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Zant feels an intense kinship with spiders; they're the essential accompaniment to any darknened corner, the denizen of every stagnant pile, the sentry of all ruins. They're sharp, striking figures, with long, pointed, curling legs, content to loom, and wait.
And should they break this vigil, they are swiftly met with violent death.
The world is not kind to spiders. It loves not their sprawling, eightfold form; it cares not for the tentative air in their quick, shambling gait; how they hide; how they wait; how they guard the domestic gate.
The world is not kind to spiders,
And it is not kind to Zant.
In waking dreams borne upon long nights tossing and turning, he finds it. The sky of his home-realm bleached cream-grey, wide and empty. All there is, is a small island of slate beneath his feet, and the stepstones up to the Mountain.
There is light pouring from a crack within it.
He wastes no time in racing forth. His toes fly over the stone; his usual heaviness and inefficiencies give way to something swift, airy, free. His heels do not touch the ground; they touch nothing; not even themselves. The light grows as he advances. He almost forgets he can't breathe.
He comes to the base, flat and level around the edge. The Palace would be here. The Palace is no longer here. Zant hated the Palace. He's glad it's gone, replaced by an immense pyramid of raw, angular stone.
The light fades, and the Mountain opens, yawning deep and black.
Zant throws himself down its maw without a single thought.
The tunnels are coated with cobwebs. Some are thin and stringy, others thick and sticky. Some are like plush wool and others are like viscous half-solid glue. He slips through passages small and winding, and vaults across caverns deep and wide. Not a chamber has gone untouched. ATTERCOP has been busy. Something naughty tingles. Zant rubs himself, sucking his thumb. Looking up into the vaults above where he must venture next, he spies carefully for any stray strand of light.
There it is.
His fingers fall from his mouth and cunt.
Up, up, up he goes, over and between ledges across the chasm gaping like a throat, nestled against walls with his hands wrenched into the short, thick, felty silk that coats them (ATTERCOP, ATTERCOP, CUNT BIG DRIPPING AND FAT--), higher and higher, the meagre light growing brighter and brighter, until he's left with a lone spider's thread.
It's such a jump, from where he stands. If he falls, he'll have to climb aaall the way back up; if he falls wrong, then not even that. The light pulses, and comes brighter than before. It hurts his eyes. Zant wants to throw himself into it so bad.
So he does.
Terror strikes as his hands meet nothing but air. He screams, having forgotten he can't. Something snags in his fingers, and he holds, holds for dear fucking life.
Then he looks up, thread dug into his fingers, and breathes. It's not a real breath-- It's hard and stale and doesn't go anywhere, come from anything. But it's earnest, reflex. He forces his eyes open into a squint. It's so bright. The light pulses, gently, quickly, as if urging.
And so slowly, Zant unwinds a hand, and reaches up, grabbing. Then the other, and the first again, and the other, and again, and again, and again. Midway through he stops, face burrowed between his shoulders with eyes clenched shut. He can swear he feels it straining. What if it snaps?
NO, NO, NO; GOD WOULD NEVER LEAVE HIM LIKE THIS.
Zant strikes forth in his climb, bit by bit,
Until he reaches the SPIDER'S NEST.
There, crawling over a bed of layered webs, bigger than an elephant is ATTERCOP. There's silk dripping from his CUNT-BELLY-TRUNK as he continues to spin away. Zant's own cunt throbs. Then he stops, and turns to face him.
YOU'VE MADE IT. WELL DONE.
His hoarse, raspy voice rattles throughout the cavern. It is not of the body, but emanates from his BEING nevertheless.
DID YOU ENJOY IT, THAT LITTLE CLIMB? I CAN SEE YOU'RE ALL WORKED UP. THAT LAST JUMP WAS TRICKY, BUT YOU MANAGED WELL ENOUGH. YOU'RE SUCH A GOOD BOY, ZANT.
Zant rubs himself, sucking his thumb. His mouth is overflowing with drool. It dribbles down his chin, down his stomach and onto the silk-smothered ledge. ATTERCOP laughs.
COME, POPPET.
Zant does, continuing to stroke, though eventually he must stop when the silk bows beneath his feet, leaving him to crawl towards ATTERCOP. When he settles before him like an infant in a cot or a sling, ATTERCOP extends a leg and strokes his cheek. Zant mewls (silently, he has no breath).
As ATTERCOP creeps above him, Zant's eyes glide to his spinnerets. They drip ever-so-slightly with liquid silk. Zant's stomach tingles, hungry. He begins to suck his thumb again.
DO YOU THINK I'M YOUR DADDY?
no. much better. you won't throw me away, never ever ever.
He laughs.
MOTHER, THEN. DRINK.
ATTERCOP tips his spinnerets down. Zant grasps them on his knees, bringing them to his sopping, drool-drenched mouth, suckling like some half-starved lamb or calf. Thick, sticky, tasteless silk hits the back of his throat, and he downs it in slow, rhythmic swallows. ATTERCOP lowers, allowing Zant to cling on and cuddle his hairy abdomen like the baby he often feels he really is. ATTERCOP's legs stroke him, and stroke him, over and over.
Then they push him onto his back, and the only thing connecting him and the spinnerets is a long strand of silk-laden drool whose end lies heavy on his lips. Then ATTERCOP shakes himself, and it's severed.
FULL, POPPET?
no! no! i wasn't done yet!
ATTERCOP's legs run over him again, prodding and petting at his tummy. Despite himself, he can't help sighing at the sensation. Round and round they go, rubbing gentle circles.
HUH? IS THAT SO? THAT CLIMB MUST HAVE R E A L L Y WORKED YOU UP. I SUPPOSE I'LL INDULGE YOU A LITTLE MORE. SPREAD YOUR LEGS.
Zant does as he's told, angling his bottom up to boot. Cold air hits his sopping wet cunt (air, air, air everywhere, but never here), leaving him electric as ATTERCOP angles himself, pressing the spinnerets right up against his opening. Zant rubs himself on them in his impatience-- Saliva and cum and silk all mingle with the sickening squelch of his movements. Zant hates filth and slime in his waking life, but here and now he's so eager for them to fill him up that he aches.
With a dark chuckle, the spinnerets are plunged into his waiting hole.
ATTERCOP is merciless in his assault. Where he had been sweet and gentle in nursing him, he now ravishes Zant like the prey he is-- But what prey devours as it is bitten? Pursues as it is ran down? The ridges of ATTERCOP's spinnerets grind deliciously against Zant's walls, and his greedy, gluttonous core only wants to swallow more. Load after load of silk is deposited with every thrust, eagerly welcomed into chambers beyond.
Zant spreads his legs wider, hoping to encircle him. Wider and wider and wider, pulling more, and more, and more-- If he could, Zant would swallow ATTERCOP into his bottom like this; feel hairy legs kicking and scraping in his tummy, watch him shift beneath his skin, kiss and cuddle him whenever he wanted. He'd always be with him, always! He'd never go, never ever, and Zant could always have him; he'd never have to be alone, or be unsure, or go hungry and unloved-- His GOD would be with him.
ALWAYS, BABY?
ATTERCOP's dark, raspy tone bubbles with laughter. Zant furrows his brows. Is he laughing at him?
always! please, always!
ATTERCOP's laughter rises. His pace grows absolutely breakneck. ATTERCOP plunges deeper, and deeper-- Zant can feel himself rip, but no pain rises. He grips ATTERCOP's belly with both hands, legs spread as high and as wide as he can, jerked so violently he can no longer tell where he ends and GOD begins.
in! in! in! Zant cries, between swallows. in! want in! get in! i want to be close to you, forever and ever and ever!
FOREVER, ZANT?
forever, MAMA, ABBA, FATHER!
FOREVER IS SUCH A LONG TIME. ARE YOU SURE?
"Please!" Zant howls. yes, yes, YES!
He's so full of need he's actually angry.
VERY WELL, THEN.
A final spurt, then ATTERCOP pulls out. It trails down Zant's torn cunt and over his thighs. He knows instinctively some vital essence of himself has slipped out along with him. His head lolls back, as a wave of exhaustion hits him. His eyelids shut, twitching.
When he opens them again a moment later, fluttering and bleary, ATTERCOP's behind is dangling above him. His mouth falls open without a word. It, his nose, his throat and his lungs are filled completely. This feels good, this feels correct, this feels right; after all, he cannot, should not, breathe.
Clasped between deft legs, he's slowly, surely swathed in silk.
SUCH A GOOD MORSEL, SUCH A GOOD MOTH. REALLY, IT WAS EVER-SO-KIND FOR YOU TO OFFER YOURSELF UP LIKE THIS. SO EAGER, SO WILLING, DOWNRIGHT PLEADING FOR ME TO HAVE YOU. YOU ARE P R E C I O U S , ZANT. IT ALMOST MAKES ME LOVE YOU.
With that, fangs plunge into his neck. He does not gasp. Cannot. Something burns in his veins. A small hole is made in his swaddle-- But not to breathe. Never to breathe. The venom has paralysed him completely. Something is hacked up-- Something that burns, and devours. He is being broken down.
ATTERCOP continues to regurgitate, until Zant is little more than soft, pulpy mush.
GOD presses his mouth to his COCOON, and DRINKS him. It does not feel like anything, because he cannot feel anything, but Zant's essence is completely ENRAPTURED. He's sucked down his throat mouthful by mouthful, and into the multi-chambered depths of his BELLY-- His HEART beats, not the abdominal heart of the SPIDER, but of GOD, ALL AROUND HIM-- He settles, divided, utterly overwhelmed, and relishes in his overwhelming presence.
Zant has no legs to kick or hands to rub or a mouth to press incessant kisses of thanks, complete thanks, gratitude so deep it transcends the word; he can only hope it radiates through what little is left of his being as YES, YES, I AM FREE, I AM DIVIDED AND I AM WHOLE, I AM NO LONGER MYSELF, BY MYSELF-- I WILL NEVER BE ALONE OR HUNGRY OR UNSURE OR UNLOVED EVER AGAIN-- GLORY BE TO YOU AND YOUR KINGDOM TO COME, MY LORD-- BLESSED AM I, TO BE GRACED WITH SUCH SWEET R A P T U R E -- THANK YOU, THANK YOU, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE THAT YOU HAVE EATEN ME, THAT YOU ARE DIGESTING ME, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU SO MU--
--Zant gasps, smothered in something tight. He flails, kicking and writhing and gripped with something cold and electric.
When he frees himself, he finds that it is night, and that he has come all over his sheets. He grimaces, and rolls them aside, casting a dark look at his naked thighs. Summers in Hyrule were hot, much hotter than he was used to, and with little else to do he'd forgone his clothes.
"Well," he grits. A sigh follows.
As he rises to clean himself and wipe the worst of the spill off the sheets, the dream inevitably makes its way to his mind again.
Goodness. What complete degeneracy. Is that what he was coming to?
For the first time (loathe as he is to admit it), Zant is thankful for the Lord's departure from his flesh. Their bond remained yet, a crucial lifeline in this barbaric realm, but Ganon's growing body lay sequestered in a distant chamber of the castle, biding its time. All this to say, that as far as Zant was aware, he had not seen his thoughts
He hoped.
"Distance is necessary," Zant mumbles, unaware he's speaking aloud. "One can't expect to grow, latched to their benefactor with no end."
When he's done, Zant slumps against the side of the bed, and sighs. In the corner of his eye, he spots the glint of something silver, waving by the curtain-rod.
Zant feels an intense kinship with spiders.
(He is not one of them.)