Sixth Sin

[dragmire]

From Ganondorf's perspective, it had but been mere hours since he had returned to his world, soundly defeated his foes, and returned to Luceti. It was curious that he remembered none of his deeds in this world, but there would be time to dwell on that later. Once again he had arrived in this world in nothing bit ill fitting white pants a few sizes too small for him. The great wound in his chest continues to glow. A clean cut, even the strange unearthly glow can be seen from the other side. Having so obvious a weakness revealed was infuriating. He remembered how much he loathed the Malnosso.

And how much he desired their power.

It was clear time had passed in Luceti in his absence, but he had little way of knowing how much. But he knew the way. So the great lumbering man, all seven and a half feet of him, proceeded back to Luceti. The ground was cold, some of it still icy from the rain a few days ago, and he might have froze if he had not become so accustomed to the cold bitterness of the Twilight Realm. His destination was the clothing store. But it was daylight as he entered town, where anyone and everyone could see. Tedious, really.

After donning his armor once more and claiming a brilliant white blade from the smithy, Ganondorf was left with the curious task of returning to a life of domestic dullness. He'd need a place to sleep, he'd have to collect groceries, exchange pleasantries with people far beneath him, and bide his time in this most curious of prisons. He hated it already. But he could be found in the village doing just that. Eventually he would settle on a home far removed from the village, but not until later.

Later he would address the journals:

[Written]

By my last reckoning, it was the month 'January' in the fifth cycle of this enclosure. I understand much has occurred in this time. I would relish the opportunity to learn what has transpired.

Furthermore... would anyone know what fate befell a woman named Zelda and an assortment of boys sharing the name Link?

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Comments

[dragmire]

"What manner of creature is an Indian jetti?"

He retrieved a pair of pants and a replacement tunic. A cape, soon after. Now he needed only his boots.

[greenjacketed]

"Religious strongmen," he explained -- lifting a flat palm up to a height about his head in the vain hope of demonstrating their grandiousity. "Brutish as you like. Can twist a man's head clean 'round with their bare hands, they can. Killers. Executioners. Don't speak a bleeding word as they do it."

[dragmire]

"Devout and loyal, I would think." Though it was not obvious, he appreciated the description. They were exactly the sort of creatures that Ganondorf would relish having at his disposal.

[greenjacketed]

"Aye. And they were at that -- to their sultan."

Sharpe had stood with his jaw set as he'd watched one Jetti use his fist as a hammer, driving a nail deep into a prisoner's skull. The sand had gone gummy with blood. "Until he met a sticky end himself."

[dragmire]

"How unfortunate for him."

The meaning was plain enough. Ganondorf recalled his own 'sticky' end. The wound in his chest, strange as it may be, was quite obvious.

"... if you'll excuse me." Moving on, he went to the changing room.

[greenjacketed]

"Of course."

A chop of his hand -- not as though he was excusing the other man but merely agreeing with his decision to move on. Sharpe stepped aside and dropped his eyes to a pair of nice, thick-soled boots.

[dragmire]

Ganondorf had not yet acquired everything he would normally clothe himself in. Without his armor, he truly felt naked. All the same, after he had attached his cape and taken the trouble to use a bit of string to bind his wild hair, he felt that much more confident. He returned a few minutes later, quickly spotting the other man again.

"I failed to introduce myself before. I am Ganondorf."

[greenjacketed]

"You did," Sharpe straightend again -- the boots tucked under one arm. "But it wasn't my place to tell you so, eh?"

Ganondorf. Not the oddest name here. Not by a long shot. But it was unhelpful -- was it a Christian name? A surname? A rank? Where, Sharpe wondered, did he stand against this New Feather?

At the very least, it was easy to see that the man was self-possessed.

"Major Richard Sharpe."

He wondered if he should maybe offer his hand.

[dragmire]

"Major." He repeated the world, somewhat unfamiliar with the term itself. But he recognized it as not being a part of the man's name.

"A title of some sort?"

[greenjacketed]

"It would be my rank" -- and one he clung to desperately, it seems -- "in the South Essex regiment."

And what he's told no one in the whole bleeding town is that he as good as commanded the 1st Batallion. Not officially -- no, certainly not. But until recently, there'd been a shortage of men to put above the Major. And things worked so smoothly with him in place.

"His Britannic Majesty's army, though I don't expect you to know it."

For if he didn't know what a 'major' was...

[dragmire]

That earned a considering smile. Where Sharpe had once been but a very forgettable man, he was now someone of some interest. Indeed, now that Ganondorf took a moment to measure him up once more, he had the bearing of a soldier. A knight, perhaps.

"A warrior, then. One entrusted with the lives of others. 'tis an honorable position."

[greenjacketed]

"Oh, what a world you must come from! Honourable? Aye. About as honourable as a Cat Lane whore."

Distractions. Sharpe valued his own honour rather highly, actually. But it never did to paint yourself as a bleeding prince in the face of anyone -- stranger or friend. "I'm a soldier. It's what I know how to do. I'll leave the warrioring to the daft bloody daydreamers."

[dragmire]

He was able to chuckle at that. He could certainly appreciate the man's frankness of the matter.

"The world- my world, has always needed soldiers. Daydreamers are expendable luxuries for the fat and idle."

[greenjacketed]

Rogues and thieves and wakes and wastrels and murderers and worse. These were the men who defended Lady Britannia's honour. The thugs who won battles and broke seiges. General Baird and called him that, once. Thug. And while it had jammed at every tender part of him that keenly felt his social disadvantage, it had also given him strength. He was good at it, he was. Soldiering.

But you didn't have to be stupid to be a thug.

"And what does that make you, aye?"

Not fat. Presumably not idle. Not like any soldier he knew. And he talked too much to be a bleeding Jetti.

[dragmire]

"One who was once entrusted with the lives of others."

His statement said so many things at once. But only what he wanted to communicate. His identity as a king, the people he once commanded, the tribe he once called home... he no longer had claim to them. They had been lost to him in centuries of imprisonment.

[greenjacketed]

"...And -- Christ -- now we're the both of us bound here for who know how...

How long was it, then? Last time? Months? Years?"

[dragmire]

"Six months." Long enough, he supposed. But a pittance compared to the time he had spent imprisoned in utter darkness.

[greenjacketed]

...A decent chunk of time. Sharpe gave a shallow nod.

"Six months too many to six months too few?"

[dragmire]

"Both. It was only long enough to truly understand this world, but not yet long enough to do anything with that knowledge."

[greenjacketed]

Disbelief struck the Major's face. He'd been here for over six months and could still barely grasp some of its elements. But he was beginning to understand that -- like back home -- he was starting from a different line than everyone else. One farther back. Disadvantaged, still.

"And you hope things'll be different this time 'round."

It wasn't a question.

[dragmire]

"If I am to be trapped here, then it should be made to suit my own purposes."

He was ambitious. Perhaps more so than anyone else in Luceti. All of reality lied just beyond a simple barrier.

[greenjacketed]

"That's big-thinking of you."

It wasn't said with disdain but -- perhaps -- an ounce of awe. Sharpe had always been personally ambitious, if not impersonally so. "But haven't dozens of others already tried and failed?"

[dragmire]

"Swing enough times and eventually the hammer is bound to hit the nail."

It gave Ganon less credit than he would normally give himself.

[greenjacketed]

"But what else do you clatter and flatten and smash with all that swinging, eh?"

He said it as though he didn't quite agree with himself. As though he agreed with Ganondorf more. But it was the sort of argument a man made at this junction. Conversations had to progress thusly.

Didn't they?

[dragmire]

"Some might call it collateral damage."

It was, perhaps, a reckless statement. But there was a careful intent behind them. He was sizing this man up: testing his morality.