It's within the heart of the royal Gerudo chambers that a grand fireplace crackles and pops. Its flames casting a warm, orange hue that dances across the sandstone walls of the desert's impressive fortress, effectively banishing any shadows to the deepest corners of the room. The heat of the healthy fire pushes back against the cold desert evening that seeps through the solid structure; the cold wind deliberately defying the Gerudo King by daring to bleed through the aged seals of his windows. Several torches line the walls of Ganondorf's private quarters, every one of them is a cage housing an orange-and-red prisoner that locks the desert chill in an ambient dance routine of comfort and warmth.
A pair of Gerudo recline upon a practical expanse of thick quilts and blankets, fine pillows, and smooth sheets that have been expertly fitted to the Gerudo King's personal sanctuary of comfort; his imposing bed acts as refuge from the harshness of the wicked desert outside. Soft cushions invite much-needed repose, blankets of fur against bare skin cocoon both Nabooru and her Ganondorf in a realm of private luxury.
The two remain lovingly tangled together as large hands are careful to comb through the second-in-command's long, crimson locks. In spite of his rough skin and deep cracks that mark the abuse his hands have suffered, each strand of Nabooru's hair is like silk beneath his calloused touch; her precious locks of soft and delicate hair serves as a sharp contrast against his ruined hands. Yet, Ganondorf has no difficulty in his practiced movements, fingers gathering hair with no trouble. Slowly, Ganondorf divides her crimson strands into multiple thick locks, his skilled hands gather and weave each separate collection of hair together. Movements are slow and tender, adept fingers weave her hair around itself with perfection as he works his way downwards. Ganondorf seems slower than usual, working with a more noticeable affection present behind his actions, much more admiration of Nabooru's long, perfect hair as his hands--as familiar with her hair as they usually are--gently twist and wind her hair into a thick braid.
Ganondorf's inner turmoil rages like a tempest; unseen yet keenly felt. The weight of today's decision hangs heavily upon his soul, hardly a tangible burden yet it's one that attacks him from the inside. He doesn't feel the need to say it out loud, no, his grief radiates from his very being in a silent lament for the loss of his identity and the deep and sacred connection to his people that he once maintained so proudly. His brilliant crimson heritage, a lion's mane; soft strands long, and flowing, lost to the cruel edge of Nabooru's blade. A poison seeps through his veins, spreading its tendrils of remorse and regret. Sickening him with a taste bittered by the knowledge that he has forsaken the traditions of his ancestors. Especially so, having bent to the will of those whose very names he curses under his breath; men whose necks he would love to see snap and crumble underneath the strength and power of the very hands that now perfectly braid the delicate locks of Nabooru's beautiful hair. The King of Thieves, once proud and defiant, now bows beneath the weight of his own choices. His spirit heavy with such a burden, he is only able to find just one solace, one fleeting moment of spiritual respite... The simple privilege of braiding the hair of the one he loves. In their tender intimacy, Ganondorf finds a brief reprieve from the storm that rages within him; it's a fleeting glimpse of peace and perhaps an ease to forgive himself, granted to him by his Nabooru.
She held the blade with a shaking hand, like a young Gerudo nervous about her first real battle. However, the opponent she faced was not one of flesh and blood. Not a monster or beast of the wild. Instead, despite attempts to come up with another solution, another way to appease their xenophobic neighbors, she faced a gorgeous mane of hair, grown and tamed with the greatest of care as was custom of a Gerudo monarch.
Nabooru did her best to mentally prepare him--and her--for the task at hand, and only when he urged her to quit stalling could she find the courage to swipe the blade upward through the hair she held in her other hand, freeing it from his scalp. She bit back a gasp at the drastic change so as not to further discourage the king. She let the remnant of his mane fall from her fingers.
As she tidied up the cut and dusted stray stands of hair from his shoulders and back, she did everything in her power to reassure him. Telling him he still looked as handsome as ever. That Shini would no doubt be able to make another crown for him better suited for shorter cuts. That, someday, once they eased tensions with Hyrule, he could grow it back out. And quickly, because she understood over the years, their people developed a potent serum for hair growth.
It had little effect, the king's mood made more than obvious with his noncommittal grunts and his refusal to gaze at his reflection in the mirror. In how h e insisted on braiding her long locks in an obvious act of mourning for what he lost. And though he often played with her hair and she did the same with his, braided it or styled it when they shared each others intimate company, she could sense his mourning with each pass of her hair over another strand. With how his movements, slow and steady, mindful and careful, held more reverence than usual. An act of mourning his own loss.
When he reached reached the bottom of the braid, she turned around in his lap and flung her arms over his shoulder, face buried in his neck. She squeezed him. " I'll cut mine too. In solidarity, " she insisted, her voice sounding braver than she felt about the idea when she spitefully refused to cut her hair as most warrior women tended to.
She nuzzled his neck before leaning back, seating herself on her thighs with her knees on either side. Visage set in a stubborn scowl, she held his gaze.
" I'll do it. You can even do it for me. "
