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It was only magic and tight fabric that was keeping Ganondorf from tightening his hand around her neck as though he were only grasping at rope.
Zelda looked down, her shadowy reflection flickering back along the dark waters. Even when she slept, she wore a mask tightly around her face; no prior knowledge or even ingrained intuition could guarantee or have the foresight to know what lay underneath.
Since the day Ganon had first risen, perhaps even before that, she had been Sheik, an idol of clay molded by her governess and designed not to break at a simple fall or rough touch.
Could Ganondorf, she wondered as she brought her shaking hands up towards her throat, truly be powerful enough to break through that?