[Darin was expecting this reaction, which makes his next admission all the more painful. When he speaks, he closes his eyes and his words are hushed. Ashamed.]
According to my brother...Diomuhr could not enter Anmaral as he was. To do so, he had to play a trick. He had to be reincarnated.
One human couldn't contain all of that power. So...two were chosen by destiny to each bear one half of his soul.
Twins.
[He lets the emphasis hang, sure that Zelda knows what's coming next.]
...Zelda, Dromas and I—together—are Diomuhr.
I'm the Demon King prophesied to destroy my world...
[And there it is. There's the story. The reason why he doesn't want people to get close to him. Because he'll hurt them if he changes. Or worse yet, he'll hurt them by changing. They'll come to care for him and try and find ways to stop him and would likely get killed in the process. Or, worse yet, they'll be disappointed in him should he be unable to change his fate.]
[ There are very few things Darin could have said to invoke this kind of reaction from Zelda. The Princess of Hyrule is a woman of few fears and few prejudices, having a penchant for being curious and open minded to a fault. Nothing Darin has said up until now has stirred this kind of fear in her. And she knows-- she knows-- that his Demon King is not Hyrule's.
But no amount of reminding herself of this fact can stop her from flashing back to her seventeenth birthday, to the day the prophesied destruction of her world came to pass. She was so young, just a girl, and forced to face on her own the incarnation of hatred itself. One hundred years she spent trapped with it, using every ounce of her strength and magic to protect what remained of her kingdom until Link could defeat the monster and save them all. For how much Zelda has grown and recovered since then, the Calamity still haunts her nightmares. And after a century steeped in its hatred, Zelda knew its progenitor the moment she laid eyes on him kneeling before the first King of Hyrule.
[Zelda's not saying anything. Why isn't she saying anything? Darin's heart is beating into his throat. He can feel the rapid thumpTHUMP thumpTHUMP in his godsdamned ears!]
[He takes the chance and lifts his head to look at her and that same heart that had been pounding in his own ears sinks into the pit of his stomach.]
[He knows that look.]
[The look people gave him when he climbed out of his sickbed as a boy. Not astonished and elated that a boy of seven survived his grisly wound but horrified and appalled that he still yet lived. Not lucky. Not blessed.]
[Cursed. A Monster.]
[Over time those looks bothered him less but they stung all the same. But now...now he opened up of his own volition. He took a chance. He gambled.]
[And he lost.]
[And it's like watching the sun set after a funeral. Knowing that tomorrow things will be different. There will be loss and you'll feel hollow and things just won't feel the same. And over time, the pain fades. It dulls and hardens like a callous on the heart. He doesn't need her to say anything because her expression is plain: Terror. Pure terror. It's like she can see the monster he's meant to become looming over his shoulder.]
[The least he can do is cast the image out of her mind.]
[And so he stands abruptly, lowering his head to the floor.]
...And now you know. And it looks like I did what I set out to do in the end.
[His voice is cold and broken and when he speaks next, he laughs. It's bitter and mocking and sounds like ice linking around in a steel cup. The mask is back up in one fell swoop.]
I told you, didn't I~? I'm the furthest thing from a 'champion.' Any good I've done was accidental, I promise you.
[Play the role. Hammer the point home.]
I'm a smith, and with these hands I'll be forge the hammer that sunders the world. I'll forge an end to tomorrow.
[It's theatrical, but at this point he has to be. He has no other choice.]
[And so he makes for the door, throwing it open and pulling it closed behind him with a slam.]
[And as he walks home, he pulls out his shellphone. He looks at the wallpaper he spent hours trying to figure out how to assign; the selfie he'd taken with Zelda in the sky above Naughtilust. He wants to change it but he can't figure out how right now. Instead, he moves to her contact ID.]
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no subject
According to my brother...Diomuhr could not enter Anmaral as he was. To do so, he had to play a trick. He had to be reincarnated.
One human couldn't contain all of that power. So...two were chosen by destiny to each bear one half of his soul.
Twins.
[He lets the emphasis hang, sure that Zelda knows what's coming next.]
...Zelda, Dromas and I—together—are Diomuhr.
I'm the Demon King prophesied to destroy my world...
[And there it is. There's the story. The reason why he doesn't want people to get close to him. Because he'll hurt them if he changes. Or worse yet, he'll hurt them by changing. They'll come to care for him and try and find ways to stop him and would likely get killed in the process. Or, worse yet, they'll be disappointed in him should he be unable to change his fate.]
no subject
But no amount of reminding herself of this fact can stop her from flashing back to her seventeenth birthday, to the day the prophesied destruction of her world came to pass. She was so young, just a girl, and forced to face on her own the incarnation of hatred itself. One hundred years she spent trapped with it, using every ounce of her strength and magic to protect what remained of her kingdom until Link could defeat the monster and save them all. For how much Zelda has grown and recovered since then, the Calamity still haunts her nightmares. And after a century steeped in its hatred, Zelda knew its progenitor the moment she laid eyes on him kneeling before the first King of Hyrule.
Prophesied destruction.
Demon King.
She feels like she's going to be sick. ]
no subject
[He takes the chance and lifts his head to look at her and that same heart that had been pounding in his own ears sinks into the pit of his stomach.]
[He knows that look.]
[The look people gave him when he climbed out of his sickbed as a boy. Not astonished and elated that a boy of seven survived his grisly wound but horrified and appalled that he still yet lived. Not lucky. Not blessed.]
[Cursed. A Monster.]
[Over time those looks bothered him less but they stung all the same. But now...now he opened up of his own volition. He took a chance. He gambled.]
[And he lost.]
[And it's like watching the sun set after a funeral. Knowing that tomorrow things will be different. There will be loss and you'll feel hollow and things just won't feel the same. And over time, the pain fades. It dulls and hardens like a callous on the heart. He doesn't need her to say anything because her expression is plain: Terror. Pure terror. It's like she can see the monster he's meant to become looming over his shoulder.]
[The least he can do is cast the image out of her mind.]
[And so he stands abruptly, lowering his head to the floor.]
...And now you know. And it looks like I did what I set out to do in the end.
[His voice is cold and broken and when he speaks next, he laughs. It's bitter and mocking and sounds like ice linking around in a steel cup. The mask is back up in one fell swoop.]
I told you, didn't I~? I'm the furthest thing from a 'champion.' Any good I've done was accidental, I promise you.
[Play the role. Hammer the point home.]
I'm a smith, and with these hands I'll be forge the hammer that sunders the world. I'll forge an end to tomorrow.
[It's theatrical, but at this point he has to be. He has no other choice.]
[And so he makes for the door, throwing it open and pulling it closed behind him with a slam.]
[And as he walks home, he pulls out his shellphone. He looks at the wallpaper he spent hours trying to figure out how to assign; the selfie he'd taken with Zelda in the sky above Naughtilust. He wants to change it but he can't figure out how right now. Instead, he moves to her contact ID.]
[Zelda (FIRST FRIEND!)
[And presses Delete.]