and space, and even though they are winning, even though Power is yours in more ways than one, there is something, something that is not yours, and you know what it is. This war isn't truly for your own desires.

You've never done anything for yourself. Silly girl. Silly, powerful, controlling girl. So controlling, and yet so out of control, and nothing is within your grasp.

It angers you, enrages you. You seethe in the privacy of your own chambers, watched by the many eyes of commissioned paintings—commissioned from your magic—and run a comb through your pristine coiffure. You're selfless in your selfishness, love-struck in your loveless existence, and no one is around to comfort you.

You don't want comfort. Do you? What creature doesn't yearn for companionship, for sympathy? Even the Bokoblins seldom turn on each other. Yet you, only you are alone, with what you consider your other half to be fighting against you, and what you refuse to consider your better half helping him. Your hands shake with fury. No control over your own body, even.

The eyes of painted heroes glare at you in your vulnerability. Were he here now, surely he wouldn't hesitate to strike. And maybe, just maybe, given your current state, you would allow the blow to fall. His blade, piercing through you, impaling you on its point as warmth and blood courses through and out of you…

You snarl, throwing the comb across the room. It flies through the air with remarkable trajectory until it hits the far wall and shatters. Your hair is a mess now. You've been combing it with too much vigor, and now you have nothing with which to fix the wreck you've become.

What else is new?

You don't know anything about anyone else, but you do know yourself. The need, the desire, the craving for someone else overwhelms you. Your fingers twitch and he is there, behind you, awaiting your command.

You tell him to come no closer, and he is silent, immobile. With your shaking hands you reach out and grab the mask on the table in front of you. With your shaking hands you snap it into place. You will your hands to stop shaking. They don't listen, and it infuriates you once again. You wanted to beckon him closer, but now a verbal order must suffice, and he walks forward and around you, mechanically yet so in his manner of movement.

His eyes are red, not blue. His skin is shadow, not flesh. It is not him. But when you reach forward and grab his chin, squeezing his jaw a little too hard in your tapered fingers, he is real enough, enough for your purposes. Your passionate glare meets his emotionless stare, and you release him with a scoff. He doesn't even stumble backwards or flinch. You won't admit you're ashamed, but you turn your back on him regardless, striding away with your arms crossed and a supercilious tilt to your head as if he had the free will to want to grovel.

But it's no use, because even as your eyes coolly survey the paintings and sculptures that decorate your palace, a certain fire ignites in the pit of your stomach at each shot of chiseled jaw, each glimpse of painted blonde hair, each memory of a unique soul.

You can't help it. You're powerless.

You turn back towards him. He hasn't moved an inch, not a tilt of the head to face you. You walk over to your bed, hips swaying like he's something that can be seduced, and you can feel your lips twitch in a sneer. He responds to your will and turns to face you, takes quick paces towards you until he stands at the edge of the violet quilt.

You hold out your hand. The fingers are splayed upwards, the magic imbued in the tips making them twitch. After a delay, he rests his hand on top of yours, and it is gentle like you wanted.

You weren't planning on saying anything. It will be, after all, a mortifying secret kept between you and him, and once you dismiss him, kept between you and yourself—no need to say anything. But the need for him, the need for companionship that drove you to this in the first place, takes hold, and as he holds you and bows his head down, you whisper a tiny wish.

Love me. Desire me. Worship me. Let me possess you.

But later, as you roll off him and begin to try and calm your breathing, you feel emptier than you had before. His figure lies still and silent, his shadowy form swallowing up any source of faint light. And even though you are more alone than you were when you'd started, you can feel that presence lurking in the recesses of your mind and split soul, watching and laughing.

You bite your lip to keep from screaming, and you feel the skin split and trickle blood. The mask feels hot and sweaty against your face, the wound cold and sharp. You sit up and turn to him, where he lies like a corpse, and you lightly scratch at his arm. He doesn't stir. You scratch harder, deeper now. Your nails sink into something not solid, and black smoke hisses upwards. The sound and the sight is satisfying in a way that nothing else is in this moment. You scratch again, dig your nails into his cheeks, rake them down his neck and to his chest. Each injury, hidden by the black expanse of material that embodies him, sends up another plume of smoke, another pleasing hiss. You reach down with both hands to grip at where his heart should be and sink in, pulling and grabbing at something that isn't there. You can feel your magic waning over him as his life force drains, but it still surprise you, your hands elbow-deep in shadows, when he inclines his head a fraction of an inch and looks at you with dead eyes.

He vanishes in a cloud of smoke, leaving you on your hands and knees on your bed, clutching to the silk. A vulnerable position. You tear the sheets off your skin and rise, tremors wracking your body as you stumble over to your robes. You dress sloppily, your hair getting in your face as you try to cinch the belt, and only your last shreds of reason prevent you from tossing the thing aside in frustration just as you had the comb. Finally, you are decent again, left alone in your chambers almost as if nothing had happened. Your mask feels wet against your cheeks, and you take it off hurriedly.

It's the flicking of a switch, turning on the tap of emotions, but you ball your hands into fists until your palms along with your bitten lip are bleeding and the feeling passes. Your dignity is restored with the stoppered thoughts and flow of blood. The eyes of the heroes continue their unwavering glare, and you laugh from your stomach in response, a sound that reverberates through the empty halls. Your teeth bare themselves into a grin, and you patrol the halls, set in your duties once more.

And you try to let go of the unsatisfied notion that you should do something for yourself.