Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Warmth breezes through honeyed strands, terribly unkempt in the absence of his cap. The wooden planks are rough on his back, but he disregards the ache. It’s his head that yearns for relief.

Although the clouds no longer bar him from the land below, Link somehow feels trapped now more than ever, suffocating in a lifeless prison of the mundane and routine. He had thought that slipping away from the crowds, from the bustle of the waking town, would provide his mind some space for clarity. When that failed, he’d attempted to take on a new perspective, praying that the angle would bring to light some glimpse of renewal previously untouched.

So, here he is, the Goddess’s chosen knight: no uniform, no weapons, hiding away beneath the island’s sole waterfall. Lying the way he is, he can just make out the overgrown vines on the ledges directly above, green whisps silhouetted against an empty sky. He inhales deeply, nostrils flooding with the warm scent of earth. No matter how often he bathes it lingers heavy on his skin, to the point where he’s simply come to accept it as a part of himself, a constant reminder of where he now belongs.

“What am I even doing here?”

‘Knight of Skyloft.’ Once, the title had held such prestige, bestowed only upon an elite group of the finest the world has to offer. Lately, though, the world’s gotten bigger. Much, much bigger.

His role, his purpose, expanded so abruptly, only to be reduced in half the time. Even Zelda’s efforts to settle the Surface, though an adequate rebound for the first few months, have all but lost their edge. Link will help clear trees, stock lumber, dig trenches, transport supplies, and so on, grasping vainly for some renewed sense of meaning – and all the while lapsing into patterns, scurrying about in circles until the motions cease to be anything more.

He is… stagnant.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

The young man nearly jumps out of his skin, bolting upright in the time it takes a silent giggle to shake Zelda’s shoulders. He runs his eyes over the brilliant cerulean of her uniform. It’s such a good color on her, the way it makes her eyes pop.

“I thought I might find you here. I mean, since you weren’t in your room.”

Drawing his knees up rather sheepishly, Link gives her a soft shrug. His eyes avert briefly, and when they’ve returned to the girl in front of him, he finds her gentle smile to have vanished altogether.

“I need you to get dressed.” It’s almost an order, a regretful authority laced into her tone. “We have a bit of a problem.”

---

Tepid wind streaks through their hair, their colorful mounts circling the temple directly beneath. Eventually, Link settles enough to simply close his eyes, trusting his bird to follow independently the brilliant blue mass ahead of them. The warmth of the sun on his face fades almost instantly to cool shadow, slipping behind the patches of clouds blotting the late-morning sky. For a moment, Link likens the occurrence to his own inner lilt, sensations ever shifting, ever fleeting in a pattern so unpredictable.

From the duration of their flight to their idling at the Goddess statue’s feet, Zelda reveals nothing of this said ‘problem,’ yet her hesitance manages to speak volumes – and though he doesn’t press her, Link can’t help the creeping suspicion of what it is, exactly, that lurks behind the temple doors.

“He’s far from powerless,” she states plainly, avoiding the knight’s wary eyes. “But he is considerably weakened.”

Before she continues, Zelda heaves through the doors, stumbling over the mossy threshold when at last the stone gives way. Behind her, Link’s footsteps echo softly in procession.

“He was found in the woods not far from the Sky Keep. It seems his presence beneath the holy artifact was difficult to reconcile.”

Link remains dutifully silent as Zelda leads her knight through the temple’s aged expanse, guiding him deeper through chambers of broken glass and corroded earth. Beams of morning light retract and withdraw through the holes pocking the ceiling, synchronized with the flitting sun.

After what feels to be an eternity, they arrive outside the temple’s innermost chamber. The reflective sheen of the Master Sword can just be made out through the lopsided entrance, cascades of dust framing her metal through the faded light. A mere number of steps, now, separates Link from the truth. Still, he says nothing.

Zelda eyes him with concern.

“Link?”

His gaze remains locked, fixated on everything and nothing at once.

“How long?” he breathes, hardly above a whisper.

Stifling a shiver, she places a hand to the cold entryway. “Since last night, just before sundown.”

It’s Link who pushes through, grunting in sync with the pitched scraping of the cinder. A century may as well pass as they walk side by side, the knight’s footsteps overtaking those of his companion without his immediately realizing. Despite his suspicions already having been all but confirmed, for the scene laid out behind the blade that had once been his, nothing could have truly prepared him.

Link halts dead in his tracks the second it enters his vision, Zelda’s frame proceeding to approach. Muscles tensing at its weight, she lifts it upright, tip scraping shrill against the ground: an obsidian blade, edges as jagged as the cross guard is winged; hilt wrapped in thick leather; embellished with a bloodred gemstone. When held straight as it is now, the sword stands taller than either of the humans in its presence.

All at once the world appears as though it were wreathed in shadow, a cloud settling over the Goddess and her faithful, even as light spills in golden tendrils from her porcelain fingertips. It rolls off the dark steel in sheets, billows in gusts before fragmenting into diamonds, gold and glittering and unnumbered, dancing to a silent rhythm before morphing, at last, into the shape of the blade’s spirit.

Rich crimson folds splay about the slender figure, the height of his mantle masking his face. Inky black webs twist along pale grey limbs, comparable to the form he’d once boasted not long before – except now, it’s… different, somehow.

Like his body had been dropped from a cliffside and left to splinter at its foot.

How, while lying prostrate at the young woman’s feet, can this creature still seem so thoroughly to dwarf all in his presence?

A long pause drags on, the demon lying there motionless, not a breath to emit. It’s with a stab of concern that Link begins to wonder whether Zelda was partly mistaken, if possibly he had succumbed to his injuries whilst trapped within his sword – when a deep, shaky inhale shatters the silence.

Dark eyes crack into narrow slits, glistening just beyond the edge of their owner’s mantle. His voice, a silvery chime that Link could only have dreamed of ever hearing again, sends shivers through the younger man’s spine.

“Your Grace,” coos Ghirahim, his greeting soft but surprisingly steady. “Well, isn’t this my lucky day? There I had expected to be left another thousand years, at the very least. Have you really come crawling back so soon?”

Already a pit lodges itself in Link’s stomach. While Zelda’s ‘discovery’ had ever loomed at the front of his mind, not once did he think to inquire as to what, exactly, she intends to do. Surely, she couldn’t mean for him to… and when Ghirahim has been so clearly… reduced…?

The thought appears to cross the demon’s mind as well. He glances at the notably more distant figure in green, recognition flashing through darkened eyes.

“Sky child. You are looking… well, no worse than usual.” Ghirahim props his chin, feet elevated, swaying far too casually. “I confess, our last encounter was rather anticlimactic, don’t you agree? Is this why you’ve dragged him along, Your Grace?” Silver strands glimmer in the soft light as the demon shifts his gaze, a subtle grin ghosting white lips. “To have him play the role of executioner for a day, soil his hands once more where yours are unwilling to do their own bidding? Tell me, did you promise to, at long last, grant him his freedom following the act, or is he merely too eager to remain on your leash?”

“That’s enough, Ghirahim.” Zelda snaps as Link looks askance, fingers itching, though not for the broadsword strapped to his back. Something apparently registers in the demon’s mind.

“Ah,” he sings, inflection rising to levels of bemusement. “He himself doesn’t even know his reason for being here.” A chuckle. “Is this then typical for you, Link: following your beloved spirit maiden to the ends of the earth and back, blind and obedient as any old lapdog?”

Heat rising to the tips of his ears, Link struggles to sidestep the demon’s taunts. It’s never been uncharacteristic for Ghirahim to try to wriggle beneath an opponent’s skin. This last insinuation, however, strikes a nerve too deep to ignore.

“You’re one to talk,” Zelda seethes, knuckles white on Ghirahim’s hilt. Her words aren’t entirely successful in taking the heat off her knight, caught so helplessly between the two. “As if you didn’t follow me to all the same lengths and more, albeit in service of another entity – one known for his violence and cruelty. How are you any different?”

“It’s quite simple, really.” Ghirahim rolls his eyes to the ceiling, resting his head on his forearms as though utterly bored. “I am a sword. As such, I desire a wielder, a powerful individual to put my superlative form to befitting use. Not once has my role been hidden from me, nor have my motives ever been manipulated in effort to secure my loyalty. Though I suppose that was always the difference between you and Demise, wasn’t it, Your Grace?” His eyes snarl, yet his mouth smiles sweetly. “Oh, but please, continue your fruitless endeavor to convince yourself that a somewhat lesser amount of bloodshed has earned you the moral high ground.”

Zelda looks as though she wants to respond, brows furrowed as she scrambles for some sort of comeback, reply, anything that could justify the strategies of Hylia if not at least disprove those of the Demon King. Before another word can roll from her tongue, however, Ghirahim has lifted himself to his knees, pale lips curling in silent revulsion.

“To get to the point,” he growls with a glower as sultry as it is snide, “if you mean for this reunion to stand as some sort of trial, allow me to save you and your hound the trouble. I am guilty, remorseless, and irredeemable. Now, if you don’t mind, sentence me to a quick death and carry it out quickly, that I may be spared further torment from your shrill chords and narrowminded sentimentality.”

While Zelda’s glare narrows, the pit in Link’s center continues to gnaw. Desperate for answers to a question he can’t seem to put words to, he searches the fallen lord’s unblinking eyes. Had therein once existed any fear for life or freedom, all traces have since vanished, leaving in its wake a certain…

… emptiness.

All at once, the waves come crashing down, snatching his thoughts and ripping them from his soul in an unrelenting torrent of recognition. Perhaps Ghirahim’s words ring true. Maybe he was never left in the dark, at a loss as to who he is; and maybe Link can’t claim such truth as his own, having once been ignorant in terms of identity and calling. But no matter his state in the past, and no matter how he came to possess the knowledge, the fact remains that he knows now.

And now, it’s over – for both of them.

The dark gleam in those tortured orbs is that of a fallen soldier; for though his lungs still draw breath, his fire has since been quelled. It is a gleam of acceptance. There is nothing left for Ghirahim, except to receive his fate with dignity and respect. As for his opponent, the enemy who had felled him and his mission on the battlefield…

No. It isn’t fair.

The silence is palpable, hanging thick over the heads of those present, yet Link may as well have drifted out to sea. It’s the voice of his oldest friend, one from which he’s drawn comfort so often for so long, that acts as the lifeline that draws him back – and for the first time in his memory, he barely can recognize it.

“If that’s what you truly want,” she says coldly.

Light, dainty fingers begin to shift around the leathered hilt, the mouth of the Goddess incarnate pressed into an ominously thin line. Link empties his mind, every fraction of every second a threat to his resolve.

Before he can think twice, or even once, he acts.

He slams gracelessly into Zelda, the both of them tumbling in a tangled heap of green and blue, as the demon sword clambers raucously onto the brittle stone. Sharp gasps rasp from Zelda’s mouth, the wind knocked from her lungs, while black specks gather before Link’s eyes. Between the ringing in his ears and the spinning of the room, he barely glimpses the demon’s flabbergast as he stumbles weakly to his feet.

A white glove grasps a black hilt. Low, distorted clinking echoes off the chamber walls. And when the Hylian pair recovers enough to absorb their surroundings once more, both demon and blade are gone.

---

He stops, breathless, not a mile out. The distance covered is nothing to boast of, yet how many centuries have passed since his – how to put this diplomatically? – dismissal from the Demon King’s service? Bludgeoned, malnourished, thirsting for blood with no master to see to his needs? That he’d been able to teleport through the temple walls is astonishing an achievement as is.

Utterly spent, Ghirahim stumbles to a halt, collapsing against the nearest trunk. His limbs tremble while he leans on his blade, nerves inflamed from exertion, core nearly drained. With a shudder, he realizes that should the Goddess or her subordinates happen upon him now, he’ll be powerless to resist them.

And to add insult to injury, this bit of freedom’s lasting as long as it has can only be credited to the little Hero’s sudden stroke of…

Of what? Pity? Spare me, sky child.

Or perhaps he’d struck a chord with the Goddess-pawn.

It wouldn’t be too surprising; after all, the demon has only ever prided himself on his unparalleled eloquence. Sometimes, he dare venture so far as to say his words have carried a weight heavier even than his blade. Oh, the sweet, subtle nothings he would once whisper in his master’s ear, be it on the battlefield or in the demons’ courts, carried one way or another to fruition at his well-versed insistence…

An abrupt rustling in the nearby brambles reminds him, starkly, just how far from grace he’s fallen.

The dark steel, as tall as himself, remains propped as flat as he dare against his resting (now hiding) place while Ghirahim steals a glimpse from behind the massive oak’s roots. His eyes squint in the growing dusk, his rambunctious visitor drawing steadily nearer…

Until the little knight has wandered so close that, even now, Ghirahim’s weakened senses can translate his aura.

Instinctively, his hands ball in and out of fists, fingers itching terribly beneath the white leather. Through his empty yearning for the saber in his keep, he allows himself to listen for other sets of footsteps – and emits a shaky exhale when none fall upon his ears. Suppressing the tempting call of hope, he expands his senses but a stone’s throw further, assessing the state of the young Hero’s weaponry.

He is sufficiently pleased by what he finds. Wherever the stinging light of Link’s blade has gone off to, it certainly isn’t on his person.

Damming the urge to think on it further, Ghirahim makes himself known.

“I see our binding thread is, yet again, pulled taut,” he calls, sauntering wearily into view, “and oh, how it coils so ruthlessly around our necks. How neither of us has yet suffocated within its grasp is one of the gods’ greater mysteries.”

Link at once freezes at the other’s two-edged greeting, ocean eyes wide. Therein dances starlight, gleaming silver through thinly scattered treetops. While he drops almost instantly into a defensive stance, Ghirahim notes how he doesn’t reach for his weapon. Flashing a sultry grin, one that he hopes will mask the minor lull tainting his motions, the demon allows a brief pause – and when Link remains predictably silent, poised more to flee than to fight, the other continues.

“A bit late to be hiking beneath the clouds, is it not? Can the clock be running out for both of us? Or should I be expecting a gaggle of your fellow sky-geese to emerge shortly from the brush?”

He asks, maybe, for Link as much as for himself. Whatever the young man’s motives, such blatant defiance of his Goddess can’t have earned him anything resembling a blessing.

“Tick-tock, Hero,” he taunts, feigning confidence even whilst he sways.

Blue eyes avert as Link straightens, head bowed in a hopeless endeavor to conceal the myriad of emotions plastered across his face. Softly, so much that his voice is nearly lost on a gentle breeze, he answers.

“I don’t know.”

Plain, simple, straightforward. There is no questioning the honesty in his tone.

Now thoroughly intrigued, Ghirahim chances a few steps forward, encouraged by the persisting serenity of this disgraced knight.

“I…,” want to thank you…?, “can’t deny, you’ve triggered my curiosity, Link. If I may be so bold as to inquire of your line of reasoning…?”

Typically, in the gaping pockets of Link’s frequent silent spells, Ghirahim is all too content to compensate with his own musings. However, there’s something… different… about him now, something uncharacteristically dark flitting behind the conflict brazen across those youthful features. Once so driven and sure, the young man appears at a loss for what to do next.

A feeling with which Ghirahim has recently become well acquainted.

He narrows the gap between them, peering over the edge of his mantle, until mere inches separate the two.

“Link?”

The demon realizes perhaps too late that he’s dropped his guard, that in one fluid motion this servant of the Goddess could stab him full-force in his raw, crippled center. The panic is short-lived, though, as the Hylian’s arms, once limp at his sides, reach leisurely, tenderly around Ghirahim’s waist. At first his breath catches, mind blanking; then his fatigue crashes upon him, a wave against the sand, and he finds himself leaning almost needily into the younger man’s embrace.

Bashfulness swallowed whole, Link nuzzles rather boldly into the fallen lord’s chest.

“What’s the point anymore?” he sighs. “First the gods’ stupid war, and now this bleak interim. I can’t take any more, Ghirahim. No more violence, no more death – not while either of us has a choice.”

He raises his head, eyes glistening beneath thick, damp lashes.

“Promise me that?”

Resting his chin atop Link’s head, Ghirahim draws a deep, thoughtful breath. His eyes wander along the darkened treeline as he considers this- this- proposition, this temporary truce. All personal animosity aside – and indeed, very little could have ever been categorized as personal – he’s ultimately in no position to negotiate. Surely, this fact can’t be lost on a warrior as seasoned as Link, yet the young man pleads rather than threatens.

“Oh, sky child. You are an enigma.” He discards the knight’s cap gently, slender fingers carding almost absently through tangled strands. “Yet I suppose, for the time being, I can consent to your proposed ceasefire.”

His hands sink smoothly to caress Link’s shoulders, allowing the human to feel as though he may breathe easy once more.

Until those same digits dig mercilessly into his skin, leaving him wincing horribly.

“But remember,” Ghirahim’s tone darkens in warning, silver to obsidian in a matter of seconds, “for a true ceasefire to be maintained, terms must be upheld by both parties.”

Chapter Text

Link watches with morbid fascination as Ghirahim staggers – staggers, seemingly headed towards the base of a nearby oak. Despite the poor light, he vaguely recognizes the direction from which the demon had emerged.

When he fumbles at the roots, Link instinctively lurches; then a gloved hand shoots outward, bracing against the wood, the white of Ghirahim’s garments stark against the nightly gloom.

“It’s rude to stare,” he rasps over his shoulder. His voice has darkened beyond its usual glaze, and Link swears he can even make out one arm clutching at the core beneath his cloak.

Though few words had truly passed between them, the knight had been certain that all that needed to be said was effectively brought into the open. Witnessing this quivering figure once more, not minutes later, even the gist of their exchange has all but slipped away. Answers evade the human, leaving his mind unbearably numb – and what’s worse, he can hardly recall the questions he was supposed to be asking to begin with.

He blinks, lips parting, one sole inquiry presenting itself.

“What will you do?”

Had Ghirahim been still before, he’s now gone completely stiff. The stars themselves seem to pause their lilting dance.

“Well.” His tone is curt, to-the-point. “Since my master has seemingly handed in his permanent resignation, I suppose I’ve defaulted to neutrality.”

“But,” Link reaches forward, then thinks better of it and, withdrawing, “where will you go?”

A mirthless cackle rises from the demon’s throat, clawing through the atmosphere with desperate hostility. “I am a fugitive now, Hero.” The venom lathering that title carries the sting of a thousand needles. “My options having been so drastically reduced, can you really believe I’ll tell you?”

“You know I’ll just follow you. You might as well stop making this so difficult.”

At last Ghirahim turns his head, starlight reflecting ominously off one flintlike eye. He delivers a sneering glare, and though the mantle conceals everything beneath, there’s no doubting that he smirks.

“Eager little thing, aren’t you?” he chides.

The moment he moves, again facing the knight, is the moment an eastern wind blows hot. A sweat breaks out beneath Link’s mail, growing heavier by the second.

“And what,” as Ghirahim approaches, tediously, that sweat runs cold, “is to stop me from throttling your sorry neck the instant you rest your head?”

Eyes narrowing, neck craned, Link stands his ground on trembling legs. Yes, this demon has agreed to a truce; and yes, he’s far more frail than he hopes is obvious – yet in truth, the young man is terrified.

“You won’t,” he spits, voice low and steady.

At this, Ghirahim cocks a brow. “Oh?” Mild amusement colors his inflection. “And how can you be so sure?”

“Because an entire town now knows you’re alive, knows that you’re weak, and knows what you’ve done – and because that entire town wants you dead.” Link can hardly believe his own outpour, much less the striking truth of the words spilling from his mouth. “I’m the only one who doesn’t, Ghirahim, and therefore I’m your best chance at staying alive until we can figure out this- this- whatever it is, and what to do about it!”

If Link had been taken aback, the demon is… stunned. His blackened eyes, though fixed unblinkingly to the other’s, harbor no malice, searching in earnest for something Link doubts even he himself truly knows.

Finally, after an agonizing pause,

“Well, then, my dear.”

All at once, his senses come alive, as the forest is suddenly teeming with life. A warm, gentle breeze rustles the leaves overhead; insects chime their jumbled symphony; flowers abloom in the tepid shade release their sickly-sweet fragrance. The barriers have been shed, and Ghirahim’s tone, though still somewhat wary, has taken to revealing the true pain and exhaustion lurking behind that mask of composure.

“What,” continues he, “do you propose?”

Link casts a knowing glance behind the cloaked figure, to the oaken trunk that had seemed so important. “Your sword,” he says.

Razor-thin brows furrow, shadowing the eyes beneath.

“Give me your sword to keep with me, at least for tonight. That way you won’t be able to wander off while I sleep.”

“Afraid I’ll terrorize as many unsuspecting villagers as I can manage before inevitably going down in flames?” Ghirahim taunts, accentuating with a half-hearted flip of his hair, “Or can you simply not bear the thought of spending another second without me?”

Before the sentence is fully completed, Link is rolling his eyes, trudging towards the oak in hopes of recovering the dark blade. As sure of its placement as he had been, he can’t help the twinge of relief at actually finding it there: even propped against the massive trunk it stands taller than himself, black steel gleaming wickedly in the starlight. Tenderly he reaches, wrapping careful fingers around the thick leathered hilt.

He shudders upon contact. Why does it feel so… intimate?

Or is invasive the better term?

Ghirahim makes no further comment, only watches intently as Link places his blade beneath an arching root. It’s large, awkwardly so, and as deathly sharp as the day it had clashed against Fi’s holy make, yet he’s determined to secure it under his person – to the point where he’ll be certain to wake should the demon attempt to retrieve it. A few cuts, the youth tells himself, are hardly penance for the crimes he now willingly commits.

As he scuffles uncomfortably, grimacing upon his bed of metal, from the corner of his eye he catches Ghirahim’s shaking head.

“Here,” he snaps, removing his cloak with a graceful flourish, “you foolish brat.”

Shooing the human to the side rather forcefully, he drapes the thick velvet over his own jagged steel, then gesticulates for Link to lie down once again.

“In my life, I was not expecting you of all people to be such high maintenance.”

Link had been unprepared, to say the least, to receive any such semblance of kindness – especially from Ghirahim. The duration of their rivalry, looking back upon it, had been riddled with mixed emotions – the demon’s constantly referring to Link as some sort of punching bag, always making overtly casual efforts to wriggle beneath his skin, then seething when the knight had proven a greater challenge than the demon had anticipated. Although at first he’d been angered and terrified by the enemy’s presence – moody, unpredictable creature that he both was and still is – Link had eventually come to appreciate, even enjoy the thrill of their encounters. Never had he felt so alive.

Now, with that very same opponent mere feet away, he finds himself lying down to rest – comfortably. The sensations racing through him at the prospect are a far cry from pleasant. More accurately, he feels almost…

Guilty.

“… Thanks,” he mutters, avoiding the other man’s eyes.

“Don’t mention it.”

Sleep is no longer quick to find him, and tonight proves no exception. When at last Link drifts off, his rest is fitful, his dreams plagued by the pained, contorted face of his oldest friend.

---

Her world is cold, her form immobile. By now, she doubts she could stand if she tried.

It’s not that Zelda can’t heal any injury made to her own person, and Link hadn’t done any real damage anyhow. In the most literal sense, the shock of his impact had been short-lived, the wind in Zelda’s lungs swiftly restored.

No, her lengthy stagnation is grounded elsewhere, the world a motionless blur before her eyes. Hours are sure to have passed by now, her limbs stiff with disuse. Even with the dark of night closing in, she simply cannot bring herself to move.

The growing chill seeps through her many-layered uniform, brittle stone frigid against her back. Worlds away, stars are strewn across a deep blue expanse, beaming pale through the age-worn ceiling of Hylia’s long-forsaken temple. Zelda had hoped that, since the descent of the Goddess’s chiseled likeness, the appeal of building a nearby settlement would have increased considerably. Yet, as the weeks fade steadily into months, the makings of any such lodgings remain staunchly premature. As far as the efforts towards reclaiming the Surface go, Skyloft’s pious elders are sorely outnumbered by their junior peers, most of whom appear to be motivated more by curiosity and ambition than by any sort of faith.

But then, perhaps blind faith is a bit much to ask of anyone. Even for a Goddess. Even of her anointed.

Holding all the answers is not something of which Zelda can rightfully boast – and if any turn of events could solidify that fact, it had unfolded in full this very day. Over and over, she finds herself asking: Had she been wrong to withhold so many details from Link? Or when she’d so abrasively decided the demon lord’s fate? Initially, she’d hoped to spare Link any additional, unnecessary emotional turmoil; now, of course, she wonders if such an approach hasn’t only made matters worse.

Could her judgment have been so far removed from reality? For months, Ghirahim had haunted both the flesh of the Goddess and the resolve of her knight, determined to drain the former of life whilst tormenting, even patronizing, the latter. Every twist, every turn, every harrowing step of their paralleled journey had depicted the demon in so unflattering a light.

So… why?

Why spare him? Why secure his escape? For all the divine memories bestowed upon her, for all the supreme wisdom she’d been chosen to bear, Zelda simply cannot fathom the motives of this- here- of her oldest, closest, dearest friend. From whatever angle she tries to observe – and by the gods, does she grapple with as many as can be conjured – it simply does not make sense.

The wind picks up, and with it the nearby rustling of leaves.

Link had always been a mystery to the greater half of Skyloft: borderline neurotic, entirely reserved, ever a man of very few words. Over the years, Zelda had come to conclude that only one tactic could ever really coax open that deep, sheltered soul. Though her problems of late seem to multiply by the minute, she begins to wonder whether the solution hasn’t been right in front of her this entire time.

Drinking deeply of the stale, musty air, Zelda allows her lids to slowly drift shut. Calling on what little divinity has been left her, she whispers one soft, desperate prayer into the summer night sky.

“Goddess Nayru,” she breathes, “grant me but a shred of your wisdom. Allow me discretion, to know when to listen and when to take action. Only bring him back to me. Bring him home.”

Her words, though whispered, carry an eerie lilt whilst they echo through the vast chamber. A subtle warmth pricks her skin, the presence of a lifelong companion embracing her spirit in whole. Within moments, she’s engulfed, the blue feathers of her regal mount a growing speck on the horizon.

Dark or not, she’s lingered here long enough. Ghirahim has vanished, Link along with him, and should the two cross paths, she’s certain it will take more than a handful of prayers to mend the inevitable havoc.

---

Though encased in darkness, the world shimmers and bobs, stray flecks of light dancing haggardly across a surface of imperceptible depth. He can’t breathe, but he doesn’t need to.

“Link!”

Zelda’s voice, shrill with panic, penetrates from within the confines of his skull. Frantic, he tosses his head in every possible direction – or tries to. Strives to. But he cannot move any more than he can breathe.

From the gloom there lurks a growing evil, a thirst for blood that he knows not how he identifies. Cold terror grips his chest, clamping his frozen limbs in a bone-chilling vice, while numerous figures emerge from behind. They crawl on all fours, snarling faces draped with ghostly white coats, stalking from his peripheral before vanishing into oblivion. Even when hidden from sight, the low rumbling of their presence rings hauntingly in his ears.

“Link, wait!”

That voice, again: light, airy, crystal clear yet shadowed with concern. This time, however, it lands before him, spiraling into the point at which the beastlike nightmares converge.

He looks.

Through the watery depths of the foreign atmosphere, Zelda materializes in a flourish of white diamonds, panic sewn into her pale, hardened face.

“Link…”

A metallic echo distorts her chords, her mouth unmoving – then she morphs into a towering wolf, jowls aquiver, eyes like fire. With one snap of her white fangs, she consumes him whole.

Link wakes with a start, the warmth and moisture of the wolf’s maw still encapsulating his trembling body. He nearly cries out, but for the powerful force clamped against his mouth, rendering his jaw immobile. A moment longer, and he realizes the dampness is but his own sweat, the muscular form holding him tight none other than Ghirahim’s unyielding embrace.

Then at last his heart begins to simmer down, and he manages to allow himself to more thoroughly absorb his surroundings. They haven’t strayed from their initial campsite, the roots of their oak spread to either side. Pale, mottled yellows speckle the shady forest floor, flecks of morning light stark against deep, mossy greens. Save for the light caress of a warm breeze, the woods are deathly still. Were it not for the rush of blood in his ears, he’d think he’s gone deaf.

Ghirahim’s gloved hand remains pressed to Link’s jaw, despite how he’s calmed since his rough awakening, refusing to release his iron grip. Dregs of panic reignite, and Link struggles in his hold, scarcely able to twist himself enough to stare up at the demon’s unshrouded face.

When he does, he finds the demon’s eyes fixated elsewhere, chestnut orbs wide with fear.

A soft tremor wracks the ground, shooting up Link’s spine, rattling his teeth. Slowly, the pieces fall into place – the lifelessness of the forest; the silencing grip on his body; the absence of crimson folds and black steel as the two men huddle, stiff and desperate, against the base of their oaken shelter.

Link freezes, mimicking the demon’s stasis as best his racing heart will allow.

A pause. Then clopping. Strident, spaced-out clopping, like a remlit whose claws have gone untrimmed for weeks too long – only heavier. So, very much heavier.

And now it’s getting louder.

Every impending, gut-wrenching tap, tap, tap of cloven hooves against the dirt sets Link’s nerves aflame. His heart drops to his stomach, his eyes drying out painfully as he dares not even blink. Though his bones threaten to give, he finds himself grateful for the pressure of Ghirahim’s vice-like grip; without it, the human’s rampant shaking would surely give them both away.

Something like a snort, thick and hefty, exhumes from the creature’s nostrils, revealing just how dangerously close the being has come to their meager refuge. Only the hand on his mouth muffles Link’s whimpering cry.

Then a chance beam of sunlight sifts through the trees, and the creature’s shadow takes form.

It boasts the torso of man, one far larger than any Link has ever laid eyes on: its silhouette alone displays its bulk, a muscular figure that would put Groose to shame. A pair of twisted horns sprout from its skull, accented with a thick, billowing mane. Its lower half is more obscure, leaving too much to the human’s rapidly firing imagination. He looks to the trees beyond the oak, wondering if fleeing would be their best chance at survival, when beneath him, Ghirahim shifts just slightly.

Link’s eyes meet those of the demon lord, and he can scarcely believe how anxiously they plea with him to remain motionless.

From the corner of his vision, he glimpses movement – and though with all his heart he regrets looking, he cannot tear his gaze away. A humanoid face, skin dark as night, drifts warily past the oak’s too-narrow base, eyes like blood sunken deep within its massive skull. One flicker of movement, one turn of its head, and it will surely spot the pair-

A twig snaps from behind, and with inhuman speed, the creature has whirled around. The lighter gait of a retreat, perhaps of a boar or a stag, fades all too quickly, drowned in the quaking, thunderous gallop of the monstrous hunter, hot in pursuit of its newfound prey.

Even as the bluster recedes, neither human nor demon dares stir, each listening intently should the beast return. Whole minutes pass this way, two once-formidable swordsmen, so unequivocally paralyzed that neither can be bothered to color with shame.

Until the demon’s hold abruptly relaxes, and both men slump, stiff and sore, into a tangled mess of dirt and roots and limbs.

Just like that, Link is aware of how close he and Ghirahim had been; moreover, that the demon’s cloak is still missing, likely never reclaimed since he’d lent it the night before. Suddenly he can feel the give of Ghirahim’s skin, hardly concealed beneath that thin layer of white cloth, as well as the obsidian webs twisting from his fractured core. The heat of a furnace emanates from therein, spreading outward towards the fleshy, supple grey overlay like blood through a vein.

Scuffling what he hopes is an appropriate distance away, Link plants his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands behind his neck in effort to quench his growing flush.

“What was that thing?” he inquires, voice quivering lightly.

Ghirahim doesn’t look at him. “A Lynel,” he answers softly, still gazing into the treeline where the beast had disappeared. “A proud beast of the fields. It’s rare to encounter one so deep within the woods – and yet…”

Link’s eyes avert. “Well, if that isn’t just my luck.”

“So it would seem,” comes the sardonic reply, the demon’s tone at once recovering its typically sultry chime, “you are a magnet for misfortune.”

Rather than conjure a retort, Link’s mind races for a more tangible defense. Though Ghirahim may seem unencumbered by the possibility of their beastly foe – of the Lynel – circling back to their makeshift camp, the knight isn’t so sure.

“Where’s your sword?” he asks, shuffling to his feet. He almost inquires after the cloak as well, then decides it isn’t worth whatever insinuation the other is sure to contort in response.

“It’s where you left it, you dim-witted trite.”

Link casts the other a scathing glare. Perhaps he should have come to expect this kind of thing, yet he can’t help finding this bout of attitude unfair. “You mean where you left it?” he shoots back.

Running a hand through his snowy strands, Ghirahim willfully suppresses an eyeroll. “That Lynel approached rather unexpectedly, my dear. I hadn’t the time to retrieve both you and my blade without drawing its attention.”

Now that piques the human’s interest. He places his hands on his hips, head tilting inquisitively.

“You chose me over your blade?”

The demon’s eyes widen rewardingly, if only for a fraction of a second, before falling back to their signature lack of interest. “It’s as you’ve said. An entire population, present company excluded, would see me hang. My odds are thus better with you than without.”

The logic is sound, yet there’s no dismissing how with each word, Ghirahim turns further and further from the other man, until he’s all but facing the opposite direction. Link couldn’t help the grin creeping up his face if he wanted to.

“Isn’t your blade a part of yourself, though?”

Without his mantle for concealment, Ghirahim’s neck and shoulder muscles visibly twitch.

“So then, it’s kind of like you chose to protect me over y-?”

He chokes down the last part when that glower descends upon him in full, kohl-lined eyes narrowing into dark slits. “I suggest you drop the matter while you still can, Link.”

From this use of his name ring countless warning bells. Hands raised placatingly, Link can only manage to do as he’s bidden; though still, the ghost of a smile persists. “Fine, fine,” he squeaks, already moving towards the shady alcove where he’d left the demon’s sword.

He doesn’t look to see if Ghirahim follows, but notes the absence of footsteps.

As expected, the black steel is just as he’d left it, swaddled from hilt hallway down the blade in diamond-accented folds. For the second time now, he wraps shaky fingers around that black hilt – and once again, an unusual rush of adrenaline courses through him. He wonders, briefly, if Ghirahim can feel the flesh handling this extension of himself, almost like a phantom limb.

He’s just begun carding through his head, searching for a tactful way to phrase such a question, when a shimmer of silver catches his eye. Glancing upward, he finds a somber-looking Ghirahim seated upon one high-arched root, one knee bent to his chest, head slightly bowed.

“I should’ve been yours,” he mumbles.

While his voice is low, it’s the message behind it that throws Link’s mind amuck. Unsure if he’s understood, or even heard, the man properly, the young knight opens his mouth in preparation – but is stopped short.

The demon continues, volume rising, barely, intentionally sufficing to allow the other to hear only when straining to do so.

“When our bond was forged, my master intended that I serve him until the end of his days, should such an occurrence ever come to pass. Only death, his or mine, could truly break us apart; and in the event it was his, the one mighty enough to fell him would duly collect his prize.”

A tense silence passes between them, Link considering the meaning behind the spirit’s words. As the implications fall into place, his hand falls solemnly from the great weapon’s hilt.

“Spiteful being that he was,” says Ghirahim, “Demise cast me from the Nether Realm before his flame was fully snuffed, severing our connection long enough to ensure that…”

Light ripples through that silvery curtain as he jerks his head to the side. Somehow, the shadow across his face grows darker, a deep-set frown marring elegant, ashen features. He doesn’t complete the thought. Really, there’s no need.

“You would have been mine to wield,” says Link.

Finally, the demon lord meets the other’s gaze. Within burns a fire – not of resentment or disdain, leastwise not for the knight himself, but rather of…

Regret.

“A finer swordsman than you there never was.” Stars glisten in those large, violet-brown eyes, never blinking, boring into the Hero’s very soul. “I meant every word I spoke in the presence of your Goddess. A weapon desires to be wielded.”

In truth, Link doesn’t care to recall the events that had unraveled in the Temple of Hylia. He stares absently at the organic debris littering the ground, the demon’s seething testimony pounding at his skull.

‘I am guilty, remorseless, and irredeemable.’

“You’d really let yourself die, then?”

Again, that gaping emptiness clutches at Link’s chest, consuming his thoughts within its numbing maw. Towards the upward slope of the oak’s mammoth base, shadows flicker as sunlight shifts, and without a sound, Ghirahim has crouched by the young knight’s side.

“Is there an alternative,” he whispers, “that you would prefer?”

His breath, though hot on the human’s ear, sends shivers up Link’s spine. Not a drop of venom taints the demon’s tone. Rather, he sounds weary, and almost… pleading. As if perhaps, beneath that cold, diamond exterior, a part of him may actually want to be saved.

A switch flips inside him, and with ravenous tenacity, Link tears into every nook, every crevice of his mind, scrambling for some way to resolve this shared conundrum. Vision blurring as his head swims, treks, and flounders, he thinks mainly of Fi: from the commencement of their journey to its end, and most importantly, of the strengthening factors uncovered along the way.

The two spirits are innately different, of that there’s no question. Fi could make no direct contact with the physical world, not even to carry her own blade, whilst Ghirahim has never seemed able to keep his hands to himself. Fi’s emotional capacity had been equally stunted. Having been forged for the sole purpose of serving as her wielder’s guide, the sword spirit could only ever maintain a solid air of objectivity. Altogether, the only element shared between the two is the steel to which they’re bound.

And steel can be tempered.

“Do you know of the sacred flames?”

When he lifts his gaze, he finds Ghirahim squinting down at him in suspicion.

“I can’t say I ever knew exactly what your Goddess had you running about the Surface for,” he answers. “But I gather this relates to your former weapon’s transformations?”

Link nods. “At first, it was just meant to increase the blade’s physical and spiritual strength. Then after we used all three, with Zelda’s blessing, the sword was bound permanently to my soul.”

A twitch tugs at white lips, so subtle that were the two not so close, Link surely would have missed it. Ghirahim’s eyes drift in apparent contemplation. Taking advantage of the other’s silence, Link scrambles to work in as much convincing as possible.

“I know Zelda might not be open to the idea at first,” he says hastily, “but think about it. If we go to all the effort of cleansing and repairing you, and no one gets hurt along the way – well, she’ll have to come around eventually.”

“There’s no guarantee that either endeavor will be met with success,” is the other’s soft reply.

Despite his attempts to remain upbeat, Link deflates. Deep inside, he knows the flames are as likely to kill this being as they are to cleanse him. He searches the far reaches of his mind for a way to tilt the scales, for even a sliver of optimism, his gaze falling absently to the demon’s shattered core.

Fragmented light reflects in golden shards off his faceted arm bracelet, bouncing aimlessly into the shade. For a moment, then, Link pictures the demon in nothing else-

And chokes back a gasp. Where did that come from?

Still seemingly preoccupied, Ghirahim flicks his lengthy tongue from between his lips. Link somehow reddens further, but strangely enough, the other doesn’t seem to notice, or else makes no remark. He gesticulates vaguely with his head, guiding Link’s attention to the base of a nearby maple.

“I doubt your human eyes can see it from here,” says Ghirahim, “so come.”

Rising gingerly, he leads a path to the maple’s knotted trunk, then lowers himself before a bed of scattered twigs. Link follows, curious, kneeling to find the drying mud and brown grass indicative of a former nest.

Beneath the miniature rubble, barely visible, heaves the feathered chest of a grey robin.

“Deprived,” muses Ghirahim darkly, “of the ability to fly, thrust from the heavens by forces greater than itself. In its less-than-ideal state, this creature has been left for dead, forsaken by its own kind. Whether it lives long enough to become food for snakes, or succumbs to its injuries and nourishes a brood of maggots, this being’s fate is much the same.”

Link raises his head, unable to behold the little bird any longer. Instead, he looks to Ghirahim, whose ridged brows furrow as he maintains his solemn gaze.

“Such is, doubtless, how you view me now, dear hero. To you, I am little more than a wounded animal, one you lack the gall to put out of its misery.”

“Ghirahim-”

“And to your people, a rabid dog, sick and foaming at the mouth. Your unwillingness to carry out my sentence is seen more as a testament to your naivety than as a token of kindness.”

Link swallows, hard, stomach churning while he digests the demon’s words. A bitter taste coats his tongue.

Then, Ghirahim’s eyes sparkle.

“There is a solid chance that these flames will consume my very soul – and what death could be more fitting? Oh, but should your plan work – should all your hopes and dreams come true…”

Tenderly yet excitedly, he takes Link’s hands in his own, pulling the Hylian gently to his feet.

“Once,” Link’s knuckles receive a light squeeze, “you wield my blade in its full, untamed glory,” pride beams from Ghirahim’s sallow face, “no beast of the earth or sky – not even the ferocious Lynel – will be able to stand before you.”

From the tips of his fingers to his swirling core, electricity buzzes through Link’s veins, a thrill he hasn’t known in months. The thought alone of bearing the demon’s blade – not as the great, hulking monstrosity that it had been within Demise’s hand, but as a weapon of light and truth, fitted specifically to the knight’s embrace – sparks inside him a passion he had long thought dead.

Chewing his bottom lip lest his eagerness become too overt, Link reciprocates the grip on his hands. “Floria’s cistern can’t be far from here,” he says. “Do you know the way?”

Not inches from the other’s face, Ghirahim flashes a wicked grin. He releases his grounding hold, and with a snap, his cloak is draped once again over his shoulders, assembled in a wave of crimson gemstones.

“Don’t insult me.”

The corners of Link’s mouth twist downward, which he prays will be dismissed as reactive to the demon’s mocking tone. The truth is, he’s disappointed at the reinstatement of that thick, mantled garment. It’s blocking the view.

Arms returning to his sides, Ghirahim makes to initiate their trek – then his face contorts, as though he’s suddenly remembered something important. Link surveys the area briefly, having already laid eyes on the demon’s sword, but it quickly becomes clear that this isn’t what holds the other man captive.

Again, he snaps his slender fingers, and an obsidian dagger flutters into existence, streaking brilliant trails of red where it bobs through the air. With a flick of his wrist, he sends it flying into the fallen bird’s nest, where it lands with a thud. A nauseating gurgle tickles Link’s ears as the pitiful creature breathes its last.

That same bitter taste rises from his tightening stomach. Lips pursed, Link hurriedly retrieves the dark blade. He follows Ghirahim’s lengthy strides in silence, pondering the day’s numerous events. So many have transpired, and at so early an hour, a number of which he hopes to put behind him for good.

The demon’s display of mercy, especially, is one Link is eager to forget.

Chapter Text

Silver streams thread the wooded hills, green and yellow leaves blanketing the world as far as the eye can see. The human eye, anyway. Who knows what a Loftwing can perceive with just a glance?

Several times now, Link’s crimson beast has been spotted circling overhead, prohibited by its master from drawing too near. Nearly every few minutes, it will cast pleading signals, deep pangs of longing jabbing at his psyche through their shared bond – and each time he’s forced to send his dear companion away, Link’s heart aches a little more. Against the pale-blue sky, the creature’s brilliant feathers shine like living flame, a beacon that the two travelers simply cannot afford to indulge.

It's not until the azure plumes of Zelda’s own Loftwing appear, soaring alongside Link’s riderless mount, that the knight experiences truly gouging concern. Nor is either phenomenon lost on Ghirahim.

“She is absent,” says he. He cranes towards the sky, chin peeking shyly from the edge of his mantle.

Although the demon sounds plenty sure of himself, Link isn’t immediately convinced. “How do you know?”

“The cloud barrier, though of Her Grace’s own making, could not conceal her from my sight, and much less still prevented me from tracking her aura through mountains and more. A better question would be, dear: How could I not?”

Memories of Fi’s dowsing flash through Link’s mind, as well as bits and pieces of his past dealings with the dark sword spirit. He hadn’t given it much thought before, although now that he does, it makes perfect sense. To think that during the full course of their parallel pursuit, both Ghirahim and Link had been using the same method to seek the same person. It’s rather ironic.

Surely, Zelda already knows this. Is that why she’s absent? For years now, the two of them would often use their Loftwings to relay messages to one another. Could she be doing just that, trusting Link to feel more at ease without her present?

In either case, it doesn’t exactly make him feel any better.

The soft crunching beneath his boots grows unbearably loud, inexplicably managing to amplify the raucous drumming of his thoughts. Even the slightest noises pound against his skull. He hears the blue-shelled Deku Baba twitching in its grassy cot even before it slithers from the ground, red tongue writhing over acrid fangs. With a well-timed slash across its jaw the carnivorous plant is brought down in a shower of mucous, releasing a chemical odor that burns in his nostrils.

Link kneels in the grass to wipe his blade clean, grateful for the temporary respite from his bleak meditations.

A few feet ahead, Ghirahim stands and observes, until the other bristles under his gaze. When he raises his head to meet those dark eyes, he finds them glistening with amusement.

“How many years have passed,” says the demon, “since I first caught sight of you in Faron Woods, falling over and again to those spineless brutes?”

It takes a moment for the sentiment to register, and once it does, Link feels his face slowly growing hot. He’d nearly forgotten how none of Skyloft’s Chu Blobs or Keese had truly prepared him for his first few encounters on the Surface.

He returns to his task with haste, ears twitching as the demon emits a short, silver laugh.

“Oh, yes, I remember it well! That flimsy old shield of yours struck to splinters, that hideous frog’s tunic coated in slime!” From his peripheral Link glimpses Ghirahim wiping a fake tear. “But then, I suppose we all have to start somewhere, now, don’t we?”

“Oh, shut up,” the knight mutters; then, louder, “I thought it was rude to stare?”

“Can it be helped? You are rather cute.”

Beyond a doubt, Link is now red to the tips of his ears. Ghirahim’s sonorous mirth echoes through the treetops, but rather unlike his usual mockery. The sound is smooth, yet more rhapsodical than Link remembers it ever having been. It may actually even be sincere.

“Come along then, little hero,” says the demon, still chortling, returning to his unseen path. “Should your spirit maiden deduce our destination, she’ll likely intercept; and I, for one, would prefer not to spend another millennium within the confines of my sword – or whatever other grisly fate Her Grace may have in mind.”

Spirit maiden.

Zelda.

Despondency infecting him like a blight, Link sheathes his sword with a leaden arm, the dark musings of before rushing to the forefront of his mind. He knows, at heart, that Zelda’s Loftwing isn’t likely out for a simple joyride, and that the minute they enter a decent clearing, the bird will be swift to greet the two. Part of him, eager to hear from his doubtlessly worried-sick best friend, prays that his initial suspicions are true.

Another part of him, though he’s ashamed to admit it, worries that this may be a trap.

---

“Will you stop that?!”

Stiffening visibly, the human freezes, his stare of confusion palpable. Just the way he startles suffices to lift Ghirahim’s spirits; and better yet, the parchment between his fingers stills.

‘Can we please talk? I just need to know that you’re safe.’

Link had read the words of his Goddess aloud, features twisting with no small measure of guilt. Ghirahim himself was permitted to skim over the letter’s brief contents, careful to maintain an air unimpressed and unconcerned.

Then the crumpling, uncrumpling, crumpling, uncrumpling, CRUMPLING, UNCRUMPLING-

“Believe me, sky child, I am no more a stranger to anxiety than you – after all, it is my skin on the line here – but must you assail my ears with your wretched, ongoing fidgeting?”

“… Sorry.”

Eyelids sagging, Ghirahim strives to hold his agitation close, willing it to simmer and spill like a caldron left too long upon the hearth. Yet despite his struggle, the innocent timbre of Link’s deep, docile chords worms unknowingly through to his core, soothing his sparks before a flame can truly be kindled.

Honestly, it’s infuriating.

And so he points his attentions elsewhere. Even from afar, the roar of Floria Falls can be heard thundering over the cliffside. Fatigue tugs at his every ligament, the weight of his sword likening his limbs to stone, but he remains tenacious, allowing the steady increase of volume to guide him.

Before long, the hazy greenery gives way to natural limestone. Carved from the briny formations with immaculate intricacy, a gaping anglerfish frames the entrance to the ancient cistern.

The terracotta pathway is firm beneath his soles, the alteration of terrain bringing to light his state of equilibrium. When their road is cut off by a bridge broken and submerged, Ghirahim is forced to pause in his tracks, leaning now almost wholly on his sword. Behind him, the rhythmic tapping of his companion’s boots slows to a halt.

‘Can we please talk? I just need to know that you’re safe.’

The message runs continuous through his mind. Within lies a warning – of this he is certain – rolling tantalizingly at the front of his brain, just waiting to be shaken loose; but the constant cloud of weariness flouts his attempts to discern it.

“Can you make it?” says Link, pulling the demon from his futile rumination. He glimpses movement from the corner of his eye, and turns his head just in time to see Link’s cautious hand withdraw.

Bleary as his mind’s eye has become, Ghirahim remains alert to the Water Dragon’s looming aura. Should they linger too long, she will surely catch their (rather distinct) scent.

“I haven’t much choice,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to his hilt. “Her Excellence is close, and the two of us didn’t exactly part on the best of terms.”

Link frowns. “Will you let me carry you then? You look exhausted.”

Another spark, drowned before given the chance to ignite. Must the boy be so unconditionally considerate?

“Don’t patronize me, child,” Ghirahim sighs, too meek to qualify as a snap.

His feet drag when he moves, barely able to maintain noncorporeal form long enough to traverse the gap between patches of dry ground. With every step, Link’s offer becomes progressively more tempting, until the demon’s pride is outweighed only by the fear that should he return to his sword now, he’ll forever be unable to reemerge.

He appears before the entrance at the verge of collapse. To his rear resounds a crisp splash.

Blessed with a scale of Faron herself, Link swims like a parella, following Ghirahim’s transport with uncanny grace. He leaps from the water in a serpentine fashion, diving into a shoulder roll, water running from his lithe figure in sheets until he is dry as mere moments before. The demon speculates, with just a hint of morbid satisfaction: would the little hero ever have guessed he’d one day wind up like this, using the gifts of his Goddess so blatantly to defy her wishes?

‘Can we please talk? I just need…’

He freezes. The traces of the spirit maiden’s aura, still lingering on her letter – they mask her scent. Could the demon kick himself, he most certainly would.

He’s hardly opened his mouth in warning when a roar like the Falls cascades tenfold. From the cavernous shadows opposite the anglerfish’s maw, crystalline blues snake with the speed of a river following heavy rains.

Once they’ve stilled, the behemoth form of the Warden of the Woods snarls down upon him, her fangs like mother of pearl, her eyes like the deep. Looking into them, there’s no denying how she hungers to swallow him whole.

Sweat beads the demon’s forehead, his skin gone clammy, his breath beginning to shake. Ever by his side, Link promptly springs to action. Though his weapon remains sheathed, he takes a defensive stance between the two – as though either course could effectively bar this beast from her vengeance.

Scales rippling in the noonday light, Faron speaks.

“You were a fool to return to me, particularly in such a state as this.” The descent of her voice is akin to that of a raging monsoon, fierce and heavy on his ears.

“Faron,” cries Link, and Ghirahim knows that he alone is the sole reason she hasn’t consumed the demon this instant, “Your Excellence, this isn’t what it looks like-”

“Stand aside, Hero.”

“Just let me explain-”

“Stand aside-”

“Link,” with his free hand, Ghirahim clutches Link’s shoulder, “the girl-”

But the spirit maiden has already sprung from the dragon’s cave, her glaring white dress billowing at the sleeves. In tow jogs the hulking mass of her faithful redheaded hound.

What a way to die. Perhaps the cistern’s alternative entrance would have been the wiser choice, after all…

No, he corrects. Not even this mess is worth risking… that.

By now the demon is practically draped over Link’s back, the bulk of his shield prodding Ghirahim’s tender chest. He can do nothing but watch the deadly trio close in…

But the girl unexpectedly turns, skidding to halt before the great serpent in a radiant shower of silver droplets.

“Your Grace-!”

“Faron, I implore you,” Zelda’s chords ring clear through the gully, “allow me to handle this. There is no immediate threat here.”

Did he hear her right?

Ghirahim scarcely has a chance to fully question his lucidity, for Link’s hands hold his arms to the knight’s chest. It feels as though they were retreating, one pair of feet stumbling behind the other’s, but even that may be imagined.

“I trust,” seethes the Water Dragon, “that you have good reason for obstructing justice this day.” His vision fades in and out, his form becoming weightless. “What I cannot fathom is why your hero appears to have thrown in his lot with this monster.”

“It’s- it’s complicated- Groose, wait!”

Ghirahim lurches – or rather, is lurched, the ground moving beneath his feet. It isn’t until they drag across the stone, separate from any willpower of his own, that he realizes that his sword is no longer in his grasp. Its steel tip scrapes shrill alongside him, both weapon and spirit held firm by the heavy-laden knight in green.

“Link!” cries the haggard gravel of his overgrown peer, echoing through the vastness of the cistern’s main floor. “Link, what are you doing?!”

Gravity forsakes them, then slams with a drifting sensation. Why, he muses, the little polliwog is playing leapfrog. They stumble as their lily pad base starts to sink, whether from the combined weight or from his blade’s naked edges tearing through the paper-like leaf, it matters not. Water sloshes up to Link’s waist, drenching Ghirahim’s garments from soles to calves, but he manages to land the both of them upon solid earth once more.

Their route slants upward, then curves, shared gait more rough and uneven than before. Indubitably, adrenaline alone fuels Link’s labored sprinting now.

“Don’t you know who that is?!”

As the redhead hollers again, his voice carries high, leaving Ghirahim to infer their location within the spiral of the central tower.

And the voice is growing closer.

A sharp tug jerks at Ghirahim’s cloak, nearly tearing it straight from his person. The metal chain coils around his throat, cutting off his airways, black specks dancing before his eyes. In an instant, he finds himself tumbling down the stairway, torn from his escort like a doll with loose stitches.

The suffocating grip relaxes, and air fills his lungs – only for a meaty fist to tangle into his hair. Mercilessly, he is slammed face first against the limestone, colliding against the wall with a sickening crunch.

“What have you done to him?!” the voice roars, mere inches from his ear.

“Groose,” Link’s own softer vocals crack without a beat, desperate and harsh, “stop it – you’re hurting him!”

Groose ignores him, grinding the demon’s face further into the stone. Ashen flesh scrapes and tears, the bitter reek of smoke rising from where his blackened gashes worsen. Nerves ablaze, Ghirahim releases a sharp cry of pain.

A flinch in the brute’s movements grants him temporary respite, Link leaping upon the other’s back, only to be thrown off with little effort.

“Groose, please!”

Link grasps the hilt of his broadsword, Ghirahim’s own blade lying somewhere out of sight. Helplessness glistens in his huge, pleading eyes, reluctant to draw upon his fellow man, no matter how low the beast’s behavior.

“Is this some sort of trick?” growls Groose, addressing the demon; then, to Link, “C’mon, man – can’t you see he’s playing you somehow? Don’t you know what he’s capable of?”

Palms flat against the wall, Ghirahim attempts to shove himself free, earning him tightened pressure at the base of his skull. His eyes sting, teeth clenched, as he fails to bite back a strained grunt.

It’s then that a fire lights within him. Call it rage, call it adrenaline, but when he curls his fist to his chest, a dagger manifests, its smooth surface cool against his palm.

“Oh, you’re not going anywhere, bud-”

Groose is cut off by his own deafening scream, obsidian buried to the hilt in his thigh. Immediately the pressure dissipates, and Ghirahim staggers to his feet, lunging for his sword the second it enters his vision. He doesn’t look to see if Link follows.

Somewhere beyond the gilded ruins of Koloktos, past the rancid remains of fallen undead, burns a flame that may very well put an end to his existence. Better it than some meddlesome teenager.

“I’m sorry, Groose!” Link shouts from behind. “You’ll be okay!”

Although he doesn’t sound like he fully believes it.

By now, Ghirahim has reached the top of the stairway, stumbling over the threshold and into the dark chamber. The door once guarding Farore’s flame has long since been cast aside, framing the green light flickering beyond its boundary. Link’s footsteps are soon to follow alongside, helping the demon back to his feet where he trips over stray pieces of debris.

Inside, the red flames atop their miniscule sconces pale before the fires of the Goddess of Courage.

“Ghirahim,” heaves Link, gasping for breath, “he will be okay… right?”

Part of him wants to scoff at the youth, harboring such genuine concern for the oaf. But then, there’s likely much he doesn’t know of the humans’ personal history.

“He will,” answers Ghirahim, not intending his tone to admonish, “so long as he doesn’t remove the projectile without properly staunching the flow of blood.”

When he extends his weapon towards the knight, he’s met with an incredulous stare.

“I won’t lie to you, Link.” Silently, he wonders whether the knight’s fear isn’t indicative of the redhead’s being as stupid as he looks. “And the sooner we test this experiment of yours, the sooner we – or you – can tend to your Goddess and her pet.”

Green flecks shimmer and dance in ocean eyes, the light of the fire casting somber shadows across Link’s face. His expression turns sour, yet he takes the sword handed him.

“Would it kill you not to talk about my friends like that?”

“No,” Ghirahim offers the hint of a smile, “but this venture might.”

His quip doing nothing to lighten the mood, the demon continues.

“Now.” He adjusts his cloak, horridly disheveled after the previous scuffle. “How does this venture work?”

Worry plasters the young man’s face, twisting his features into a maze of brazen dread. “If it works,” he says, hardly above a whisper. “If it doesn’t take you from me.”

Perhaps it’s simply borne of his own paranoia, but Ghirahim swears he can make out the faint echo of footsteps. Gingerly, he places a hand on Link’s shoulder – for his own reassurance as much as for the other’s.

“It might not,” he answers softly. “But one way or another, your people most certainly will.”

The tendons in Link’s neck pulse and twitch, mouth pressed into a hard line. He brushes Ghirahim’s gloved fingers briefly, giving them a gentle squeeze, before holding the massive blade towards the ethereal roar.

Ghirahim can feel the heat upon his steel.

“When I came here with Fi,” says Link, “she would stand before the flames, almost like she was… calling to them, I guess.”

Warily, Ghirahim saunters towards the fiery caldron, not stopping until the warm caress grows unbearably hot. Summoning what power he still possesses, the demon engulfs himself in a mass of black energy, its thundering howl rivaling even that of the green goddess.

The sudden rush of magic catches Link off guard, and when the cloud recedes, Ghirahim finds the human has stumbled back considerably. Once he’s lowered the arm shielding his eyes, all darkness, all dread is wholly transformed, Hylia’s precious hero staring up at him in wonder.

Between this unabashed admiration and the stimulating glow on his metal skin, Ghirahim basks, his spirit renewed. Without even a glance downward, he can make out the iridescence of his own white markings, bleeding green into matted atmosphere. Doubtless, he is a striking sight to behold.

“Well then, little master,” he chimes, approaching the fire once more, “let’s see if the gods will answer the call of a demon lord.”

Indeed, he isn’t compelled to go far. The lapping tendrils are drawn to his core, running him through the second his feet touch the caldron’s cusp. All at once, the emerald sheen extending to every corner of the room grows somehow more vivid, the steel of his nerves alight with- with-

Energy. Pure, unadulterated energy.

It seeps through his core, the thin silver coating shattering upon impact; it bubbles in his chest; then before he can recognize the sensation for what it is, his laughter overflows, spilling through his lips in a vivacious echo that bounces from wall to wall.

He turns to the stunned figure of what he now knows to be his future master. Link, so enthralled by the glorious display, barely raises his weapon in time. When the power shooting forth is absorbed by his blade, the effect is instantaneous. Steel morphs as though it were molten, taking new shape in a matter of seconds.

As Ghirahim takes his leave from the blessed caldron, returning to his organic form as soon as he exits the flames, Link straightens to his full height. The sword, from tip to pommel, stands only to the height of the human’s collarbone. Maybe it’s only the light, but the gemstone embellishing the cross guard appears to have shifted to a vibrant, forest green. What’s more, the inverted Triforce is gone. Save for these minor details and the slight smoothing of its edges, the weapon appears much the same – only better suited to its new wielder.

But Link isn’t looking at the sword. His eyes are locked onto the demon lord.

“It worked,” he gasps. “I- it- it worked! And look at you!”

He gestures towards the other as a whole, laughing excitedly, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Growing almost concerned, Ghirahim follows the Hylian’s gaze, not entirely surprised at the partial recession of the cracked webs tarnishing his skin.

“How-,” Link’s voice lowers as he chokes (sobs?), approaching the demon with forced caution, “how do you feel?”

Revitalized. Powerful. Unstoppable.

The full extent of his vocabulary races through Ghirahim’s mind, yet the sole word comprising his response is,

“Alive.”

But their victory is short. Behind the softly grinning knight, two disproportionate figures stand silhouetted against the cistern’s natural light.

“My condolences, Your Grace,” the demon calls over Link’s oblivious head. “I know the alternative would have resolved a major dilemma – though you must admit, this is far more interesting.”

Link whirls around to face the two, the demon’s sword clutched protectively to his chest.

“Zelda,” he breathes, “Groose. You’re okay.”

Truly, the brute doesn’t even limp, sword drawn and held at the ready as he follows faithfully at his Goddess’s side.

“No thanks to your new best friend,” growls he. “If Zelda hadn’t gotten to me quick as she did, I would’ve bled out for sure.”

“You attacked him first, Groose. I told you – begged you – to leave us alone.” Expectantly, Link turns his attention to Zelda, softening somewhat at the girl’s less severe demeanor. “Zelda. I got your note. I’m safe, have been this whole time.”

From the look of her, the spirit maiden will require further persuasion.

“Are you sure about that, Link?” She hugs her arms to her chest, casting a wary glance over his shoulder towards the demon. “Intentional or not, he almost killed Groose just now. We were lucky this time, but we can’t afford to have accidents like this – especially not with Skyloft’s transition to the Surface.”

For a pause, Link is silent. Frustration darkens his face. How can he convince them that the danger is gone, that should he and his sword have only peace and acceptance, they will gladly reciprocate?

“You stopped Faron from attacking,” states he, “so clearly some part of you believes there’s hope for him.”

“That was before-”

“It was hardly an ‘attack,’ Link,” Groose interjects. “So I grabbed him off of you! Big deal!”

“Guys, please? Can you just- I don’t know? Let us try the other flames?”

Groose, again, “So that he can get stronger and finish the job? Buddy, did you hit your head recently?!”

“He’s right, Link. This demon is cunning. You know better than anyone what lengths he’s already gone to in order to secure Demise’s power. The Triforce didn’t stop him; you didn’t even really stop him, his ritual complete before you could cut him down. How can you think anything’s changed? That it’s even worth the risk to our home, our people?”

“Demise is dead, Zelda.”

The demon’s chest grows lighter, granted reprieve as the knight gives voice to what surely they all ought to be thinking.

Until the spirit maiden rectifies, “Dead for now.”

There’s little room to question her meaning. Groaning low, Link clutches at his own hair, honeyed strands tearing almost audibly. “You don’t understand-”

“Then tell us. Tell me.”

Zelda’s tone may plead with him, but her eyes don’t share in it.

“Link…”

“You’re not listening,” he rasps. His features despair, harsh with exasperation.

But with the girl, or with himself?

“He… we-”

Too long a moment consists of this aimless stammering, Ghirahim beginning to wonder whether Link truly has an explanation for his own compulsions – or if words simply aren’t his strong suit. Tentatively, he rests a hand on the human’s shoulder, prepared to move them as far as Farore’s gift will allow.

“Perhaps I’m mistaken,” he offers, feigning far less interest than is truly warranted, “as I am unfamiliar with your people’s customs, but is he not worthy of making his own decisions?”

Link glances over his shoulder, their eyes meeting briefly. Ghirahim can’t quite identify the strange gleam therein.

“Of course he is!” Zelda snaps. “It’s you we’re not so sure about. Link.”

She extends a hand, but not before casting her redheaded hound a mysterious look. Slowly, they begin to move forward, Groose’s longer strides shortly overtaking her own.

Eyes flitting, likely in search of escape, Link does not back down. “Don’t do this.”

His voice is deep, low in warning, yet the sword remains pointed stubbornly at the floor. With growing resentment, Ghirahim accepts that this man will not so easily turn on his own kind – not even for his own sake.

“You would be wise to heed your Hero’s advice,” he gives in one final attempt. “He himself wishes no ill will upon you, leastwise not yet. I, on the other hand, have no such qualms with safeguarding my freedom at your expense.”

Again, that desperate look of horror swims in Link’s gaze, surely questioning to what lengths the demon will – or even can – go. Still, he says nothing; not to Ghirahim, not to his kin.

“Buddy, are you even hearing this?” cries Groose, gesticulating accusatorily.

“So convinced that I can be naught but a monster, yet so surprised at my willingness to play the part.”

His hand remains firm on Link’s shoulder. Panic rising, the human tries to break loose, but the demon’s nails only dig deeper the more he struggles. He raises his free hand, the redhead lunges-

An earsplitting SNAP echoes through the chamber, and the world flashes crimson.

---

Once, some four or five years ago, when Link had first aged into manhood, he had found himself overcome with vertigo and, subsequently, had fainted in his dorm room. He’d seen the phenomenon occur with others before, foolishly overworking themselves, swaying with dehydration or sometimes even heat stroke. Experiencing it for himself, however, was a vastly different sensation. One moment he was on his feet, pacing the length of the carpet whilst reading some cruelly boring academic text minutes prior to Owlan’s deadline; the next he was on the floor, his head planted by a bedpost, crimson droplets trickling down his temple.

Just now, he realizes, to be teleported with neither warning nor say, is to relive that experience.

One moment he’d been upright, head spinning, hunting desperately for a method of escape that wouldn’t inevitably result in bloodshed. Now, with a slight shift of his weight, he realizes that he’s crouching, that nothing but a wooden beam elevates him from the depths below. Solid arms envelop him, warmth crashing in waves across his front.

When his vision clears, he finds himself looking at the diamond lining of Ghirahim’s mantle.

The demon’s head is pressed to Link’s shoulder, chest heaving silently. Afraid he may have lost consciousness entirely, Link pulls the other back, gently, by the shoulders. Carefully, he examines Ghirahim’s grey, wearied face.

Chestnut eyes crack open, and before Link can suck in a gasp, Ghirahim raises one finger to his lips.

Zelda’s frantic voice carries from down below.

“He’s still weak,” she says. “He’d have fought us if he wasn’t – he was bluffing. That means he couldn’t have taken Link far.”

Link attempts to chance a look downward, but in so cramped a position, the view remains obstructed. Leisurely, Ghirahim lowers his silencing pose.

When his grip on Link’s arm loosens, eyes falling shut, the Hylian jolts to prevent their falling. In his haste in so doing, his hands secure, at first absently, to the demon’s waist.

Beneath the heavy drapes of his cloak, Ghirahim boasts a surprisingly slender figure, almost contradictory to his sturdy build. Vaguely Link recalls it from one of their more recent conversations, where in a moment of utter exhaustion, the two had shared a gentle embrace. Reenacting the scene with his own senses alert – and the constant, simmering threat of Ghirahim’s underlying strength now so thoroughly drained – sends butterflies swarming through Link’s stomach. The closeness alone, he can see growing accustomed to. It’s the vulnerability, the sheer amount of trust that this being has put in him that feels…

Before he can put a name to it, two distinct footfalls tap across the cobblestone floors.

“The cistern is huge,” Zelda persists, “but there’s only one way in or out. Can you guard the exit while I send for more help?”

She’s answered by a sickening series of pops – Groose cracking his knuckles, a disgusting habit that always had Link cringing.

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Don’t hurt them, you meathead. Just… don’t let them leave.”

“I won’t hurt anyone,” comes the redhead’s placating reply. “Not Link, anyway.”

“Or Ghirahim, if it can be helped. You don’t kick an enemy when he’s down, Groose. Do you ever pay attention to anything Eagus says during rounds?”

“What can I say? I’m usually busy planning my technique.”

Further discourse passes between them, but their words are lost in the distance.

While Groose’s compliance with Zelda’s wishes is predictable enough, Link draws little comfort from it. He may act accordingly with her around, but the minute Zelda turns her back, the older boy is sure to revert straight back to his typical rash, aggressive behavior.

One fact holds true, and that’s that they have to get out of here – and soon. How, exactly, is another matter, though Link supposes the first step would be to get down from this awkward perch.

Almost reluctantly, he jostles Ghirahim as gently as he dare. He receives a low hum in response.

“Can you hold onto me?” he whispers, lest the other two still be close enough to hear.

Two arms wrap snugly around his waist, which Link accepts as answer enough. Metal scrapes lightly behind him, the shrunken blade of the demon’s sword pressed flat against the shield strapped to Link’s back.

Retrieving the sailcloth from his leather pouches, Link guides them both to solid ground.

No later than his feet touch the floor does the demon collapse, the clattering of his blade ringing fiercely through the chamber. Link, falling to his knees, scarcely catches the former in time, Ghirahim’s deadening weight heavy in his arms, whilst the sword bounces helplessly against the cobblestone. Both men may as well have turned to ice, the booming, dominating echo thundering in their ears.

When at last it fades, the ensuing silence feels somehow louder, muscles clenched tighter in numbing trepidation. “We can’t stay here,” breathes Link. “Even if no one heard that, it won’t be long before half the knights of Skyloft are patrolling this place.”

As though partially awakened by this truth, Ghirahim stammers to his feet. Link follows his rising form, providing support should it be needed.

“Can you get us past the exit?”

“Not-,” Ghirahim coughs, “not without being seen. Do you think you can outrun your hulking friend with both me and my blade clinging limply to your person?”

He chuckles dimly at the question, fully aware of the answer before he even asked.

“There is, however, another way out.” The demon’s tone darkens, even as Link’s eyes start to glimmer with newfound hope. “A passage beneath the cistern.”

“Through the lower levels?”

“Lower, still, than that.”

The knight’s features harden, mild indignation mingling with genuine curiosity. By this point, the adrenaline has begun to forsake him, the weight of their earlier confrontation leaving his emotions wrought.

“Why didn’t you mention this before we came here in the first place?” he demands, still stabilizing the demon in his arms. “We could’ve avoided the Water Dragon, maybe even Zelda and…”

A sob tears from his throat, cutting his attempt at reprimand infuriatingly short. He doesn’t dare hold Ghirahim’s gaze, eyes cast to the side. No matter the nature of the demon’s reaction, Link is certain it will trigger the dam within to burst.

“Don’t worry yourself about why I kept this from you, Link.”

His voice is low, tone soft and even… warm. Certainly not expected. From its comforting lilt the human is supplied with a much needed bout of courage, and, willing his breathing to slow, lifts his gaze until it meets that of the fallen lord.

Dark eyes narrow visibly, white lips curled into a snarling frown. The room itself seems to shift in warning. A cloud settles over them, poisoning the air they breathe, choking all willpower from Link’s constricting lungs. For the first time since the Lynel, Ghirahim’s regal features contort with fear.

“I assure you,” he concludes, “you will find out soon enough.”

Chapter Text

Eagus’ office is a meager, closed off space, crammed lackadaisically towards the back of the sparring hall. It comprises only a desk littered with dull traffic reports, most of which he hardly skims, as well as minor citations pardoned without a second glance (and hardly a first); and an old wooden chair, from which he bolts upright the instant Zelda bursts through the door.

“Zelda,” he greets, his deep, burly voice as crisp as it is urgent. “You’ll excuse my skipping the pleasantries, but have you seen Link in the past couple of days? He missed his shift yesterday morning-”

Abruptly he trails off, silenced by the girl’s pained expression. At the moment, Zelda can do little more than look away, heart still pounding from her hurried entry. Her oxygen-deprived head fights to find phrasing; her gasping mouth fumbles for coherence.

“Link went with me, before his shift yesterday,” she rasps between breaths. “I pulled him away. To the Surface.”

At this, Eagus’s face relaxes somewhat, though suspicion lightly dusts his features.

“The Surface,” he repeats.

Wordlessly, he sinks back to his chair, hands folding gently before him.

“Normally, I prefer that my knights report to me first if they’re planning on aiding the settlement in leu of perimeter guard. Link knows this. So then why…?”

“It’s my own fault, Commander.” Outwardly, Zelda’s composure is steadily returning, in spite of how she dreads all that’s sure to ensue. “In fact, that’s why I’m here. I had a task that I trusted only him to help with. It shouldn’t have taken long, maybe an hour or two at most, but then…”

How on Din’s earth is she supposed to explain this? What to include, what to leave out, how to avoid falling down a bottomless wormhole of demon lore, divinity, and personal tragedy?

She doesn’t notice her own fidgeting until Eagus’s curt tone pulls her back.

“Zelda.” His voice turns ominously soft, the stern lines of his face quickening her pulse yet again. He leans forward ever so slightly, grey eyes pinning her in place. “Is Link hurt?”

Not yet.

“If he isn’t already, then he likely will be soon. I’m afraid he’s…,” fallen ill? Gone insane? Again, her gaze averts but a second too long, “he’s been taken.”

Save for the brief, subtle twitch of the muscles in his jaw, the commander does not move an inch. A heavy pause hangs low over their heads, their shared silence hammering away at Zelda’s nerves. The two may as well have turned to stone.

Until at last, Eagus opens his mouth and speaks.

“How many reinforcements do you need?”

---

“Of all the peculiar creatures I’ve encountered in my rather lengthy life,” drawls Ghirahim, “you, child, are perhaps the most enigmatic of all.”

Startling at the sudden break in the silence, Link casts the demon a quizzical look. Not that Ghirahim’s loquacious nature requires any prompting. Padding softly along the ancient tile, their path illuminated by odd sconces aglow with orbs resembling fireflies, Ghirahim’s steps don’t kick up even a single mote of dust – of which there is plenty in these dark, earthy caverns. With his typical regality, he elaborates,

“Actions speak louder than words, a fact with which I’m certain even one sporting manners as unrefined as your own ought to be well acquainted. Speechless tendencies aside, you were never a hard man to read. And yet…”

His musings pause, as do their strides, as the pair come upon a cobblestone platform. Its either ledge is outlined by square pillars of like material, supporting a gabled roof that must have once been ornate. Jumbled strands of ivy hang from its aged, grey shingles. Past the shallow staircase at its foot stands a rather plain-looking wooden door, not unlike those of the dormitory upon Skyloft, only this structure appears to be older. Much older.

“And yet?” Link prods. For whatever reason, unbeknownst to himself, he’s curious to know what Ghirahim thinks of him.

Gaze growing misty, the demon hesitates. Two trees stretch towards the empty mist above, their bases sprouting from where the floor meets the walls. Several slabs of stone have broken and split about their massive roots, but it’s their skeletal boughs that Ghirahim appears fixated on. Hardly paying the other any mind, his only response is an inquisitive hum.

“You were saying?”

“… Oh. Yes.”

Those branches hover no less than twenty feet high, bereft of life and thicker than a man’s leg.

“And yet,” Ghirahim proceeds, eyes falling shut, “the text thus painted upon your pages has become contradictory of late.”

Link squints up at the mantled figure, whose focus has once again diverted. Must the man be so cryptic?

“What do you mean?”

A sigh heaves through veiled lips, dark eyes creaking open. “What I mean, is that there was a time when you would stop at nothing to appease your divine puppetmaster.” Link tenses, already wondering if pressing the demon hadn’t been a mistake. “And now, here you are – risking soul and sanity, braving trials far steeper than any previously bestowed upon you, for no reason other than to maintain a higher chance at successfully defying that same character’s wishes.”

Link opens his mouth to protest, then just as quickly snaps it shut. It had never been his goal to defy Hylia in any capacity, but is it really so unfair of him to step out and trod his own path for a change? He can’t help but believe that the humanity of her vessel must come with the innate possibility of human fallacy. Anything that can bleed can just as easily slip in judgment, right?

But does that really change anything?

His mind races for some mode of argument, rampantly darting here and there only to return with the gnawing conclusion that perhaps, just maybe, the demon is right.

The thought makes him sick to his stomach.

“It was rather a rough scene back there,” Ghirahim persists, doing little to alleviate the other’s distaste. “I’ve been dying to dissect the matter more intimately, without the hindersome chatter of the girl and her lackey. Truthfully, I’m as clueless in the matter as they. Why are you so bent on preserving me, despite the potential risk to you and your kind?”

The air becomes unnaturally thin, and just like that, Link is uncomfortably aware of the closeness of the walls. The simple truth of it is that he’s been avoiding the subject since that one fateful day, when Zelda’s quick, panicked sobs rang high in his ears as he fled without a word.

Thankfully, Ghirahim grants him much needed, albeit minor, reprieve.

“You needn’t answer this very instant,” he says, rubbing gingerly at his chest. Link wonders just how critical the injuries beneath that cloak. “Doubtful that your human mind can perceive it, but a hex guards that door. If my memory serves, the switch to lower it is situated atop one of those limbs.”

Again, the demon’s gaze drifts upward, settling hazily upon the treetops. Link follows more gradually, searching in a familiar fashion for some method of access. The location may be new, yet he can’t help but feel by now that he’s done this countless times already.

Many of the vines creeping up the walls appear withered, but if experience is anything to go on, the lush patches gathered higher up should be able to support his weight. Even with this extra sword, strapped rather awkwardly to his back…

Whatever the case, time is not a luxury they can afford to waste, meaning he’ll just have to chance it. And so, without further hesitation, he brushes past the other’s velvet drapes.

“Link,” calls Ghirahim, a hint of weariness slipping into his voice. “Do you think me so weak? With only myself to carry, I can make the journey with ease.”

“You should save your strength,” Link replies over his shoulder; and to himself, Besides, I could use the distraction.

Ghirahim’s hair, from Link’s peripheral, catches the dim light as he shakes his head. “You’re wasting your time. And mine, for that matter.”

Certainty dances in that sing-song voice, and Link can’t help but smile.

“You don’t need to worry about me, lord,” he hollers, heart fluttering with self-assurance. “I’ve been climbing vines and scaling walls my whole life – and in case you haven’t noticed,” he hangs back, gripping a cluster of thicker vines with one hand, “I’ve developed quite a knack for it.”

From this vantage point, it’s easy to catch Ghirahim’s smirk, pointed canines glistening from the shadows of his mantle.

… Is it bad that Link is enjoying this?

Caught up in the high of the moment, he places his hand without looking – and with a yelp realizes too late that the wall is no longer before him.

Frantically he grabs at the air, fingers curling and curling over and over until at last they find purchase with a stray vine. He grasps it with both hands, friction chafing and stinging as he skids to a graceless halt, the warm ooze of blood almost cooling in comparison as old callouses crack open. Heart thudding rapidly, he chances a blushing look over his shoulder, but the demon has vanished.

Ignoring the blood rushing in his ears, Link reinitiates his climb with a heavy eyeroll. There’s not a doubt as to where the other has gone off to.

Every brush against the rough surface is agony on his fingers. In attempt to pacify the burning assault, he strives to keep his fists curled tight enough that only the leather of his gloves makes contact – even still, each harrowing tug and pull has him hissing through clenched teeth. No matter the decrease in distance between himself and the broad ledge, he can’t reach it soon enough.

And of course, the moment he does, Ghirahim is there waiting. Behind him juts an unnatural elevation, bronze-like in color with a fittingly dull shine. Overall, it’s strikingly mismatched against the organic texture of the tree’s ragged bark.

From the impeccability of his posture, it appears that the demon’s claims hadn’t been a stretch. His hands rest easy on his hips, and though his curtain of hair and high-necked mantle conceal the greater half of his face, that one visible eye smiles.

“I take it that little stunt of yours was a classic above the clouds?”

Link’s mouth crooks in response, but he otherwise brushes the other’s taunts aside. Kneeling tentatively, he begins rummaging through his pouches, plucking a small clear bottle and placing it by his feet. He fumbles with his gloves, grimacing, discarding them carefully into a neatly forming pile, then proceeds to uncork the bottle with his teeth.

“Tell me, sky child,” Ghirahim doesn’t alter his lofty stance, save to tilt his head, “are you truly so keen on keeping me entertained, or do you simply enjoy pain?”

When the heart salve’s soothing effect glides across Link’s itching flesh, he can’t be bothered to flinch.

“Regardless…”

A soft, metallic chime echoes in his ears. It’s his only warning before the demon’s long, nimble fingers dig into his shoulders. Reflexively, he jolts.

“I did enjoy the view.”

“Why,” Link whirls full circle, facing the crouching demon with an incredulous pitch, “do you have no concept of personal space?!”

For all its predictability, Ghirahim’s smirk is no less unsettling. At that pearlescent flash of teeth Link’s heart races anew, head lightening, spinning, dancing in thoughtless circles.

“Why are you,” the demon retorts, “so adorable when you squirm?”

The corners of Link’s mouth seem to grow a mind of their own. Coloring slightly, he wipes a hand over his face in attempt to assuage them. He snatches up his gloves, reinstating them with exaggerated concentration while shoving to his feet. Eyes still glued to his hands, he turns on his heel and approaches the metal switch.

“I hope it was worth it,” he squeaks, voice maybe just a touch higher than he’d like. “And you get on my case about ‘wasting time.’ You didn’t think I’d fall and not bother getting back up, did you?”

“I won’t deny that the thought crossed my mind.”

Again, Link rolls his eyes. Faron’s crescent insignia marks the switch at his feet, painted upon its unpolished surface with fading black ink.

“Yet you trust me to wield you?”

Suction tugs at his looser clothing as space becomes warped, the invisible aura once blocking the door lifted as Link puts his weight on the metal. To his rear, Ghirahim emits a dark chuckle.

“It would appear I bear a masochistic streak of my own.”

Feeling inexplicably light, the knight removes himself from the button.

… Then stops short.

He senses it jutting back into place the second he steps off. While Ghirahim practically sneers with delight, Link’s eyes narrow.

“You knew,” he growls.

His irritation is short-lived, however. Ghirahim’s lighthearted cackling is strangely contagious, red velvet rippling down his chest as his shoulders shake. It’s all Link can do just to sigh.

“You stand on it, then,” he orders flatly, moving aside. The air buzzes momentarily once his weight is fully withdrawn. “I’ll go through the door, then you can return to your sword from here.”

He fully anticipates some patronizing or condescending jab. Somehow, though, Ghirahim utters not a word. With a knowing glance at the human’s curious features, he does exactly as instructed.

It’s almost… uncharacteristic, seeing Ghirahim so compliant.

“I suppose I ought to make myself accustomed to taking orders from you,” he explains, rather casually, from atop the flattened switch, “master.”

Link couldn’t stop himself from cringing if he’d tried. That one word, though the title itself had once been so familiar to him, is enough to cause his throat to constrict. His breath hitches, stomach lurching, a deep unrest stirring in his soul.

He feels the other’s gaze narrow in on him.

“Don’t tell me your previous weapon was prone to disobedience?”

Link doesn’t answer, contemplating this bleak epiphany with growing despair. Altogether, Fi probably gave more orders than she took, having been forged to function more as a guide than as an actual servant. He’d simply assumed that it wasn’t in her nature to argue.

Digging his sailcloth from the larger of his satchels, the human prepares himself to leap, muttering the simplest possible response. “I guess I never thought about it.”

Before the other can respond, his feet leave the branch. The freefall is exhilarating, providing body and mind alike a kind of weightlessness that he hadn’t realized how desperately he’d craved. The only blot in his mind being the wind on his skin, rushing through his hair and flapping at his clothes…

Then his shoulders jerk, sailcloth catching the air. He despairs at the abruptness as his senses return, a crashing force simultaneously physical and mental. It had been a welcome relief, discarding them entirely, however brief the phenomenon. Far too soon, he is reunited with the ground, dust clouds billowing around his earth-worn boots.

Inhibiting spell disabled, the door gives without a fuss, and Link crosses the threshold as though it were no different from that of the washroom back home.

Home.

For so long, home had meant Skyloft. Whatever the endgame to this bizarre journey, there’s no arguing that Ghirahim could never belong in such a quaint, peaceful place. Even just the looks he would surely receive set Link’s teeth on edge, not to mention the revival of the monsters that once haunted the island at night; and the restlessness…

But then, upon Link’s own return, had his experience been much different?

The lock clicks shut behind him, and with a surge of warmth, the heavier of his swords ignites with demonic life.

You needn’t look so despondent, Link, chimes Ghirahim’s soft, sultry voice. Just think on it. A sword is to be used, wielded by a master – and how exactly are that master’s objectives to be fulfilled should his tool suddenly start working against him?

And there it is, the dreaded confirmation. The logic is sound, yet hearing a living, sentient creature – especially one as eloquent and capable as this – refer to himself as a tool…

It just doesn’t sit right.

I sense your continued distress. Ghirahim’s tone exudes notes of unmistakable fatigue. Perhaps that’s to be expected. Allow me to put your mind at ease. Once you wield this power in your hand, you will most certainly acclimate quickly, as you so often do upon picking up new skills. In the meantime…

A change of topic. Praise Hylia.

… Have you given my last question any thought?

Never mind.

Link exhales with unmasked leisure. The truth is, he doesn’t want to discuss either subject – ever, if only it could be helped. But to hold another’s will entirely within his own, for their life to belong wholly to him…

Pensive, he looks ahead, taking in his new surroundings with fresh distraught. The hall before them is long and narrow, with splotches of mildew blighting the cinderblock walls. Condensation drips from a low, mossy ceiling, coating both plant life and stone in a glossy sheen. At the pathway’s far end, what appear to be double doors guard entry to the next room.

“What did Demise do to you?”

The inquiry startles Link perhaps more than it does the demon lord. In his life, the knight can think of no one who would willingly subjugate themselves so completely, yet Ghirahim seems to charge at the opportunity with a full and eager heart – first, with the Demon King’s resurrection, and now again with Link.

He gave me purpose, comes Ghirahim’s quick, forward reply, and I will expect you, little hero, to do the same.

“Hylia gave me purpose,” Link almost snaps, glaring at the hilt over his shoulder, “and she did it without using any kind of submission curse to force me.”

Indeed. And just look at how that’s turned out for her.

Pulse flaring, Link falls silent. Suddenly the floor seems unsteady beneath him, and he finds himself reaching absently towards the wall for support. Again, there’s that nauseating sense of space closing in. Could that be his answer? Defiance for defiance’s sake?

Is this whole venture of rebellion merely Link being petulant?

Before his thoughts run amuck, Ghirahim’s voice grounds him once more.

I understand that you will need time to digest all this. Our imminent obligations aside, you’ll excuse my resting here in this form for the time being. Being in two places at once can become quite taxing, particularly after so eventful an afternoon. As of now, you had best get us out of here; all else is secondary.

Though his heart yearns for resolution, Link knows the demon is right: there are more pressing issues hovering before them. If we’re to survive the task at hand, I’ll just have to resign myself to tabling the issue, at least for now. Navigating this dreary structure can’t be much more difficult than all the other trials in all their ghastly variety that he’s since overcome, so with a nod, Link moves his feet forward.

As he begins trudging along, one bittersweet thought occurs to him. With Ghirahim bound to obey his every command, Zelda and the others will have to trust him.

… Right?

---

Though one would never guess it from her typically forward approach to life, courage has never been one of Zelda’s stronger suits – and the caverns beneath Floria’s cistern are swift to remind her.

Eyes moistening with fear, she peers cautiously about the damp, musty hellscape, a small sphere of golden light hovering inches above her upturned palm. Her vision grazes over the rotting hides of the undead, with their loose flesh scarcely clinging to half-exposed skeletons as they shrivel from afar. The divine aura of the Goddess repels them, rendering them harmless in her presence – it was for that very reason she had insisted on covering these grounds herself – yet the mere sight of the cursed beasts never fails to unnerve her.

Nothing here fails to unnerve her.

Pools of malice, endless impurity filtered from the waters above, Zelda can accept as a necessary evil; although traversing the stony banks of the thick, bloody substance, she can’t help but wish otherwise. It’s the empty shackles with their broken chains, still bolted to the crude earthen walls even after so many centuries, that turns her muscles frigid and her bones brittle. To think of the spirits of those who had perished within their confines, of all the final moments defined by these wicked halls…

No. It does no good to dwell on such sorrowful events – not for them, not for her, not for Link.

Link.

It feels not that long ago that the two were practically joined at the hip, discussing every minute detail of their once-boring lives. From the deepest, darkest reasons why they each fought so persistently to attain knighthood, to whether the first bite of the apple really was the best (Link insisted it wasn’t), the pair left no stone unturned. She thinks of Groose, painted green with jealousy, of how he’d eventually resorted to blatantly bullying Link in attempt to push the smaller boy away – and how it only made Link and Zelda grow closer.

Every time the older boy would sneak a heart fruit off Link’s plate at the cafeteria when he wasn’t looking and give it a sloppy lick before putting it back, Zelda warned him. Every time Groose would tear pages from Link’s textbooks the day before an open-book/open-note quiz, Zelda helped him copy the same material from her own to use instead. Every time crumpled bits of paper would mysteriously land in Link’s hair during lectures, when Groose just so happened to be sitting behind him, Zelda herself would take the fall, shooting warning glares that instantly caught Owlan’s attention – thus taking the heat off a visibly distracted Link.

Then Ghirahim.

The demon himself had hunted her relentlessly, on top of sending vicious hordes in pursuit. His ruthlessness had foiled plans that were nearly a millennium in the making, ultimately snatching Zelda from a well-earned victory, at Link’s expense as well as her own.

A shiver dances up her spine, shadows flickering as her light briefly pulses.

She recalls the invisible binary snaked around her frail form, of its suffocating strain on her every nerve. She recalls her lifeforce draining inch by inch, the soul sucked from her body as a leech takes blood from a wound. She holds back a shudder, the memory alone enough to make her skin crawl. The pain had been brief, and she was quick to recover, yes, but it’s the sense of utter betrayal that’s left her so deeply shaken.

That same boy who she’s known all her life, who she’s so tenaciously stood up for at every possible opportunity – her best friend in all of Skyloft – no longer seems to be bothered in the slightest.

She thinks, again, of Groose, of how rashly he’s since thrown himself at the demon lord. Even perceiving little of the being and his craft, it was enough that Groose comprehended only one thing – that Zelda had been hurt, and that Link, amongst others, may be in danger as well.

And where is her knight now? How could such devotion be lacking in her own chosen one? Had Hylia been mistaken in selecting Link?

Or has Zelda been mistaken in her expectations of the Hero?

The shaking of her knees pulls her back from her trance, guilt clawing at her chest, stray tears rolling down her cheeks. With haste she brushes them away and, swallowing the lump in her throat, forces herself further along the crooked pathway.

Bathed in the glow of Farore’s sacred flame, she had given Link the chance to explain his thought process; but he only became flustered, leaving room for Ghirahim and Groose to interject. She knows now that, if she’s to hold out any hope for an explanation, she’ll first need to get him alone.

Strategies shifting loosely in her mind, Zelda carries herself back towards the central tower with quickening steps. The instant her feet cross from the riverbank of malice onto manmade tile, a weight lifts from her shoulders, and she extinguishes her light with a sigh of relief.

She’s not surprised to see Groose making his rounds nearby. He catches sight of her shortly, hands self-consciously rising to stroke at his hair. It’s uplifting, how easily she can cast him a smile.

“Any news?” she calls from the level below.

Eyes downcast, the boy wordlessly shakes his head. Zelda can’t say she’d been expecting a different answer.

“I’m sorry-,” he starts when her gaze drifts away.

“Don’t be. Just help me tell the others to call off the search. If we haven’t found them here yet, we probably never will.”

Groose hunches somewhat, cadence trilling indignant. “You’re giving up?!” he demands, more shocked than upset. “You’d leave Link alone with that- that-”

“Not at all.” She dismisses his incredulity with a wave of her hand. “I think I know where they’re likely headed. Gather everyone towards the entrance, and we can discuss it further as a group.”

Straightening, Groose offers no further protest. Features set with a determined nod, he starts towards the ground-level exit, skipping steps all the while.

Zelda watches him until he’s bound completely out of sight, then releases a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. By now, Ghirahim is sure to have recovered enough to at least make it past the main exit. Even if he hasn’t, she’d never forgive herself if the two were to become desperate enough to take the lesser known, alternative route from the cistern.

Din, Nayru, and Farore above – please don’t let it be too late.

---

If Link had hoped a renewed sense of adventure would help clear his head, only moments within these halls prove him sorely mistaken. The first hallway seems to stretch on forever, each step hardly bringing the duo any closer to the doorway ahead. Growing anxious, he glances from side to side, finding that the walls as well are barely moving in sync. When he quickens his pace, the phenomenon only worsens.

Be patient, chimes Ghirahim’s stern, yet soothing voice. You are in the presence of sorcery.

Willfully steadying his breath, Link manages to take solace in the demon’s proximity. He’s not Fi, not exactly, but his loyalty and knowledgeability are a comfort, all the same.

By the time they reach the double doors, swaying on rusted hinges and reeking of rotted wood, hours seem to have passed. It’s out of necessity alone that the knight pushes through.

The sight that greets him sends shivers up his spine, yet fascinates him beyond explanation. The chamber is round, and huge, earthen walls mottled with ivy, algae, and many other types of creeping foliage less familiar to the human, all surrounding an amphitheater-style arrangement of cinder seating. Center the arena is a crudely-wrought fence with corroded bronze plating, dappled with rust and dull with age. Four torches sit evenly spaced among the spiked pickets, illuminating the stone dais with an eerie substance that only vaguely resembles flame.

Link stares at the otherworldly light with reverent trepidation, afraid to move even a step closer, lest he provoke the wrath of some unseen force. Just thinking on it elicits a shudder. The room appears empty, yet he feels that the eyes of thousands are upon him.

Simmering unknown to Link within the black steel on his back, a host of dark essences assails the demon lord. The ebb and flow of their thirst for blood, stemming from every possible source – some purely carnal, others truly vengeful – hones in from all directions. Poised as the pair is presently, Ghirahim surmises that Link’s cognitive functions are best focused on the ghostly luminescence; therefore, until such a time as the crawling, skulking fiends overhead prove a true threat to their progress, the demon determines the wisest course of action is not to alarm his endearing wielder.

That being said, the knight has only to cast a glance upward to discover the truth.

Directly across the arena, a large opening frames what can only be the exit. Nothing but shadows are visible beyond, but at this point, just about anything sounds better than remaining here. Someone, or some ones, have been laid to rest in this place, and no good can come of the lingering presence of the living.

Squaring his shoulders, Link crosses the boundary into the arena.

And immediately, the light changes.

The torches once shone a pale blue, reminiscent of the moon rising full over Skyloft. The moment Link enters their ominous glow, the spheres flicker into a spectrum of unusually colored flames, writhing and lapping at the stale air as though they were…

…alive.

Link feels his gorge begin to rise. The word could not be less appropriate.

Yet even so, graced by this sudden shift, the floor comes alive with the soft outlines of innumerable eight-legged beasts. Mouth dry, stomach churning, the human raises his head, gripping instinctively at the hilt of his sword-

Do not fear, little hero, a silver voice whispers. You cannot see it, but a barrier stands between us and them, concealed via ancient magic. These creatures are for show. Nothing more.

‘What kind of show?!’ Link wants to shout, but he dare not utter a sound. Once his fearful stare drops from the infestation above, it befalls a vision sure to haunt him for years to come.

Four translucent, vaguely silhouetted figures hover over each torch, so faint that at first glance he’d nearly dismissed them as a trick of the light. Only when their humanoid limbs stretch outward, fully-fledged lanterns materializing before his eyes, does he accept the wonder as truth. Orbs like molten metal gleam from within their sunken heads, harrowing contrasts to the dull, ratty wears that encase their slim forms. These eyes, for so they seem, bore ravenously into the Hero’s soul – then vanish altogether, the vibrant flames along with them.

The room falls not into darkness, but into the same bland scape of decay as before. From across the dais, a spoked gate falls over the exit, shrill notes of metal on stone reverberating with a gut-wrenching clang.

In the moments thereafter, Link’s rapid breathing is the only sound. His pulse is erratic as he attempts to fully process all that’s occurred. Without the light of the torches, the eight-legged shadows have all but faded into obscurity.

All is silent, all is still.

In a span he isn’t proud of, he considers turning back. Even if a horde of knights still raid the cistern, the pair’s chances with them must surely soar compared to this. Then the air to their right shimmers, as though beheld through a curtain of smoke, and in its wake appears a plain old door, identical to the one through which they had entered this madness to begin with.

Before he can look twice, a searing pain blooms across Link’s back, and he jumps forward with a yelp.

Of course it wouldn’t be that simple, seethes the demon. Sullen, vindictive whelps, taking their frustrations out on anyone who happens upon them. Not that they can be blamed, all things considered.

“Ghirahim.” Link clears his throat, surprised at how quickly it’s gone dry. “Do you know where they went, or why?”

Well, dear boy, they are acting up because a mortal has intruded upon their restless slumber. Poes do that, you see, having passed from this world in a fit of sheer rage. I sense their individual auras just beyond that door, so clearly, they intend for you to follow them.

Link swallows, cautiously approaching the now-empty dais to examine the torches more closely. Whatever the explanation for all this chaos, assuming there is one, it’s clear enough that these and the spirits will be key in the duo’s getting out of here.

“Then what?”

Then, Ghirahim’s voice echoes a sigh, we find out what exactly it is that they wish in terms of mollification and, so long as the price isn’t too steep, pay our way forward.

Frowning, Link starts for the door. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

A mirthless chuckle resounds in his head. Nor I, little master. Best case, we waste precious time, so I suggest you get a move on. My dowsing, as you like to call it, will guide you. I take it you are familiar with the practice?

Humoring the sword with a firm, “I am,” Link stiffly closes the distance, willing himself not to dwell too heavily on these many words of warning. Silently, he thanks the Goddess in her wisdom for all he’s endured up until this point. The heroic grooming under his belt is all he can credit for not losing his nerve here and now. He’s just reached for the brass handle, limbs scarcely bending to his will, when once again Ghirahim’s voice rings softly through his mind.

Link, he chimes, tenor breathy, yet urgent.

A pause. Brows pinched, the knight waits with a shadow of worry. It isn’t like Ghirahim to struggle with anything he wishes to say.

… I beseech you, as my wielder. Be careful, and… good luck.

---

Though Ghirahim’s exhaustion is stark, his senses remain alert. Taken from the knight’s back and pointed forward – wielded with two hands, despite his recent decrease in size – the demon sees far more than his companion could ever hope.

“The hall is… twisted,” states Link, growing steadily monotone.

And indeed it is.

His steel vibrates, gemstone pulsating, both ushering the young man onward and guiding him as would a blind man’s cane. Link follows dutifully, careful not to trip over the threadbare rugs scrapped at his feet. With each proceeding step, the mangled architecture seems to correct itself; then a glance back informs him that in reality, no change in the structure has occurred.

Sensing the knight’s dumbfounded surveyance, Ghirahim allows himself a soft chortle. There are many phenomena in this world that defy explanation.

“I’ve noticed.”

Having set a steady pace, it isn’t long before the odd curves are behind them, and Ghirahim finds himself held at the threshold of a cobblestone labyrinth. White threads are strung along the highest arches: tangled, haphazard webs, their ghostly glow shrouding the ugly, shriveled-up figures within.

Watch for the shadows of the monsters that hang from the ceiling, he warns.

Link offers a curt nod in acknowledgment before resuming their trek.

Further in, the halls seem to echo the distant humming of the dead. Several turns are made while Ghirahim deduces the knight’s strategy. Fortunately, the Poes are, leastwise at the moment, stagnant, yet such a sliver of grace can hardly be considered as much. The demon’s senses do not account for obstacles, leaving Link to solve this dreadful maze on his own. Initially, the course he sets appears random, but after a few short minutes of venturing deeper through, Ghirahim finds his wielder vigilantly aiming not to stray farther than need be from the Poes’ varying signals.

There is a number of instances in which the demon senses a carnal hunger looming not far above. He tingles with anticipation, prepared to shout into the other’s mind, but Link always manages to scurry out of reach before an alarm need be raised. Each time one of the living talons, with their leathery hides and overall repugnance, is forced to retreat upon its ghostly thread, Ghirahim can’t help the glow of satisfaction within himself.

I’m impressed, he admits, more to himself than for the knight’s edification.

Sporting that haughty, crooked grin, Link chuckles softly. “You didn’t really think that magic swords are the only reason I’m still alive?”

I should hope not, comes Ghirahim’s sultry reply. It would be most disgraceful for a sword to have to carry his own master.

If Link had conjured a retort, it’s quickly swallowed in light of the blade’s sudden spike in whirring. The presence of at least one Poe is near, even palpable, and yet…

Nothing appears any different.

“Ghirahim,” says Link, swinging the blade’s tip about the corridor in a building panic, “I don’t see anything. Do you?”

Mood darkening once again, the demon growls, a low rumbling at the back of Link’s skull. It’s here, he spits. It has to be.

The human lowers his blade to rest against the floor, exhaling softly as his muscles relax. Ghirahim can sense his strain at having held the weapon aloft for so long. Tentative, Link kneels, running his hands over the cobblestone where the pulsing had been most intense.

He evidently doesn’t notice the floor growing darker.

Link-!

His voice has hardly rung forth when the knight rolls from the shadow’s mark, sword still in hand. Thick claws scrape briefly along the stone where the Floormaster descends, lingering only a moment before sulking back to its grim home overhead.

Had he the strength, Ghirahim would spring from his sword that very instant and wring the boy’s dithering neck.

Did I not warn you to be careful?! he cries. That was entirely too close! Even if I possessed the strength to hold your hand, a little effort on your part would be much obliged!

Link rises from his crouch, the blade in his hold grazing the floor as it follows his movement. Lips pursed, he can’t be bothered to do more than huff, bangs ruffling. “I dodged it, didn’t I?”

Barely, you imp!

“I can handle myself.” He starts off again – notably, at a quicker pace. “Calm down, Ghirahim. That’s an order.”

His responsive scoff is anything but amused. I’m afraid I am not bound by your orders just yet, darling.

“But you ought to get used to it?”

Why, the smugness, the audacity-

Between the slippery nature of these blasted Poes and the never-ending predatorial nature of every creeping beast that flees from the sun, Ghirahim has little patience for being argued with.

Persist with this reckless abandon, he teems, and you won’t live long enough to solidify our pact to begin- WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE GOING?!

The boy laughs – by Demise, laughs, swatting playfully at the cross guard below his grip.

“Like you said,” he chimes a little too lightheartedly, “we need to get a move on, to avoid those nasty hand-things if nothing else. We can come back and try looking for this Poe again later. For now, let’s find a different one.”

Were he corporeal, Ghirahim would open his mouth to argue. The logic of the little knight’s plan, however, bears more merit than he cares to admit.

Perhaps your Goddess was more merciful than I thought, he drawls, not making the slightest effort to mask his exasperation, when she deprived your previous sword of emotional capacity.

Again, the boy smiles, though now more with chagrin than with mischief. “Oh, don’t worry. Fi got pretty fed up with me, too, sometimes.”

Oh?

He’s curious, though he can’t claim to be wholly surprised. As more corners are turned, the buzzing in Link’s hands intensifies.

“Sometimes, when I would really be struggling with a trial, she would tell me my ‘chances of not being the chosen one are increasing.’”

The human alters his voice in imitation of the spirit, raising and lowering awkwardly in attempt to mimic her bell-like echo. Without even realizing, Ghirahim cackles.

Well, sky child, maybe you and I will prove a better fit than I’d originally anticipated.

Link’s mouth crooks into a cheeky type of smirk, eyes momentarily adrift. Ghirahim can feel the twitch of his shoulders, the knight’s fingers curled tight around his hilt.

By now the hum of the first Poe has all but completely faded, indicative of its having moved on to a new location. Sword held high, Link follows the nearest trail through a series of short corridors, shuffling hurriedly whenever the shadows beneath his feet threaten to engulf the pair. Each hallway cuts off at a perfectly square angle, which at least reduces their shadow-dodging into little more than a cumbersome chore. It isn’t until this Poe, just like the last, vanishes from his mind’s eye that Ghirahim again begins to simmer.

Feeling the sword go still in his hands, Link slows to a wary stop.

“You don’t think they’re moving through the walls, do you?”

Ghirahim responds as though he’d already considered the possibility. They are hardly moving at all, Link, he says, struggling to maintain his composure. They are in one place at one time, and then, they are not. It’s as though they were…

“Teleporting.”

In his mind, Ghirahim nods.

“Poes can do it, too, then?”

As they speak, Link begins to backtrack, retracing prior steps.

It isn’t quite that simple.

“Is teleporting simple?”

Comparatively speaking. He offers a light chuckle. Only living, breathing creatures such as myself are capable of bending space to our will. For us, vanishing and reappearing is a craft not easily perfected, but not impossible. Poes are not wholly of this world; thus, they must establish a channel of like energy before they can hope to perform even a similar technique.

Link contemplates this information in silence. Then, “Wait…”

Remember you mustn’t dally too long in one place!

“I know, just…”

He pauses dead in his tracks, the curious tossing of his head growing frantic.

“This doesn’t look familiar, but I swear this is where we came from.”

These halls are all dreadfully similar, Link. You likely took a wrong turn. Now move!

He shakes his head stiffly, to Ghirahim’s increasing agitation. “I’ve counted every single step since that first Poe – a trick that Fi taught me when I first started navigating the Surface. There was a jagged scrape here where I set you down, and now it’s gone. See?”

Blood boiling (in a manner of speaking), the demon first skims, then scrutinizes the area at which Link gesticulates. Nothing but smooth stone meets either sense or sight.

Link. It takes no small amount of effort, sustaining even a miniscule air of calm. Are you suggesting…?

Solemnly, the knight nods. “The maze is changing.”

Before the demon can react, his steel is secured once more to the young man’s back.

And just what do you think you are doing now?

“Dowsing hasn’t helped us,” Link replies hastily, scampering through the corridors once more. “I’m gonna do some exploring on my own, and it might help to keep my hands free. I’ve solved plenty of mazes before, Ghirahim. I’m gonna get us out of here. I promise.”

While the boy’s confidence should be far from reassuring, Ghirahim finds himself clinging to it, a lonely lifeline in a sea of poor fortune.

And what of the Poes? he demands, perhaps more panicked than truly scathing. Have you forgotten that we need them if we’re to make it out of this nightmare?

“Right now, we’ll be lucky just to make it out of this labyrinth. I’ll find a way, all right? I always do.”

A low growl resounds in Link’s skull, the spirit of the blade growing restless. I should certainly hope so, sky child. For both our sakes.

In the ensuing quiet, Link’s lips remain slightly parted, the constant muttering of numbers and directions spilling under his breath. His optimism, Ghirahim knows, is dubious at best, but unless it proves a hindrance, he concedes to refrain from shattering the young knight’s hopes. After all, should they turn out to be fruitful in the long run, rebuilding them will be a much greater challenge than tearing them down.

What he wouldn’t give to take form by the knight’s side, to simply snap them back to some place that makes sense. If only to preserve his sanity, he begins counting in rhythm with Link’s gait, sword bouncing along his back, only to lose steps whenever the knight gives a heavy shrug to redistribute the weight on his shoulders.

He’s sure he’s about to burst when the kind melody of Link’s chords washes over his steel.

“When I first started flying,” he converses, almost casually, “the sky was a lot harder to navigate than this. All the islands looked the same to me. Even the maps we were given after our Loftwings chose us didn’t help much, since we were too young and stupid to read the elevations. I was, anyway.”

Is this meant to be comforting?

With a forced chuckle and a smile to match, Link rubs at the back of his neck. “I’m just saying, if I could figure this kinda stuff out when I was little, braving it now shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

It is a problem, Link.

His shrug is, interestingly, friendly, and not even a little defensive. “Well,” he half-laughs, “good thing I have a lot of experience coming up with solutions then, huh?”

Hours seem to pass like this, the youth strolling and chatting, urgency vaguely suppressed, rambling about his sweet childhood and pretty homelife above the clouds as though nothing were out of the ordinary. Watching from his blade, the way he waves his hands as he speaks, so enamored with his own tales that he likely doesn’t even realize these little tics, Ghirahim insists upon being appalled. The truth is, though, in so dire a situation, the display is rather… charming.

“At first I was worried about having a Loftwing. Everyone made it sound like such a huge responsibility, almost like having a kid, and I just kept thinking, ‘But I am a kid!’ But they’re really independent. There’s this island full of trees that grow the kinds of fruits and seeds that they eat. Sometimes I would sneak off and spend hours, even days, just hanging out with my Loftwing and his buddies, napping in their nests. Gaepora was furious the first time, wondering where I went and why I was skipping school.”

Soon enough, adventures with Loftwings turn into entire life stories, all of which Ghirahim struggles to follow. Foolish boy, not seeming to realize the demon has no way of knowing who ‘Gaepora’ or ‘Pipit’ or ‘Fledge’ are. Groose is a name he recognizes, as is Zelda, mentions of both bringing tremors to his core. Yet after a series of descriptions of the youths in their innocence, spying on one another from treetops and teaming up to draw remlit whiskers on a dozing preteen Link’s face, Ghirahim feels his tensions slowly begin to ease.

“I know we’re not all getting along very well right now,” Link skitters from another shadow, his only acknowledgement of the threat, “but really, that’s normal. Well, kind of. We always end up on the same side eventually. Even if Groose tends to take things too far. You know he birdnapped my Loftwing right before a big race, right?”

You poor thing.

Ghirahim’s humor is dull, but Link carries on unphased. “Yeah,” he says, “I could’ve been held back another year.”

He laughs. It’s genuine, at first, but then… mournful.

“It feels so stupid now. Wing Ceremonies, graduation, knighthood – they meant the world at the time. Now…”

The world has gotten bigger.

Link’s shoulders sag. “Yeah.”

Again, the human has slackened his pace, gaze falling somberly to the floor; and Ghirahim, yet again, prepares to light a fire beneath him when the youth’s features shift abruptly, contorted into an inquisitive scowl.

“Wait a minute…” He crouches, squinting at the far wall. “Ghirahim, do you see that?”

He doesn’t. Not right away, anyhow. Gradually, the pieces drift together, a haunting display of tattered robes and flaming eyes.

Sweltering, scathing eyes, eyes, EYES.

The longer they stare, the louder the notes ringing inside Link’s head.

“Your friends… What kind of… people are they? I wonder… do those people… think of you… as a friend?”

Link, MOVE!

He rolls from the shadows not a second too soon, the Floormaster landing with a soft thud before retreating to its web. Now to Link’s rear, the Poe’s obscure silhouette vanishes with a cackle, its taunting echo singing through the halls. Ghirahim makes to chime in warning, but the knight has already taken the bow from his back. He reaches for his quiver, notching an arrow with uncanny speed…

The second it’s let loose, the Poe leaps from the cinder. His target now trapped within the wall behind, given no place left to hide, Link repeats the process with greater leisure, forcing the irksome creature out into the open.

Its presence doesn’t last.

Draw me, quickly, barks the sword spirit.

Fortunately, Link does as instructed without qualm, pointing the blade in every direction until Ghirahim’s core practically croons with its ghostly aura.

It’s far, he observes. I believe you’ve sent it back to the central chamber, gods willing. Whatever the case, I urge you to continue employing this strategy until you’ve smoked them all out.

Though he appears altogether unsettled, Link nods in accord. “Did you hear it, too?” he asks shakily, aiming the sword once more.

Ghirahim hums with energy as he picks up the nearest scent. Something to do with friends. I would avoid thinking on it too hard, my dear. Poes have a nasty habit of prying into one’s mind and bringing forth some concept, memory, or what-have-you most effectual in throwing that person’s head into chaos.

Link swallows hard, but otherwise steadies himself. He gives a straightforward, “Right,” then continues to follow the sword’s vibrational hymn.

The second Poe is much the same. No longer do either sword nor wielder count steps or mark turns, simply adhering to the spirit’s guidance until another shrouded face appears along the walls. Link looses three arrows, having missed the first target by a mere second’s timing, then collects them again when the grisly cackling fades.

“The right thing… What is it? I wonder… If you do the right thing… does it really make… everybody… happy?”

Cowards, spits the demon lord. Preying on the vulnerable, prodding at a young Hero’s conscience. They are unworthy of your meditations, child.

But he can tell by the stagger in Link’s gait, as well as the color swiftly draining from his face, how the ghosts’ efforts are chipping away at his resolve.

Two more, little master, Ghirahim soothes in encouragement. Two more, and we’ll be well on our way.

Now, as he races through the halls, Link bites anxiously at his lip, flooding the demon’s senses with the sweet fragrance of fresh blood. It isn’t like that of the dead, left to rot until such a time as the earth swallows their worthless remains. No, the blood of the living has far more to be desired, capable of properly enriching a demon, even – no, especially – from within the confines of his blade…

Only when the human’s teeth are withdrawn does Ghirahim realize they’ve come to a halt. Two more arrows fly, the deep, mocking laughter of their third catch dancing through the air.

“You… what makes you… happy? I wonder… What makes you happy… does it really make… everybody… happy?”

Immediately, Link… trips.

No. He is thrown.

He rolls several paces, sword left clanging upon the floor, before the nearest wall breaks his violent tumbling. Clutching at his ribs, the knight can scarcely lift himself onto all fours, the wind knocked wholly from his lungs. Ghirahim is helpless to do more than wait, crying out for his wielder’s swift recovery, that he may be claimed once more.

Between blade and master, a translucent hand withdraws into the cinder floor.

“Your true face… What kind of… face is it? I wonder… The face under the mask… is that… your true face?”

Through his gasping and panting, Link lunges, desperate, for his fallen weapon.

“It makes me happy,” he coughs, taking hilt in hand. “Anyone claiming to be a friend of mine won’t oppose that.”

He stands, determination hardening his youthful features.

“I won’t pretend any longer, that I am content with the life I once had.”

Link reverses the grip, raising the sword over his head.

“Nor will I continue to wear a mask to preserve anyone else’s comfort.”

Falling to one knee, he strikes the ground. A melancholy shriek splits the air. It rattles Ghirahim’s blade, resonating from the tip of his steel to the pommel upon his hilt. The gemstone, his core, nearly shatters upon impact, emerald light radiating from within, shining down on every inch of stone within material range.

When finally it softens, then fades back to darkness, every last trace of the Poes’ auras has fled the dark tunnels.

For a moment, electricity dances through Ghirahim’s steel, tingling evocatively, a sensation he hasn’t known since… well, since the last time he was truly, properly wielded. Soot streaks the floor, scarring the stone from a central point where the blade had been thrust.

Link stands, his breathing labored, entire torso heaving. He straightens, beginning to lift his weapon and allow the spirit within to guide their way forward, both parties drunken with a deadly concoction of adrenaline and thrill.

Neither takes notice of the deepening shadows, until the Floormaster’s stinger jabs into Link’s spine.

Chapter Text

Link thrashes and flails, desperate to dislodge the creature from his back. Its grip seems feeble enough, brittle claws only vaguely registered; one swift motion would have surely succeeded were it not for the needle latched inches deep. Already he’s begun to lose feeling, a slow cold creeping steadily down his neck.

My blade! cries the demon, trapped within his sword. Use my blade!

But his voice is an ocean away.

A well-timed stagger slams Link against the wall, the disembodied talon caught in between. With a sickening squelch, its stinger reflexively retracts into itself.

Stumbling from his one modem of support, Link swings his weapon on instinct alone, all remaining strength poured behind the dark steel. It finds its target without fail, cutting through the creature’s leathery hide as though it were paper.

The knight almost begins to relax, but Ghirahim knows better than to cheer so soon. No fewer than a dozen of its skulking kin drop from the hovering darkness, drawn towards the copper scent now soaking through the knight’s collar.

Do not drop me, as Link falls to one knee, no matter what happens, you mustn’t drop me! The flesh of their first kill bleeds into Ghirahim’s soul, its effects jarring, but miniscule. I need more, Link. You must slaughter them – quickly!

Another set of claws grabs at the knight from behind, and he throws it off with a strained cry. His grip on the hilt grows flimsy, yet Floormasters are frail foes indeed, and before the blade falls limp to his side, several bloodied ‘fingers’ are skidding across the floor.

The black steel shudders in his grasp. Grime spatters the walls and floor, painting the corridor a sick shade of green.

To your front!

Link can barely lift the blade. Chest tight, limbs heavy, he heaves the two-handed beast as high as it will go…

… and catches a charging fiend on the deadly point.

A burst of crimson light shimmers atmospheric. Diamonds beyond count echo and flutter, spectacular against the dull of the cinderblock, coalescing in patterns of gold and red and silver as they settle into humanoid form. Shrieking with laughter, trembling with thrill, the demon lord thrusts his saber forward.

Every Floormaster still living scurries from the sight, fleeing hurriedly towards the shadows. Deprived too long of the high of such violence, intoxicated with the blood of even such foul creatures as these, Ghirahim harbors no intention of permitting their escape. His fangs gleam behind stunning white lips, and he fells two foes in as many motions. Waves of sheer darkness trail his movements, humming a deadly baritone through the corridor. He turns just as another makes to exit, its talons half-embracing Link’s neutral form, only to find itself lodged upon the demon’s weapon.

It isn’t until he disposes of its carcass that he glimpses the young man’s face.

If anything could stop a beating heart.

Link’s eyes are wide and glassy, spittle leaking from his twitching mouth. Hardly a tinge of color is left in his skin.

The slightest sound emanates to his rear, and with a snarl Ghirahim whirls. His sword slashes almost at random, cleaving one last monstrosity in two whilst the remainder vanish overhead.

A deathly hush falls over the corridor.

Saber fracturing and fading from his grasp, Ghirahim kneels by his young wielder’s side.

“Link,” he rasps, throat constricting inexplicably. His jaw tightens when he receives no response.

He presses two shaking fingers to the knight’s neck, leaning in to better interpret his scent. Even through his gloves he can feel the cold. Though faint, the heart continues to beat – and he releases a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

His relief is short-lived, however. He’s hardly time to blink before that horrid chittering buzzes again in his ears. He approximates their distance and velocity – and seethes, forced to conclude that their time grows more precious by the second.

Teeth gritting, he secures his sword to Link’s front, lifting the knight gingerly into his arms.

“Be strong, little hero,” he whispers, half-sprinting past the corners of the blighted maze. “After all you’ve been put through, at my hands as much as at anyone else’s, this will not be the misfortune that claims you.”

Shadows darken as the venom spreads, scent thick, predator bent on retrieving its prey. Link’s breathing is shallow, but his eyes remain alert, tenaciously fixed to the demon lord’s face. A sea of blue riddles shines within those glossy orbs. Almost intuitively, Ghirahim recognizes the look of a man contemplating his final words.

He doesn’t allow himself to wonder what they might be.

The Poes’ trail leads them swiftly to the distorted hallway connecting labyrinth to main chamber, stray bunches of mangled carpet threatening to throw the demon from his feet. All the while Link’s hand curls into Ghirahim’s chest, clinging to the rich fabric as though it were his final line to this world. Perhaps it’s foolish, knowing the futility of the gesture, to glean from it any comfort. Yet until he can carry the little human where his wounds can be properly tended to, a placebo is as good an antidote as any.

When the last of the infernal curvatures fall away, Ghirahim all but leaps. The door flies from its hinges in a shower of splinters, the remnants altogether consumed – for what lies beyond the boundary is awash with darkness.

No. Not awash. Flooded.

It’s… palpable. Sensational. Black as ink, pressing in from all sides. The doorway itself seems to vanish behind, devoured in its entirety not the moment they cross. Even the ringing in the demon’s ears is brought to heel, lost in the boundless hollow.

This dark is not merely the absence of light, any more than this silence the mere absence of sound. It is emptiness.

Or it would be, but for the saturated figure standing at its center, a mournful chant emanating from the head.

It bears the appearance of skin chafed raw, of flesh flayed, exposing tendon and nerve; of eyes without lids boring bloody circles, forever orbiting the onlooker’s naked soul. Its song is that of one grieving the loss of a child; of notes lost to an echo, clanging brasslike in intermittence; of fingers half-mutilated strumming broken strings. Within seconds the macabre display is seared into the demon’s mind, scarred upon the backs of his lids, a vision not unlikely to haunt. Link lies cold in his arms, fingers still curling and uncurling in the velvet of his cloak, yet Ghirahim cannot bring himself to act.

They stand, for it can be nothing less, in the presence of a god.

When the being speaks, its voice carries the weight of deep waters.

“They were my children,” it says.

Only now does Ghirahim recognize the faint globes, four in all, each hovering over its respective sconce.

“Sold me their souls in exchange for vengeance. Torn from our land, made to gladiate until their carrion churned in the belly of this earth – a blatant disgrace. To die without leaving a corpse – this is the way of the Garo.”

The Garo. Ghirahim swallows, opening his mouth, though it may as well be filled with cotton.

“Shells of malice,” he rasps, “dishonored, in death as in life, for the warped entertainment of the Sheikah.”

The god growls, for lack of a better description, its voice now an icy trill.

“But you are not amongst these offenders, Lord Ghirahim.”

His knees nearly give. Tendons writhing in its skinless neck, the god looks to the children it had nurtured in blood.

“I see now that this domain is fruitless, purged of its impurity by the armies of Demise.” Again, its voice becomes altered, tenuous and acidic. “You and the human are guiltless, my child.”

Guiltless. The concept is comprehensible, yet he’s far from breathing easy. With every word from the being’s gaping mouth, the globes shine brighter, their once-soft halos continuously expanding. It’s torturously slow, how they advance towards the center of the cruel gravesite. The walls themselves come alive with color.

Chords become dry, stone ricocheting off stone. “I shall take these souls to another dimension, and we will feast upon the inhabitants therein.”

A haze seems to coat the demon lord’s eyes, piercing light sparking a flame inside his skull.

“Remain here, and perish how best you see fit. Follow us, and be devoured.”

Instantaneously his vision is submerged in white, forcing his eyes shut. When again they open, the arena reverts to a state of forlornness, lanterns like moonlight illuminating the concrete. His knees scrape against the cold stone, Link’s still form draped gracefully across his lap.

Several moments pass, demon and knight seemingly frozen in time, until at last the former seizes his wits. Link’s bloody fragrance drifts further and further, skin pale and clammy, drenched in cold sweat. Breathing erratic, the demon moves him gently onto his stomach. After resecuring the sword to his back, he folds the hem of Link’s collar to better inspect the Floormaster’s mark.

The odor thus unleashed takes the wind from his lungs.

Shielding his nose with a groan, Ghirahim reluctantly examines the puncture wound, peering through his curtain of hair. By now the bleeding has long since stopped, the flesh swollen and oozing clear fluids. The stinger had lodged directly into Link’s spine, towards the vertebrae closest his neck, but had fortunately avoided any major arteries. A mere speck of crimson marks the broken skin; however, it’s the bruising and swelling surrounding it that heightens Ghirahim’s anxiety.

He removes one glove and, with the razored tip of his index claw, tests the injury’s depth. When the skin twitches and flutters, despite the subtlety of his touch, he knows that the venom runs deep.

“Consider us even,” he whispers, not truly expecting to be heard. In fact, should the gods have any mercy, the young knight will remember none of this.

His tongue flicks briefly through his lips, Ghirahim lowering his mouth to the human’s neck. Not intending to breathe for several seconds at least, the demon draws a hefty inhale, then he sinks his fangs into the soft, tender mound.

The taste is as putrid as the scent, a bitter caldron of copper, iron, and various particles whose exact nature he’d rather not consider. Behind the bitter layers dance traces of cedar and violet, the human’s natural flavors delicately rising from thin to overt the longer Ghirahim drinks from his veins. More and more, the ratio of venom to blood grow increasingly more agreeable…

Until it almost becomes a challenge to pull himself away.

This is your master now, he reminds himself, throat beginning to burn as though with alcohol. The sensation warms him, and not unpleasantly. Destroy him now, and you will shrivel and fade like the corpse that you are.

He withdraws, dizzy, sucking in the dank air. It takes a moment for his head to clear; only once the fog recedes does he realize how his claws dig into the little hero’s arms. Had he been at full strength, the knight surely would have suffered a few crushed bones, at the least.

Shoving back against his own bleariness, Ghirahim manages to confirm the knight’s improvement, a small trickle of blood now running red from the perforation. The bruising is as vicious as before, but the swelling has lessened considerably.

Content with these results, he sits back on his knees, heaving a lengthy sigh of reprieve. Without full awareness his lids begin to droop, the atmosphere all at once sodden.

He lifts his gaze to an eerie mist. It swirls in patterns like scales, in colors like soot and flame, in shapes and silhouettes like hulking mass.

His blood runs cold, nerves frayed at the edge. Serrated teeth snarl below leathery lips, curled upward in disgust; a mane of scarlet fire writhes atop a massive skull.

“Master…?”

“How far, my sword, have you fallen from grace.”

It’s an illusion – Ghirahim knows this. It isn’t really him. And yet that voice, like the rise and fall of nomadic thunder…

“Would you truly align yourself with the likes of this child?”

He follows the talon as it points to the sleeping hero, pulse faint from blood loss, breathing spaced and shallow – and the demon’s fire rekindles.

“What would you have me do, Master?” he spits, heat pooling in his chest. “It was your forgery that made me as I am, eternally reliant on whoever should wield me! Or did you forget that it was no less than a death sentence when you so thoughtlessly cast me from your side?”

“Do you think me so weak, lord?”

His inner ears shake, Ghirahim instinctively shrinking. The roar of the Demon King leaves no room for contradiction.

“You damned yourself the day you allowed this pawn to walk away hardly scathed. It was not I that chased you to the dog’s bed, nor I who laid you down.”

Though he yearns to resist, to argue these accusations, the demon yet bows his head in shame. ‘I let you run with your life – twice, even. Such a guilty pleasure…’

“Then again,” the abrupt softening of Demise’s tone could dowse any flame, “you may yet be redeemed. Both the Hero and I are bound by this curse. Centuries may pass whilst my strength is rebuilt, but I shall rise again, and claim you. Unless…”

The blaze in his eyes could rival that of the sun.

“… your allegiance has already deviated?”

Subtle stirring from the young knight reclaims Ghirahim’s notice, and he shifts his gaze for no more than an instant. When it returns, it’s as though the Demon King had never been.

And it’s likely he hasn’t.

We cannot remain here, Ghirahim thinks, not so much as a moment longer. In one quick motion he’s taken Link back into his arms, slipping hurriedly through the opened gateway, eager to put this wretched place behind them.

The hall that greets them is broader than the last, but no less twisted.

“Stay with me, Link,” he breathes, coarse and uneven. His innards lurch, reeling in layers like molten glass. Whatever hexing craft has been hewn into this structure, it differs exponentially from any he’s ever known.

Nuzzling tiredly into his chest, the human gradually recovers consciousness.

“Ghirahim…?”

“Yes, Link.” This corridor, like the first, entraps the duo in a harrowing limbo, dragging on further the faster he runs. “I’m with you. You’re fine, and I’m with you.”

“I thought,” a hand jolts to cradle his head, the other tight around Ghirahim’s shoulders. Link’s face contorts with pain, an ache splitting him from within. “I thought I saw Demise…?”

“It was nothing. Just another of the Poes’ deceitful pranks.”

As it was, had to be – could be nothing else. To dwell on it even now is to grant the wicked creatures’ wishes. His sole priority at this time is to keep his little master awake. There can be no other.

In a stroke of epiphany, his mind jumps to their venture through the labyrinth before. “Have I ever told you of the demon realm?” he inquires. The topic is broad enough, and certainly innocuous. “It isn’t the dour hellscape your Goddess may have you believe.”

He feels Link chuckle against him. “We never talked about it,” he musters.

“Splendid. It’s difficult to fill a cup already full, yes? But I digress. Our home is actually quite serene, a landscape bathed in perpetual twilight. Not quite like the dusk you know here, though. More… ethereal.”

Glancing down, he finds Link’s eyes following his lips closely, and he gives the little hero a smile.

“The sky is orange, like liquid fire; the clouds a deep violet. Where they gather most densely, they even appear black – yet it rarely rains. The air is always temperate, the land itself elevated above immeasurable space. Now that I look back, it actually bears a striking resemblance to your lovely world above the clouds.” Here he chuckles, a sudden hypothesis dawning. “Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if Her Grace took inspiration from us when she created your lofty haven. Wouldn’t that be ironic?”

Again, he looks over the human’s face – and again, finds Link striving visibly to retain focus. “Yeah,” coughs the knight, forcing a stiff grin. “I’ll have to ask Zel-”

A fit of coughing cuts him short – but the exit is mere feet away. Sunlight beams through a canopy of leaves, their shapes blurred, but visible, through a rectangular frame. Ghirahim wills himself to slacken his pace, and with no absence of effort, his every instinct shrieking for him to move. They’re so close…

“Stay with me, Link. Stay…”

A gust billows the points of his cloak as a great stone slab drops into the dirt, sealing the cursed tunnels behind them.

---

Link’s consciousness fades in and out. One second, he hears nothing but the silver of Ghirahim’s voice, volume constantly and inexplicably fluctuating. Their surroundings flicker and shift, a hazy type of fringe eating into his vision.

The next, he wakes to the bubbling of what must be a brook, to the scent of earth and life and trees, to golden-white light spilt over his face. His body feels weightless, like he’s drifting through clouds, his Loftwing’s downy feathers running smooth through his fingers. The night from which they emerged had felt eternal, and to see the sun now…

The warmth abruptly cools, a blazing itch at the base of his skull flaring, extinguishing all else with its agonizing flame. Then the familiar sensation of a heart salve being applied, mending the burning flesh, and Link truly comes to. Slowly, he begins to piece together the events that led them here.

When the healing effects spread through his limbs, a burst of energy wracks his form. The blood he’d lost is replaced within moments, and he bolts upright with a sharp inhale. His vision is still fuzzy, yet he’s certain that can only be attributed to the sudden brightness – after all, what can one expect, waking in a pool of sunlight after spending hours below the earth? To his left he glimpses the striking red of Ghirahim’s cloak, the demon crouched in the soft earth, watching.

It’s flawless, the way his hair catches the light, rippling across silver strands like moonlight reflected in peaceful waters. By contrast, once Link’s gaze drifts to those dark eyes, a storm appears to be brewing.

It’s in meeting that stare that Link snaps from his trance.

“Feeling better, I see?”

Not trusting his voice, the knight offers a nod, adjusting to the odd stretch where his skin freshly healed. Only then does he notice how much lighter he is, and looks to see the bulk of his equipment – swords, shield, quiver and bow – arranged neatly behind the demon lord.

“Good,” he chimes in reply.

And lunges.

The shock alone throws Link into chaos, both bodies tumbling gracelessly through the uneven terrain. Even as his head spins, he strives to come out on top – but the demon’s weight and brawn overpower his efforts. A tree breaks their violent plunge, and it isn’t long before he’s pinned by the wrists.

“Reckless, arrogant brat!” Ghirahim snarls, seething through bared fangs. “Do you know what your carelessness nearly cost us both?!”

Dumbfounded, Link scarcely has the chance to become defensive. Reversing the grip on his arms, he wraps his thighs around the demon’s waist, shoving upwards until their positions invert. He brings his forearm to lie flat against the other’s throat, the two now so close he can feel the demon’s breath on his cheek.

“It’s not like I did it on purpose,” he growls. “And don’t act like you’re not at least partly to blame.”

“Perhaps.”

The clarity in his voice would have one believe nothing is blocking his airway in the slightest. His feet come up beneath the human’s ribs, planting, then pushing, hurling Link into the air. He dives instinctively into a shoulder roll, stabilizing himself with a low crouch.

Not a second and Ghirahim is upon him again, grabbing him by the back of his tunic and ramming him, face-first, against another tree.

“But who was it that wound up dragging your frothing, twitching hide to safety in the end?”

The bark is rough, and brutal on his skin. It’s all Link can do to groan in protest. Taking note of this stumbling block, Ghirahim turns him none too gently, and the two face one another with eyes ablaze.

Never before has the Hero felt so dwarfed.

“Well?”

The silence between them, on its own, is brief. It’s the birds chirping overhead, the squirrels pecking at their spoils, the chitter of the gatherers of various species that seems to stretch on and on. The gentle ebb and flow of the stream grows deafening, the sticky fragrance of sap inebriating. From all angles, the pair is surrounded by life.

That’s when it hits him.

… And he laughs.

It’s light, at first, yet the demon lord’s eyes widen with incredulity. How exactly his expression proceeds to shift is a mystery Link may never know; for as his laughter builds, tears blur that silver head beyond recognition.

“You saved me,” he chokes when Ghirahim scoffs. “I needed you and- and,” he clutches his stomach, only needing to stifle his merriment enough to speak, “and you came through for me.”

The truth of it hits harder when spoken aloud. Now he sniffs, wiping the moisture from his eyes with the back of his hand. He’s sure he looks ridiculous, his face pink, mouth twisted up in a stupid grin, but it can’t be helped. When his vision clears, he’s rewarded with Ghirahim’s stunned, disheveled gaping.

Also, he notes, the demon has taken no less than a few steps back. Giddy beyond reason and perhaps even a little delirious, Link manages to breathe out one last sentiment.

“Thank you,” he says.

The demon’s hair haphazardly frames his ashen face, a side effect of their brawl, leaving very few strands to veil the subtle twitch in his left eye. The ridge of his brow is cocked, and it’s clear that it isn’t posed. The demon’s speechlessness persisting, the knight moves forward, angling towards the crystalline lure of the stream, already pulling at his clothes.

As he unbuckles his belts, allowing them to fall carelessly at his feet, something inside the other finally snaps.

“What,” demands Ghirahim, growing shrill, “in the name of Din, Nayru, and Farore above do you think you are doing?!”

By the time the last syllable rolls off his lengthy tongue, Link’s boots, hat, tunic and chainmail are already strewn about the riverbank.

“Cleaning up,” he calls, simple and straightforward, over his shoulder. “I feel like I’ve got spider guts all over me.”

“It- they-,” Ghirahim stammers, at a loss for how to arrange his admonishments. What comes out is, “They weren’t spiders, you cretin!”

“Whatever.” Link smirks while he tugs his undershirt over his head, only slightly aware of the other’s eyes on him. “They were gross.”

Discarding his trousers leaves him only in his small clothes, and for a moment, he considers removing even those. It’s not as if he hasn’t bathed in front of his peers on a regular basis, the whole class wiping the grime from their bodies after every spar. Something about it being Ghirahim, though…

He doesn’t think about it. Besides, when his toes meet the water, his mind is instantly cleared of all else. The cool mud beneath his bare feet should have been indication enough, but the brook itself is freezing, running continuous under steady shade, nipping fiercely at every inch of skin lowered into its biting embrace.

It is relatively shallow, at least. A shelf of stony slates juts from the mud close by, and when content with his loose scrubbing, Link ends up resting against it. Feeling all at once refreshed, he rests his head upon his arms, gazing through damp bangs at the indignant demon lord. It’s endearing, almost, how he rearranges his untamed strands, picking meticulously until they fall into the same smooth curtain as before.

“Do you want me to turn away while you take a turn?” the human asks, trying to be considerate. It only just occurred to him that he doesn’t know what is and isn’t considered polite according to demonic customs.

Ghirahim glowers, arms folding over his chest. “I’m afraid I will not be joining you.”

“Why not?”

He’s genuinely curious. Why one as fanciful and pristine as Lord Ghirahim wouldn’t want to cleanse… unless…

Oh no.

The knight perks upright. “You don’t-,” now he’s the one stammering, “you don’t… rust… do you?”

He isn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Ghirahim’s arms fall weightless to his sides, face a mask of obsidian-webbed stone. Then, his eyes narrow just slightly.

“I beg your- do I…”

Again, there is nothing but the ambience of the forest, scampering animals and forces inane moving forward as though nothing were out of the ordinary.

Then Ghirahim throws his head back, and laughs.

Link stares, more in awe than in shock. It isn’t like his usual cackling, sonorous and cold. No, this is much higher in pitch, bubbling through the demon’s torso, almost funny in and of itself.

Without immediately realizing, Link is smiling back.

“What?” he asks innocently while Ghirahim pants for air. “You’re a sword, so I figured you might- I dunno-”

“No, sky child,” Ghirahim gasps, palm lain flat against his chest. “I do not rust.”

Even the chill of the stream can’t prevent Link’s blush, lips still frozen in a pathetic grin. “Good to know,” he squeaks, rubbing at his still-tender neck.

The afternoon sun is quickly dipping lower, the human’s shivering soon escalating from subtle to violent. The motion is… familiar, rather, or it reminds him of a bothersome something that’s been lingering stubbornly at the back of his head.

“Hey, um…”

He realizes too late that he isn’t entirely sure how to phrase this. However, Ghirahim’s expectant look spurs him on.

“That wasn’t really Demise back there, was it?”

Steadily, even smoothly, Ghirahim wilts. Link watches intently as those sallow features fall, a shadow of melancholy sweeping over his own spirit as well. Yes, the demon had fought fang and claw to reunite with his abomination of a master, yet until now, it had never dawned on him that Ghirahim might actually miss the brute.

Could such a thing even be possible?

“No,” comes Ghirahim’s reply. His voice is stiff in an endeavor to remain neutral, but there’s no fully masking the sobriety behind it. “As I mentioned before, Poes possess the ability to wreak havoc upon one’s mental state, and by using our own inner turmoil against us, no less. Seeing as you were out of commission, they were forced to switch targets.”

Of course. Link vaguely recalls the demon saying as much, though he can’t really be blamed for Ghirahim’s tendency to wax on and on. Even so, his relief is somehow mingled with… guilt. The final words of the Demon King ring voluptuously within the Hero’s memory: ‘An incarnation of my hatred shall ever follow your kind.’

But Ghirahim couldn’t possibly know this. As far as the fallen lord is concerned, his old master is dead, leaving him with little more than a fleeting chance to devote himself to a new wielder for however long.

Is it wrong to want things to stay that way? The exhilaration of their shared travels, even only thus far, of terror and mortal peril and relying on one another not just for survival, but in every possible way – he can’t deny that it’s…

It’s exactly what he’s been missing.

“Link.” Those honeyed chords pull him back once again. He looks to their owner, finding Ghirahim’s demeanor returned to its full, sultry glory. “Your lips are turning blue, child. I suggest you get out and get dressed. So long as we neither dawdle nor stray, we can reach the desert from here by nightfall.”

---

If the earth and the heavens share one consistency, it’s the limitless expanse of a desert night sky. The sun seems to linger maybe a hair longer, yet save for this nuance, the milky way shines just the same as it does above the clouds. Stars hang in a tapestry woven by gods, simple and surreal, threading a tale with unhindered eloquence.

Through the mouth of their eolian cavern, dyed red from centuries of sandblasting and silt, the dunes look almost like gold. The very winds that had scorched the land not hours before now blow cold as a winter storm, and whenever Link releases a heavier exhale, the moisture clouds beneath his nose. Clad only in trousers, boots, and undershirt, he hugs himself and shivers.

It had been a goddess-send at first, relieving himself of the burden of his many layers, now stored in whatever pocket of space Ghirahim hoards his seemingly unending supply of knives. But once the sun had sunken past the horizon, Link found himself singing to a different tune.

Staring into the flames of their campfire, scarlet tendrils ever climbing towards heights they can never hope to reach, he wonders anxiously if this meager source of warmth will last them the night.

He’s only half-surprised when Ghirahim drapes heavy velvet folds over his trembling shoulders.

Gooseflesh pricks the human’s skin, yet he feels himself warming from the inside. Intrigued by this… unusual… occurrence, he tilts his head towards the demon lord. Gaze averted, Ghirahim’s eyelids hang heavy, yet his elegant features display no true weariness.

An idea floats into Link’s mind. Maybe it was the moment of vulnerability from before, when he had stripped and bathed in front of the other; or the lightheartedness of their short exchange – or, more likely, a combination thereof. Whatever the case, he absolves to test the demon’s patience. It’s a risk, and he fully expects to be shoved away or, at the very least, chastised with some admonishing insult, but he inches deliberately closer.

Ghirahim… reciprocates.

He embraces the young knight’s shoulders, his hold grounding without being overbearing, stroking gentle patterns into the human’s arm. Link feels sparks flare from every point of contact, until the golden-red flicker and crisp scent of smoke fade hazily into the background.

He rests his head against Ghirahim’s shoulder, sinking deeper and deeper into the solidity of the demon’s body. For the first time in months, perhaps even in the span of his life, he feels… safe.

“Are humans really so needy?” sighs the lord. His words are sardonic, yet his voice is gentle, melodious. “If tending to you is to forever be my purpose, I’ve my work cut out for me indeed.”

Link continues to stare ahead, eyes painfully dry in the fire’s heat. His limbs are heavy, his thoughts frazzled – so how can sleep seem so unattainable?

“Talk to me?” he mutters.

Ghirahim twitches curiously. “You ought to rest, little master.”

“That’s just it, though. I’m… restless. I think my brain needs a distraction, if that makes sense.”

The demon hums. “Very well, then. You appeared to be having some sort of triumphant resolution back beneath the earth. Tell me,” Oh dear, “have you, at long last, summarized the grounds for your delectably treasonous behavior?”

That one was my fault.

“I…” He shrugs. “I guess I was bored.”

The demon guffaws, but Link means it – really, truly means it. Unexpectedly, he finds himself on the giving end of an outpour.

“After the whole ordeal, my mission, my destiny,” the word is spat, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue, “I knew that going back to normal would be impossible. Then Zelda – not Hylia, Zelda – told me her plans to settle the Surface, to start a whole new life. I thought it would be exciting, that it would renew my sense of purpose without chaining me up to some divine scheme, but, well… it didn’t. Not after a while, anyway.”

Ghirahim listens without interruption, leaving the human feeling not judged, but free. Maybe even understood.

He continues, “I wanted to talk to Zelda about it, gods only know we’ve always told each other everything, but after the whole Goddess thing, I just worry it’ll sound…,” again, he exhales heavily, “ungrateful.”

Now the demon pulls back, invoking pangs of displeasure – but he only makes room to observe Link’s face. For a moment there is only the two of them, their shared gaze a silent melody, cavernous shelter a harmony of crackling, burning twigs.

The way those pale lips part, framing the faint gleam of enamel and tongue…

“You… intrigue me, Link,” he breathes, voice hardly above a whisper. The sincerity in his tone leaves far greater an imprint than that of his usual sultry barriers. “You are clearly more than capable of intelligent speech. I am utterly perplexed as to why you would often be so stingy with your gift.”

“Well.” Link chuckles quietly. In wake of these long-suppressed secrets, lifted abruptly from his wearied heart, he feels wonderfully light. “Most of the people in my life seem either too shallow or too stupid to carry out a real conversation.”

Mouth curving into a snickering grin, Ghirahim diminishes the distance between them once more. “That, darling, I can understand.”

Though his lids relax, Link’s chest persistently flutters. “Your turn,” he tries, hoping the demon’s velvety chords will quell his restless heart.

“My turn?”

“Tell me… I don’t know. Something.”

“The Hero of Legend, the Godslayer, a paragon of humanity and the warrior who struck down Demise – asking for a bedtime story?”

Link snorts, nodding enthusiastically.

With leisure, Ghirahim’s chest rises, then falls. Not entirely exasperated, he humors his companion’s modest request.

“Do you know why desert temperatures fluctuate so severely? In short, the sand is much to blame. Although an excellent distributor of heat, it retains the sun’s warmth quite poorly-”

“Okay, now you’re boring me.”

A scoff. “Isn’t that the point, dear?”

Is it?

Head swimming, Link shuffles closer still. “Tell me more about the demon realm. You said it was a lot like Skyloft? Are there Loftwings?”

Ghirahim sighs, perhaps a bit dramatically. “There are Kargaroks, the legendary Loftwing’s dark cousin, but they are by nature too hostile to tame. With our magical inclinations, demons have found other ways to adapt – mainly, if a distance is too great to teleport across without becoming exhaustive, we will use handmade modes of transportation.”

“Handmade?”

It’s half genuine, his interest in these tales. The other half is more…

Maybe it’s slightly more than half…

Ashen cheekbones dimple stunningly in the firelight, the demon’s teeth bared in a smile of pride. “Did you think the Sheikah were the most advanced of the gods’ creations? We demonkind have construed many intricate mechanisms to satisfy our various needs. Why-”

Calloused fingers cup his neck, desert-chapped lips crashing unceremoniously against the other’s. Link pulls away almost the very same second, heart pounding wildly, face flushed with regret. It had felt so right, but it was stupid, and forward – too forward. Huddling for warmth amidst a deadly chill is one thing, but that?

“I’m sorry,” he sputters, hasty and shrill. “I- that-”

He stops himself when Ghirahim’s gloved hand, in turn, cups his face. Powerful fingers direct his jaw firmly, though gently, until he’s forced to meet the demon’s gaze. Between the shadows dancing across his sharp features, otherwise stoic and still, what swims within those chestnut-colored eyes is impossible to decipher.

Then, something changes. His steel relaxes, he leans forward – and Link is all too willing to meet him. When their lips brush, another series of sparks rattles the human’s form, not unlike the jittering effects of the weapons of the Bokoblins that patrol in timeshift. Only this pain is… different, somehow. Rather than reeling away, he finds himself craving it, surrendering willingly to its uncanny lure, even frantic for more.

And so he slips both arms around the demon’s neck, determined to pull him closer. Ghirahim’s lips part ever so slightly, Link’s own swift to follow, their connection deepening. The strange buzzing glides down to his waist, and he realizes shortly that the other’s arms have snaked around his middle, guiding him down until his back meets the stone.

His head never fully finds the ground, slender fingers tangling into coarse, honeyed strands. A teasing tongue traces the seam of his mouth; when it dips inside, he gasps. The body pressed against his warms him far beyond any bed of embers. Every pulse from Ghirahim’s core quickens Link’s own, every ripple of lean muscle eliciting an excited moan.

Somewhere past the maw of their cave, an entire world may as well vanish. When the dawn illuminates the sands and their passion subsides, Nayru’s flame will be out there waiting – and likely, Zelda, too.

Yet Link rests easy that night, knowing that when again his Goddess confronts him, he’ll at least have an answer to give for his crimes.

Chapter Text

When Link wakes, it’s courtesy of a golden glare spilling through the cavern’s maw. Gently, his eyes creak open, vision a blur of red earth and gold-lit motes of sand. The air is warm and dry, parchingly so; groggy though he is he knows the worst is yet to come.

He sits upright, every muscle stiff and strained, heavy folds of crimson gliding off his sweat-slick frame. The leather pouches that had cushioned his head through the night did little to prevent the kink now in his neck. Rubbing gingerly at the knotted muscles, he peers around the cave.

Ghirahim is absent, mostly. His sword rests comfortably atop Link’s other equipment, the green gemstone striking in the morning light. Its presence means the demon can’t have wandered far…

The night is cold, yet he teems with heat, his clothing adhered to his skin. It feels somehow simultaneously suffocating and thin, perhaps because Ghirahim hovers not inches above. As his tongue withdraws, Link is left gasping for air he hadn’t known he’d been deprived of. Is that why he feels so lightheaded?

Thick and breathy, the demon speaks into the crook of his neck, “How far do you want this to go?”

Link’s face heats slightly as the memories flood him. At the time, he could think of nothing but the fluttering in his chest, the tingling on his skin, the heat in his loins. In light of such primal instincts, the concept of aftermath was nonexistent. Now, forced to confront the consequences of his choices, he’s unsure what to expect.

Tugging self-consciously at his clothes, he makes his way through the cavern’s mouth.

Immediately he raises a hand to his eyes, shielding them from the sun’s vicious assault. Once they’ve adjusted, however, and he lowers his arm, the view that greets him is nothing short of stunning.

The Lanayru mountains, hazy and proud, stand shrouded in rose-gold mist, clouds tinted lavender meeting their base at the jagged horizon. In the pale morning light, the mesas comprise a palette of soft hues, mainly violets and mauves. The sky stretches in a mystical ombre, fading from liquid gold to sporadic patches of pinks and blues. It occurs to him that he’s never before been this far east within the desert regions. Even so, the terrain is somewhat familiar, and he’s certain the mines can’t be more than a few hours’ walk from here.

A silver gleam to his left grabs his attention. Though the figure is static, Link nearly jumps from his skin. Ghirahim sits casually upon the sand, his pale frame picturesque against the golden-reds, diamond earring glittering in the morning rays. One knee is bent to his chest, an arm resting against it, while the other is folded neatly in his lap. Tentatively, Link approaches, the soft crunch of sand beneath his boots deafening in the quiet. At the distance he deems appropriate (and hopes the sentiment is shared), he plops down, legs folded, by the other’s side.

Thick and breathy, the demon speaks into the crook of his neck, “How far do you want this to go?”

The question catches the human off-guard. While no stranger to the concept, he’s suddenly aware of how he’s never really, er, fooled around like this before.

“I don’t know,” he rasps, chest heaving.

It’s difficult, meeting Ghirahim’s visible eye, and when he does, it doesn’t return his gaze. No, Ghirahim’s focus does not divert from the landscape, his chestnut-colored orb a sea of wonder. Link almost questions whether he’s even conscious of the human’s presence.

Until he speaks.

“You woke earlier than expected.”

It’s simply stated, incredibly straightforward, a mere observation. Link has to kick himself mentally to keep from reading into it.

“It’s weird,” he replies, clearing his throat, “sleeping away from my own bed.”

Ghirahim hums, expressionless, eyes ever glued to the scenery. “Cavern floors are not particularly agreeable, ergonomically speaking, are they?”

But Link is barely listening. Inhaling deeply, he starts, “Hey, um-”

He’s silenced with a look, not malicious or unkind, but still somehow fierce. The sun’s rays cast a golden halo about Ghirahim’s silver head, his thin curtain of hair rippling just enough to reveal the black diamond etched into his cheek. Link had felt it for himself the night before, running his thumb repeatedly over the debossed texture, positively fascinated. Even now he aches to know exactly what it is and what it means, but can’t quite figure the right way to ask.

“There’s no need to discuss it so soon, darling,” the demon croons, his upper lip curled in a coy smile. “Besides, I didn’t come out here just for the view. We’ve a flame to track down, no?”

Almost instantly a weight is lifted from Link’s chest. Breathing easy once more, he responds with a nod. “Zelda will have others guarding both locations, I’m sure,” he says with a sigh. “But now that we’ve figured a few things out, we can try talking to her again-”

“And if your attempt at persuasion doesn’t go according to plan?”

He might have simply brushed it off – but for the unsettling glint in Ghirahim’s eye. “You don’t know her,” Link says, straining to remain levelheaded. He’s no desire to escalate, yet with his oldest friend’s integrity in question, neither can he keep silent. “She’ll listen to reason.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

The demon’s volume rises subtly, ominously, the mere shadow of a threat. That glint darkens, a hardened edge flitting across his face only a fraction of a second. Link nearly shrinks from it, his determination waning; but when the other speaks again, that gentler demeanor returns.

“I don’t doubt that you know your Zelda better than I,” he sighs, a certain weariness lacing his chords, “but the divine entity within is another being entirely – one that once waged war unending, the likes of which you’ve never seen. Her Grace watered entire fields with the blood of my kin, and don’t think she hasn’t since been more than willing to throw me in with the rest. So, I will ask you again, Hero: should her resolve remain unwavering, what will you do?”

The knight lowers his head, staring at his fingers as they flex atop his lap. He’s read plenty about the ancient war in his academy texts, about the atrocities committed, though one side had been painted without fail in a significantly less flattering light. Zelda herself once cringed at the very notion of battle. And yet, in spite of her divine origins, Link had never felt the need to reconcile the two.

‘I’m still my father’s daughter, and your friend. I’m still your Zelda.’

And not once did he doubt it. Until now, he’d had no reason to.

Ghirahim stares, unblinking, expecting an answer. Gaze averted, all the human can manage, is, “I don’t know.”

“Oh,” a hint of mischief in that silver tone brings the other’s fidgeting to a halt, “but I do.”

Link cocks a brow. “What are you planning?”

“Relax.” Ghirahim closes his eyes and tilts his head back, bare chest expanding as he drinks of the desert air. “Even if I thought you would be open to the idea, I’m no match for the Goddess in my current state.”

Those brown orbs glow like pools of honey, once again scouring the eastern sky. His tongue flicks briefly through his teeth, as though to taste the air.

“Low pressure builds not far off, carried on the Northeastern wind. With a little coaxing, there will undoubtedly be a fierce downpour by evening – which will suffice to shield us from prying eyes, I should think.”

Following the demon’s gaze, Link can barely spot even a single cloud. “How can you be so sure?” he asks.

Sand shifts audibly as the demon stands, not a stain upon his pristine garments. With a quizzical look, Link meets the other’s eyes, stomach fluttering at the grin that splits his ashen face. The crooked taint to those shadowy features, towering so far above him, is downright devious.

“Come now, Link,” he chides, surprisingly amicable. One gloved hand extends invitingly towards the human, the other planted haughtily to the demon lord’s hip. “Who do you think I am?”

---

In the early hours of the morning, scarcely past dawn, three knights scout the western boundary of the Sealed Grounds. Golden light peeks over the hilly terrain, casting striped shadows across the forest floor, blanketed in thick tangles of foliage that snag and trip all who dare travel on foot. Even knowing what to look for, the group’s target is not easily identified.

Stiff, booming chords carry through the trees, Eagus and his men exchanging bleak updates every fifteen minutes or so. Zelda half listens, gaining little from the information, save for unneeded discouragement. It can’t have been more than an hour since their search began, yet with the precise nature of the missing knight’s situation remaining mostly unknown, time is beyond precious.

Jaw clenched, Zelda picks at the dirt caked beneath her nails, tears of frustration pricking her eyes. Ancient memory alone guides her now, divine recollections sifting hazily through her mind. Each second is a battle for her patience, yet she persists in feeling along every tree, every wall, every muddied elevation until her skin cracks and bleeds.

As she traces the shape of a particularly steep formation, an unseen thorn jabs beneath her nail. That’s all it takes. Without wholly meaning, she releases a long-suppressed scream.

The other knights’ shouting resumes, considerably more frantic, and within seconds Groose is rushing through the brambles, bounding into her field of vision, and skidding to a clumsy halt.

“Zelda! What happened? Are you okay?!”

Ignoring him, the girl slumps against the rocky hillside, clutching her throbbing middle finger to her chest and sobbing beyond all reason or control. The wound itself isn’t evocative of concern – she could easily heal it with hardly a thought – but the dam has already burst.

“I can’t do this,” she chokes, face buried in her knees. “Whatever ‘Hylia’s plan’ is supposed to be, this can’t be it. We don’t know where Link is, if he’s at least somewhere safe – and even if he is, then Ghirahim-”

She has to stop herself from completing the thought, both verbally and inwardly. Whatever the demon may hope to gain from their partnership, be it temporary haven, rise to power, the trust of his enemies – or, the most likely possibility and by far the most fearful, revenge on the one who had struck down his master – she can’t bear to dwell on it. Incessant worrying will do nothing to prevent such events from unfolding. No, her sole hope is to track the two down, and quickly.

It sounds so simple. By the gods, it should be simple.

The hand on her shoulder goes entirely unnoticed, until it gives her arm a gentle squeeze. The motion pulls her instantly from her destructive thought train, grounding her once more in the moment at hand.

She can scarcely believe it’s Groose who speaks. His typical gruffness is all at once low, even calming.

“C’mon, Zel,” he says. “This is Link we’re talking about. If he could knock that ugly sac of grease down to size, some broken sword-man should be nothing at all.”

With a sniffle, Zelda wipes her nose with the back of her hand, face hot with shame. A breakdown can prove cathartic, in the right place and at the right time – but this? In no realm could this ever be considered appropriate; not for a Goddess, and certainly not in front of any who have come to rely on her.

But what’s losing her composure in this ever-growing sea of failures?

“Demise was strong,” she says, throat rattling, “but Ghirahim is cunning. The gods themselves barely threw a wrench in his plans, the power of the Triforce rendered moot. What’s to stop him from accomplishing whatever it is he’s set on now?”

I should have killed him when I had the chance.

Inwardly, she startles, quick and sudden, stung by her own inner voice. The thought had entered unbidden. Who am I anymore, conjuring such a dark, swift sense of justice?

The answer is obvious; nonetheless, she dams it shut without hesitation.

Hugging her knees to her chest, Zelda peers almost bashfully at the redhead. Through her bleary eyes, she can just make out the dark rings beneath his. Link’s predicament has taken a toll on all of Skyloft, for certain, but with Groose’s being one of the few who can fully comprehend what the demon lord is capable of, he’s doubtless been harboring greater concern than the rest.

“The creep may be clever,” comes his strained, yet firm, reply, “but so is Hylia.”

Again, her eyes begin to drift, when the hand on her shoulder gives another reassuring squeeze. It’s with a strange sense of regret that she realizes, this may actually be the first time he’s physically touched her.

“More importantly,” he adds, intent clear to emphasize, “so are you.”

At that her lungs expand and release, a relief she hadn’t even known was needed.

In truth, since her awakening, Zelda has never felt especially fit for her role. Following the black storm that had started it all, memories of the divine would often plague her at night, Impa’s steadying hand always there to soothe and encourage – and each time she would look into those bloodred eyes, Zelda only found herself immersed in fresh waves of inadequacy. Little by little, her powers had grown, until celestial light practically flowed through her veins, seeping through her mortal flesh.

Yet not once has she felt less human.

The respite will be temporary, of this there is no question; nevertheless, she allows herself to take solace in Groose’s words. To be Zelda, not Hylia, just for a little while.

She’s decidedly begun inching closer towards him, though to what end she hasn’t fully considered, when her back scrapes just slightly against the hillside – and she freezes.

“The door,” she gasps. Her chainmail clinks softly as she whirls to her feet. “This is it – the door!”

Steadily, Groose’s massive bulk follows her example, and he stands in observation a few feet away. “Uhhhh,” he starts, scratching carefully at the top of his head, “am I missing something?”

“Of course.” Already her itching fingers are digging at the stone, clearing away as many stubborn ivy tendrils as her meager, human strength will permit. “We both missed it.”

A few more tugs and at last, the gate is revealed: a solid block of rust-colored mortar, lacking so much as an inscription or even a symbol to denote its morbid purpose.

But Zelda knows. A chill runs through her spine, her limbs gripped with frost.

“This door goes one way,” she states. Slowly she steps a few short paces back, eyes never leaving the aged monolith. “It opens only from the other side, when someone enters the antechamber where the Garo once… performed.”

“The what-now?”

Skin crawling, she disregards his comment. “It then closes when – or, I suppose I ought to say if – the visitors exit. That means-,” abruptly she cups her hands to her face, a laugh of reprieve bursting forth with such vivacity it feels akin to being stricken in the gut, “that means that, if they did end up taking this route, they made it out alive. Or at the very least, that Link did.”

Her eyes glitter anew as Zelda turns to Groose, finding his face still a mask of confusion.

“Wait…,” he drawls, squinting oddly at nothing, fingers planted to his chin, “how do you know it wasn’t just Ghirahim?”

“Ghirahim needs Link, to recover his strength if for no other reason.” Her words, she realizes, serve her own comfort as much as the other’s edification. “He can’t utilize the gods’ power without the aid of a mortal, and not many of us are exactly willing at the moment. Ghirahim is a lot of things, but he’s no fool.”

Too eager to progress to await a response, Zelda starts in the general direction of Eagus’s voice, still hollering the occasional “No tracks here!” and “Remember your markers!” some distance away.

“They’ll be headed for the other two sacred flames,” the woman muses aloud, “soon if not immediately. The closest one is in the desert; the other in the northern mountains.”

Groose’s significantly heavier steps follow not far behind, twigs and leaves crunching and snapping beneath his weight. The ambience of the forest grows suddenly pleasant.

Lanayru. Zelda breathes deep, savoring the fresh, earthy fragrances and subtle hints of flora whilst she can. You may never forgive me, she thinks, but one way or another, we’re bringing you home, Link.

As for how, exactly, she and the others should ultimately achieve this goal…

Regardless, if they’re ever to cross that bridge, they’ll at least need to reach it first.

---

By the time they reach the Lanayru mines, it’s practically midday, the sun beating down on Link’s hatted head without mercy. His shield and academy-issued broadsword rest secure within Ghirahim’s cloak of enchantment, their absence a massive relief – at least for the first hour. It isn’t long after that the weight of the demon’s blade becomes just as harrowing a burden on its own, the awkward angle at which it’s secured causing his sword belt to dig angrily into his shoulder. Privately, he can’t help but hope that Nayru’s flame will in some way increase the sword’s lightness.

They enter the mine through a northern tunnel, one previously unknown to the knight, leading through the sandy mesa into rockier terrain. It’s at this point that the scenery again becomes familiar. Once they’ve shoved past the rubble and the dust subsides, he instantly recognizes the rusted carts with their triangular patterns, sandstone clutter strewn about their wheelless bases. A small, broken-down relic of the LD robot series sits in shambles behind the one nearest, connected to a bent-up track, dull with age. Across from these ancient mechanisms, a door with no handle blocks the way forward.

“Remind me again what we’re doing here?” Link coughs, brushing the dirt from his tunic and gloves. It’s almost irritating, how not a single speck ever seems to sully Ghirahim’s attire. Magical nonsense, he silently concludes.

“Your powers of deduction never fail to impress, Link,” comes the demon’s snide remark. He begins nudging various rocks with his foot, gradually making his way through the tunnel. “We are in a mine, yes? It can only then be logical to infer that we’ve come to harvest the earth.”

Link rolls his shoulders, joints popping, while suppressing the urge to roll his eyes just the same. “I don’t see what that has to do with rain.”

No one word could ever hope to describe the full extent of the exaggeration in Ghirahim’s sigh. “You truly don’t grasp even the simplest fundamentals of spellcasting, do you?”

“Just tell me what you need me to do.”

Silver hair ripples as Ghirahim tilts his head, apparently satisfied with this response. “We’ll begin by uncovering a timeshift stone, and then of course activating said stone. Surely, even you can handle that.”

The fight not to roll his eyes is swiftly becoming a losing battle, Link’s white flag at the ready. Wordlessly, he seeks out the most obvious pile of rubble in the area, arranged almost too perfectly towards the back of the cavern. Piece by piece, he removes sandstone from the top down, each rock arranged in a jigsaw-like manner that by now has grown much too easy to recognize.

His arms strain with the effort, eventually drawing the occasional grunt whenever he proceeds to lift. When the telltale sheen of deep violet at last graces their eyes, Ghirahim is there to collect. He doesn’t bother to summon either sword or dagger, rather retracting one glove and, with an obsidian claw, tapping once at the stone’s surface. A high note rings clear throughout the cavern, accompanied by the signature blue undulating in electrical currents from the now like-colored stone.

The timeshift follows instantaneously. Dirt floors are suddenly ripe with lush patches of grass, the earth beneath them red and fertile. The browned, rusted metal of the minecart boasts colorful reds and blues and greens, the track to which it’s attached straightened and shined. The gateway across the tunnel is equally polished, igniting wireframe patterns of electric blue.

Furthermore, the LD robot once slumped upon the ground now serenades the pair with its tinny hum, earth crunching softly beneath mogma-like claws. Link follows the gentle sounds – and is quickly infatuated with what he sees.

The walls, which had previously been completely matte, are glittering. How could he have never noticed this before…?

The phenomenon doesn’t seem to come as a surprise to Ghirahim, however, who approaches with overt nonchalance. Link watches with interest as the demon snaps his again-gloved fingers, summoning a dagger auraed in red, and begins casually chiseling away.

“Zzzzzrt,” buzzes the robot, pausing its labor to face the lord. This disturbance earns it a considerable glare, but if it’s at all phased, it certainly doesn’t show. “Unless you’ve been cleared by the Thunder Dragon, vrmmmm, don’t be messing around with these stones. They are extremely dangerous, bzzrt.”

Half-amused, Link recalls having once received similar warnings from the odd little creatures, to which he’d responded simply by smiling and nodding along in agreement (then proceeding to do whatever he wanted). It’s with only a smidge of anxiety that he wonders how Ghirahim will wind up handling this…

The corners of his white mouth tug downward, the demon casting a condescending glower down his nose – then flicks his slender fingers in the robot’s direction. A dalliance of diamonds scatter in a brilliant flash of crimson and silver, all fluttering about the little creature until they seem to leak from its very seams. Its metal exterior sparks and sizzles, body spinning in place, whirring loudly, whilst its disconnected head remains perfectly still.

For a moment Link merely gawks. Only when the smoke reaches his nostrils does he snap from his trance, pinning the demon with an incredulous stare.

“Um,” he starts, both hands on his hips, “first of all, what? And also, why?”

Lids drooped in apparent boredom, Ghirahim shrugs, returning to his mundane yet intriguing task. “It annoyed me,” said simply, with a flourish of his cloak. “Or do you mean to tell me you’ve never felt the same about these irksome heaps of metal?”

Scrapper.

‘Move aside, Master Shortpants! This is how a real hero does it, Master Shortpants! Come save me from the monsters because I’m too stubborn and stupid to wait while you clear the area first, Master Shortpants!’

… But that’s a story for another time.

“You needn’t worry your pretty head, Link,” Ghirahim courteously adds. “The damage isn’t permanent.”

Well. Gods only know Scrapper always managed to recover from worse.

Shaking his head, Link opens the flap of his larger satchel, digging through its contents until he finds the empty of his three bottles. “Here,” he says, uncorking it as he makes his way over, “you can store your… whatever… in here.”

Ghirahim frowns, but obliges, funneling the crystalline particles through the narrow glass rim. “Salt,” he says.

“… What?”

“It’s salt, Link. Don’t tell me humans have become so out of touch with the old ways that they no longer use even this?”

Link’s brows furrow in confusion. “Of course we do, just… were you planning on cooking for me, or…?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Ghirahim chuckles, chipping more of the white crystals into his palm. “Salt can be used to flavor many ritualistic practices. Several generations have passed, I’m sure, since last I walked amongst humans – but… do you really no longer utilize its properties?”

The knight chews on his lip, looking askance. “Now that I think about it, we do gift each other salt whenever someone moves into a new home. I never really thought to question it, though.”

Ghirahim releases a soft laugh. “Of course you haven’t. Allow me to educate you.” His tone perks up, hands sweeping about in a series of elegant gestures as though to flaunt his arsenal of strange knowledge. “Salt is most often used in good-luck rituals – such as the home blessing you just described – but in all actuality, it’s much more versatile. Not only can it be used to substitute nearly any herb,” here he looks pointedly at the other, sharp canines gleaming in a wicked grin, “it can even be used to influence the gods themselves. Salt harnesses the glory of the earth, affecting plant life, animal instinct… weather.”

Link’s brows raise slightly, lips parted in a silent ‘O.’ “You can do that?” he stutters.

That grin somehow widens, pride beaming from one eye. “How do you think I plucked your dear Zelda from her lofty throne to begin with?”

Oh.

Ghirahim turns, his amusement suddenly receding, reformed into the same blank determination that it had been before. “Fortunately,” he states plainly, “this spell will not require the same painstaking precision. You are in possession of a map of the Surface, are you not?”

Snapping his jaw shut (he hadn’t noticed it had fallen slack), Link nods the affirmative.

“Good. We’ll be needing it.”

---

As they trek further west, a red sun in their eyes, the sky fails to acquire even a single cloud. Link knows he shouldn’t doubt Ghirahim – after all the demon lord has accomplished, even in the relatively short time Link has known him, doubting him would be foolish, right? Yet as the heat continues to sap every ounce of strength from his limbs, the knight’s spirit unwittingly sags.

They break within the mountain tunnels. Though his head still swims, canteen half-filled with cactus juice nearing empty, Link welcomes the cooled earth’s interior. The crags overhead allow sunlight to spill through, painting sporadic beams along the hard, stony floors, but these are easily avoided.

Link sits back on his knees, Surface map lain flat before him, while Ghirahim rests directly across. Hard lines darken his sallow features, his figure bent slightly forward at the waist, visible eye black with unbroken concentration. Dutifully, Link holds his cupped hands outward, brimming with salt deposits and terrified at the prospect of spilling them.

The bottle that had contained them earlier, now not-quite-full with water from a nearby spring, isn’t particularly large, but its base encompasses a sizable portion of the desert as depicted on the map, just the same. Ghirahim places it upon the far-western edge, the Sandship’s general location dead center.

With haunting leisure, he extends a gloved palm. “Pour the salt into my hand,” he instructs.

Link flinches, a subtle twitch in his neck, even as Ghirahim sustains his eerie calm.

“You won’t spill,” he soothes. “Just open your fingers and let it fall through.”

Inhaling deeply, the knight does as he’s told. The salt cascades, first in waterfalls, then in clumps, pooling into a vortex of smooth, glittering particles that hover just shy of Ghirahim’s palm. As the demon’s long, nimble fingers close, the crystals shower evenly through the bottle’s rim.

“Speak with me, now, Link.”

He hardly registers the command. The demon’s voice is like music, a spell in and of itself.

“Tell me… shall you… be requiring my services again, any time soon?”

Link’s heart skips a beat, his breath hitching.

The question catches the human off-guard. While no stranger to the concept, he’s suddenly aware of how he’s never really, er, fooled around like this before.

“I don’t know,” he rasps, chest heaving.

He feels the other grinning against his skin, warm breath raising the hairs on Link’s neck. “Well then,” sighs that deep, velvety voice, “simply tell me when you want me to stop.”

Just like before, white leather dissipates into silver fractals, revealing the onyx claws beneath. The demon’s index makes no contact as it strokes the air in clockwise circles, yet the saltwater below begins to mimic his motions.

“Your… services?” the human chokes.

He can easily guess the other’s meaning. It’s the phrasing that makes his stomach churn.

Dark eye softening, Ghirahim’s aura turns… contented? Somehow Link is reminded of a remlit stretched out on a window sill, dozing dreamily to the pattering of summer rains. Humming gently to himself, the demon takes a pebble-sized timestone from within the folds of his cloak and drops it into the swirling concoction. As it sinks into the depths, the stone flickers and shifts, pulsating brilliant blue one second only to fade back to deep violet the next.

When the flickering ceases, it glows stark white, illuminating the contents of the bottle as a bolt of lightning would a dark sky.

“I’m certainly not complaining,” the demon persists, index claw still stirring the bottle’s inner storm. Their environment, Link notices, has been voided of direct sun, clouds blocking the light whilst gentle peels of thunder clap in the distance. The air, which not minutes ago had been bone-dry, smells of rain and sea salt. “You are… quite easy to look at. I only wish to know your expectations so as to better service you in the future.”

Link feels as though he’s been struck. “Ghirahim,” he rasps, cheeks stinging for so many reasons. “You don’t think- I wasn’t using you last night. I… I wouldn’t do what we did with just anyone.”

Over the edge of his mantle, Ghirahim bares a palled smirk. “How flattering.”

The thunder overhead grows louder, an audible pelting outside the mountain. The air subsequently dampens, to the point of adhering stray hairs to Link’s forehead. Inhaling wistfully, he finds himself yearning for cloudy afternoons and silver windchimes and steeped chamomile. The humming, too, increases in volume: an aria of rain, a song of storms…

Still, the demon’s insinuation gnaws at him, and he groans in wordless frustration. He’s so new to this kind of thing – and with Ghirahim? Of all the individuals he could’ve experimented with for the first time in his life, a demon and sword? Even if Link knew all the right things to say, is there any hope that this surreal, beautiful, complex being could ever wholly understand?

“It felt right,” he manages, unable to meet the other’s gaze.

Not that Ghirahim is looking. The demon’s focus is glued devoutly to his work, the churning within the glass a near-exact emulation of the ferocity building outside.

… Or is it the other way around?

Fumbling awkwardly with the hem of his tunic, Link persists, “I know it wasn’t that long ago that you and I were trying to kill each other, but things are obviously different now. And yeah, it’s hard to think clearly with all this running around and dodging spiders and-”

“Floormasters.”

“Right, but… I-I like you, okay? That’s why I- we… yeah.”

While Link’s shoulders slump in half-anticipated defeat, Ghirahim’s shake in a quiet chortle. A melancholy gleam creeps into his eye, the smile beneath his mantle softening. Returning the glove to his clawed hand, he begins clearing the space of his various tools.

He rises to his feet without another word.

Link hesitates before following stiffly, snatching his map and folding it haggardly while the other corks and preserves the spell jar. Through the mountain’s crags, rainwater drips in erratic patterns, the demon circumventing each with apparent ease as he strides gracefully towards the western tunnels.

“Ghirahim,” says Link. His voice may be soft, but it carries well through the dank, hollow space.

Not looking back, the other halts.

An uneasy feeling falls over the knight. “Was that… was that conversation all part of the spell?”

When the demon half-turns, glancing over his shoulder, what shows of his face reveals disappointingly little. Something sorrowful swims in his flintlike eye.

A flash of lightning blinds them both, and when it vanishes a split-second later, that pang of sadness is gone.

Ghirahim now faces the other completely, a playful flip of his hair uncovering both eyes, whilst a peel of thunder cracks over their heads.

“Who wouldn’t seize the opportunity to peek inside the mind of Hylia’s favorite?” he chimes. His posture is proud, hands secured tantalizingly to his hips – the very image of power. “True, your inner conflict has further influenced the severity of this storm – but,” he points a finger towards the ceiling and, winking, adds rather unironically, “why not kill two birds with one stone, hm?”

Clearly more than pleased with himself, he turns on his heel and pads down the cavernous road, crimson folds billowing behind. Link, though not entirely content with this guarded, maybe even feigned, response, follows after with heavier steps. This conversation isn’t over, he thinks, but refrains from pursuing any further just yet. They are merely on the verge of retrieving Nayru’s flame. Even if the storm should provide sufficient cover, as intended, their work is far from finished.

The cavern’s westmost exit is barely in sight when one of the smaller, yellow Chu blobs oozes through a crack in the wall. Link’s just begun to reach for his sword when Ghirahim plunges a knife into the creature’s core. Buried past the hilt, the obsidian yet remains visible, disappearing only when the thickness splatters the earth with a fizzling zap.

To Link’s surprise, Ghirahim doesn’t immediately move forward, but rather approaches the yellowed mess and kneels to examine it. Expectantly, he holds a hand out towards the knight.

“Give me your canteen,” he says.

Arching a brow, Link does as bidden, if only to see what the demon will do. Ghirahim takes the worn leather and, squeezing the remaining droplets to ensure it truly is empty, guides a modest amount of the crackling gel inside.

As he hands it back to the curious Hylian, the only explanation deigned to be given is an enigmatic, “Trust me, sky child. You’ll be thanking me later.”

---

CREEE-EE-EA-KK-

THUD.

A high-pitched yelp cuts through the heavy rains, light footsteps tapping haphazardly as their owner sloppily regains his balance.

“Sorry, Fledge!” cries Zelda.

Gazing sheepishly from the ship’s bow, the knight-in-training forces as reassuring a smile as he can manage. “It’s all right!” he shouts through funneled hands.

Zelda notes, as he retreats from the edge from where he’d nearly been thrown, how stark his typical orange gear stands against the azure blaze of Nayru’s flame. Could this lack of camouflage, in the end, be what brings about their downfall?

When it comes to defending against Lord Ghirahim, not even the most seemingly insignificant of details can afford to be overlooked…

No. Should Link turn up with the demon’s sword, Fledge need only warn the others – nothing more.

With the ship again falling stagnant, Zelda resecures her bow to her person, and shivers. She rubs as much friction as possible into her arms, desperate to stave off the nightly chill, breath fogging in the silver mist. Though the ocean-tossed waves return to stable pits of sand, the humidity of the sea had at least made for warmer nights.

But past or present, rainwater pours down her face, floods her eyes and nostrils, matts her rounded cap against her head. Having successfully (is that the right word?) confirmed her suspicions, she shoves back through the cabin doors, the wind slamming them shut behind her.

It might be the storm, or perhaps it’s just her darkened mood, but the warm glow of the oil lanterns seems to flicker and dull.

“It does nothing,” she states, wiping the water from her nose and mouth. “The timeshift does nothing. It’s as I worried: this storm is not of natural origins.”

For a solid minute the room is silent, with only the dreadful downpour without to roar in their ears. Eagus stands unmoving at the cabin’s center, arms folded proudly over his armored chest, while the other two knights fidget accordingly. Pipit interrupts his anxious pacing only to pay Zelda the proper acknowledgment, his clothes still dripping silver puddles onto the floorboards. Albat, by contrast, leans almost casually against the stairway railing. It’s strange, seeing her without the flight goggles she wears on patrol. Her dark eyes are beautiful, brought out by the red of her tunic.

“So,” Eagus’s deep gravel thrusts the group into alertness, “this… demon… you mentioned, it has the power to control the weather?”

“Not on a whim,” Zelda replies, removing her hat and wringing it dry. (Well, dryer.) “Ghirahim possesses many unique abilities, but at this point, the one I fear most is teleportation.”

Amongst others.

“Zelda,” Pipit chimes in darkly, “if this, er, Ghirahim can appear with just a thought, what’s to keep him from sneaking up on Fledge and throwing him overboard?”

Zelda frowns. Though she’s played this out in her head over and again, each time reaching the same wretched conclusion, Pipit’s questioning does little to assuage her guilt. It was never her desire to put so many others at risk, but were anything to happen to Link, no one in their right mind could forgive her.

Especially not herself.

Before she can muster a response, the yellow-clad knight speaks up once more.

“Let me take another shift guarding the flame,” he says, opening his arms in persistence. “Fledge may be strong, but he’s no knight – trust me on that one. Should this demon attack-”

“Fledge has been given specific instructions not to engage either Link or Ghirahim in any way,” Zelda states, as firmly as she dare, “just like the rest of us.”

As a result, she’s duly rewarded with Pipit’s mouth snapping shut.

Reiterating, perhaps for her own sake as well as for the others’, she continues, “Just like Groose and the rest at the Eldin sanctuary, just like you, and yes, even just like me. I’ve told you this before, Pipit. Ghirahim, though far from helpless, is weak; and Link…”

She can’t bring herself to voice what’s been weighing on her so heavily. Instead, she jumps straight to the point, addressing the group as whole.

“Our best chance at preventing anyone from getting hurt is to outnumber and outmatch them both. No one single person, no matter how qualified,” here she specifically shoots Pipit a glare, “should be confronting either of them.”

Another moment of quiet, accentuated with bouts of thunder and, of course, constant rainfall. And again, it’s Eagus who shatters the hefty permeation.

“You speak of Link as though he, too, may be a threat. Zelda…”

The girl in question frowns deeper still, her gaze dropping solemnly to her feet. It doesn’t help in the slightest when finally Eagus moves, the occurrence comparable to a statue that’s suddenly come to life. He approaches slowly, deliberately, until barely a foot is left between the two.

“… what else is this monster capable of?”

There is no answer, only for she has none she can give. The torrent outside is deafening, yet it doesn’t compare to the thundering in her head – or the throbbing in her heart.

“If you tell us,” comes Albat’s gentle tone, “we may be able to help.”

Pipit adds, not unkindly (though not quite as softly), “Or at least to prepare.”

They’re right. She knows it, they know it – and the sooner she just gets it out in the open, the better their chances at preventing this ship from becoming a battleground. Inhaling deeply of the damp, musky air, Zelda starts to open her mouth.

Her lips haven’t time to fully part before the sky unleashes a mind-numbing roar, a clap of ferocity greater than any she’s ever known – in memories divine or mortal. This is closer than thunder. Much closer. The boards above their heads creak terribly, each whine of protest followed by a vicious thud.

And each thud accentuated with a metallic clink.

Instantly, within her soul, Zelda recognizes an extrusion of Nayru’s power.

---

When Link bursts through the cabin doors, fingers secured around both handles, he must be a sight indeed: soaked to the bone, bangs matted horribly to his forehead, his heaving figure framed by the dark flooding outside. From within the confines of his sword, Ghirahim can just make out the ill-lit interior, as well as the spirit maiden there waiting.

Three additional auras hover near, out of sight: one immediately through the back exit across the room, the other two crouched behind the barrels flanking Link’s either side.

Really, Your Grace, the demon muses to himself, did you think you could hide your ambush from me? Then, audible only to Link’s mind, She is not alone. Tread carefully, little master.

That spark of resentment flares briefly through the knight, still displeased from their earlier scuffle with the boy in orange. He’ll eventually wake, albeit with a splitting headache. More importantly, having been struck unconscious with the hilt of a dagger, he proved no hindrance to the pair as they achieved their goal.

“Zelda,” Link gasps, inviting himself in from the downpour.

She immediately recoils. Taken aback by this reaction, the other stops short.

Cautiously, he bends down to one knee, drawing the demon’s sword from his back. It remains unchanged in shape and appearance, save for the gemstone now shining a glittering blue.

“A lot has happened,” the knight persists. “Just please, hear me out.”

“He’s… in the sword, then?”

Her tone is docile, even fearful – but with the tension boiling in her hidden hounds, Ghirahim stands by in unease.

Unaware of the others poising to attack, Link offers a hurried nod. “He is. We made it through the tunnels beneath the ancient cistern-”

“He dragged you through there?!”

Her indignance is matched, in full, by Ghirahim’s own. As though she gave us a choice, he spits. Perhaps in the future, Her Grace will refrain from laying us siege…

Link ignores the demon’s remarks, holding the blade respectfully before him. “I was stung,” he states. Though his coolheaded retention ultimately prevails, Ghirahim notes the obvious strain in his voice. “I was stung, and he saved me. He could have left me and been free, but he got me out alive.”

Eyes squeezing shut, Zelda shakes her golden head, iridescent ribbons catching the meager light. “He had to, Link. Without someone to wield him, he’s essentially a walking corpse. He has no choice but to preserve you.”

“And if you help us,” Link’s tone is earnest, grip tightening on the leathered hilt, “then he’ll have no choice but to obey me, either, remember? I can prevent him from hurting anyone or from causing any trouble.”

There is an obvious reluctance in the knight’s demeanor. Despite the biting chill seeping through the walls, his face feels hot.

Again, the Goddess shakes her head. “It isn’t like that.”

Her objection is met with a pang of confusion – and of intrigue, shared by sword and master alike. “What?”

Louder, “It isn’t like that, Link. Demise was a wicked being, insatiable. His thirst for power knew no bounds. When he bound Ghirahim’s soul to his blade, he hexed their connection with unquestioning submission. The Goddess Hylia – I… I cannot bind another with such a despicable curse.”

Silence ensues, thicker than the mist hanging low over the cabin. Link is not the only one striving to process this revelation, for Ghirahim himself can’t deny his own inner turmoil. Whilst his wielder unclenches in gradual relief, the demon in his steel, noncorporeal, has utterly frozen.

Can he truly be free…?

Or is this just another cruel trick of fate, destined to damn him once more?

“That isn’t all.” Zelda’s tone acquires a dark, bitter edge. “Link, Ghirahim can… do things, to people’s minds. He can make them turn on one another, driven by hatred, incapable of seeing anything but the worst.”

Somehow, this only seems to amuse the little hero. “Zelda,” he laughs strenuously, a smile tugging at his lips. “I promise, this is just the opposite of that. I’ve been seeing the best in him lately, and it makes me… happy.”

Not entirely to the knight’s surprise, the other appears hurt. “With him?” she says softly, voice breaking. Her eyes glisten as they avert. “Were you not happy before, with me?”

Link’s shoulders fall. “Of course I was. It just…”

“It wasn’t enough.” Her voice is low and delicate, barely audible.

“You don’t know what it was like out there, Zelda.” He doesn’t quite reciprocate the girl’s sorrow, rather growing urgent. Again, his muscles stiffen. “You always had Impa to get you from place to place, to defend you in your time of need, while I was constantly getting left behind. Ghirahim… he understands. In a way that you… you just can’t. I’m sorry.”

The girl’s head tilts thoughtfully, eyes fixed on nothing. Certainly, she knows that the lad isn’t doing this to hurt her.

“He’s still dangerous,” she says at last. “Your spirit is strong, Link. You were chosen and tried for that very reason. I wouldn’t expect Ghirahim to be able to alter your state of mind so easily, but…”

The knight’s teeth grit. “Zelda…”

But the maiden’s resolve is firm. “Until we can further assess what’s going on with you. Link.” She faces her subject. “Give me the sword.”

He clenches, and straightens, eyes blown wide. From varying angles, Ghirahim can sense the other humans as they stir. Link…

Finally, the futility of this endeavor seems to click. Determination cracked and splintered, Link bolts back through the front exit – only to crash against the taller bulk of the boy in orange. Ghirahim pulses in anger and fear as his sword is wrestled from his master’s hands, all the while scolding himself for having allowed the boy’s presence to escape his notice. The boy – Fledge, Link had called him – is shockingly robust considering his rather gangly appearance. Even if Link possessed the muscle mass to fend him off, the other three humans are already upon him.

“Let me go!” he shouts, thrashing fruitlessly in the hold of two other individuals.

“I’m sorry,” squeaks Fledge. His shrill, timid chords alone suffice to induce a headache far worse than any Ghirahim could have hoped to give him, his feeble grip an insult to the demon’s superlative form. Again, he curses himself. Had I not been so focused on the other three-

Link’s struggling stills when the floorboards quake, groaning loud under the weight of the largest of the four dogs. Trembling, he allows himself to be moved, hands guided behind his back and bound with thick metal rings.

Not the second Link is restrained, Fledge hands his sword off to the spirit maiden – and judging by his hasty disposition, the boy feels rightly unable to part with it fast enough. Though he pulsates with displeasure, Ghirahim holds himself in place. There are simply too many hands on Link to be able to move him and him alone to a safe location, and with the Goddess in possession of his blade…

The hand he’s been delt is far less than ideal. Should he proceed with care, though…

The voice of the larger man is booming, commanding, leaving room for neither questioning nor disobedience. “Take him to the brig,” he says, addressing the two guards. Then, towering over the knight in green, “It pains me to do this, Link. But until this storm lets up, there’s no way we’re flying out of here.”

Solemnly, the dogs nod in accord, starting warily towards the stairway. Link’s breathing is frantic, but he makes no move to resist.

“Zelda,” he calls, shakily, over his shoulder, as he’s led away. “Please, don’t hurt him…”

A black curtain seems to settle over the room. With trepidation, the demon wonders whether these pleas fall on deaf ears.

“Fledge,” says Zelda once the rest are out of sight. “Are you all right?”

The boy nods, wincing as he rubs at his bruising flesh. “Is Link gonna be okay?”

How selflessly naïve.

The girl looks away. “I don’t know,” she answers quietly. It just might be the most truthful statement ever to leave her mouth. “Could the both of you step out? I appreciate all you’ve done, but… I need to speak with the demon alone.”

The two men exchange uncomfortable glances, but are quick to oblige. Before following after the younger, the large man rests a heavy hand on Zelda’s shoulder.

“Holler if you need us,” he says. “We won’t go far.”

She nods in somber acknowledgement. With hardly a sound, the men disappear through the back doors, clicking the latches shut behind. All that is left is the pattering of the rain, and the rolling of distance thunder.

Ghirahim braces himself. The battle soon to detonate will require steel of a different sort. The black tip twists in Zelda’s grasp, splintering into the floorboards, whilst an otherworldly hum wracks tremors through the blade.

“Ghirahim. You and I have much to discuss.”

The buzz on his steel grows painful, and he finds himself chased unwillingly from its confines. Diamonds clink and reverberate against the cabin walls, showering his form as it takes shape before her.

Now standing, not coincidentally, where his dear little master was only just subdued, Ghirahim flashes his most dazzling grin.

“Well, doesn’t this look familiar?” he purrs, arms spread wide. “I know what you must be thinking. One flame still left, yet here I stand before you, hardly the broken blade I once was.”

Sardonic as ever, he punctuates the sentiment by sweeping into a low bow, motioning almost lewdly at the cracked flesh still webbing his left side.

The girl predictably brushes his comments aside.

“I don’t recommend making any sudden moves,” she snaps. Again, he feels that dreadful buzz coursing through his sword. “To seal away your master required my full strength. With you, on the other hand, the sacrifice is much smaller.”

As if this entire charade doesn’t depend on his knowledge of such. It’s clear from her self-assured smirk that she knows this all too well. Nevertheless, he takes her words to his core. One wrong move, and all he’s worked for comes crumbling to dust.

“That’s right,” croons the girl. “You don’t fear pain, nor death, nor even defeat. No, this is what frightens you: A cage.”

“Indeed,” he sinks to both knees, hands raised, fighting to maintain his own sneer, “there are very few that can hold me. Rest assured, therefore, that you have my full and complete cooperation.”

Though still appearing somewhat unnerved, and rightly so, Zelda deigns to accept this act of surrender. “I could not have predicted your craft would have such a bizarre effect on Link.” She looks away, an obvious attempt to cover the shame inevitably eating away at her soul. “His hostility towards me is… understandable, all things considered. How you’ve managed to make him fond of you is another matter.”

“An army divided is no army at all.” His eyes never leave hers, no matter how often her gaze breaks away. “But you and yours could hardly be considered such to begin with. I have not enacted this curse in many, many centuries, Your Grace – not since long before you walked this earth.”

Her features darken. “Do you forget to whom you speak? This body may be youthful, yet my memory far surpasses even that of your own. I recognize the wicked results of your work, demon. You cannot lie to a Goddess.”

Through the increasing intensity of the heat on his blade, sustaining this levelheaded façade grows wearying. Every word from his mouth is articulated with care, lathered with venom, spat at her feet.

“You are not a Goddess, Zelda,” he says, “any more than a child with a butterknife can be considered a soldier. You can stand there and cast your judgment, you can blather ‘til your throat bleeds in a warped justification of your actions – but you will never be able to reclaim the emotional distance you once wielded as Hylia divine. As for your initial concern,” a snide calm creeps into his tone, though his lips pull taut, “Shattered Sight would be wasted on you, given how determined you seem to be to chase the boy off all on your own.”

The incredulity marring Zelda’s sweet features is no throw from respite, swept from under his feet as again, her fury blazes through the demon’s steel. It swells from his spine to his skull, rattles his teeth as he falls to all fours, failing to bite back a shuddering scream.

“Perhaps you’d prefer to join Demise in the afterlife?”

“Please, Your Grace.” His chords are raspy, breathing coarse and strained, yet he latches onto his mocking tone as though for dear life. “That ship has long since sailed, if you gather my meaning.”

His lips curl into a perfect snarl as he stares up at her scowling face, gleaning every possible molecule of pleasure from the look of defeat scarcely hiding behind. His bearings returning, Ghirahim quietly expands his senses in search of the ship’s other occupants. Towards its lower levels, Link’s movements have paused, though the others with him have yet to leave his side.

If he can keep the little goddess talking just a bit longer…

“What do you want with Link?”

The inquiry nearly catches him off guard. Before he can conjure a response,

“After everything you went through to reunite with your previous master, do you expect me to believe you’ll simply let bygones be bygones? How can we know this isn’t all some ploy for revenge?”

He sits back on his knees, the girl flinching in warning – and with a head bowed as humbly as he can manage, the demon raises his hands back to the level of his eyes.

“You would think me petty, wouldn’t you?” He smiles sweetly, then proceeds with candor, “The little hero may be idealistic, and incredibly naïve, but lithe and powerful as,” he chuckles, “well, as myself, I dare say. Demise certainly wasn’t lacking in brute strength, as you well know, but rather in agility. Over the course of his continual interference with my plans, I’ve found that your Link and I are much more… compatible. Or wouldn’t you agree?”

Having made no effort to conceal his suggestion, when that pretty mouth curls in disgust, Ghirahim wonders whether he wouldn’t die happy right then. “If you want to convince me this is all about sex,” seethes Zelda, “you’re going to have to do better than that, my lord.”

“Oh, but of course not.” He cackles, almost even sincere. Below decks, Link still is not entirely alone – but the girl is getting restless. “You said it yourself. By Demise’s design, I am nothing with no one to wield me: merely a rusted scrap of metal, doomed to rot slowly from this world. I’ve no desire for revenge, O Goddess. But if I may…”

He upturns his palms, watching the girl carefully. She may appear void of understanding, clothed in the flesh of this meek human vessel, yet Her Grace has deceived many a time before.

“… worry less about what I might want. Your Hero has refused you nothing, having given his all at your behest. For how long will you continue to punish him?”

As her brows furrow, lips beginning to part, Ghirahim points one finger in a silencing motion. Cocking his head admonishingly, he adds,

“Think about it.”

He draws a breath, bracing himself – and snaps.

---

A dim pool of yellow light follows the trio as they march through the depths of the ship. While Pipit trails the other two, a firm grip kept at all times on Link’s shoulder, Albat leads the way forward, lantern held high in her non-dominant hand. Link notes, at first, how the fingers of her dominant twitch, but then it isn’t long before such details fall, along with everything else, into a shadow of despair.

They pause where a moat of quicksand blocks their path, and Albat reaches into her satchel to retrieve a small timestone. Green-blue patterns ignite the room; like lightning, they are short and fleeting, colorful boards and plush carpets quick to fade through the obscure window of his mind.

His heart is a silent battleground, a perpetual struggle not to drown in his predictions of what the future now holds – and worse, the one who is indisputably at fault. Their planning was careful, execution meticulous, success well within reach – until Link stubbornly insisted on reopening a dialogue he only now sees is hopeless, effectively leading them both into Zelda’s unforgiving hands. He should have known she’d never listen. And to believe he might be under some sort of spell…?

There’s no way the girl he grew up with could actually think him capable of hurting her or anyone else. Then again, Ghirahim’s words echo hauntingly in his head: ‘… the divine entity within is another being entirely…’

She wouldn’t lie to him, not blatantly, would she? This couldn’t just be some ruse to try to get him to behave?

Whatever the case, perhaps if he does, Ghirahim’s life will at least be spared. It’s all the young knight has left, knowing he’ll likely never see the demon again.

Their arrival at the brig jolts him from his meditations, Pipit’s strained attempts at one-sided conversation at last reaching Link’s ears, though the exact words are lost on him. All pointless chatter comes to an abrupt pause as he’s guided through the cell door, dutifully pressing his back to the bars while Pipit undoes his restraints.

The whirring of electricity buzzes in his ears, and he looks to see the timestone placed in certain proximity to the gate. “Keep this within range of the door,” Albat instructs, tone flat compared to her typical joviality, “but not close enough for him to reach.”

Pipit responds with a silent salute.

His hands freed, Link turns to stare forlornly at his new surroundings. It seems a lifetime ago that a pleasant gold warmth had been seeping through these ancient boards, the obstacles before him merely a challenge to be tackled. The stakes were high, yes, but the future was bright.

He just catches Albat’s glance of pity before she disappears into the adjacent hall. She keeps the lantern with her, and the world grows darker still as she leaves the other two with nothing but the luminescence of the timestone and occasional flash of lightning.

“We’re giving you the benefit of the doubt, you know.”

Of course Pipit wouldn’t be content just to let the rain fill the silence. Still, gathered from the way he crosses his arms and shrugs informally, he at least has the decency to be uncomfortable.

“We could’ve taken your bow and quiver, or at least your arrows.” He doesn’t meet Link’s eyes, forcing a crooked grin. “I mean, spell or no spell, you’d never shoot a fellow knight… w-would you?”

Frowning, Link leans against the bars, right hand reaching for his quiver. Pipit visibly stiffens, a not-so-subtle twitch in his jaw – then relaxes when Link tosses every one of his arrows at the older knight’s feet. It’s beyond insulting, but if it means Ghirahim will be spared, he’ll do everything in his power to put his captors at ease.

“It’s crazy.”

A weight of sincerity enters the other’s tone, a sort of exhaustion the depths of which Link has come to know much too well. It takes him by surprise, seizes his attention and retains it with a surprising amount of willingness.

Although he doesn’t bother looking to the other for permission, Pipit continues, “Only a year ago, we were just patrolling the academy halls and snatching the occasional drunkard from the sky. Even when you and Zelda showed up after that whole scuffle on the Surface, settling the land became pretty routine after a while. And now…”

He chuckles. When finally he meets Link’s stare, true understanding swims therein. His obstinance aside, Pipit has always been well-meaning through and through. For the first time since Ghirahim, Link feels as though someone isn’t simply talking at him.

“Now,” Link finishes, smiling ironically, “we have deserts and demons and magic swords.”

Another chuckle, this one shared, turns to a tired sigh. What follows is sufficient to baffle, and Link wonders if it isn’t simply the light. The gleam in Pipit’s dark-blue eyes – is it really… guilt?

Pipit, with the unbreakable code of honor and irrefutable sense of righteousness? Pipit, whose commitment to greatness is so unyielding he’ll often work eighteen-hour shifts just to scrap together enough savings to continue his education as a knight? Is this man even capable of guilt?

A low and familiar chime cuts his flabbergast short, followed instantly by a loud CLANG of metal on wood. Towards the back of the brig, the alternative gate barring the way to the engine room is lifted.

Clinging to the lever on the other side of the threshold, is Ghirahim.

The demon releases his hold the instant his eyes fall on Link, disintegrating into a cloud of diamonds before his body can hit the floor. They settle elegantly into the sword at his feet, azure gemstone glowing briefly in indication of the life within. Without thinking, Link sprints over the rise in the floor and snatches the hilt, having no regard for the tears delt to his tunic as he clutches the naked blade to his chest.

Ghirahim’s voice whispers low in his head, barely audible, yet in this moment it may just be the sweetest sound ever to befall the human’s ears.

Hurry, he says simply, then fades into silent rest.

His boots have nearly lifted from the floor when Pipit calls after him.

“Link, wait!” he cries.

It might be foolish, but nevertheless, Link pauses. Heart racing in sync with the beating of the rain, he stares deep into his fellow knight’s eyes.

“Pipit,” he rasps, striving to steady his own chords. “Remember when,” he swallows, hard, “when Cawlin had sent that letter to Karane, and you abandoned your post right then and there? Do you remember what you said to me?”

Hard eyes steadily soften as his message is absorbed, though the older knight’s face remains entirely unreadable. Silently, Link prays.

“I said,” the man in yellow sighs, gaze falling to his feet, “that as knights of Skyloft, we ought to experience love that is unfettered and passionate.”

Link purses his lips. “Please, Pipit,” he whispers.

Above decks, frantic shouting pierces the muffled storm, with several footfalls soon to match. As they start to close in, Link’s heart pounds faster. Though he fears it may burst through his chest any moment, he doesn’t dare remove his gaze from the other’s severe features.

When at last Pipit speaks, he does not address Link.

Rather, he turns on his heel and jogs down the narrow hallway, cupping his hands to his mouth and shouting, “They’re not in here! There were diamonds, and now they’re gone!”

His further report – his false report – isn’t something Link will linger long enough to learn. Heart hammering in his skull, he bounds through the engine room as quick as his clumsy feet will carry him, knuckles white around Ghirahim’s hilt, and leaps through the nearest window into the world outside.

He lands in the wet sand with hardly a sound, grateful for the pouring rain even as it snags his breath. Were the others to flout their raid of the Sandship, they’d likely never spot him in this relentless downpour. Resecuring the black sword to his back, right hand never leaving the leathered hilt, Link showers Pipit’s name with every blessing known to Skyloft, and disappears into the night.

Chapter Text

Clouds roll out from curtains to patches, allowing white rays of light to filter through a desert sky. The precipitation may have subsided, but the air swelters thick with its remains. Stray hairs adhere to the back of Pipit’s neck, moisture weighing on his many layers – by Hylia (Zelda?), even the air in his lungs feels heavy. Wiping the mugginess from his forehead with the back of his gloved hand, the knight can barely hold back his huffs of dissatisfaction. The rains in Skyloft would leave a cool fog in their wake, accompanied pleasantly by the fresh scent of grass – nothing like this absolute mess of a biome.

But the weather isn’t all that’s been souring his mood.

The truth is that something else has been eating at him since the night before. In the heat of the moment, with harsh dregs of adrenaline coursing through him, he’d acted on little more than instinct. That look in Link’s eyes, the likes of which he’s only ever seen when Groose would steal the occasional glance at Zelda while she wasn’t looking – it had to have been genuine. And when the younger knight had to go and bring Karane into it…

Never has Pipit flinched from a gut feeling, and never has he been misled. So why did his stomach start to knot the minute they confirmed the demon sword’s escape?

“This is my fault.”

Zelda’s somber chords echo his thoughts, chanted like a mantra for hours on end. He can’t fault her for it. His own head won’t shut up either way, and she at least has the courage to admit that mistakes were made.

One of which she doesn’t realize isn’t even her own.

Features falling into a delicate frown, the Goddess incarnate places a pale hand upon the mast. The ship doesn’t swerve, planted firmly in the sand, but between the slick sheen coating the deck and her own self-imposed malnourishment, there’s no doubting her need for stability.

“I underestimated his strength. I should have known Nayru’s flame would supply him with such power. To think he could move not only himself from my grasp, but Link as well?” She lowers her head, cerulean eyes glistening. “I should have known.”

Overhead circle four Loftwings, their vibrant plumes the only real splash of color in all this wetness and brown. The desert is an ugly place, Pipit decides. Ugly, and hostile, stupid hot and-

“No one could have predicted this.” Eagus’s voice commands undivided attention – a trait that undoubtedly played a deciding role in his promotion to such a station as his. His tone carries unquestionable authority, though his gaze doesn’t waver from the group’s descending mounts. “Memories of a Goddess or no, this is far beyond what any one of us could have been prepared to deal with. The odds were stacked against us from the start. All that matters now,” he pauses, head at last lowering to meet every one of the other’s eyes in turn, “is that we learn from this error, and take whatever precautions are necessary to avoid repeating it.”

Maintaining the commander’s stare is nothing short of a challenge. Gut feelings aside, Pipit cannot shake the fact that had falsified a report. Whatever mischief this demon may proceed to instigate, whatever misfortune should reign down upon the heads of those he as a knight is sworn to protect, will forever bleed into Pipit’s conscience.

And here before him, Zelda openly laments what she believes to be her own shortcomings.

He hardly notices the planks trembling as each Loftwing finds a perch – nor his own feet as they lead him not towards his own bird, but towards Eagus. The older man pauses mid-mount, turning his attention to the other with an inquisitive arch of his brow.

“Pipit?”

Jaw set, the knight in question musters what remains of his strength.

“Commander.” His resolve is firm, yet he struggles to push the tremor from his voice. “There’s something you should know.”

---

The air is musk beneath a grey dawn, where a like figure cloaked in red stands before the rapids of Faron Woods. Stray droplets dampen his shins as he uncorks a clear bottle, and plucking the timestone from inside, empties the residual contents into the waters raging at his feet. Only when the crystal’s violet hue is restored, and the saltwater washed away, having served its purpose, does Ghirahim return to his young master’s side.

He hadn’t been awake for most of their journey. Truthfully, at the start, he had ached in his core at the less-than-favorable odds of his efforts even paying off. The little knight had come through, however, and is now reaping the rewards: cushioned on a bed of dirt and grass, nestled up against the narrow trunk of a branchless pine. Between the muddied green of his uniform and the patches of sprigs and fronds sprouting from the uneven terrain, he’s sure to be shielded from prying eyes. Still, Ghirahim had maintained careful watch until morning light.

When he returns from the riverbank, he finds Link slouched in the very same bed of earth, whittling away at some twig, a fierce look of determination in his ocean eyes. The ruts beneath are colored more deeply than usual, a slight dimple peeking where he chews absently at the inside of his lower lip. In his fascinated observation of the human’s hard, yet youthful features, Ghirahim but vaguely considers how best to approach without breaching his focus.

Until Link’s carving hand slips, shaving a clean slice off his non-dominant thumb. His nose crinkles, a hiss of pain spilling through bared teeth before he sticks the wounded digit in his mouth. Well, thinks Ghirahim, nostrils all at once flooding with the pungent fragrance, I suppose that’s my opening.

“You know,” he chides, coming forward down the slope, “it really is a wonder you haven’t already tripped and impaled yourself upon your own sword.”

Link can hardly be bothered to startle, popping the thumb out of his mouth with a tired eyeroll.

Leaning forward in mock admonishment, Ghirahim adds, “Really, I wouldn’t be surprised if one day I returned to your side only to find my blade wearing you as a scabbard.”

“Is that it?” His inflection is flat, rising but subtly towards the end. “You’re not gonna gloat?”

A reference to the tiff from the previous night, the demon gathers. “Would you like me to?”

When Link doesn’t deign to respond, the demon gives his lips a provocative lick. The human stifles a shudder, scowling sidelong, but as his tongue travels, Ghirahim tastes… peat moss?

It’s then that he notices the light rustling in the nearby brush. It circles from behind the tree trunk, waddling on plush, shaky legs. Link has just begun to reach for his pouches when it wanders into his peripheral, and instantly Ghirahim recognizes that look.

In a second he’s vanished, reappearing in a flurry of diamonds just as the other’s hand begins to fly. Now crouching to his left, Ghirahim catches Link’s wrist in a bruising grip, the motion swift and sure. Thankfully, in spite of this series of sudden movements, the little kikwi doesn’t appear to be perturbed in the slightest.

Link’s incredulous glare is sharp, but short-lived, fading quickly to excitement once he follows the demon’s gesticulation. Gaping at the odd pair with shiny, beadlike eyes, the tiny plant-creature stands smaller than a Lynel’s clenched fist. Its beak twitches, absorbing each man’s individual scent, before decidedly climbing into the human’s lap.

Slowly, Ghirahim extends a hand, retracting his glove so as to feel the light tickle of the baby kikwi’s nose. It hobbles a step closer and, after a moment of sniffing each clawed finger, rubs its soft head into his palm. Satisfied that he’s been deemed safe, Ghirahim scoops the little one up and places it on his shoulder, grinning as it nuzzles into the crook of his neck.

Though the groggy astonishment plastered across Link’s face just might double the satisfaction.

“I-,” the knight clears his throat, “I wouldn’t have taken you for an animal lover.”

Ghirahim suppresses his chuckle, reluctant to disturb the little kikwi. “Technically, they’re plants.”

“Close enough.”

He can hardly believe his own contented hum as he shifts into a sitting position. “You are fortunate, sky child, that at times like these, your ignorance can actually be quite endearing.”

“I am known for my charisma.” Despite the sardonic note to his tone, Link wears a small smile of his own. He sucks again at the blood gushing from his thumb, free hand reaching around to fumble through one of his pouches until he’s successfully located the heart salve. As he works to apply it, Ghirahim turns his attention to the carved-up stick discarded by his side.

“And what,” he motions with his eyes, “might you have been up to this morning?”

Just like that, Link’s mood has once again been sullied. “Trying to make a few arrows,” he sighs, returning the half-empty bottle to its former place. “The ones I had were… not exactly confiscated, but they might as well have been.”

“Hmph. How unfortunate.”

A comfortable silence stretches out for a time, filled only by the distant rumbling of the rapids. Steadily, Ghirahim allows his lids to droop, breathing deeply of earthen aromas and running his knuckles over their kikwi visitor’s mossy coat. It stands to reason that he would be content simply to enjoy this intermittence, however brief, between evading featherbrained soldiers and chasing magic fire, yet his young companion has other ideas.

“We should plan our next steps.”

Those gentle chords resonate with a certain weariness, drawing Ghirahim’s gaze to the knight once more. He pauses his ministrations, disregarding the kikwi’s petulant shuffling. As far as the specific nature of what may be weighing on Link’s soul, the possibilities near on endless.

“Clearly, you are troubled, Link.” The other doesn’t so much as flinch. “Perhaps there’s something you first ought to unburden yourself of?”

He doesn’t meet the demon’s eyes, but rather sneaks his freshly-healed hand back into the larger of his satchels. From it, he retrieves a third bottle, this one filled almost to the brim with a transparent, orange-colored liquid. The substance is apparently carbonated, and miraculously cold. Thin drops of condensation roll down the bottle’s exterior, painting clean streaks through the misted glass – the result of a minor enchantment extracted from magically oriented ingredients, Ghirahim has no doubt.

Link uncorks it without a word, and immediately Ghirahim’s senses flail. It smells of crisp autumn afternoons, of rustic cabins and harvest fields.

“Ale, seasoned with allspice,” he muses aloud while the human takes a swig, “and… what is that sweet, earthy taste?”

His inquiry is met with twice the confusion. “Pumpkin… Your sense of smell is out of control.”

Ghirahim can’t conjure an appropriately mocking response, distracted by the discontented kikwi now crawling down the front of his cloak. “The perks of being a demon,” he manages, gingerly dislodging the frail creature and setting it again in Link’s lap. Eager to occupy his own hands with impossibly soft, mossy fur, Link offers to pass the bottle.

And Ghirahim is perhaps a bit too eager to accept. He first swirls the liquid inside, savoring the sweet perfume, before placing the rim to his lips and delicately tilting back. It doesn’t burn his throat the way it does his olfactory nerves, but then, he couldn’t reasonably expect a clan of humans to produce an ale powerful enough to sway a demon.

That being said, the taste is exquisite.

“Pumpkin is a rarity here on the Surface,” he observes, reveling in the warmth in his veins, “yet you’ve just been carrying it on you this whole time?”

The knight snorts, rubbing both thumbs over the head of a now-snoring kikwi. “In the sky, we grow so many pumpkins, we don’t know what to do with them.” That smile widens, eyes lighting just slightly. “I honestly don’t think I’ve ever ingested anything that didn’t have pumpkin in it. We grow other crops, don’t get me wrong, but pumpkins? They’re practically invasive. Why,” he releases a short laugh, “when we were mapping possible layouts for a settlement, Zelda even suggested we not include-”

He stops abruptly, that light yet again extinguished. So that’s it. You’re still thinking of the girl.

Ghirahim allows a beat before taking the young man’s hand in his own, watching carefully the gentle rise and fall of his chest. The demon’s touch lingers but a moment longer than necessary, broken only as he places the bottle of ale into Link’s warm, calloused fingers.

Link takes another swig, then continues.

“It’s close, you know. Just downstream from the rapids. I didn’t realize last night, I was just so tired, I guess I saw the familiar terrain and subconsciously stuck to it.”

A beat, and he passes the bottle again. Ghirahim obliges, sipping prettily at the succulent array of spices as if it could actually affect him.

“It’s not like anyone’s there. It’s a long way from being inhabitable – we’ve only just finished laying the foundation, and forget about planting. It’s too late in the year, what with the changing seasons. Groose and a small team would work on erecting a barricade – the Groosicade, he calls it – but with most everyone preoccupied with, well, you know. We haven’t even decided how we’ll irrigate the fields yet.”

This time, Link actively reaches, throwing his head back with a strange thirst. By Demise, he isn’t really becoming intoxicated, is he?

Oh, but how the little hero sways. He may as well have forgotten the baby kikwi, still snoozing away in his lap.

Link’s fingers offer little resistance as Ghirahim gently pries the bottle from their grasp. “Adaptable, dependable – and yet your tolerance is nothing to write home about.”

A predictable eyeroll. “I haven’t eaten in a while.”

“Then I suggest you take it slow. To address the issue of irrigation,” a sobering topic, yes? “you and your people may find a water meadow would best serve your interests. Digging the proper canals can be a challenge, but they’re far more reliable than creaky, hulking waterwheels that rot with age. When the time comes, I could even sketch the general concept, if you’d like.”

Those blue eyes meet the other’s, so big and bright Ghirahim can distinguish his own reflection therein. The type of longing shining through is one he struggles to read – but with the right amount of prodding, any code can be deciphered.

And Link’s state of inebriation only eases the process.

“You know so much about the Surface and how to thrive here.” His tone is wistful, gaze falling away. Gathering the kikwi into his palms, Link hugs his knees to his chest. “If they could just look past their prejudice, they’d see how much easier you could make our whole transition.”

Now it’s Ghirahim’s turn to chortle – a harsh, mirthless scoff overflowing with irony. Help humans settle the Surface, after all he’d once done to subjugate their kind? Fate is indeed a cruel god, his sense of humor incalculable – a sadistic satire not lost on Hylia’s favorite.

“Although I guess,” he sighs low, “that might be a step down for you… demon lord.”

“What I was in the hand of the Demon King is no longer relevant, Link. I am yours now. What you desire, I desire; what you abhor, I shall abhor as well.”

Link’s head whips fast as an ocean breeze, a tempest churning in his eyes. “You’re not an object to me, Ghirahim,” he all but snaps, “and you’re not just a servant, either. I want you. So can you please just…”

Ghirahim freezes. He looks upon the other with… cluelessness. Genuine, unfeigned cluelessness.

“… just be you?”

Their eyes lock, each searching the other’s face, unable to give an answer for questions unperceived.

“You can be free.” Link’s voice is but a whisper, just audible. “Strong, and alive, and free.”

Free. The word has ever been nestled in his vocabulary, like a book long neglected, left upon the shelf to collect dust for all time. To hear it now, from his wielder’s own mouth – accompanied by thrill, by passion, by hope…

It’s more than the demon can bear.

“And if I can’t?” he seethes. His breathing comes in ragged bouts, the muscles in his jaw stiff. A phantom tingling stings the tip of his non-existent left ear. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to have no will of your own? To wield such power and prestige as I have toiled for so long to accumulate, only for a simple string of words to bring me to my knees?”

There’s a visible flicker in Link’s eyes, his mouth pressed into a tight line – but it’s far too late to stop now.

“Place yourself, just for a moment, in my skin, Hero. No force, no threat, no coercion – only a body, and that your very own, acting with no regard for your will. So no, Master, I cannot just be me – not until I know beyond a shadow of doubt that the seeds of hope planted by your Goddess aren’t as sterile as the countless other empty promises she’s made over the course of my wretchedly long life.”

Only when the glass shatters within his fist, ale sloshing and fizzling, soaking his cloak and staining his thighs, does his anger begin to wane. Above the treetops sunlight breaks through the clouds, a few meager rays making all the difference – and a high-pitched ‘koo-weee!’ brings him down from his high.

If Link had been focused on the demon lord, his gaze has since shifted, soft shushes spilling from his lips as he strokes the kikwi curling frantically into his chest. Steadying himself, Ghirahim fixes his bleary eyes to his own twitching fingers.

“Forgive me,” he rasps. “I… I don’t know what came over me.”

Another moment, and the kikwi’s panic subsides to a shivering quake, its tiny nose buried in the folds of Link’s tunic. His own bearings returning, the demon turns to the spilt ale tarnishing his once-spotless clothing, a surreal heat pulsing from his core to his fingertips as he works to remove the stains.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Link’s voice is gentle and meek, a deep tenor comparable to the natural melody of still waters. “You’re well within your rights not to want to give your hopes up. It’s not a small matter – no one should be able to wield that kind of power over anyone else. Not even over you, and no matter what you’ve done.”

What I’ve done. Can this idealistic youth even imagine?

Link shudders, then proceeds,

“I couldn’t enslave you and live with myself. If Zelda does turn out to be mistaken, I’ll…” He draws a deep breath before completing the thought, “I’ll cut out my own tongue.”

Ghirahim’s own breath hitches, and he pauses to examine the young knight’s face. The sobriety is plain, the beating of his heart audible – unmistakable candor.

“You-,” How does one respond to- to such a determined offer to self-mutilate? “you… will do no such thing.”

To live out the remainder of his life without the unhindered ability to communicate with his wielder? To never hear the soothing timbre of Link’s chords again?

Is that really freedom?

But Link deviates once more. “Was Demise not your first master?” he asks softly.

A weightier inquiry than he might think.

“No.” The demon sighs. “In a way, I was. Before I was bound.”

Sun-kissed features twist in curiosity, begging for clarification. Humorlessly, Ghirahim chuckles.

“He may have regarded himself as such, but Demise was no true god. Without power to create life, he instead took mine. He forged my sword from within my own soul, binding it with dark rituals and bloodied curses until I had no choice but to submit to his will.”

Content that his garments are once again presentable, Ghirahim moves on to collect the glass shards scattered in the dirt. It won’t do to have a baby kikwi wander and cut itself – or to leave a trail for their pursuers, no matter how miniscule.

“You didn’t choose this life.”

It isn’t a question.

“Did you choose yours?” Ghirahim responds with unironic informality, the kind encasing a topic that’s been picked apart and tousled many a time before. “Shall we weep and wallow, or shall we straighten and make the best of the hand dealt us?”

Link’s indignation is stark. “But if you could choose another path,” his voice rises but a hair, “wouldn’t you?”

“I did.”

The wide-eyed silence that follows is palpable, cut notably by the handful of dirt-speckled fractals clinking in the demon’s gloved palm. Having no use for them, he buries the mess within a cavity beneath the tree’s roots, shielded by a pile of needles and sprigs and leaves. Under so deep a shadow, he is confident the sun will never reach.

“I would say it’s none of your business,” he persists, “but I can’t deny the overt relevance. In short, I once fought amidst Her Grace’s ranks, a young lord-to-be with much promise. But my ambitions were met with hostility, and I was… dismissed from her service, sent away to think on my crimes.”

Here he laughs almost sincerely, eyes clouded with nostalgic regret.

“Isn’t it gloriously poignant – that I would be fed to the wolves, only to return leading the pack?”

Though Link listens in silent reverence, Ghirahim can feel his muscles stiffen.

“And that within the same lifetime that I had escaped the caldron’s oppressive heat, I would be thrust into the very flames that caressed it?”

He looks his young wielder full-face now. The understanding between them lacks the satisfaction he might have hoped to glean.

“Don’t you see?” the demon muses rhetorically. “Whatever power we think we might have, Fate will always carry the upper hand. He makes a mockery of all of us, little master. You and I are no exception.”

Believing the young knight to have ingested all he can handle for a time, Ghirahim stands. The hand he extends is more symbolic than functional, knowing well that Link will need to gather his belongings before they can further progress.

“All that remains for us,” his tone is gentle, a lifeline to which both sword and master may cling, “is to live from moment to moment. To follow our goddesses-given instincts, and to accept our lot with dignity.”

Though Link’s expression lacks enthusiasm, a determination sets within. Lips pursed, he looks up at the other with a deciding nod.

“One flame left,” says Ghirahim, “and I will not be taken from you so easily.”

“One flame left,” Link echoes in accord. “But first,” he breaks eye contact, casting a dry glare towards his attempt at a handmade arrow, “we need provisions. And more ale.”

---

“We’ll need to stop by the Item Check to replace that other bottle.” Dirt crunches beneath the Hylian’s boots, drowning the soft strides of his closely-following companion. “Do you still need the one you used for the rain spell?”

He’s answered with Ghirahim’s reaching into the folds of his cloak, then producing the item in question. It’s empty, Link notes, its neck held between the other’s thumb and index finger. Wrapping a calloused hand around the base, Link returns the corked glass to the lighter of his pouches.

The mid-morning sun has since chased away the clouds, unveiling an unsullied expanse of blue. Crickets chirp from beneath the brush, and everywhere the air is filled with birdsong. Earthen walls and grassy hills frame the crude pathway, marked only by flattened patches of grass and heavily-trodden gravel.

It’s risky, lurking so near to the Sealed Grounds, but he’s been unable to sense his Loftwing’s connection since their venture beneath the cistern. Thus, with the lot of Eagus’s knights stationed in Eldin, they’ll simply have to chance it.

Trekking through the lush grounds, Link can at last pick out the coarse edges and mottled coloring of their target peeking around the bend.

“Might I reiterate,” Ghirahim starts, for the third time now at least, “how much I do not like this?”

Eyes forward, Link doesn’t slow. “I need arrows. Goddess knows what we would’ve done beneath Floria if I hadn’t had any then, and even if I could carve their likeness well enough, there’s still the issue of feathers and heads. Besides,” the trees begin to clear away, the temple itself appearing just to the west, “I think we both agree I could use a change of clothes.”

Ghirahim gags, though whether his disgust is aimed more towards the state of Link’s uniform or simply towards the knight’s being right about something, there’s no real way of knowing.

Of course, if Link is being completely honest with himself, he’s not entirely pleased with the demon, either. To imply that Link had had no say in his own destiny – even if he had been perfectly placed and unknowingly groomed for it, it doesn’t change the fact that he hadn’t been forced into anything. But then that fire in Ghirahim’s eyes, smoldering to embers as he divulged cryptic glimpses into a checkered past. How Link had yearned to press him for more, to challenge him further; but to strike another nerve so soon may damage what little trust he’s managed to gain throughout their companionship thus far.

And when a familiar face is spotted but a few paces from the Loftwing statue, he fears they may have bigger problems.

Olive skin tattooed with pale tribal patterns, hair like straw sticking from his head and brows and chin. Even whilst jolting so fitfully, Gorko’s stocky form stands a full head and shoulders taller than Link – but it isn’t he that poses the greatest concern. No less than a half a dozen Bokoblins pester the frazzled Goron, rusted machetes raised high above their heads, though they can hardly so much as scratch his rocklike hide. All in all, the scene shouldn’t look much different from his first encounter with the Goron, and yet…

Link hastens his stride into a hurried jog, reaching with both hands for the dark sword while Ghirahim follows, he assumes, not far behind. With every tromp of Link’s boots against the dry earth Gorko’s bellowing shouts of “Shoo!” and “Scram!” become increasingly louder.

That’s when he notices.

The howling of the beasts differs from the shrill cries to which the knight has grown accustomed. These trill deep and low, buzzing at the back of his teeth, jittering down his spine and into the soles of his feet. Skidding to a halt at the clearing’s edge, he can easily discern the deranged glint in their yellow eyes.

Their dreadful, flaming yellow eyes. Whatever ungodly essence is possessing these creatures, it cannot possibly be of this world.

Ghirahim’s steel pulses in Link’s grasp, his knuckles gone numb. A cloud of red gemstones chimes on the wind, bouncing from the sword to a nearby wall crawling with ivy where he takes corporeal form.

“Gorko!” cries the demon. “Stop squirming, you great oaf!”

Link arches a brow, but isn’t granted the time to dwell on it, instead fixing his glare to the fiendish brutes ahead. Ghirahim’s two-handed blade doesn’t move with the same effortlessness as Fi’s, stirring pangs of doubt within. It’s with caution that he edges closer towards the fray.

Allowing the weapon to double as a shield, Link holds the blade high, guarding against any rusted steel should it come raining down on him. As he draws closer still, one russet-colored Boko whirls around, arm notched back in preparation to strike.

Link cleaves the beast in half with one swing.

The next kill prompts a strained grunt, his muscles already starting to burn. Positioned at an almost-square angle, Ghirahim has summoned a vortex of blades, red-lit obsidian bobbing murderously in the knight’s peripheral. Boko after Boko drops by the second, felled either in the forefront of Link’s vision or cut down by the other’s flying projectiles. Occasionally the demon will alter his stance, appearing nowhere and everywhere at once, his deadly streams never missing their mark.

By the time the war cries dissipate completely, only two green-skinned foes remain upright. Low growling rumbles from deep within their throats, drool flying from their slackened jowls. The closer they loom, the more luminescent the fluid appears.

Link’s chest heaves, the sword’s tip planted in the dirt. The mere thought of lifting it again has his nerves screaming in protest, lungs threatening to collapse. Din, with your powerful arms, please, either lend me your strength or let this next sacred flame decrease my weapon’s weight.

The Boko approach according to two linear paths, bound to intersect prior to reaching the knight. To their rear Gorko gapes wide-eyed, while in the corner of his vision, Ghirahim’s initial supply of knives has run out. It couldn’t take much to conjure more, and yet… he hesitates.

Testing my skill with his blade?

Then the beasts stumble into one another.

It’s graceless, unintentional. Link can only stare in morbid astonishment as they proceed to tear each other limb from limb, gnawing and gnashing and biting, hacking aimlessly at one another with their dull-edged blades. Granted, Bokokind have never been the most agile opponents the human has ever come across; even so, they had always employed strategized formations, surrounding their enemies and attacking from numerous angles. But this- this turning on one another, slobbering like mindless, wild animals…

After several, painful moments of the macabre display, the beasts’ spasming recedes to an eerie peace. Each body wilts, frothing briefly in the dirt before vanishing into a thin violet mist.

As the robins’ sweet music fills the ears of those still living, Link wonders whether true, unadulterated silence wouldn’t be better suited.

“M-m’lord Ghirahim!” Gorko’s voice instantly clears the human’s head of all else, the Goron’s booming chords as burly as his figure. “Fancy meeting you here! How long has it been now?”

Padding softly towards the Goron, Ghirahim utters not a word at first, his stunning hair masking his features. Now mere feet apart, the two stand roughly at the same height. Link manages to straighten, observing both carefully; for although no animosity appears to exist between either, the incident with the LD robot looms fresh in his memory.

“How much,” the demon asks, voice low, “did you see at the Temple of Time?”

One thick, rounded finger scratches curiously at the Goron’s tilting head. “Very little.” All in all, he seems unperturbed. “I cleared out of the area pretty quick after your warning, and did not stop rolling until I reached the desert’s western edge. Though I did head back once all the tumult died down.”

Ghirahim shoots him a prodding glower. “And?”

Gorko lowers his great chin, goatee brushing his sternum, both fists now resting on his sides. “As I feared, there was not much left. I worry that, had anything of interest once existed in the ruins, it did not survive the explosion. But if I may ask,” he perks up, “would you happen to have seen who or what was responsible for-?”

“Never mind that.” Suddenly tired, the demon holds up a silencing hand. He shifts slightly, as though turning away from some less-than-pleasant scene invisible to all others.

But the one thus mentioned is one Link easily recalls.

The rising in his spirit is quenched, triumph cut short as a thunderous clamor splits his ears. Dust fogs the air, dark clouds gathering in the blink of an eye – and a white figure descends from the falling debris. Crimson velvet with three sharp points, rippling like streams of blood against a shadowy sky – and that laugh.

He’d recognize it anywhere.

Gorko stammers, one arm falling to his side, a gesture of vague understanding. “Yes. Of course. Moving on…”

Near-enough convinced that no danger entails, the knight lifts his sword over his shoulder, returning it to the makeshift securements on his back. It’s then that the Goron seems to remember he’s there.

“You have found your friend!” he exclaims, gesticulating with excitement. Bulbous lips purse into a tight grin, and he finally addresses Link. “How splendid to see the two of you at last reunited!”

Link snaps his head towards Ghirahim just as the demon emits a light chortle. “Indeed,” he muses, “our dear friend Gorko was kind enough to help me keep tabs on you a short while ago.”

The human cocks a brow, mouth twitching in a half-bemused smile. “Did he now?”

Oblivious to this silent conversation shared by the other two, Gorko persists. “You will get a load out of my latest findings, bud – as will you, m’lord! I owe you both my deepest thanks for disposing of those unpleasant creatures. Sharing is the least I can do.”

He reaches into the bundle rolled atop his massive shoulders, procuring an unusual-looking shard of some sort. At first glance it appears to be made of metal, blotched hues of teal and gold weaving intricately into one another. When held higher, however, the sun’s rays pass through, casting strange distortions upon the ground.

What sorcery have you uncovered this time, Gorko?

“These ‘magic’ mirrors are said to have once belonged to an ancient civilization, their functionality a mystery lost to time – yet here I hold one in my very own hands! Is it not incredible?”

The longer Link gazes into the blazing patterns, the more he feels as though he were staring into the sun. A dull ache spreads behind his eyes, burning his brain like a leaf caught under spyglass, yet he can’t seem to tear himself from it. The patterns appear to be constantly shifting, calling…

In an instant it’s gone, Gorko’s deep cry of surprise snuffing out the whine in Link’s ears.

“The Bokoblins.” Ghirahim’s tone reverts from amicable to brusque, the mirror shard disappearing beneath the folds of his cloak. “Had you encountered any prior to this discovery?”

Gorko shrinks from the demon’s advance, those dreadful dark eyes piercing the Goron deeper than any blade could ever hope to.

“N-no,” he stutters, raising his meaty hands placatingly. “This was the first instance, I swear.”

Ghirahim’s shoulders visibly drop. His relief is felt by all.

“M’lord… do you mean to imply that the mirror-”

“It is of my world.” Ghirahim straightens, his steely disposition restored. “I should thank you, friend. The gods only know what misfortune may have sprung from its falling into the wrong hands.”

Though he doesn’t hide his disappointed frown, Gorko offers no protest. Seizing at this pause in their tenuous exchange, Link decides to interject.

“We should go,” he says hastily, addressing the demon lord. “It’s already nearing noon. The sooner we get to Skyloft and get what we need, the sooner we can leave.”

“Oh!” Just like that, Gorko’s disheartened droop rebounds into his typical enthusiasm. “That reminds me! Someone the other day came looking for you, bud.” Again, he reaches into his pack, fetching a few crumpled sheets of parchment. “He gave me these, saying something about your being in danger.”

Both human and demon float closer, peering over the Goron’s arms as he unfolds the paper. The image sketched thereon sends a chill through Link’s veins.

His hair is parted with only a slight difference, allowing the viewer a better look at the diamond on his cheek, but the demon’s likeness is unmistakable. Then, in case the parchment’s intended purpose hadn’t already been clear, the caption below reads in boldened, refined letters:

WANTED

Demon Lord

Ghirahim

For the crimes of murder, treason, assault, kidnapping, and unlawful practice of the forbidden arts.

Extremely dangerous, DO NOT ENGAGE.

Before either can react, Gorko slides another destressed sheet atop the first. Immediately Link recognizes Groose’s crude, careless handwriting (though most of the vulgarities have been scribbled out), as well as the goofy illustration scribbled above. Leaning over beside him, Ghirahim groans.

“Now that’s just unnecessary.”

In spite of the overall seriousness of the situation, Link can’t stop a crooked grin from creeping up his face. He can practically hear Eagus’s lengthy sigh, can almost see the commander rubbing at the bridge of his nose: “Very good effort on both, but I think we’re gonna go with Zelda’s sketch” – inevitably followed by Groose’s mutters of “still think mine is better...”

“I thought it a tad strange myself,” muses Gorko, mistaking the knight’s nostalgia for irony. “I tried to tell the young man that this demon lord is no threat, that you would be perfectly safe in the company of one so knowledgeable and fair, yet he insisted I report the details of either of your locations to any other Hylian knight I may come across.”

Link looks over the posters to Ghirahim, who arches a ridged brow as soon as he catches the other’s stare. ‘Knowledgeable and fair?’ the human mouths, still smirking.

Ghirahim merely rolls his eyes. “Still committed to revisiting your hometown?”

By this point, Gorko may as well be invisible. “Don’t worry about it,” says Link. “I have a plan.”

“A plan,” Ghirahim grows more sour by the syllable, “or an impulse?”

The two mirror one another, Gorko’s curious round head whipping from one to the other as they exchange an impish series of glares and grins.

“A plan,” Link insists. “A real one, that can’t possibly backfire.”

---

“Karane!”

Even standing so close, Piper’s gentle tone hardly carries over the bazaar’s noonday bustle. Karane can practically hear her heart beat, the poor thing, startled white by the knight’s gracelessly storming up to the counter and slamming down a satchel of rupees. Torn so rudely from her ongoing tasks, the older woman clutches absently at her aproned chest.

“Croo had mentioned you and a few others had scampered off to the Surface on some manhunt. Hylia only knows the old man to be an incurable gossip, but,” she swallows, “I can honestly say I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”

“I need ingredients.”

Dear old Piper, struggling to maintain agreeable conversation, yet Karane simply cannot bring herself to swap pleasantries. Perhaps another time. For now, however, it saps the greater half of her resolve not to spew profanities at everyone she comes across.

“Absinthe, if you have it; if not, vodka will have to do.” Thankfully, Piper doesn’t question her further. “Also olive oil, flour – and do you have any extract of myrrh?”

Only then does Piper’s fitful gathering fizzle to a halt. Slowly, she turns to face the young redhead.

“Honey.”

Karane fights an eyeroll, determined to emulate a respectful attitude despite her growing agitation. I know that tone.

“You know that Bertie and Luv mash some of the best heart poultices known to Skyloft. Unless-”

“Unless it’s a special occasion, and I’m making this for an idiot? Yeah, I know what I’m after.”

Maybe three minutes later, Karane’s shoulder aches with the weight of her purchases, mood curdling even worse at the look of pity Piper had the gall to give her. Another two minutes after that, and the redhead is all but flying through the northern exit, skipping steps as she bounds up the stairs. Cawlin had been waiting right outside per her instructions, their stubby footsteps now nipping at her heels.

“Karane,” they call, “slow down!”

“Either keep up or catch up, Cawlin!”

They don’t make a sound after that, save for their labored huffing as they effectively fall behind. Left alone with her anger, Karane can’t help the tinge of guilt knotting in her gut. She only hopes they realize this isn’t personal, that it isn’t some petty attempt to punish them for their, erm, misunderstanding with the letter.

Then Hauk’s helmeted head appears over the top of the stairway, and that guilt converts to all-out nervousness.

In truth, it isn’t he, but the sight of the whipping post outside that robs Karane of breath. Many years have passed since the dreadful thing has been seen on academy grounds. To think it would be erected during her lifetime…

Deserts and demons and mountains that spit fire – and now this. No question, these are strange times indeed.

Hauk’s standing guard is more or less a formality: he’s not positioned directly before the tent’s entrance, nor does he say a word when Karane rather audaciously ducks through the flaps without a word of explanation. Not a soul in Skyloft could doubt the integrity of the man inside.

Inside and out, the canvas consists of a reddish color, painting the meager space a stuffy, warmish tint. A small cot had been set near the back wall; towards the center, a short wooden stool. On it sits Pipit, stripped down to his trousers and boots and given an off-white shirt. His elbows rest on his knees, head held forlornly in his hands.

He snaps to attention when the tarp rustles, eyes wide with trepidation; then seeing it’s only Karane, he relaxes somewhat.

Neither bothers greeting the other properly. In fact, Karane can’t even bring herself to be the first to speak, even to move. The weight on her shoulder grows heavier by the second, but she holds his stare steadfast.

Naturally, it isn’t long before he cracks. It never is where she’s involved.

“How many are out there?”

Her pack lands on the ground with a soft thud, the girl’s shoulder sighing in instant relief. “None yet,” she answers dryly. “Except for Cawlin.”

Gaze falling, Pipit nods his acknowledgment. “Have you all returned then?”

She sighs. “No. Just us two, for food. Groose eats at least half his weight every morning, and those lizard-things taste like ass.”

He gives a heartless chuckle. “You don’t know what ass tastes like.”

“No.” Despite her efforts, Karane’s tone softens somewhat. “But I don’t imagine it tastes good.”

The moment passes as quick as it came, and Pipit draws an understandably deep breath, running a hand through his hair as he exhales. “Of all the people he could’ve sent…”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” she snaps, arms crossing as her scowl returns, “if you’d just taken the suspension. But no, classic Pipit had to be all noble.”

“You know it isn’t just that.” His voice is soft, his aura radiating patience and grace – and it’s infuriating. “Suspension doesn’t just mean no pay for two weeks; it means a permanent mark on my record.”

“Is that really worse than the scars you’ll be wearing for the rest of your life? Pipit, every time you wash after a sparring match, the whole class will see – every time you turn in for the night or take a proper bath, you’ll see! And don’t forget-,” she covers her mouth when her voice begins to break, moisture welling behind her eyes, “all the times that I’ll see them, and feel them, and…”

She has to stop, to tilt her head back and hope against hope that it will hide the tears.

“Karane…”

He stands now, rough, calloused hands ghosting over her arms. Gently, he coddles her into his embrace, smelling of fresh cotton and campfire and… saltwater?

His demeanor emanates calm, but the pounding beneath his shirt betrays him.

“I broke the law. I falsified a report and let a wanted man escape justice. That was my choice. Maybe it was the right thing to do, and maybe it wasn’t; either way now, I get to choose how I’ll face it.”

The urge to bury her face in his shoulder is fierce, but she resists. When minutes from now, the man walks proudly through these tent flaps and confronts his sentence head-on, the first thing the whole town sees will not be her tears soaking his shirt.

Sensing as much, he pulls back, brushing her wet cheeks with the back of his knuckles. Outside the canvas walls, the whispers of a small crowd stir in their ears.

“Karane. Pipit.” Hauk pulls back one flap, his voice grave. “It’s time.”

Karane’s chest heaves as she swallows her sobs, running her hands down Pipit’s front. Tenderly in contrast to the anticipation in his heart, he plants a soft kiss to her forehead.

“This isn’t right,” she tries to laugh. “I should be comforting you right now.”

Sincerity rings from his own chortle. “But you have.” He pecks her nose, then her lips. “Hey. It’s only twenty lashes. And it’ll be over before either of us knows it.”

Squaring his shoulders, Pipit exits in silence, Hauk leading him from behind with a guiding hand on his shoulder. Not far from the whipping post stands Eagus, a simple instrument in hand. Karane notes, as she takes her place amongst the crowd, eyes that are empty and a face like stone. She intentionally avoids Cawlin’s own gaze, instead fixing hers tenaciously to Pipit. Although her nerve is almost lost while Hauk helps pull the shirt over his head, she knows that this will be the last time she ever sees the skin on his back unmarred.

When the younger knight’s hands are bound above his head, her breath hitches. When Eagus opens his mouth to voice the crimes leading up to this, his words blur into nonsense.

And when his hand lurches back, she can no longer bear to look.

CRACK.

Chapter Text

A late-noon sun shines over Skyloft, where a crimson Loftwing circles from below. Its rider makes a discreet entry, then jogs nervously into the quieting bazaar.

Link instantly is accosted with every manner of smells, from the fruity aromas of Luv’s potion vats to the thick smoke wafting from Gondo’s forge. As soon as he crosses the threshold, every head beneath the garishly purple roof seems to turn, a myriad of bewildered looks coloring their faces. He tries not to overthink it, imagining the odor he himself is likely producing.

As usual, nothing escapes the scrutiny of the demon on his back. Would it not have been more prudent to bathe first? he scolds, an understandable stiffness to his silvery chimes.

Link doesn’t dare answer aloud. Priorities are a must, and his first stop was always bound to be the least comfortable. Might as well get it out of the way.

A stark-blue lantern glares through an old wooden frame, tinting the ancient rug plush beneath his boots. At the edge of his vision, Peatrice’s elbows rest easy on a green countertop. If she raises her head, it’s too subtle to notice; if she lifts her eyes, there’s no way to tell. At first he’d been ashamed to admit it, that he hasn’t quite been able to look her in the face since their little miscommunication, but at this point, he’s past the ability to care.

“Back for more, I see,” comes her toneless greeting. “Just can’t stay away, can you? Well, I suppose you have items for me…”

Indeed, he’s already started unpacking.

“I need this changed out,” he says hastily, placing his canteen and empty bottle atop her counter. “It’s yellow Chu gel,” her slender fingers enter his visual field, uncapping both items, “and it’s from the desert, so be careful-”

“Ack!”

Those fingers dip curiously into the mixture which, within the second, emits a minor surge. Anxiously, Link rubs at the back of his neck.

“… because it’s electric.” His punctuating chuckle feels anything but appropriate.

Very suave, purrs Ghirahim.

Oh, shut it, thinks the other, knowing well that he can’t be heard.

Reflexively he chances a look at Peatrice, the corners of her narrow mouth pulled but a touch lower than usual. Her complexion is warm despite the horrid blue light, yet it only exacerbates the kohl caking her lids.

His own skin itching, Link begins fumbling with his sword belts, unburdening himself of the academy blade and the shield he hasn’t been using. “I also need to store these. I, um, I got a new sword.”

“I can see that.” It’s snapped, not sighed. Not a good sign. “Zelda said something about a demon living in that thing. I thought it sounded a little farfetched, even for her.”

A silver laugh reverberates through his skull. Oh, child. How little you know…

Mischief rings loud in that tone. “Don’t even think about it, Ghirahim,” the knight growls at the hilt sticking over his right shoulder.

Peatrice startles, which in her case means raising one bone-straight eyebrow just slightly. “Hm?”

“Nothing, just…” He swallows. What would make this girl tick? “… agreeing with you. I mean, I don’t see any demons around here, unless,” he jabs a thumb over his shoulder, lowering his voice and forcing a crooked smile, “you count Sparrot back there.”

She rolls her eyes heavily in perhaps the most expressive gesture of her life, but otherwise moves on. Once she’s returned to her task of funneling Chu gel, Link breathes somewhat easier.

Then that internal laugh grows louder. Oh, but can’t you just picture it? A brilliant flash, gemstones abound, and my sublime form graces the eyes of all present! How they all would marvel…

“Don’t you dare.”

Both bottle and canteen clink, set forcefully upon the countertop. “Dare what?” Peatrice demands, straightening in her seat.

Every muscle in Link’s body clenches. “Y’know what,” he blurts, “let me handle these. You just, erm, take care of the sword and shield, and – oh! Could I also get my other bottle?”

---

Rupin’s reserve is far more advanced, and well-organized, than Peatrice’s alcove with its stuffed lockers and crammed chests. Here at this penned-off corner of the bazaar, handsewn embroidery hangs stylishly from the ceiling, kitchenware decorates freshly-painted shelves, and warmly-colored lanterns bring a comfortable balance to the azure wash assigned to every shop. When Link approaches, he finds the shopkeeper wiping down the countertops, placing various batches of merchandise atop a small trolley as he goes.

This utilization of space is impressive, observes Ghirahim.

Link doesn’t pay it much heed, his sights set firmly on those arrows.

As always, Rupin hails his customer with unrequited enthusiasm, cheeks red and puffy from the clownish grin he forces daylong. Not so typical, however, is the absence of tears threatening to leak through his squinted eyes. No, these are beady, even shrewd, not unlike the persona he acquires by night when…

Oh, goddesses, not now.

“Ah, Link!” The older man spreads his arms wide, a stark contrast to the wordless groveling he’s become so well-known for. “So good to see that you’re still in one piece! Your associates have been making quite a fuss about your absence.”

Stomach knotting, Link reaches gingerly into his wallet, procuring a pair of red rupees. “Two bundles of arrows, please.”

“Oh dear.”

Rupin clicks his tongue with a shake of his head, yet that obnoxious grin only seems to widen. Here it comes.

“You see, your commanding officer has given me explicit instructions not to supply you with weapons or ammunition of any kind. How unfortunate…”

“I thought the customer was always right?” He knows it’s futile, that there’s only one way to reason with the man, but still.

“Yes, this is true. And yet, with the amount of stock purchased by your commander and comrades, there’s no denying whose right outweighs the other, eh?”

Rupin crosses his arms, tilting his head as though in invitation. Link’s remain flat at his sides.

This man, the demon’s voice snarls in his head, secure me to his back, and see if I can’t be more persuasive.

The knight ignores him, though the appeal is certainly there. Folding his own arms, Link nods towards the bomb flowers arranged neatly on the shopkeeper’s trolley. “Those look ripe,” he observes, treading lightly. “Seems like it wasn’t long ago that I stuck my neck out and brought you the seeds from Eldin, huh?”

Really, sky child. Why barter when you can threaten?

He has to stop himself from swatting at the sword’s hilt, though the distraction is brief. When that ghoulish smile turns sour, it’s only for a second.

“Why, yes.” The grin returns, although it reaches neither his tone nor his eyes. “I suppose you think I owe you…”

Now sporting a smirk of his own, Link hums in agreement.

“Well then.” A shrug. “I suppose I could look the other way…”

He holds his breath, lest it kindle his hopes too high.

“… for an increased rate.”

And there it is. “Mhm. How much?”

“What’s say…,” he leans forward, bent at the waist, “one hundred rupees for two bundles?”

One hundred?! Ghirahim’s outburst rattles Link’s brain, to the point where he almost worries it will be heard even outside his head. Does this fool truly mean to charge you more than double the standard price?!

He wants to soothe the demon, to assure him that whatever Rupin’s greed may cost at the moment, they can always make more, as the knight himself knows. Really though, it’s the principle that turns his blood hot.

“Don’t look so down.” That mocking admonishment is nearly insufferable. “Consider it a security fee! After all, I am risking quite a lot by doing this.”

Making no effort to conceal his distaste, Link dives deliberately into his wallet. Glowering haughtily down his nose, he sets no less than two silver rupees on the counter.

The way the shopkeeper’s eyes sparkle is enough to make him want to gouge them out.

“Two hundred,” says the knight, his tone overly sweet, “and thank you, for your discretion.”

---

By the time Link leaves the bazaar, a red sun sinks low on the horizon. Already his ears ring with the shrill cries of the native Keese, brought forth from the darkness by Ghirahim’s demonic presence.

He’s halted in weary pause, looking off towards the crude ledges and ivy-strung walls along whence Fi had led him from his academy dorm not two full years ago. Beneath the earthen isles the winged creatures hang, fleshy wings stretching in preparation to take flight, red eyes aglow as they adjust to the dimness.

The knight is staring in tired fascination, when an idea drifts into his mind.

Well, Hero? prods the demon in his sword. We mustn’t idle.

His haste is wholly justified, Link knows. With the bazaar soon closing for the night, its occupants forced to return to their homelives, it’s only a matter of time before word of the duo’s visit reaches unsympathetic ears. Even so…

“Hang on. There’s one more person who I think might be able to help us.”

---

“Master Link! Please, come right in!”

Since Batreaux’s transition altered his form, his home was clearly quick to follow suit. The tall, bronze candelabras once decorating the floor now illuminate the living space from atop an eight-drawer chest. The daunting self-portraits that had adorned the walls have been replaced by little Kukiel’s numerous drawings, depicting Loftwings and bugs and, to the warming of Link’s heart, the girl herself holding hands with dear old Uncle Bats. No longer does a garland made of skulls and claws hang from the ceiling, and when Link steps in further over the creaking floorboards, he finds the former demon’s pair of scythes has also been moved to a more discreet location.

A gossamer curtain veils what can only be a sleeping cot from the rest of the room. It’s positioned next to the adjacent kitchen area, where their gracious host begins making himself busy.

“Won’t you sit down?” Batreaux implores kindly (though besides the bed, there’s really no place to sit besides the floor). “I will put on some tea.”

“Oh,” Link fidgets, automatically reaching for the back of his head, “that’s really all right. We can’t stay long.”

“Nonsense! I insist.” He fills a small ceramic kettle with water from a natural spout, dark robes rustling elegantly as he kneels by the hearth. “Would you prefer green tea, or perhaps oolong- wait…”

He’s hardly retrieved his flint when that head of scarce red hair perks up.

“You say ‘we,’ yet there is only one of you?”

Whoops. “Yeah.” A nervous chuckle. “That’s… why I’m here, actually.”

Thick brows furrow deeper and deeper while Link removes the sword and holds it horizontal. The blue gemstone catches the candlelight just so, scarlet beams rippling sleek over black steel.

“This blade,” continues the knight, “you might not recognize it, but-”

“The Demon Lord Ghirahim.”

Link starts, gazing up at the former demon in surprise. Batreaux’s own eyes remain locked onto the sword. The diamond embellishment pulses with a faint light, but otherwise, Ghirahim himself remains strangely quiet.

Batreaux proceeds. “The sword of the Demon King. Only on the rarest of occasions would his presence be made known to the likes of me and my own, but when it was, it was truly unforgettable. His form has shifted; his aura has not.”

“His alignment has,” Link swallows, exhausted and desperate and on edge all at once, “or at least I think. Zelda mentioned that he has… power, to affect people’s minds. To make them turn on one another.”

At last, Batreaux’s gaze diverts, drifting along with a solemn nod. “The Curse of Shattered Sight,” he says darkly. “A trick cruel and wicked, and horrifically effective in times of war. You… you fear that you may be under his influence?”

Not for the first time in as many days, Link finds himself struggling to breathe. In truth, it isn’t himself that he worries for. The drooling, quivering jowls of the turncoat Bokoblins linger ghostlike in his mind.

“If I were,” he can only manage to whisper, bent on getting answers one way or another, “could it be undone?”

A firm hand travels to stroke a broad chin, Batreaux’s head tilting in contemplation. “You must excuse my limited knowledge, for magic was never my strongest suit. I have only ever known Shattered Sight to have one method of reversal: tears of a loved one, applied directly to the cursed one’s eyes.”

Tears. Unwittingly, Link releases a short sigh. Tears can’t be so hard to come by, can they?

“That said,” Batreaux looks over the sword once more, an uneasy glint in his eyes, “one trapped within the hold of Shattered Sight is not likely to accept such a gift willingly. Her Grace the Goddess would most assuredly be a better consult.”

For the time being, the knight will not allow either observation to deter him, reminding himself inwardly that he’s overcome worse odds before. Instead, he determines to push forward with this unstudious interview. Zelda may be unwilling to bless, and therefore solidify, their union, but there must be other ways.

“What about,” how should he phrase this? “um, binding? Say, if I wanted to bind an object or a soul to my own – do you know of a way?”

Here, Batreaux looks down upon him, a soft frown marring his gentle features. “I fear,” he speaks slowly, as though some invisible thread of sanity might break at any word, “that I may infer your intentions, Link. You wish to bind this spirit to yourself, to become his Master, as the king himself once had?”

Link’s stomach curdles, the demon’s voice echoing through his memory. ‘No force, no threat, no coercion – only a body, and that your very own, acting with no regard for your will.’

He suppresses a shudder. “Something like that.”

Batreaux’s frown deepens. “I am afraid I cannot be of much help.”

Heart sinking, the knight looks away. It had been a longshot, he knew, and yet-

“Though there are,” the other starts again, hand returning to his chin, “certain… other… ways to bind two souls. To fast the hand of one to the other with the threads of fate. However,” a rather cheeky smile breaks out across his face, “the nature of such might not be precisely what you are looking for.”

Handfasting. Link knows the ceremonials all too well, having attended a few of the events himself – and Batreaux is right: it most definitely isn’t what he’s looking for.

Then again, demons and humans are not quite the same. Applying a magical element may prove to be exactly what they need.

His face goes hot just thinking about it.

Outside the thin walls, a shriek pierces the night, the screeching of the Keese no longer willing to be ignored. Torn so suddenly from his ruminations, Link secures the sword to his back once more, footsteps carrying him speedily towards the doorway.

“Thanks, Batreaux,” he calls over his shoulder, not glancing back nearly long enough to glean the other man’s expression. “You’ve given us a lot to think about!”

As he half-sprints up the rudimentary boardwalk, ladder in sight, Ghirahim at last makes his thoughts known.

Propose to me, he states, cutting through Link’s mind so suddenly the knight almost trips over his feet, and I will throw you over the nearest ledge.

---

A warm glow encompasses the Headmaster’s study, though its true comfort is lacking in the absence of its primary occupant. Aside from the sconces protruding from the window frames, a single oil lantern set atop the central table is all that illuminates the room. Really, it isn’t even necessary. Colorful prisms bounce from the stained glass, casting ominous shadows across the faces of the young knight and knight-to-be.

That golden-haired knight sits across from Eagus, chin resting upon her interlaced fingers. Her gaze is pensive, and distant. Fledge sits between the two, his chair pushed away at an awkward distance – an obvious expression of his discomfort. White knuckles grip the edges of his seat, his booted foot tapping nervously against its leg. It’s not so much minor fidgets like these, but the way they pile up, that cripples Eagus’s confidence in the young man’s potential.

“I passed by Luv and Bertie as they were on their way home,” he says. “When they stopped to say hello, they mentioned Link had been through the bazaar earlier today. Well, Luv mentioned. Bertie was busy keeping their toddler from running off.”

“And?”

Leaning back in his own chair, Eagus doesn’t intend for his prodding to come across so curt. As it is, though, he can scarcely maintain even this meager imitation of calm. Over the course of his many years of service, he’s encountered no shortage of things that go ‘bump’ in the night – yet nothing comparable to demons and curses and rebellious knights running amuck. Hauk and Albat cover the nightly rounds; Cawlin returns to Eldin with food, medicine, and various other necessities; and Karane tends to Pipit, in desperate need of time to heal despite his insistence to the contrary. Not unlike the commander’s patience, the lot of them have been spread concerningly thin.

Naturally, Fledge recoils from the other’s stern tone, more skittish even than usual. After the events of that same afternoon, who could blame him. The whole of Skyloft feels to be wilting beneath their weight. Eagus himself fears he’ll never be the same, the song of the whip forever whistling past his ears.

“Th-they didn’t have much information.” The younger man gulps, throat bobbing. “Said he looked like he was haggling with Rupin, but that it was too quiet to hear exactly what they were saying. Link did walk away with arrows, though.”

The chair creaks as Eagus leans forward, slowly wiping a hand over his face. Of course that money-grubbing twig would flout all warnings given the right price. Well then, if rupees are forever to be his top priority, perhaps a hefty enough fine will sway his indiscretion in the future.

Eagus isn’t given much time to consider it, though. Until this point, from the very start of their convention, Zelda has remained silent, motionless. Only now does she use her voice, interrupting the commander mid-sigh.

“We should call it off,” she says.

The room goes quiet, eerily so. Even Fledge’s irksome shuffling freezes. Dumbfounded, Eagus scrutinizes the young Goddess’s steely features, unblinking, uttering not a word as he expectantly awaits her explanation.

She doesn’t bother looking at either of the others while giving it. There’s a solid chance that she simply can’t.

“Link isn’t getting hurt, or hurting anyone else – obviously, seeing as he just passed by goddesses-know how many others without incident. The only time people have gotten hurt is when we’ve interfered with their goals.”

When at last she meets Eagus’s eyes, her own exude a certain strength. It’s firm, deciding, possessing a kind of authority that is borne and not earned: a divine right that he himself has never known.

“Just look,” she emphasizes coldly, “at what happened with Pipit.”

The room grows suddenly hot, a flash like fire running through the commander’s veins. Her comment was personal.

“You know perfectly well,” he speaks with deliberation, spurred further by Zelda’s refusal to flinch, “that Pipit had a choice, whereas I had none. He could have kept his deception to himself and been let be, but he didn’t. He confessed. What kind of example would I be setting were I to allow his offense to go unpunished?”

To Eagus’s astonishment, Fledge interjects.

“You could’ve gone easier on him.”

The words are mumbled, yet it’s clear he fully intended their discernment.

Without pause, Eagus whips his attention to the other. Fledge stiffens, but does not shrink.

“Do you think I enjoyed it, carrying out my grisly obligation?” Eagus seethes, voice lowering into a warning growl. “Do you think I didn’t practically beg the lad to choose the alternative sentence?”

The muscles in Fledge’s neck bulge, breath hitching. Still, he doesn’t back down. Where did this courage come from?

“You know Pipit’s financial situation. You had to have known what he’d end up doing, and that it was never much of a choice to begin with.”

“Our laws have been written with no room for misinterpretation, boy.” The older man’s lips yearn to curl into a snarl. “You would do well not to question it.”

“Gentlemen,” Zelda tries. Her powerful chords do not waver, yet her collected aura is slipping. “We can discuss this later. The issue at hand is not Skyloftian law, not while a war criminal and demon may be threatening our way of life.”

Something inside the commander snaps.

“Our way of life?” he repeats. With the way his lungs constrict, it hardly comes out above a whisper. “And who, Your Grace, are you to speak when it comes to such a matter as ruining our way of life?”

The girl’s features fade from thoughtful to blank, though her eyes betray confusion and fear.

“And who,” his voice rises to an all-out roar, and he bolts upright with such force that his chair is sent clattering, “are you to decide what the issue at hand is to be?”

His hands slam flat onto the tabletop, the oil lantern wobbling dangerously. He knows the futility of his rage, and yet, he cannot bring himself to stop.

“I have known you, Zelda, since you were a little girl – and believe you me, you are not much less little now. You take one dip beneath the clouds, and suddenly you’ve returned to us a goddess? Oh, but not just a goddess – the Goddess, the one who has protected us and our kind since the beginning. Yet what a pitiful job you’ve done since.”

Whilst the girl’s eyes widen, soulless windows to a fluctuation of shock and hurt, Fledge’s daring disposition seems to worsen. “Don’t talk to her like that!” he cries, rising somewhat shakily from his own seat. His breathing may tremble, but his skin has gone as red as his ever-ruddy cheeks.

A pathetic sight if ever there was one.

Eagus does not shout, does not curse, does not lunge as indeed he might like. Instead, he laughs. He laughs right in the miserable little thot’s face: a low, mocking cackle designed to humiliate – and oh, how it hits its target dead on.

“What do you know of it, kid?” he spits. “Since our divine protector began the move to the Surface, you’ve done little more than chop and haul lumber, and frankly, it’s all you’ve ever been good for. I’d hoped that, in spite of the pointless danger of this whole fool’s errand, the transition would at least turn your sorry existence from that of a boy to a man. Clearly, I was mistaken.”

With every venomous word dripping from Eagus’s mouth, the younger man’s fuming increases. His frame is wracked by violent tremors, narrowed eyes filling with tears that refuse to fall. Silently the commander wonders to himself, How much more would it take to coax them down the young man’s cheeks – and wouldn’t that be a pretty picture?

First, however, there are many other personal matters boiling within his chest, spilling through his lips like a pot filled too full and left to simmer unattended.

“Were it not for Her Grace’s reckless ambitions, this demon would not have gained the opportunity to compromise our home in the first place. So yes: between the stupidity of this child – of this arrogant brat – and the overall incompetence of weaklings like you, I dare say a few harsh words are damn well warranted.”

The ensuing pause is thick, strained, and egregiously short. Fledge’s trembling turns to a deathly stillness, though his breathing is no less erratic.

“I’m not weak,” he rasps. “Have you ever thought that maybe, Commander, just maybe, you’re just a lousy teacher?”

Eagus opens his mouth, a spiteful retort hovering on his tongue, but is cut off by the other’s high-strung roar.

“You preach nobility and fairness, but you’re no different from Groose and the rest.” Teeth gritting, he shoves one smooth, uncalloused finger much too close to the commander’s face. “You’re a bully and a hypocrite, Eagus, and I am sick of-!”

A shift in the air, in the foundation, in existence sweeps his words into silence. Something like bells ring melodiously in the older man’s ears, accompanied by a sensation akin to a freefall – like he’s waiting a moment longer than necessary to call for his mount, or drifting through deep waters. The impact is apparently shared by the two, sending Fledge swooning into his chair whilst Eagus is brought crumbling to his knees. He catches the table’s edge, holding it in a death grip as he strives to regain his balance.

Before him, the Goddess incarnate has hardly moved an inch. Her eyes are closed, face a mask of pure serenity. Rings of golden light flow rhythmically from her still form, immersing those present in a warm embrace, gentle and soothing, sifting over skin and through hair like a warm summer breeze. Once they’ve faded gently to black, a surreal sort of calm is left in their wake.

Fledge, rubbing gingerly at his temples, emits a soft groan. “Commander,” he squeaks. “I… I didn’t mean any of it.”

In all honesty, Eagus can hardly recall the source of their quarrel. All in an instant the fury of before feels like nothing but a distant memory. Were he not still so strangely entranced, he knows he’d likely be ashamed.

Thoroughly shaken by an influx of clarity, both men exchange careful glances. A silent understanding passes between. Humbled to his core, Eagus allows his gaze to fall.

“Zelda,” he breathes. “I…”

He trails off, nursing a vain hope that an appropriate sentiment will somehow word itself. Zelda says nothing, not at first. When she does speak, her tone carries the hollow weight of exhaustion.

“You are not at fault, Commander,” she states, “any more than a natural source could have caused that desert storm. Link still has Ghirahim here on Skyloft.”

She casts a worried glance towards the study door, as though the pair in question might be standing just outside.

“And I think I know exactly where.”

---

Copper moonlight accents a black sky, pouring gently through the restroom window. Filtered through the blue glass, it paints the walls and floor a dull purple tint. Cicadas harmonize a raucous tune just past the horribly thin wood, though their song is perhaps more comparable to screeching. At least, with so significant a percentage of the academy’s usual population being occupied elsewhere, the place is relatively clean.

Link is slumped against the wall by the faucet, Ghirahim still secured to his back. It isn’t the most dignified place to spend the night, but with Pheoni’s ghostly cooing carried throughout the academy halls, it’s the surest way to be left alone.

“Paper…,” she chants, over and over and over again. “Please… paper…”

Had the knight not been in such a hurry before, he might have thought to tear a page from one of his notebooks. Does it make sense to feel guilty for neglecting a ghost?

Meanwhile, the demon in his sword continues to sulk.

When first I agreed to be your blade, he says, it was with the understanding that I would be wielded, not holed away in some dingy corner of a public restroom.

Footsteps strain the floorboards outside – likely only Henya, Link tells himself, laying her nightly preparations in the nearby cafeteria. Even so, he keeps his voice low.

“It’s only for tonight,” he whispers towards the hilt, trusting their proximity to carry his words. “Then one flame left, remember?”

You could have at least informed me that we’d be sharing quarters with a toilet spirit.

“It didn’t seem relevant at the time.”

The blue diamond flashes faintly in disgruntlement, but Ghirahim otherwise retires. Pheoni’s chanting, however, grows increasingly more morose.

“Paper… red… paper…”

Link’s breath hitches at the slight change in mantra, but he dismisses the shiver running up his spine. His eyes should have adjusted by now, yet the room appears somewhat darker. The moon ducking behind a stray cloud, perhaps…

“… or blue… paper…”

Another pulse emanates from the sword, a stripe of fire blooming across his back. This is precisely why I ask you to keep me informed, Link.

“She’s harmless.” His words are unconvincing, even to himself. “But… you’re an expert on this kind of thing. Should I maybe… apologize, or-?”

“Red paper or blue paper?”

Her once-trembling chords tighten, morphing into a raspy growl. A chill washes over the knight, cold sweat heated only by Ghirahim’s steel. Say nothing, he warns.

But when Pheoni again presents the question – no, the demand – it becomes harder still to ignore.

“RED paper or BLUE paper?!”

A knock at the door nearly jostles him from his skin. Zelda’s voice rings from the other side.

“Link?” she chimes meekly. Her tone spills over not with hostility, but with deep concern. “Link, are you in there?”

The knight struggles to swallow past the knot in his throat. This was a mistake.

When he turns to look straight ahead once more, not one, but two pale hands hover before him. The right holds a half-spun roll of blue tissue; in the left, the same, but drenched crimson.

“RED PAPER OR BLUE PAPER?”

Another knock, much sharper, threatens to tear the door from its hinges.

“Link!” cry Commander Eagus’s bellowing chords. “We know you’re there! Open up, before somebody gets seriously hurt!”

A flash of crimson catches the dim light, and for a split second, Link wonders whether Ghirahim hasn’t materialized. Scarcely able to breathe, he snaps his gaze towards the bloodlike color.

How wrong his initial assumption had been.

Nothing but shadow gapes from beneath the red hood, staring up into its depths like gazing into the abyss. The hem levitates several inches from the floor, thick folds billowing in a nonexistent breeze. The hands are much the same: ghostly, pale – but for the paper…

“RED PAPER,” she gurgles, “or BLUE PAPER?”

A bang on the door, the sound of wood splintering.

“Link!” It’s Zelda who hollers, now further than before. “Please, we’re not here to stop you – you have to believe me. Both of you are in grave danger!”

He’s no time to consider anything – not her words, not their sincerity, not their options regardless – before a metallic chime accompanies a flash of silver, then red, then gold. Ghirahim slams both hands against the doorframe, a gate of shifting colors and geometric patterns taking form within their boundary.

“Say nothing!” he shouts.

“Link!” howls Eagus. “As your immediate superior, I am commanding you: Open this door!”

An eerie pause hangs but temporarily, followed by a deafening CRUNCH as the commander charges. Finally, Link startles to his feet.

“We have to get out of here,” he says, already climbing on top of the sink. “How long will that barrier hold?”

Another CRUNCH punctuates the inquiry.

“Long enough,” the demon replies over his shoulder. Compared to Pheoni’s, the rich color of his cloak is blunted.

“Red paper…,” her incantations grow soft, distant, “or blue…?”

“Do not answer her, Link!”

But the knight is busy with the screws securing the vent shut. One by one, he twists with fumbling digits, until the screen gate blocking entry nearly crashes onto his face. He catches it not a second too soon, leaning it gently below the mirror, lest the wrong noise signal their means of escape.

By the third CRUNCH, he wonders how Eagus’s shoulder isn’t broken. Zelda – she must be healing him.

Diamonds twirl and clink as they bounce across the floor, Ghirahim’s breathing now visibly labored. With each ensuing clash of armor against wood, the barrier flickers.

“Link…”

Hardly a thought crosses as Link pulls himself through and begins crawling his way towards the rooftop. Echoes of “red paper or blue…” tingle his ears, numb his mind, chill his blood.

Down below, the spirit herself starts to fade, the brilliance of her cloak blending into frail moonbeams – but Ghirahim isn’t done with her yet.

His muscles burn as though trapped in a furnace; still, he procures the mirror shard from within his own crimson pockets. Every pounding against the magical barrier shoots pain through to his core, and yet he faces the bathroom mirror patiently.

And when the spirit lilts closer, becoming caught between the two, the reward is instantaneous.

“No one wants your paper,” he sneers.

A shrill cry splits the air, arms once pale and docile webbing with pitch until fully blackened. The cloak itself burns away, bloodred fractals vaporizing like smoke; naught but the hands remain.

They harden into what appears to be stone, igneous marked with jagged lines that form geometric patterns. The fingers, once dainty, fatten and swell, hardening around the edges. All the while, Pheoni’s piercing shriek drowns all other sounds, the Goddess and her lackeys almost forgotten.

Almost.

The wretched spirit and her insidious wailing have scarcely faded from this world, lost in the realm behind the mirror, when the door at last caves. With it, the barrier is crushed – and a dark flash in the looking glass’s reflection is his only warning before Ghirahim finds himself spun by the shoulders, pinned against the wall, the commander’s forearm pressed to his throat.

“What is this?” he human snarls, mere inches from the other’s face. “What have you done to him – to us?”

The assault on his windpipe has his chords rattling, yet Ghirahim forces a throaty laugh. “Were I responsible for this,” he rasps through a painfully-maintained smirk, “you would not have so easily overcome it.”

Save for the flicker of indignance dancing into the man’s eyes, he isn’t given time to respond. As Link flees further with his blade, the invisible leash binding them is pulled taut, and with a shower of silver, Ghirahim melts from beneath the commander’s hold.

Atop the academy roof, the green rider mounts his feathered beast.

“Fly fast, buddy,” he whispers into its neck. And confirming Ghirahim’s wellbeing, the trio take flight.

The cool night air provides little respite, for as they soar northward through a starless sky, careful not to stray far above the earth’s foundation, a strenuous silence permeates. The shouts of the nightly patrols have long since receded, and before dawn peeks over the eastern horizon, even the beating of the great bird’s wings fades into the background.

Until at last, Link speaks his mind.

“Ghirahim.” He swallows dryly, then clears his throat. “What would have happened had I… had I answered Pheoni?”

The landscape below shifts almost abruptly, from forests and woodlands to rocky crags – an indicator of their nearing the volcanic regions. Steadily, the knight guides his Loftwing downward, steering towards a narrow ravine.

Were he corporeal, the demon would wet his lips. Trust me, little master. It’s better you don’t know.

Chapter Text

Half a day’s journey is taken on foot, with not an insignificant detour to throw any possible pursuers off track. Whatever may be waiting for them in Eldin, no additional impediments could possibly mitigate.

Adrenaline alone keeps the Hylian on his feet, and he doesn’t truly realize until it starts to run dry. He sees sunlight stretching over his right shoulder, feels the hard earth beneath his boots. Gradually his vision blurs, until it can no longer be dismissed as merely an effect of the surrounding darkness.

At one point, he feels as though he were floating, carried in the arms of another. Perhaps he is. The sword is still warm on his back, of that he’s careful to make sure; it’s when the metal abruptly cools that the world altogether becomes surreal. Soft chords attempt to reach him, but his ears may as well be filled with honey.

“Let go, little master,” the voice seems to be saying. “You haven’t slept more than a few hours in as many days. Rest now, and recover your strength.”

The words are poetic, their intonation musical, the gentle cacophony a lullaby in its own right. Even before their meaning has lilted its way through his head, his body obeys.

“You’re sure to need it,” the voice blearily adds, “and soon.”

Link is granted but a moment to wonder whether or not he’d only dreamt it, before all fades to black.

---

When he wakes, the first thing he notices is the soft, fibrous texture beneath him. The air is warm and heavy, and rich with mineral essence. With every inhale his body relaxes further, leaving him drowsy, maybe even almost uncomfortably so. Instinctively he reaches up to pull off his tunic and mail, only to find they’ve already been removed, his fingers brushing the thin fabric of his undershirt.

Link groans softly as he sits upright, the fog steadily lifting from his vision. It’s quiet, he notes, with only a methodical drip gracing his ears, echoing faintly as the droplets pad onto whatever surface they happen to meet. Water, earth…

The sleep clears from his eyes to reveal a modest-sized cave. Before him lies a relatively small spring, which he gathers to be the source of the immense warmth, steam rolling in waves off its still surface. Silky blades of grass tickle his fingers, a cool, luminous green that spreads from one stony wall outward. Like-colored foliage spirals over rocks and stalactites, woody vines coating the walls above the pool and strikingly red berries sprouting from underneath an arrangement of large, jagged formations. It’s on one of these that his weapons, pouches, and the rest of his uniform lay.

Thus far, Ghirahim is not to be seen.

Towards the opposite end of the wide space, the plant life splotches and fades into frosty earth, whilst a much cooler mist drifts in from what appears to be a tunnel laden with ice. Groggily, Link inches towards it, and hears what must be the gentle roar of a distant waterfall. Frost decorates the preceding cavern in intricate patterns, bearing an overt resemblance to the vines and leaves that emerge from the spring.

An especially loud drip snaps him from his stupor, and he clamps his mouth shut, having not even realized his wonderment. The further he crawls from the spring, he chillier the air becomes. A shiver wracks his loosely clad form, gooseflesh blooming across his limbs. Pensive, he looks back to where he woke. The atmosphere near the water is contrastingly inviting…

He inches his way back towards the pool, warily, though he doesn’t fully grasp why. Ghirahim’s blade lies comfortably atop his neatly folded tunic, a sure sign that the demon himself can’t be far – scouting the area, perhaps, and fully capable of returning at any moment. Could that be why Link finds himself hesitating? It isn’t as though Ghirahim hasn’t, well, seen everything already.

Huffing chidingly at himself, the human wills his hands to peel off his boots. It can’t hurt to at least dip his feet for a little while. As it meets open air, his skin sings with instant relief, the water immeasurably soothing to his tired muscles. The ‘bath’ in the academy’s restroom sink, rushed as it was, hadn’t been a fraction as refreshing as this. Pantlegs rolled up to his knees, he drapes his feet further over the ledge, and releases a contented sigh.

The atmosphere shifts, a brisk draft cutting through the pleasant humidity, and he knows he’s no longer alone.

“Making yourself at home, I see?”

Link doesn’t startle at the demon’s voice, in spite of how it seems to carry from all directions at once. A side effect of their cavernous surroundings, he’s sure. Smiling softly, the knight nods his head, not bothering to try to pinpoint the other’s location.

Not that it matters. Ghirahim is prompt to cross the grassy expanse, uncloaked: even in Link’s peripheral, a stark, pristine figure practically aglow in the pale-blue light. His lithe form kneels to retrieve his sword, then turns to join the other by the pool.

“Has anyone ever told you that you sleep like a corpse?” he says, folding his legs beneath him.

A chortle escapes Link’s mouth, accompanied by short pangs of nostalgia. “On Skyloft, my name might as well have been ‘sleepyhead.’”

“Fitting.” A white curtain of hair veils the demon’s face. He doesn’t look at Link, yet no venom laces his chords.

“How long was I out?”

“Two days, nearly. The sun is beginning to set.”

Link inhales sharply. Considering how eventful the past week or so has been, it shouldn’t come as such a shock – but two days?

So much for fresh pumpkin soup.

“You look surprised.”

The observation is made with a hint of disbelief, though Ghirahim’s ungloved ministrations don’t deign to match his docility. Powerful hands sweep gracefully along his blade, clear water rolling off the black steel in sheets. Those obsidian fingers, so long and slender, so capable of snatching, even crushing, the life from another – to see them rhythmically engaged in so mundane a task is just… hypnotic.

When he notices how the other stares, the demon’s chest rumbles in a silent laugh.

“Come now, sky child. You’ve bathed in front of me. Now, you may consider us even.”

There’s a beat before the comment registers. Once it does, the knight’s face grows hot.

Ghirahim is cleaning his sword. Ghirahim is his sword.

Suddenly bashful, the knight turns away, fixing his gaze to his lap. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I didn’t realize…”

Boisterous, melodious laughter echoes throughout the space, amplified by the polygonal stone. While it does little to alleviate the burning in Link’s cheeks, he breathes easier knowing he at least hasn’t upset the other.

“You’re much too considerate,” Ghirahim grins, his shoulders still shaking. “Be honest, Link. Do I really strike you as the modest type?”

Encouraged by the inquiry, rhetorical though it may be, Link glances back to the other. His eyes fall to the diamond cutouts running up his legs. The silhouettes grow larger, more revealing, the higher they go, until landing on the window that may as well leave his chest bare. Steam beads on the exposed skin, his torso glittering.

“I guess not,” Link says, returning the smile.

He raises his eyes higher still, intoxicated by the sight. The humidity curls those silver strands into gentle waves, through which even his typically hidden eye peeks. Past this snowy curtain, beneath the black webbing, a darker shade of grey dusts the demon’s cheeks. It’s almost like he’s… flushed.

For the first time since their meeting, Ghirahim is the first to break their gaze. Features sobering, he returns to his project with increased vigor.

Link, however, can’t bring himself look away.

A heavy pause is woven between them, which neither seems willing to encroach. Rather, he finds himself overcome with the urge to run his fingers through that hair. In the dry chill of a desert night, it had felt impossibly soft. He wonders, would it feel the same like this…?

Emboldened by the demon’s blush, he reaches a hand, brushes away the stray strands…

And tucks it behind a torn stump where there should be an ear.

Link’s breath hitches, while Ghirahim tenses. His ministrations freeze with his sword partially immersed.

“I never noticed this before,” says the former, even as he withdraws.

The second he does, Ghirahim’s own hand flies to restore his cover.

“Inconsequential.”

That singular word is spoken simply, hastily – far from a threat, yet an unmistakable warning to leave the subject be. Surprised to have so easily disrupted their peace, Link wracks his brain for some mode of recovery.

“Where, um,” he tries, staring once more into his lap, “where are we?”

“The mountains north of Eldin.”

Ghirahim’s voice is strained, as though he were forcing it not to tremble. Link struggles not to think on it, the unpleasant memories he may have awoken with that one humble, well-meaning gesture.

“The volcano is several miles from here, far enough to be spared any lava flow. Although it did run considerably close proceeding last year’s eruption.”

So they won’t be bothered by stuffy magma pits and irksome spumes. That’s at least good news. “I’m surprised all this foliage survived,” he muses aloud.

“Actually,” Ghirahim’s tone recovers an air of bemusement, “the flora here thrive because of the volcano, not in spite of it.”

Link meets the other’s eyes, spirit lifting at the restoration of that worldly pride. Ghirahim positively preens under his inquisitive glances.

“Fire may be destructive,” he continues, bringing his sword up to rest in his lap, “but it is also cleansing. Soot and ash overtake molten earth, making for extremely fertile soil.”

He pauses briefly to survey the cavern’s expanse, the look in his eye that of a sculptor admiring a particularly masterful creation.

“Wondrous, isn’t it?”

But Link’s focus remains glued to that palled figure, to damp skin gleaming like polished stone after a warm summer rain; to every minute detail, pale shadows cast along the chiseled edges of lean muscle. He can’t quite manage to nod in accord, convinced that no scenery could ever compare to the creature before him.

“If I didn’t know better,” breathes the knight, determined to humor his companion’s interest, “I’d guess you built this garden yourself.”

Now Ghirahim pins him with a sultry smile. “You didn’t think I’d merely stumbled upon so serendipitous a discovery?”

Link senses a sudden tremor creeping up through his core, from the base of his hips to the tips of his ears. His face warms considerably, the corners of his mouth twitching, and he finds himself scrubbing at his face in attempt to cool down.

“You did this in a year, with just volcanic ash?”

“Ash,” the demon confirms, “and a touch of elemental magic.”

His mind conjures memories of Jaskamar from back home, following the completion of his family’s hand-built cottage. How the man’s shadowed cheeks and robust jaw had beamed with pride. “Did you… did you live here?”

A pause. Ghirahim’s features don’t shift his expression, though Link swears a glint of sadness flickers through those dark eyes.

“I lived everywhere.”

Before the human can muster a suitable response, Ghirahim abruptly rises, his sword placed picturesquely in the grass. Gently he pads towards the boulder where Link’s various items are stored, kneeling to rummage through his pouches. He turns back again with Link’s sailcloth in one hand, a pumpkin-shaped bottle in the other.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he sighs rather smugly, handing the bottle off. Even as he accepts the knight watches, curious to see what he means to do with the cloth. His eyebrows rise when the other begins wiping down his blade. “It isn’t like you bothered to pack proper towels.”

“Indeed not, my liege.” Link rolls his eyes, lifting his feet from the water and folding them in front of him. His toes, he notes as they wriggle in the grass, are horrendously pruned. “Next time I decide to become a fugitive, I’ll be sure to plan ahead.”

Ghirahim looks up momentarily, glaring at the other through suggestively narrowed eyes. His tongue flicks through flawless white lips, and when it returns to the cave of his mouth, a taunting smirk is left behind. It remains perfectly intact as he taps one razorlike claw against the bottle still held loosely in Link’s hands.

“You’ve not had any nourishment for days now,” he says. “Eat.”

He then returns immediately to the task of drying his steel, leaving the other no room to argue. Fighting back a smirk of his own, Link holds the bottle beneath the water’s steaming surface, praying that after a few minutes its contents will have warmed enough not to make him gag.

Piper’s recipe for cheesy pumpkin soup consists of goat cheese, lightened cream, white wine, butter, and a variety of spices and vegetables, all simmered inside a baked pumpkin and dished into individual bottles – on paper, exactly the same as Pumm’s, yet somehow it just doesn’t save as well. When the knight had stopped by Piper’s café, bent strictly on restocking on ale, she’d insisted he carry something heartier as well; and seeing he’d been short a container at the time, was kind enough to lend him one of her own.

Guilt rattles him the more he dwells on it, hating to seem ungrateful. But two days.

“You’re going to pay for that comment, by the way.”

It doesn’t immediately jostle him – so unexpected, so matter-of-fact, that he hardly believes he’s even heard it. Still bent over his reheating soup bottle, Link casts a curious peek over his shoulder. Ghirahim looks him down through heavy lashes, not a smudge marring his flawless kohl despite the constant roll of steam. His wintry lips curve ever so subtly.

“Are you threatening me?” the knight teases.

“Oh, dear boy.” The way in which the demon licks his lips sends shivers up Link’s spine. “I don’t make threats, but promises.”

A thrilling idea occurs to him. “Is that what that Chu gel is for?”

Chestnut eyes narrow in lascivious mischief, the twist of his mouth quick to lose its obscurity. “But of course.”

Link can all but hear his blood in his ears. He swallows carefully, but before a fitting retort can piece itself together, Ghirahim’s expression has altered yet again.

“Truly though,” he says, the glazed velvet of his voice reverting to silver, “you need sustenance, and soon. I’m honestly baffled you’ve managed to remain upright this long.”

“I’ve been through worse.” Link shrugs off the change in tempo, returning his attention to his soon-to-be meal. Slowly he lifts the glass from the water, relieved to find the thick, separated liquids melting back into their original creaminess.

Interestingly, Ghirahim allows a prevailing quiet, stroking contentedly at his polished steel whilst the other gives his soup bottle one last swirl. At first, the human is almost thankful for the break in their exchange. The bout of silence enables his mind to rest, to wander, to think. He uncorks the container feebly, apparently hungrier than he’d initially thought, having gulped down maybe two small sips when the danger of such a quiet confronts him.

He's been sheltered. Fed. Protected. Cared for.

Pleasured.

And by the very same being who had once given all to oppose him.

He doesn’t fully understand why he says it. Maybe he simply doesn’t want to. Nevertheless, when the words come out, he can’t imagine what he wouldn’t give to be able to walk them back.

“This must be quite a leap from working with your last master.”

It’s at this exact moment that Ghirahim seems to conclude that his sword is sufficiently tended to.

“You might say that.”

With no elaboration, the demon stands. Link just glimpses from his peripheral as he props the blade against a nearby rock. He knows he likely ought to relent, to stop himself before spilling some remark he might truly regret. Unbidden imagery of Ghirahim with Demise, the latter receiving similar acts of service and care and affection sprint through his head, eat away at his peace. It floods his senses, infecting him like a virus, its spread a tragedy he cannot bear to allow.

“Did you mourn him?” he whispers.

A tinge of weariness taints the other’s sigh, and Link almost wishes he hadn’t been heard.

“I did.”

Brows furrowed, the human forces himself to meet the demon’s eyes. Ghirahim’s tone is neither curt nor melancholy. In fact, his disposition is overall… casual. Arms folded loosely over his chest, he leans against the formation adjacent his sword, dark gaze floating aimlessly over the grass.

“Only the victorious traveled back through the Gate that day, Link. While the rest of you returned to your rightful time, I was left to rot in my steel prison. The centuries left me plenty of time to reflect on my shortcomings… or rather, on his.”

It may be wrong, and Link certainly doesn’t feel good about himself for it, but to the insecurities he’s scarcely kept buried ‘til now, Ghirahim’s anguish towards his former wielder is a soothing balm. “Do you resent him, then?”

The human’s stare dips briefly, rising only to be locked into a grip like iron.

“He’s dead, Link.” That silver trill could pierce. “Has been for centuries now. What felt like moments to you was infinitely longer for me. I am long past the point of resentment.”

At once, the knight is left to color with shame, for his brief pangs of jealousy, or perhaps something more profound that he can’t quite place. Demise is dead, he’s compelled to remind himself. What the future may hold is open for dispute, but at this very moment in history, Demise is dead.

And as Ghirahim himself had once so irrefutably insisted, there is nothing left for them now but to live from each moment onward.

Thus, he gulps down the remainder of his lukewarm meal, inhaling as quickly as possible so as to avoid the cold, gummy texture of broken cheese lumps. After rinsing out the leftover particles, and taking a scalding swig from the spring, he shifts to better face his companion.

“We should talk about that third flame,” he says plainly. “And what to do after.”

One steep, browless ridge arches. “That we should,” Ghirahim concurs.

And without another word, he launches gently from his rocky perch, saunters across the grass onto the pale stone, and disappears into the icy tunnel.

The soft echo of his footsteps has just begun to fade when Link finally snaps from his dumbfounded stare.

“Wait-” he starts, rushing to pull on his boots, “where are you going?!”

The knight’s own footfall is significantly more raucous as he sprints in the demon’s direction, those painfully long strides having already taken him from sight. Brisk drafts bite into his arms and ears, the hot spring’s tepid aura soon completely left behind. Not far through the cavernous hall, beaded with frozen droplets from an outside body of water, canters the light distortion of Ghirahim’s shadow. Link follows steadfast, often coming dangerously close to slipping on sporadic ice patches, as the roar of the impending waterfall grows ever louder.

He’s nearly lost sight of the demon’s shape, panting and sweating despite the chill, when the ice seems to catch fire.

He skids to a graceless halt the second it does, nearly losing his footing in the process. The cave’s slender mouth gapes several paces ahead, artfully framing the clear stream cascading over the cliffside. Through its jagged maw, a westward sun ignites the clouds like living flame, scarlet tendrils weaving into orange-pink pillows, stark against a blanket of deep violet-blues.

If the sky alone weren’t mesmerizing enough, the glittering landscape beneath could take the breath from a stone. Glacial islands shimmer and reflect like quartz held to firelight – and Ghirahim…

Silhouetted against so surreal a backdrop, his snowy figure is haloed by the brilliant array of colors. That same, unexplained heat from before slithers up Link’s spine. Heart pounding in his head, stomach at his feet, he narrows the distance between them.

Even so close, the waterfall doesn’t overwhelm. If anything, it’s more of a trickle, the frozen state of the stream damming its full potential. Stray droplets intermittently reach him, dampening his hair and shirt – neither of which, he’s compelled to notice, do much to stave off the cold. A violent shiver wracks him from head to toe, fingers swiftly numbing even as he rubs friction into his arms.

Ghirahim, by contrast, never seems to have any trouble keeping warm. Chuckling lowly, he snakes an obsidian arm around his shorter companion, his powerful embrace much too firm – and alluring – to resist.

“Needy little thing,” he chides affectionately.

But as the warmth seeps wonderfully back into his limbs, the knight can’t be bothered to blush. He glances up at the other, then follows his gaze towards the horizon.

Eldin Volcano looms miles away, its numerous rivers of fire hardly a spectacle. He thinks of the immaculate structure housed within the summit, and his heart beats faster.

“The next time you become a fugitive,” Ghirahim’s voice carries akin to a gentle breeze, “may be sooner than you think.”

Pressed tight into the demon’s chest, Link rests his head on his shoulder. “They’ll accept you eventually,” he says softly. The chill stings his lungs as he speaks. “They’ll have to.”

“Will they, though?”

It isn’t snapped, or sighed. Ghirahim whispers, not provocative or threatening, but wistful and low. So helplessly burdened is he that Link almost wonders whether he wouldn’t prefer the former.

He continues, “The man hidden away beneath your hometown – I’ve deduced from your conversation that he once held a demonic form, converted to humanity via some manifestation of purity.”

‘I’m sure someone with a heart as pure and genuine as yours will be able to see them.’

“Gratitude crystals. I never completely understood it, but… I might know what you’re thinking.”

The demon scoffs, claws digging into the other’s arm just short of pain. “You dare suggest that I alter myself, change who I am, strictly to appease a group of narrow-minded mortals?”

Link casts him a sympathetic glance. “You were someone else before, weren’t you?”

Lids hooded, Ghirahim exhales. “In appearance only.”

“That’s all that Batreaux changed. I know it’s not exactly fair, but considering… everything, it seems like such a small price to pay-”

“No.”

Though lacking any true anger, his tone offers no tolerance for challenge. Nor can Link entirely blame him for his reluctance. In truth, he doesn’t want Ghirahim to change, either. His own lids grow heavy as he leans in further.

“I just…,” he speaks slowly, “I just wish there was an easier way. To bind your sword, and to keep you safe.”

A light chortle shakes Ghirahim’s chest. Interwoven with the crisp, wintry air, his smoky scent is delightful. “I could live another thousand years,” he muses, “and never thought a human like yourself, and a personification of purity at that, could harbor such concern for my safety.”

Link brushes his lips against that solid shoulder, savoring the smoothness. It’s all he can do to keep at bay the countless worries harping at his mind. He strives to follow his companion’s advice, to put one foot in front of the other, so to speak; but the closer that leads them to the third sacred flame, the harder it becomes not to look farther ahead.

“I was thinking…”

Ghirahim pauses mid-thought, and clicks his tongue. It isn’t his voice that catches the knight off guard, but more the unusual intonation. Link’s heart thuds mercilessly in anticipation, though for what he isn’t sure he understands.

Had… had Batreaux’s suggestions not been as ludicrous as they may have thought?

But his true intentions are not to be divulged, as a sudden quake rattles their bones. The deep-rooted sound embeds itself within Link’s skull, forcing his jaw to lock lest his teeth clatter and break.

The short-lived, savage, familiar rumbling is their only warning, before the painted sky above the mountain’s crater is blanketed with rolling pitch.

When first Link had experienced the eruption of Eldin Volcano, the force of it had rendered him senseless. Ash had filled his lungs and stolen his breath, an unbearable heat that scorched his nerves raw. Witnessing the same phenomenon from miles away, lava running down the mountain face like a million scarlet lanterns bursting into flames, is in a completely different world. Part of him screams for his feet to move, to run; but caught so wholly in Ghirahim’s arms, he can only gape in silent wonder.

Until the tremors racing through the earth subside – and Ghirahim laughs.

It’s low, and devious, a harsh reminder of the demon who had once so often endangered the lives of so many. With a sense of foreboding nestled into his bones, Link turns deliberately towards him.

That pale smirk radiates satisfaction.

“What fortune,” he coos. “This will force your little friends to evacuate the area, at least until the lava flow returns to normal. Why,” he chuckles, maybe a bit too darkly, “I couldn’t have timed it better myself.”

Realization dawns on him in mixed shades, and as it does, Link pales. “They could be killed,” he whispers. The words taste like bile, his stomach in knots.

A shadow swoops in as the mountain’s fury spreads, snuffing out the light of the setting sun. Without its brilliance reflected from the ice, the world all at once becomes a bland, dreary scape. The wintry cleanliness deflates, a stench of brimstone soon taking its place.

Before the first particles of soot can reach his nostrils, Ghirahim turns the knight by the shoulders, forcefully walking him back through the crystalline corridors.

“You can do nothing for them,” the demon states, plain, though gentle. The thicker the earth’s fiery odor becomes, the more willingly Link allows himself to be led from it. “There’s simply no sensible way to brave the gaseous clouds at this point. Not to worry, though. The worst of it is sure to have settled by morning.”

Once or twice throughout his ventures to Eldin, Link had carelessly burned himself on the molten rocks. He thinks of Groose and Karane and whomever else might be caught in this storm of fire, their skin sizzling and boiling as his own once had. Zelda and Eagus wouldn’t let them go without having first stocked up on potions, he thinks. They’re fine… they have to be.

Ghirahim echoes his assurances. “Fret not, my dear,” he says. “I’m certain that if you could have survived such an ordeal, all on your own, without even that stiff block of steel for guidance, a gaggle of like-trained sky-brats will do just fine.”

By now they’ve reached the grass-covered cavern, spring water hissing as the earth continues to heat.

“You don’t understand,” Link rasps. “My earrings – they were a gift from the Goddess. They’re the main reason I didn’t burn up when the volcano erupted the first time.”

Eye suddenly glittering, Ghirahim raises one hand to the human’s ear. Link doesn’t recoil when he begins fondling the jewelry, examining it with heightened interest.

“Fire-shield jasper,” he observes, “mined from the depths of Eldin itself and blessed with numerous layers of enchantment. I confess, I had wondered where a creature like yourself-,” he stumbles, as though correcting himself, “by which I mean someone of relatively humble origins, could have possibly come upon such a gem. Many constituents of the northern temple were constructed from this same material.

“Well.” His mood acquires an edge of smugness. “All the more reason the others will be obliged to take shelter in a less conspicuous corner of the province. That flame is as good as unguarded.”

The knight unwittingly cocks his head. “The sanctuary won’t shelter them from the magma?”

“Do your earrings repel fire entirely,” Ghirahim inquires, overly rhetorical, “or do they merely lessen the extremity of its effects?”

The concept isn’t exactly comforting, and Link’s continued unease is apparently evident in his face. Determined to quiet these lingering doubts, Ghirahim takes Link’s shaking hands into his own.

“Look at me.”

He does as bidden. Those sallow features all but glow against the cave’s hushed tones.

First drawing deeply of the smoke-tainted air, Link doesn’t allow him to finish. “I won’t be able to sleep,” he says, eyes flitting aimlessly about. “Even despite everything else, I slept for days. No way can I just sit in a cave until-”

He’s cut off, for the demon practically strikes, breath forsaking him as that kiss claims his thoughts now for the second time. Their lips hardly touch before Ghirahim takes him in deeper, the grip on his hands his sole support, his lower lip drawn between perfect fangs.

Once he’s pulled away, a deadly gleam sparkles in that visible orb. This, and the smile curving up his ashen cheeks, exude an eagerness so staunch that Link nearly jolts.

“After nearly two full days left to fend for myself,” sardonic, the demon croons, “while you lay there like a corpse?” His voice drops, oozing honey. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten that sarcastic tone you so impudently took with me earlier. Do you really believe I’ll allow you to doze through the next several hours, having shown such blatant disrespect?”

Link stares with wide eyes, breath hitching in welcome anticipation. He has to bite his lip to keep his voice from trembling, the demon’s taste still fresh on his tongue. “What else did you have in mind?”

That vicious smirk broadens, one razor-sharp canine peeking through parted lips. Nimble claws release his fingers to trail delicately up the front of his shirt, slowing to a halt once they’ve reached the point of the V. Expertly, they undo first the top, then the second button, carefully making their way down – and an eruption of a different nature seems to overtake the human’s senses.

“Did I not promise to demonstrate the different uses for Chu gel?”

Lost for words and scarcely able to breathe, Link can only nod.

---

Soft orange beams from a thinly overcast sky, the scattered moss of the Sealed Temple bathed in the shadow of twilight. The evening is warm, yet the stone emanates an ethereal chill, seeping through Zelda’s many-layered uniform.

Three days.

Three days since Ghirahim had slipped in and out of their home, whispering spells unimagined in Link’s willing ear.

Three days since Pipit bore the first flogging Skyloft has seen in decades.

Three days.

Zelda shudders. Even though their last two conventions had gone by without incident, it still seems unwise to gather on the Surface past sundown. After what happened at the academy, however, fragments of cursed hatred so unexpectedly stinging the eyes of those she holds dear, she cannot afford to take any chances – not with the other residents of Skyloft so dangerously near.

The holy aura of the temple remains their safest possible haven.

She had scarcely felt the darkness as it infected Fledge and Eagus, crawling through their minds and distorting their perceptions, magnifying even the smallest resentments. Additionally, by all rights, Shattered Sight in its true form would not have been so easily countered – the fact of which only amplifies her apprehensions. In his weakened state, the demon lord should not have been able to cast even that watered-down variation. He couldn’t. Not unless… but…

“Zelda.”

Eagus’s commanding voice pulls her from her ruminations. Briefly, their eyes meet, a silent understanding of gratitude passed between.

Grounded again in reality so suddenly, Zelda finds herself overtaken by a spiel of dizziness. Lightly she groans, rubbing tenderly at her temples until the lightheadedness passes. Once it does, she finds Eagus standing at the ready, having not moved an inch since their arrival, whilst Fledge has seated himself cross-legged on the ancient tiles.

They wait only for Karane.

Karane, who’s worn the same stoic expression ever since… it. Karane, who hardly says two words at a time, even when spoken to. Karane, whose fiery spark has all but died completely, her motions carried out with begrudging obligation. This would be her first time joining in on their nightly conferences, now that Pipit’s healed enough to resume his patrol of the academy grounds. His involvement in Link’s case has been suspended indefinitely – but Karane…

When she shoves through the massive double doors, sauntering stiff and proud towards the chamber’s central dais, it’s clear that nothing has changed.

The redhead’s boots tap lightly on the tile, ball-then-heel, a picture of professionalism. And yet, her footsteps are deafening. She halts before Eagus, silently reporting for duty, then turns to offer Zelda the same courtesy.

“Karane,” the other girl tries to smile. “How is…,” she hesitates, “how is Pipit?”

Muscles tense and twitch beneath that sun-kissed jaw, dark rings sagging beneath sharp-blue eyes. Still, the knight exudes naught but propriety. “He’s doing well,” she answers simply. Then, only slightly lower, “All things considered.”

Zelda’s heart sinks, unable to hold the other’s terrible gaze. For all the wisdom revealed unto her by the divine, not one of Hylia’s memories seems to offer the means to make this right.

To make anything right.

And before she can even try, Karane has spun on her heel, descending the platform to fall in line next to Fledge. As she does, the latter scampers to his feet. His eyes flutter nervously, a stark contrast to the hardened figure beside him, blankly staring straight ahead. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Zelda looks to Eagus, and gives him an approving nod.

Returning it, the commander begins his report.

“We’ve received no further news from Eldin,” he says. “Not since yesterday. We know only that Cawlin returned safely to the northern temple, and that nothing out of the ordinary has occurred.”

Zelda thinks of that old saying, ‘No news is good news,’ and how her family and friends had once laughed at its innocence. Now, it no longer seems appropriate. “This worries me,” she responds. “What if they’ve been trying to send other messages, but were intercepted along the way?”

“Their Loftwings know not to fly low,” says Karane, still gazing at nothing in particular. “We discussed it before I left. Groose was actually pretty receptive to my ideas, so naturally Cawlin and Strich didn’t argue.”

Of course he was. It truly is a marvel how greatly the man has matured, and in so short a timespan. If this is to be the outcome, perhaps she and Link should get kidnapped by demons more often.

But back to the matter at hand. “That is encouraging,” Zelda replies, “though I wonder if it’s really enough. I thought I knew what all the demon is capable of, but he keeps throwing surprises our way. And Link…”

She doesn’t dare finish the thought.

“Link would never allow anyone to get hurt,” Fledge offers meekly, “including the Loftwings.”

Eagus adds, deep and grave, “I wish I could believe that that were true, son. By now, though, I think we ought to be prepared for anything.”

The younger man doesn’t argue, gaze falling to his feet. Since the other night, their interactions have been notably, and understandably, strained.

“Then,” Eagus continues, looking directly at Zelda, “there’s the issue of what to do should we encounter Link and his demon again.”

Here, she squeezes her eyes shut. It’s true that she had wanted to call everything off; to leave Link and his new companion be, to trust her Hero’s judgment even with the chance of its being impaired. Then right in her very presence, shards of malice had blinded her people’s eyes, and she’d been forced to reconsider. Had Ghirahim enacted the curse in a panic, believing himself and his wielder to be in danger? Would the rest of them be safe if she only assured him that he and Link would be left alone?

Is it even worth the risk?

“Even with all three sacred flames, they’ll require their divine threads be tied in order to seal a true bond. Maybe… maybe if we try to negotiate-…”

She’s hardly any time to gather a sensible solution, or even a coherent thought, before the thunder begins. Only it isn’t thunder. That tremor within the earth – she knows it. All eyes seem to scatter, wide with fear and confusion, but Zelda has already leapt from the dais and through the side doors.

Warm wind floods her senses as the coolness of the temple is left behind, her entire being accosted with the fragrance of the earth. Above the lush treetops, hundreds of miles north, the volcano’s summit can barely be spotted against a darkening sky. She considers climbing the rocky ledges overgrown with vines in effort to get a better look; but it soon proves unnecessary, dreadful billows of smoke and ash flooding the distant horizon.

From afar, they don’t hear the residual rumbling. Yet the silence is just as deadly. Zelda but glimpses the others as they rush to her side, and finding her in one piece, follow her gaze to the foreboding scene.

“Zelda…,” Fledge stammers, shaking terribly. “That isn’t… they aren’t-?”

“They’re okay.” It’s Karane who answers, and confidently. “We were all briefed on how to identify the warning signs long before an eruption. Groose would’ve gotten them out by now.”

Fledge’s relaxation is palpable. If only Zelda could share in it. A deep disquiet wells within, lodging itself in the pit of her stomach. What if…?

When she feels Eagus’s eyes on her, they’re met perhaps too pleadingly. “It appears,” he states aloud, “that you and I hold a mutual concern.”

“Link used that rainstorm for cover,” she iterates, “and had he not chosen to confront us afterwards, who knows how successful the endeavor might have been.”

Brows furrowed, Karane’s head snaps back and forth, attention darting between the two. “Are you suggesting that Link would try to scale an exploding volcano? Do you really think he’s stupid, or desperate, enough to go that far?”

Even in Zelda’s most recent memories, those flaming-red hoops shine bright in Link’s ears. “He has the means to survive it,” she whispers, almost more to herself. “They both do.”

Her stare returns to the rolling clouds, where it remains locked even as Eagus’s heavy hand weighs on her shoulder.

“We should head back inside,” he announces to all. “I might have an idea.”

Chapter Text

The air within the temple swelters and sways, even in the chambers blocked off from the magma. Ghirahim’s typically resilient form feels to be melting against the heat, yet it’s the low groaning of the stone that urges him forward.

Link sprints by his side, jasper earrings glowing brilliantly against the shadows. Chamber after chamber and hall after hall disappear behind them as they hasten towards the exit, Ghirahim’s hand-and-a-half sword gripped tight in the knight’s hand. Its third transformation left it truly stunning: thinner, hardly jagged, with a smooth-but-wicked cross guard and a gleaming diamond pattern not unlike that of the demon’s spirit form. But the rising magma gives them little time to admire it.

Water fruits shrivel and hiss as they burst into flames, their delicate skins caught in the spray. As the pair passes through the terracotta crossing, droplets from one flower catch Link’s arm, bubbling into vapor upon contact. His teeth grit audibly against the pain.

“Can’t you just teleport us out of here?” he shouts while they duck through the next doorway.

“And into a pit of liquid fire?” the demon retorts. “Unless I can see where I’m going, it’s much too dangerous.”

Although the more the fiery waves lap at their feet, the more tempting it becomes to take the risk.

The opening foyer is hazy with smoke, a scarlet tempest sloshing beneath the bridgeway. It fills the gaping chasm where the stone is broken off – an impossible jump.

Fortunately they don’t need to jump.

He can sense Link’s distress as they near the stony ledge, but Ghirahim refuses to slow. “Brace yourself, little master,” he warns, and grabs the knight’s upper arm.

A chime, a flash, a flurry of crimson gems – and they land neatly on the opposite side.

Link stumbles as Ghirahim pulls him to his feet, up the shadowy staircase and into the light. Though when at last they reach the top, the atmosphere does anything but clear.

He sees them, for the first time in ages, without at all catching their scent, thoroughly masked by volcanic fumes. The dull gleam of their metallic shields, the splotched patterns of their sick-green scales. He can hear them growl – a nauseous, deep-throated gurgle – from before the archway at the bridge’s end, no fewer than three in number: slime dripping from putrid jowls, tails sweeping violently from side to side.

To his right rasps the human’s labored breathing, the tip of his blade digging into the stone while he leans for support. And though the excursion of their leap had been comparatively easy, Ghirahim yet finds pangs of exhaustion clawing at himself.

“Can you get us past them?”

“Not without leaving us both exposed.”

Link releases a strained groan, which the other internally echoes. Even at his strongest, the little knight had always struggled against the paradox of formidability that is the Lizalfos. Entirely unphased by the roiling heat, the three before them await confrontation with gentlemanly patience – and yet that animal hunger shines brazen in their eyes.

Gemstones clink and glitter as the demon returns to his steel. The diamond beneath the cross guard, now a vicious red, pulses faintly. His senses fully awaken, and Ghirahim hums despairingly at the grisly extent of his wielder’s state. The tendons in his heel scream with discomfort, having been caught in the fiery spray – a weakness that, though small, could well prove fatal.

Be strong, Link. I will help you time your strikes.

He nods gravely before moving forward. A limp darkens his stride.

The first of their opponents has scarcely advanced when the knight demonstrates wisdom in his technique. Instantly it drops into a sweep, mace aimed low, and Ghirahim chimes accordingly. Link dives into a shoulder roll, tentative to his injured ankle, and comes up around to face the beast.

One jab to the soft skin under its neck, and the creature falls dead.

Ghirahim trembles at the taste of its flesh, of reptilian essence running hot down his blade. He’s little time to savor it as another Lizalfos charges, its metal arm swinging down hard. Another chime warns of its descent, which the knight swiftly heeds, slashing upwards whilst he ducks. A shrill cry pierces the smoke as the lizard’s tail is severed from its body.

While the beast withdraws beneath its shield to nurse its wound, two others emerge from the haze. Link manages to fell one with a well-timed strike before its companion sneaks up from behind. In a never-ending dance of steel on steel, Ghirahim warns of the creeping foes; and for every one felled, another two seem to take its place.

All the while, the magma beneath the bridge rises higher.

It rumbles and rolls with every shift in the earth, molten globes leaping from below as debris falls from the mountain – but to Link, the rest of the world may as well have disappeared.

Be aware of your surroundings, Ghirahim cautions. Link-!

It meets the knight’s left shoulder in a burst of scarlet, eating through tunic and chainmail as though they were paper. The skin blisters in an instant, a low sizzling drowned by his guttural cry.

An emboldened Lizalfos seizes the moment. Ghirahim lunges from his sword without a thought, black steel pieced together from hilt to tip – and buries itself in the creature’s neck. Frantic and snarling, the demon kicks it from his blade, while behind him, Link cuts the head off its overconfident peer.

Its confidence is shared. Another of its companions emerges from the haze – where Ghirahim catches the mace’s low whirring too late. He turns hardly in time to witness the spiked sphere tear strips of leather and flesh from Link’s left calf. Shouting wordlessly through clenched teeth, the knight swings his blade towards the beast, only for his mangled cries to dissipate when a solid kick lands upon his ribs.

The sword flies from his hand and, a ways off, spins to a scraping halt.

Ghirahim can’t think to retrieve it, the Lizalfos leaping, intent on crushing the human’s skull. Within the second Ghirahim is shielding him with his body, sticking the creature on his saber and flinging it with a shout into the lake of fire. It emits a harsh shriek as its hide meets the flames, webbed limbs flailing for but a moment before cut into still silence.

To the duo’s rear lies the archway carved into the mountain, elegant framework for the crude tunnels beyond. A stone stairway connects it to the bridge, and it’s at the foot of these stairs that the demon’s blade rests. He casts it one wistful glance past the string of reptilian carcasses, before Link’s strained coughing tears him away.

The world surrounding them goes eerily quiet. Deafened even by the gentle tremors in the stone, Ghirahim makes to assess the other’s injuries. As he does, adrenaline gives way to panic.

Link barely sustains consciousness. His entire left sleeve has burned away, exposing the raw, blistered flesh beneath. The leather of his right boot has melted from the ankle, the burn beneath glowing an angry red, but is miniscule compared to his left calf. The skin beneath the torn boot has been cut to bloody ribbons.

Even lacking true medical expertise, the demon knows little time is allowed before the damage becomes permanent. With haste he unfastens the knight’s larger satchel, nearly tearing threads in the process. He’s only just uncorked the bottle of heart salve when Link’s trembling hand shoots up to grab his wrist.

Ghirahim snaps his gaze towards the other, at first with incredulity, but is given pause at the shake of Link’s head. His breathing is shallow, eyes blown wide. His free hand clutches his side.

And Ghirahim recalls. His ribs.

With a snap he conjures an obsidian knife, slicing through the layers of cloth and mail as gingerly as he can manage in his frantic state of mind. The bruising is predictably severe: the skin, though unbroken, black as pitch.

“You have internal bleeding,” says the demon. “Will the salve be effective if applied topically?”

Staring into the other’s eyes, he discerns the dread pooled within. Link’s neck is stiff as he again shakes his head, tendons pulsing.

A cloud settles over Ghirahim’s mind. Summoning another knife, he holds the hilt to Link’s quivering lips. “Then you know what needs to be done.”

Link swallows, hard, but bites down on the leather willingly.

His hands spasm, whimpers muffled, as the demon cuts through to the severed arteries. Working quickly, Ghirahim sets the knife aside and runs through the bottle with ungloved fingers. Blunted nails dig into the stone, but Link is careful not to squirm, not even whilst hot salve is brushed against his bleeding vessels. One at a time, Ghirahim watches as they close, globs of crimson returning to their rightful place. Even once every sinew is restored, the smoke mingles heavily with the rich scent of iron.

The methodical hum of the magma is split as metal clatters against stone, and when the demon raises his focus, he finds the knight’s eyes fallen shut. His injured calf, which he’d so carefully kept elevated, rests limp against his knee.

Very little heart salve remains.

Ghirahim scoops the remainder onto his fingers, heat of another nature boiling within him. He rubs it hurriedly into the exposed tendons, desperate to save the limb. Torn ligaments deep inside reconstruct, but by the time the poultice runs dry, the injury as a whole does hardly more than cauterize.

The knight’s other injuries – his shoulder, his ankle, his means to wield a sword and carry himself to safety – remain unhealed.

“It’s not enough.”

He repeats it, over and over, louder each time, as though doing so could possibly mitigate his fury. With rising anxiety, dark claws scrape fruitlessly at the glass walls, but all residual splotches elude him.

“It’s not enough. Not enough. NOT ENOUGH!”

His voice echoes from the mountain face, returning to hit his eardrums many times over. He feels as though he were outside of himself, a noncorporeal voyeur helplessly observing as the scene unfolds – and what a pathetic sight he makes. Claws clench into fists, clinking and screeching as he tears at the air above his bowed head.

“It’s not enough…”

Familiar images blur in and out of focus, crawling up his spine to sift through his skull. Blue skies turned violet, black clouds bursting into white – sharp as noonday shadows beneath a clear expanse, they invade his mind. Silver storms, black tornadoes – the Gates of Time…

It will be enough. It has to be.

Drawing in a sharp breath, the demon glances down again. He focuses in on the worst of the burns, half-exposed vessels still pumping dutifully from beneath the charred flesh. It’s not good, but neither is it fatal. Gently, he lifts the young knight into his arms. If he can get Link to relative safety, locate a few heart fruits, then-

He’s hardly spun on his heel, bent on reclaiming his fallen sword, when the dull glint of tarnished armor catches his eye. Perched like a gargoyle at the top of the staircase, holding his transformed blade over the wireframe railing, is the Knight Commander.

Instinctively, Ghirahim’s lips curl into a snarl. “Unhand me.”

When the commander’s grip loosens, black steel dipping towards the flames, the other’s heart nearly gives. A low whine rings in his ears.

“Is that really what you want, demon?”

The daunting heat is all but forgotten, his whole world feeling to have frozen. Ghirahim doesn’t dare move. He remains frozen in place, crouched down on one knee with the little hero’s body limp in his arms, and stares into the commander’s eyes. They glare from beneath a grey helmet, unblinking. His lips, framed by a set of unsinged whiskers, twitch into the slightest hint of a smile.

“Once upon a time,” he bellows ironically, “the Goddess Hylia created a blade of divine steel, endowed not only with intelligence, but with the resilience of a god – a weapon unlike any other. When news of this weapon reached the enemy’s ears, he became determined to forge one of his own.”

Ghirahim listens with growing impatience, indignant at this mockery of history. Does the human simply mean to demean him?

As the commander – Eagus, as the other recalls – persists, his volume drops but a hair. “The sword of the Demon King mirrored that of the Goddess blade in as many ways as they differed. His weapon became alive in every sense. However, unable to create this life from nothing, Demise instead tethered his steel to the soul of one borne of flesh.”

“Do you mock me, human?” the former lord growls. “Do you think I’d forgotten my own history?”

“Just the opposite.” Now the wretch’s mouth curls into a dreadful smirk. “I was hoping that you could educate me. We all know the Goddess blade to be indestructible. I wonder…”

Ghirahim’s throat tightens. He only vaguely notices his claws digging into Link’s thigh.

“… is yours?”

His breath catches. Before he can begin to conjure a response,

“And if it is, I can’t imagine you’d want to spend the next Hylia-knows how many centuries at the bottom of a volcano. Even if it should become dormant, or extinct, who would be able to claim you from beneath so many sheets of hardened rock?” A chortle. “Who would even know to try?”

“You’ve made your point,” Ghirahim spits. His voice retains its steadiness, yet he feels himself pale. “What happens now?”

As if on cue, the younger knight stirs. His face contorts into a short-lived grimace, then reverts to restless slumber.

Eagus gestures with his eyes. “We Hylians don’t turn on one another so easily,” he says coldly, smugness gradually fading. “You may find this difficult to believe, but I am not here to hinder you. I came to offer my services – and, well,” his head dips lightly towards the injured Link, “it appears you’re both in dire need of it.”

Ghirahim says nothing. He glares through narrowed eyes, searching the human’s aged face. Though it surpasses Link’s own in terms of years, there still lacks that hardened edge, worn only by warriors who have seen death by the masses – and often been the cause.

Even so, it’s impossible to mistake the sinister glint in those eyes, a perverse satisfaction at the other’s helplessness.

A light tremor wracks the mountain. Eagus, having given the demon sufficient time to respond and seeing it neglected, withdraws his outstretched arm. A short breath of relief escapes Ghirahim’s chest with his blade again hovering over solid earth, though any feelings of pleasantness die quickly.

“Stand up.”

Ghirahim’s stomach churns. His teeth clench so fiercely he fears they may crack, hubris stinging at the effort of his obedience.

“You and the Hero will accompany me through the tunnels, to the eastern boundary of Eldin – and urgently.”

“Where Her Grace awaits with a gaggle of your kin, I don’t doubt.” He holds his head high, the points of his cloak snapping wildly in a scorching gust – even at his lowest, he’s sure he must be a sight to behold. “In exchange for my compliance, therefore, you will first return my blade to me.”

Eagus doesn’t mask his scowl. “I’m afraid the sword will remain with me until we reunite with the others.”

Demonic eyes narrow in warning. “And why should I at any point refrain from cutting off your hands and throwing what’s left into the fire?”

That miserable frown doesn’t soften, though Ghirahim takes what pride he can in the flicker of fear passing through those eyes.

“It’s not an unreasonable request, demon. Your goal is to assimilate, or so you say. Consider this an opportunity to prove your peaceful intentions.”

Dread wells in the demon’s core as he weighs his options carefully. Link’s wounds, he knows, though non-lethal, are severe. He needs medical attention, and sooner rather than later. The Knight Commander can lead them to just that. And should Ghirahim attempt it on his own, at the summit of a volcano, mid-eruption, with predators of high intelligence in numbers unknown lurking around every corner…

Twisting his steel into the dirt, Eagus interrupts this bleak trail of thought.

“Time is of the essence,” he says impatiently. “Will you come along willingly?”

At last the demon breaks their gaze, falling intermittently from the gem of his sword to the tattered form in his arms. Link’s breathing comes in soft, shallow wheezes. Crimson rivulets pool within his scourged flesh.

Words are deemed unnecessary as again, Ghirahim meets that horrid stare. Finding the demon to be sufficiently subdued, Eagus relaxes and steps off to the side, red earth crunching beneath his boots. The purpose of the motion is keenly grasped, even without explanation, yet the commander can’t help but leap at the chance to degrade him further.

“Stay where I can see you at all times,” the man orders tonelessly. “I have a feeling you know the way.”

---

Fire and brimstone become a thing of the past the further one descends through the eastern tunnels. They were, after all, carved for that very purpose. Crude, earthen walls turn to smoothly laid stone, terracotta walkways still somewhat preserved after so many centuries of disuse. Cold torches line the arched halls, unlikely ever again to know the caress of flame. All that illuminates their path is the occasional Keese, smoldering in slumber.

The scenery could almost be nostalgic, were it not for the dog nipping at his heels.

A bout of blessed silence, and it barks again.

“I’m tempted to ask,” he begins much too informally. His voice is like grating glass. “… how you managed to spread your influence that night, in my people’s otherwise peaceful home? Or I would be, if I thought I could trust a word of it.”

The demon rolls his eyes, not that the man behind can see. No matter the current balance of power, he’ll not be put on trial. “Deceit is not in my nature,” he replies flatly, “nor could a simple creature like yourself hope to understand the intricate workings of what in this world lies Unseen. That being said, in matters of this particular curse…”

He pauses abruptly, silver strands rippling as he turns to deliver a wicked sneer.

“… only the frail of head and heart can in any capacity be swayed. Make of that knowledge what you will, Commander.”

He’s prepared to resume their trek when the point of his blade whirs through stale shadows, coming to rest at the hollow of his throat. Greying eyes narrow in the dim firelight. “You will answer for your crimes, demon,” the commander says darkly. “In this life or the next, your wickedness will catch up to you.”

“Remind me to clear my schedule.”

“Turn around and keep walking.”

Eagus’s voice raises an octave, the demon’s own steel just short of breaking skin. Stepping back with deliberate leisure, Ghirahim hums proudly, then does as he’s bidden.

The corridors run up, and sometimes twist down. Some are serpentine. Some are straight. They’ve begun to descend a downward curve, Link’s calves dangling slack over the demon’s arm, when the first rays of sunlight cut through the darkness. Of course, Ghirahim thinks. No one would have been around to repair the old gate, or had any reason to.

Still, as the age-old scent becomes increasingly familiar, unwelcome memories skulk about more freely.

“Get a move on.”

The commander’s bark reminds Ghirahim precisely where he’s come to be – how far he’s fallen. He hadn’t realized how his movements had slowed, the weight in his arms rendered ungrounding by the consuming essence of times long past.

They were better times than this. More dignified.

Blood boiling deep within, the demon turns again to face the other – and pulls his lips back in a bloodcurdling snarl. Only for a second do the human’s eyes gape, body recoiling as he leaps back in fear; and while Ghirahim is certain he’ll be made to regret it in some capacity, he yet gives a haughty cock of his head before continuing onward.

Whatever retribution awaits him, it stands that for the short remainder of their venture through the caves, Eagus does not utter another sound.

Not until the tunnels’ maw is behind them.

“Halt.”

The unexpectedness is so effective, Ghirahim would have done exactly that no matter what was spoken. By the time Eagus has recovered this audacity for speech, an open sky yawns overhead. Dark whisps curl against the blue expanse, fading gently into oblivion as they near the eastern horizon. Below the treeline of distant spruces and pines, the brittle ruins of a once-thriving village stand dim and forlorn.

“We’ll stop here for now,” the commander elaborates. “Enchanted jewelry or no, the boy could stand to be rehydrated… and so, for that matter, could I.”

Ghirahim turns with a hollow stare. The commander’s appearance differs beneath the improved light. Layers of soot dust his suntanned face, which he wipes with the back of his hand. It isn’t the crow’s feet that mark the first true signs of age, nor even the silver threads sprouting from his chin, but the deep rings sagging heavy beneath his weary eyes.

Holding the man carefully in his peripheral, Ghirahim lowers Link onto the ground and crouches before him, propping his back against the mountainside.

“Enchanted jewelry,” the demon echoes, unlatching the knight’s canteen. “So your haven above the clouds values knowledge, at least.”

“Hmph.” Eagus retrieves a small vial from the pouch on his belt. Once uncorked, it emits a strange, almost coppery odor. “These days, it’s become essential. Thanks to you.”

“You are most welcome. Though I’m sure you would have been content to allow your society to devolve. Blessings often come in disguise that way.”

While Ghirahim cups the younger knight’s cheek, he chances a sultry glance at the other. He’s just in time to capture that displeased glower before Eagus holds the vial to his lips, grimacing whilst he downs its contents. It takes another moment, but the demon recognizes the scent: blood of the horned lizard native to the region, watered down and boiled with Boko horns. That would explain how the man didn’t succumb to the fires of the mountain.

He looks to the magnificent longsword, and to the white knuckles gripping its hilt. Soft, faded tribal patterns reflect off the blade when the sun hits it just so. A fine weapon for a fine wielder – if he can reclaim them.

When Eagus doesn’t deign to speak again, Ghirahim hones in on his task of guiding water down Link’s throat. As it turns out, tilting the knight’s head far enough let the fluids flow without choking him is a feat easier said. Getting the angle right is nothing less than a science, one that will surely wake its subject along the way.

A rather disturbing thought occurs to him. Does Eagus intend for Link to regain consciousness so soon? And if so, to what end?

“Kakariko Ruins lie not a mile from here,” the commander muses aloud, staunching the flow of Ghirahim’s own ruminations. “But I guess you knew that.”

The demon casts him a curious glance, one brow arched in suspicion. Does he mean for me to give something away?

“My scholarly duties on Skyloft ended many a year ago. Yet there are some stories you simply can’t forget.”

“To be sure.” With his thumb he swipes stray droplets from the corners of Link’s mouth. Perfect lips, singed with smoke. He’ll have them properly cleaned and embalmed before long, then feel them again pressed to his own… won’t he?

“Remind me again how that battle went down? You lead an ambush of demons and other foul beings through these very tunnels, and during the volcano’s annual eruption, no less?”

A mirthless chuckle. “You really do know your history,” he chimes in false praise. “The Sheikah knew very well what they were getting into bed with when they chose to settle so near an active volcano. I imagine the founders thought themselves clever, digging elegant moats about the town’s circumference to direct the flow of lava. Arrogant zealots, the lot of them, left their primary means of escape unguarded. They never saw us coming.”

“And would not have had to,” the commander’s tone darkens, “had its location not been betrayed by one of their very own.”

Ghirahim redirects his attention, and finds himself the object of a glare of sheer, embittered disgust. With feigned boredom he deflects it, rolling his eyes ‘til they land again on the sleeping Hero.

Eagus is far from content to leave the matter to rest. “I’ve always wondered,” he seethes, “what kind of monster could turn on his own kind.”

“Tut, tut, Commander.” The demon chides him smoothly, though his hair begins to bristle beneath that stare. “We were at war, let me remind you. None of the carnage was personal.”

He gives a crisp flip to his curtain of hair as the other scoffs with incredulity.

“No,” says Eagus, “I supposed it wasn’t. Just business as usual.”

A flash of heat rolls through the demon. Why, you presumptuous-

“Daft of you to believe a handful of paragraphs could summarize me. Daft, but not surprising.”

“You’re certainly right about one thing.” The Knight Commander’s tone rises in aggression, “and that’s that I don’t understand you, not in the slightest.”

Dirt and gravel crunch beneath his boots as he looms nearer the other two, the demon’s blade swinging absently in his grasp. Cautious, Ghirahim rises to his feet. Though the demon may be taller by several inches, Eagus does not allow it to deter him.

“The people who raised you, guided you, watched you grow up – sold into destruction, and for what? For a handful of power. No, demon. I do not understand it at all.”

Imbecile. Back away while you still can. “I’ll not explain my actions to you, human.”

“Tell me, Oathbreaker,” but the man appears to be a glutton, ravenous for punishment, “did you look away while their throats were slit in front of you? And afterwards, when your twisted comrades celebrated your victory, did you go along with them? Or did you secretly mourn?”

“Whilst my enemies’ throats were cut before me,” the demon echoes slowly, calmly, bitterly, “I gazed into their bloodred eyes, and smiled.”

He leans in further, yet the commander does not back down.

“And when it was all over,” he flashes his teeth in a sadistic grin, tongue flicking leisurely over one perfect canine, “I certainly did mourn, knowing that so sweet a victory – a vengeance – would never again be attained within my lifetime.”

A fire blazes within grey-brown eyes, much too close to dismiss. Black steel twists in the commander’s clenched fist, tapping rhythmically into the dirt. Ghirahim doesn’t doubt the strength required to hold that fire at bay; and by the gods, is it tempting not to spur it on further.

“Well.” Eagus’s voice drops dangerously low. “No need to grieve for your warped sense of glory forever. Should Her Grace continue to insist on sparing your life, I’m sure you’ll relive it soon enough.”

Confusion in its purest form washes over the demon, and before he can think to stop it, the other is upon him.

“You… you don’t know, do you?”

Skin suddenly crawling, Ghirahim walks warily backward. He’s not taken two steps when Eagus offers him clarity.

“The Demon King’s curse,” he says. The ignorance in his face is not one so easily feigned. “With his dying breath, your master took hold of the threads of fate, binding his eternally to that of the Goddess and her knight. In this life or another, he will revive, and wreak havoc upon the earth once more.”

Every word, every syllable falls slowly upon his ears, echoing faintly over and again. He repeats them internally, commits them to memory, tearing each apart and digesting it thoroughly within a matter of seconds. All the while the words of his master’s phantom chant in an unending verse: ‘Both the Hero and I are bound by this curse. I shall rise again, and claim you. Unless…’

His heart drops to his stomach. A wintry sensation pulses through his veins.

‘… your allegiance has already deviated?’

Those same skulking memories flood the demon’s mind, and this time, the gates are broken. The scent of brimstone is thick, the lava is blinding – and the screams of the Shattered harmonize in a haunting lullaby.

“He will rise again…”

Those visions of his prime recede bit by bit, only to make room for others more recent. The eolian cave; the rains of Lanayru; the cavern behind the waterfall; the Goddess’s warning above the cistern, ‘Dead for now’; the little hero’s consistent insecurity about how he might compare to Demise.

All at once, it makes perfect sense.

And Link. His new master-to-be. The whole time, had he known, and kept this secret to himself?

“He will rise again.”

Though the demon mutters softly, and only to himself, his words carry.

“Your pride alone ought to damn you,” Eagus says low, “along with your sincere lack of remorse. For Link’s sake Zelda may wish to see good in you, but there is not a doubt in my soul that yours is truly lost. Were you under my jurisdiction, I would deliver your sentence this instant.”

“Fortunately, he’s not.”

Both heads turn. The voice belongs to Link.

He kneels in the dirt a few paces from the corroded archway, his injured limb trembling horridly. His bow is drawn, arrow notched, aimed carefully at the commander’s wrist. For how long he’d been waiting, or how much he had heard, remains to be seen.

“Link.” Eagus’s voice softens considerably, yet retains its stern edge. “Lower your weapon, son.”

“I mean to,” the younger knight heaves. His chords quicken, breathing pained. “Just drop the sword and I will.”

“Link.”

Eagus whirls to wholly face the younger, then freezes when that arrow follows the motion. Even when he blinks, Link’s lids hardly touch, deathly blue orbs framed perfectly in white. Without fail, they remain locked onto their target.

Finding strictness less than effective, the commander attempts a different approach.

“I know you’re nervous,” he tries. Ghirahim scoffs, but is ignored. He’s reminded of a boundaryless fool striving vainly to soothe a hissing remlit – and if he interprets Link’s face correctly, the young knight feels much the same. “But we all know that this isn’t entirely your fault. Just… just put down the bow, and we can get you help. You have my word.”

“I’ll take my chances without it, Commander. Drop the sword. Nobody needs to get hurt here.”

Neither party breaks from their frozen stare, the only movement that of Link’s heaving chest. Even while this silent showdown stretches on, Ghirahim finds himself but slightly restive. His gaze travels from that pointed arrowhead to the crest of his blade.

“Ghirahim.” Link’s quieted voice alternates address. “Can’t you do something?”

He can…

He does.

The chiming is soft on a nonexistent breeze, and he reappears to the younger knight’s right. Link doesn’t flinch at the sound, nor at the breath ghosting the uninjured side of his neck – but when obsidian fingers curl around his bow where the arrow is notched, he stiffens.

“You,” the demon lord whispers, silver hair tickling the Hylian’s ear, “have humiliated me for the last time.”

A SNAP and a CRUNCH overlap, and both bow and arrow collapse into splinters.

A beat passes feeling not unlike eternity, with Ghirahim staring absently into the dirt. He feels shame, and disgust, with Link and with himself. Demise would likely flog him for all this foolishness.

And Ghirahim would thank him for it.

“I think we’ve lingered here long enough, Commander. Don’t you agree?”

He doesn’t look, but can sense the man nod. “Yes,” says Eagus, sounding strangely unnerved. “Yes, I believe you’re right. You will lead the way to the Ruins, then. Our Loftwings will meet us there.”

Somehow Ghirahim doubts that ‘our Loftwings’ includes Link’s.

Wordlessly, he complies, lifting Link beneath the arms to support his mangled leg. The human’s sharp, pained grunt is all the protest he offers. Their pace slows considerably with the knight only able to limp along, his grip on the demon’s shoulders reluctant. Ghirahim doesn’t meet his eyes. Doesn’t wish to. Shifting clouds roll in over the sun, casting a blanket of grey over the barren earth; and with each short, strenuous step, the specks dotting the horizon morph gradually into rubble.

“What’s the matter with you?”

Per the usual, Link’s whispering is far too loud. Still, the commander’s aura gives no indication that he’s heard.

“You are in no condition to run nor to fight, little hero. And should I resist, you will die. I’m afraid there’s simply nowhere else to turn.”

By now the haze has almost completely dissipated. The skeletal remains of Kakariko take shape, soon to form broken labyrinths of charred cinder and distant memories.

“We’ll figure it out.” His voice tightens. “We always do-”

“There is no ‘we,’ Link.”

The other may attempt to recoil, but it’s futile to resist the demon’s hold.

“All those times you opened your mouth to utter some pretty speech about free will, about wishing to honor my choices – yet you withhold from me the knowledge of any option you disprove of.”

He can feel the human’s heart grow frantic, even sick. “I didn’t… I didn’t think about it like that, okay? I-”

“You what? Did you actually believe you were saving me? Or did you merely wish to play the Hero once more?”

“Ghirahim.” Link swallows nervously. “What was I supposed to do? You were a war criminal, and still technically are.”

The sting of those final words rattles him deeper even than the wounding of his pride, and for reasons he can’t fully place. A creature so lofty as he, once a fearsome and bloodthirsty warrior, shaken to silence by such a trivial accusation?

Before he can even begin to make sense of it, the words spill reflexively off his tongue. “Yes,” he agrees softly. “That I am.”

Although the knight’s breath hitches, he makes no attempt to argue.

A little at a time, the demon is brushed with the essence of numerous individuals, among them the spirit maiden and her redheaded hound. At what point, whilst untangling the individuality of each potential fiend, the epiphany dawns upon him, he couldn’t hope to say. And yet it remains so.

Ghirahim is completely unsure of what he ought to do.

“Think of your home and what devastation nearly befell it,” he speculates. “Perhaps you and I are simply not for one another.”

“That isn’t true,” the knight snaps quietly, his resolve suddenly firm. “And I think you know that.”

But Ghirahim is past the point of willing discussion.

Her Grace meets them at the border, once again clad all in white, jeweled sandals on her spotless feet. Four other humans flank her, some wearing variations of Link’s own uniform, others dressed according to the more casual of Skyloft’s citizenry. Those seasoned by their years of service boast masks of neutrality, but from the demon lord they cannot hide their overall unrest.

Zelda’s worried gaze falls first to Link, and her hand flies to cover her gasp.

“By the Golden Three,” she breathes quietly.

Dislodging the knight from himself, Ghirahim shoves Link forward with no amount of gentleness. The redhead lurches and catches him with one meaty arm, low clouds of dust kicked up at the ruckus, then beckons towards another. Nodding, a tall, lanky boy with shaggy blond hair steps forward, and soon Link is supported by both, his features twisted in pain.

Eagus does not halt until he’s inches from the Goddess. “Zelda,” he greets, rather irreverently. “His wounds are terrible, but not urgent. He will live.”

Though she exhales with relief, Ghirahim yet senses her persistent unease.

“Very good, Commander. He will remain in your custody until…”

When she struggles for the proper wording, Eagus completes the sentence for her. “Until further notice.”

The demon doesn’t bother to hide his scoff. “And you’ve the nerve to call me ‘oathbreaker.’”

Two sets of eyes, one aged and one youthful, glower in their own colors of contempt, perhaps even contrition. Perhaps. Teeth digging into her lip, Zelda offers the commander a hesitant nod. And when Eagus faces the demon yet again, black clouds seem to gather.

Ghirahim extends one clawed hand. “My sword,” he says plainly, his features like stone. “I’ve upheld my end. Now release me.”

Zelda’s pale, dainty fingers snake around the commander’s front, curling around the leathered hilt. Even as Ghirahim so much as thinks to move, he feels as though the whole of his person were sodden.

From the corner of his vision, he can clearly discern Link’s pleading stare, darting hopelessly between the two.

The commander shakes his head. “You wish to assimilate,” he says, like an echo from afar. “You will therefore be tried according to our laws.”

He relinquishes his hold entirely, leaving none but the Goddess to carry the demon’s blade. With a low whine, his vision in tinged with gold, his arms and legs completely immobile. His lips, however, curl into a sardonic grin.

“My master was right,” he sighs. His tone doesn’t betray the sting of defeat, much as he reels within. “What could I have expected, having lain with dogs?” He looks to Link, and his smile drops. “Birds of a feather.”

“Can you not silence him?” Eagus asks, a bit rhetorically. But before the girl can answer, he’s spun on his heel and begun to march forward, subordinates quick to fall in line.

Zelda only frowns. “Forgive me, Link,” she mutters. “I have to keep my people safe.”

“We will return to the sky immediately,” the commander calls, addressing all as one. “Link’s position being unique, we’ll have to discuss our next actions while his wounds are being tended to. As for the demon,” that gruff tone darkens, “his fate is in the Goddess’s hands.”

A humorless cackle climbs up Ghirahim’s throat, which he’s disinclined to swallow. “Has it ever been in anyone else’s?”

Zelda’s brows furrow, blue gaze pinned to the ground – a curiously solemn demeanor, considering how events have unfurled in her favor. Across the pale-blue sky behind her, a murder of Loftwings approaches, six great birds oblivious to the fact that they carry his fate upon their colorful feathers.

Before the otherworldly tint of gold becomes all-consuming, the last thing Ghirahim sees is the caldron of bitterness and self-loathing simmering in Link’s eyes.

Chapter Text

On the first day Link only sits there, knees pulled to his chest, his temple pressed to the cool iron bars. He’d woken on a dusty old cot made of tightly bound straw, brittle bits of twine poking through the thin linen sheet and jabbing into his skin. The sudden chill was what brought him to his senses. The first thing he noticed was the absence of his uniform, replaced while he slept with a pair of navy green trousers and a plain white cotton shirt. A pair of his old boots had been left for him in the corner. He never touched them, nor the tray of cold pumpkin soup, nor the tin of lukewarm water, nor the stale half-loaf of bread.

He doesn’t remember much. After Ghirahim’s… withdrawal, Link hadn’t bothered putting up much of a fight. He’d gone limp in Groose and Strich’s hold, allowing the both of them to guide him onto Strich’s Loftwing (Groose’s being less likely to support two riders) without protest. Had he struggled enough, perhaps he could have dislodged himself from the creature’s back midflight. At the time, though, the effort seemed pointless.

Lately, everything has begun to feel pointless.

A cool breeze brushes his cheek, slipping gently through the concave structure of his cell. How he got here is lost in a haze, the lingering touch of Luv and Bertie’s sedatives still shadowing his mind even now. But then again, his malnourishment could easily share the blame. The days blur into one long, misty stretch, time a construct suddenly void of meaning. Numerous times the sun has set since Zelda had come to visit him here, none of which he’s bothered to track. She only came once. He’d had nothing to say to her.

Eagus was different.

Stripped of knighthood, at least for the time being. His incarceration indefinite. His contact with others limited. Spurred by the pity underlying the commander’s tone, Link had requested to be allowed use of some of his former tools – a woodblock and carving knife; a harp or a lyre, even an ocarina. He doesn’t know how to play the last one, but had always wanted to learn. Anything to keep his hands busy and his mind occupied. With a steep frown and a sternness that vanquished any hope of argument, his appeal was ‘regretfully’ denied. He asked which cell cluster he’d been assigned to. Eagus left without giving an answer.

Wings beat heavily a ways off, either Hauk or Albat circling the perimeter. If at any point he’d been keeping track of their respective shifts, he’s long since stopped caring. Sometimes their presence will sound more like the rustling of leaves, and for a brief period he’ll forget where he is; then he looks to the vines creeping down through the overhead crags, expecting to see a blade of pitch steel perched just underneath, the tinkling of gemstones dancing in his ears. And each time, his gaze falls on empty corners, with no other sound but the wind whistling through the grass.

His eyes fall shut. Is he tired? Bored?

… Heartbroken?

Does it even matter anymore?

The beating seems to amplify, until it’s no longer only heard, but also felt, thin whisps of his hair whisked by rhythmic drafts. When it stops, emitting one final, extended gust, a splash of yellow catches his eye.

“Pipit?”

The name, soft and hoarse, hardly makes it past his lips, obstructed by the dryness of his throat. (How long, he wonders, has it been since he drank anything?) Whether the knight heard him at all is irrelevant, though, as it’s made immediately clear that Link is his reason for being here. To what end has yet to come to light.

Still, as Pipit approaches, the sympathetic smile tugging at his mouth at least is a small comfort.

“Link,” he greets softly, accentuating with a cautious wave. Do they all find me suddenly threatening?

It’s a dire thought, even broaching on maddening. These people have known him all his life, having regarded him as reckless at worst. To see Pipit look him over like this, his gait stiff, the light all but faded from his deep-blue eyes…

Keys rattle as he procures a metal ring from his satchel, gaze distant while he sifts through to find a specific one. The lock clicks, door groaning on its hinges as it swings open, Link not cast so much as a cautionary glance. It’s no matter of trust. Even if he were to deck the older knight right now and launch himself from the grassy ledge into the ether beyond, it would only be moments before he was recaptured. Wherever his own Loftwing is being kept, it’s much too far to sense their connection.

Before he sinks to the ground, Pipit grasps a bar for support, grunting softly as he lowers himself. Peculiar, Link observes. Swallowing dryly, he straightens his posture, wondering whether his mind isn’t merely playing tricks – then Pipit grunts again when his legs fold beneath him, his tight smile a feeble effort to mask his discomfort. Link tries to humor him by mimicking the gesture, but his lips barely twitch.

“Pipit,” he begins again, voice burning in his throat. “I’m-… Did… they… send you?”

“Technically,” Pipit chimes, a poor attempt at good humor, but appreciated just the same. He didn’t bother relocking, or even simply closing, the door behind him, Link notes. “It was Zelda’s idea, believe it or not.” His eyes widen a hair, realization dawning on his face. “Though maybe you don’t wanna talk to me now that you know that.”

Link’s gaze plummets. Zelda. Of course. Not that he’d felt much like talking – or listening – anyway. Still, after that absolute nightmare of a reunion at the boundary of Eldin, he couldn’t help but wonder why Pipit of all people would have been absent. At the time, although there’d been other matters preoccupying his thoughts, he’d briefly entertained the idea that Pipit’s treachery belowdecks had been found out. If he’s here…

“So they still don’t know about what happened on the Sandship.”

It isn’t phrased as a question, but Pipit scoffs. Now it’s Link whose face twists with dreaded understanding.

“Twenty lashes,” the older knight says tonelessly, features like stone.

Suddenly Pipit may as well be several decades older. Link shrinks back into himself, his chest throbbing with equal parts guilt and shame. The stiffness with which the older moves, the uncharacteristic vacancy in his once-lively gaze – just like that, it all makes sense.

Pipit, prided publicly for his model behavior since the two of them were small children – stripped and struck for insolence, the whole town there to witness. Because of Link.

No longer can he hold the older knight’s gaze. “How did they find out?”

The other sports a crooked grin, somehow genuine, a single canine flashing behind his lips. “I told them.”

Link’s speechless gaping apparently lifts the other’s spirits, satisfaction flickering shortly across freckled features. He shrugs, only for his bemusement to contort into a wince, the movement tugging at welts that must still be healing.

That’s right. No heart salves or elixirs are permitted to those who’d been given over to the whipping post. To think that he’d have a reason to remember that.

“Wh-,” Link starts to ask, only for a fit of coughing to constrict his throat. With a roll of his eyes, Pipit produces a small vial from the pouch at his belt.

“Drink this, you petulant idiot.”

His dry heaving brings tears to his eyes, and Link struggles to discern the contents of the glass – then gasps when he recognizes the signature red of concentrated heart fruit juice.

“They actually let you carry that?” he rasps, taking the vial between shaky fingers.

Again, Pipit shrugs. “I told Eagus it wasn’t for me,” he says simply. “And he trusts me.”

Link uncorks the vial, a frown tugging at his mouth. “Must be nice.”

A silent beat settles over them both, its weight nearly tangible. Before he even knows why, Link shivers. Still, he throws back the bitter liquid, so overpowering it first has him missing the coppery taste that was trickling down his dry throat. Once the elixir’s soothing effects enter his bloodstream, however, he can’t deny his relief.

And still, he frowns, his initial inquiry coming round.

“Why did you turn yourself in?” he all but demands, offering the vial back.

Pipit takes the proffered container, an odd expression on his face as he stores it. He hesitates before answering.

“Karane asked me that, too,” he says. Something unidentifiable is wound into his chords. “It was her second question.”

After a hard moment, he meets Link’s inquisitive stare. A faint blush creeps up the younger knight’s neck as he suddenly realizes how eager he must look, leaned slightly forward, brows raised and knitted. With little hope for recovery, he forces himself to relax.

Fortunately, Pipit doesn’t mention it. “You wanna know what she asked first?”

Swallowing hard, Link nods his assent.

Dark eyes narrow, and the younger hardly recognizes the man who had once been his colleague. “She asked why I did anything worth turning in in the first place.”

Just as quickly Link’s mind takes him to a dark and stormy desert, the hum of electricity low in his ears, his heart pounding ruthlessly in tandem with the rainfall battering the ship’s splintered hull.

His chest aches. Again, his gaze falls.

“I was so stupid,” he mutters.

Pipit’s startled spasm snatches Link back. Once again in a cell, half-curled against the bars, he strives to read the blatant shock – indignance? – on the other’s face. The atmosphere seems somehow… fragile. As though with a single pebble, something precious could shatter.

Unable to process, Link rather slumps into a new position, his joints creaking from so many hours (days?) of disuse.

“I feel like I owe you an explanation,” he starts, stretching his stiff knees out in front of him. “It might not make a lot of sense, but… I’ll try. I don’t know how much Zelda’s ever told you about what went down on the Surface last year. It was a whole ordeal, and apparently none of it was coincidental.”

Pipit is silent. Link continues, meticulously working the knots from his muscles.

“Given the choice, I would’ve done all the same things.” Unwitting, he wheezes out a humorless chortle. “I thought that’s exactly why she chose me, you know? Because she knew I would. Then…”

He pauses, swallowing past a lump that hadn’t existed until now.

“Then Ghirahim.” He has to force the name off his tongue. “He said all these things when we found him. About following blindly, not having a will of my own. It made me wonder…”

Again, he pauses. It isn’t that he’s been unaware of all these feelings, festering inside for weeks, even months. Just the opposite, he’s tried venting his frustrations numerous times – to Zelda, to Gaepora, even to his lifeless wood carvings when the first two had left his heart feeling no less blocked up. Each time, he’d left worse off than before, completely lost for words.

Now, they spill unrelentingly, as if he’d taken some sort of spiritual emetic.

“It made me wonder if I ever really did have any say. In anything.” He sighs defeatedly, eyes falling shut. “And now I’m wondering if that’s just it. If that ‘unfettered, passionate love’ was just me trying to reclaim some sort of power that I felt I never really had.”

Something shifts inexplicably, and his eyes flutter open. Already, the cloud blanketing his mind begins to lift, though whether for better or for worse isn’t yet clear. The ground is treacherous, still he flashes an ironic smile in the other knight’s direction.

Pipit hasn’t moved so much as an inch, lips pursed into a thin line. Behind eyes like starless night, befuddled incredulity simmers.

“I’m sorry,” Link concludes ruefully, “for having put you through what I did, only for it all to be for nothing in the end.”

Silence. Cold, strenuous silence.

“Nothing?”

That single echo is uttered so faintly, Link wonders whether it wasn’t imagined. Blinking once, Pipit looks askance, his fingers coming up to rub at his bowed chin. Link watches him carefully, hoping, though not fully expecting, for at least a hint of absolution, even if it is inevitably accompanied by some long-winded admonishment.

Seconds tick into minutes. Then finally, Pipit pulls himself to his feet.

“All right,” he grunts, hands drifting from his knees to his hips. “Get up.”

Link can only glance up in confusion. “Um,” he clears his throat, “what for?”

“I can’t properly do this with you sitting down.”

Arching a brow, Link pulls himself up by one of the bars, apprehension thudding his racing heart. Pipit only tilts his head back in exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose as he turns to pace the expanse of the cell. When he swivels to face the younger once more, Link is certain he’s about to get an earful. Drawing an especially deep breath, he braces himself for the worst.

Or… so he thought.

He’s hardly a second to blink before Pipit’s fist collides with the side of his face.

Stars dance before his eyes, the ground disappearing until his shoulder slams into it – but wait, no, that’s a wall. To a degree it supports his weight, easing him steadily back to the firmament. At least he thought it was steady. His knees meet the grassy earth much too abruptly, the impact rattling his bones, teeth, jaw.

Absently, his fingers brush the offended spot, despite his head still spinning in frenzied circles. No tenderness greets the self-examination, though. Even so, a shrill whining rings in his ears, and the ground seems again to tilt beneath him.

Movement flickers in his peripheral, and he angles his head to find Pipit standing over him, hip cocked in a cross between impatience and annoyance.

“You okay?” the older knight asks. His voice is tight, the inquiry a mere obligation.

Wiping the bit of drool that had leaked down his chin, Link offers a feeble nod. “Yeah,” he grunts, still clinging to the wall. He doesn’t trust his feet just yet. “I guess I deserved that.”

Pipit barks out a sharp laugh. “There’s an understatement.”

Link’s just begun to test his balance again when two strong hands grab him by the shoulders, shoving him none too gently against the bars. His breath catches, heart skipping a beat as he discerns the raw fury in his old friend’s eyes.

“Pip-”

“Are you stupid?”

Even if he could think of a reply, Link is sure he’d only choke on it. It’s unlike Pipit to hold a grudge, no matter the severity of the offense.

But then, this one had been quite severe, comparatively speaking.

“Or do you just think I’m stupid? No.” Pipit releases him, grimacing terribly, and Link realizes with sympathy that a good portion of his ‘rage’ had in fact been pain. “I was right the first time. You’re the stupid one.” His back is to Link now, the distinct rise and fall of his shoulders indicative of his labored breathing. “Do you think that kind of devotion is easily faked? Or that it just wears off all of a sudden? I don’t know what’s going on with you, Link, but you care about that- that guy, more than anything or anyone I’ve ever seen in my life. And dammit, if that isn’t something worth being publicly disgraced.”

A fresh wave of nausea washes over the other, his knees threatening to buckle. Were it not for the bars at his back, he’d surely faint.

“Y-you don’t understand,” he chokes. Tears well in his eyes, but he blinks them back. “He left me, Pipit. I… I lied to him.”

The older sways as he faces his former peer, his face wrought with disbelief. “You… you what? You told him something that flat-out wasn’t true?”

“Well,” Link stutters, thumbing awkwardly at the hem of his shirt, “no. I just…”

His eyes fall to his feet, deep pangs of regret shackling them in place. He hadn’t planned on reliving it all so soon.

“I withheld something from him. Something big, and personal, and… and he had a right to know.”

Mentally, something clicks into place, as though speaking the words aloud somehow registered their truth. I broke his trust. In the heat of their venture, he hadn’t thought to uncover the details of Demise’s promised return. Sure, he would have been completely honest with Ghirahim eventually, after…

After their bond was sealed, the demon’s final tie to his former master severed once and for all.

Shame colors him every shade of hypocrisy, his own words accusing him. “I took away his choice.”

Pipit’s scoff startles him from his harrowed trance.

“You lied,” he remarks dryly, “by omission, about a sensitive topic, while you were under a lot of stress.”

Link nearly scoffs himself at such blunted phrasing. When worded like that, it almost…

It almost doesn’t sound so unforgivable.

“You think Jaskamar has never done anything like that with Wryna? Or Bertie with Luv? Or my dad, before he died, with my mom? You think I’ve never done anything like that?”

Remorseful rumination dares to mimic a shadow of hope. It’s only a spark, easily snuffed, quite possibly – and more than likely – fated to cold ash. An instant, and he’ll be plunged into dreary bitterness once more. Still, Link allows it to smolder, willing the ache in his chest into a bed of embers.

Meanwhile Pipit, determined that nothing should obstruct him from driving home his point, continues to rave, arms flailing where his excitement simply cannot be contained.

“You think I’ve never made a mistake like that with Karane? That she’s never stormed away and refused to even look at me until she had a chance to calm down – and until I could find a way to make it right?”

A low oath filters under his breath, but its exact phrasing is lost to Link. Ashen features flicker in his mind’s eye, and with them the warmth of a desert sunrise, the contented purrs of a trusting kikwi, the chemical scent of crisp mountain air. The longer Pipit continues to drill him, the faster Link’s heart races, thrumming in his chest. Longing blooms from the internal heat, fiery tendrils lapping hungrily at his mind, consuming his disorientation like dry tinder. From this fire he’s cleansed of all doubt, of all guilt, of everything hindrance – everything but Ghirahim.

Now truly panting, Pipit plants a hand to his forehead, his other braced on his thigh whilst he hunches forward. The air is relatively cool, yet sweat begins to darken the yellow threads of his tunic.

Struck nearly dumb, Link springs forward to where Pipit has already sunken to one knee.

“Hey,” the younger starts, retracting the hand he’d begun to extend. “Pipit, are you-?”

“I’ll be fine.” His head is bowed, arms still shaking. “I just… need a minute.”

Far from assured, Link makes to retrieve the tin of water stashed in the corner of the cell. And as he circles back, he notes with rising horror the crimson streaks seeping through the other’s shirt.

“Here.” He kneels to meet Pipit’s eyeline, shoving the tin into the knight’s hand, only to have it pushed gently back. “Pipit,” his volume rises automatically, “you need-”

“You’ll need it.” A weary softness overtakes the man’s tone. Link doesn’t recall ever having witnessed him this tired. “Because you,” he jabs a harmless, yet accusing finger into Link’s chest, “are not going to let my- my- incident be for nothing. You are not going to insult me like that, you hear?”

Link’s mouth opens, then closes, gaze traveling from knight to tin and coming to rest on the water’s reflective surface. His silhouette therein is only vaguely perceptible, all but a few scattered distortions hidden within the dark confines. Gently, it dissolves the scaffolding holding his mind, thoughts churning in the murky depths.

Pipit is trying to be threatening, Link would gladly wager. And yet the older knight’s consignment hardly registers as more than a plea.

One Link would like nothing more than to oblige.

Absently, he worries his lip. In his heart he knows the other is right – that everything he and Ghirahim have experienced to this point, even in such a short amount of time, their shields ever lowering in acts of intimate embrace – it’s not worth giving up on so easily. And whatever state, physical or mental, that the demon may be in right now, their best chance, regardless, is together.

Yet that lingering doubt remains.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asks, voice a mere hair from cracking. “Without my Loftwing, I can’t even make it off this island – and I won’t strand you here without yours. Not like this.”

Before he can so much as finish the thought, Pipit is reaching into his pouch. Gloved fingers curl around something small, not releasing until he’s pressed it into Link’s open palm. When Link looks to the soft, bumpy, crescent-shaped item he’s mysteriously procured, he’s finds a smooth green pod, the bumps he’d felt colorful seeds peeking out from inside their leafy cocoon.

“Wha-?”

“Bury it in soft soil,” Pipit instructs, “and then water it. It’ll help you out of a tight spot, but just one, so make sure you plant it somewhere that counts. Use it to get to your Loftwing.”

Link looks to the older knight with pleading eyes, his mind still racing with unanswered questions. It’s clear, however, that Pipit has said all he means to.

“Don’t worry about me,” he tacks on for good measure. “I’ll be fine. Just get out of here.”

Reluctantly Link stands, the blood in his ears near deafening. He’s barely pocketed the unusual legume when the temperature around them drops – and with it, the light shifts. Pipit notices the stark change as well, his own face softening from pain to confusion. With his heart at his feet, Link veers to face the open sky.

The sight that greets him sends ice through his veins.

The ether beyond is tinged with a golden-orange glow, rolling clouds blotting out what had remained of daylight. Even the grass has lost its natural green, smothered beneath a blanket of surreal shadows. Dusks like this, he’s seen before, and yet…

The longer he stares, the more Link is assailed with a feeling of sheer wrongness. An all-encompassing presence whispers that something, somehow, does not belong.

When he looks again to Pipit, the older knight returns his gaze with poorly concealed fear. “You’d better go,” he says. The words catch in his throat, barely audible.

Link nods in his direction. With one hand he still holds the tin of water, knuckles white against the cool metal. The other creeps instinctively into his pocket, gripping the hidden legume.

---

The first whispers of nightly chill have just begun to rove the earth as Zelda makes her way through Faron Woods. Clenching her teeth to still their rattling, she desperately rubs friction into her arms, gooseflesh prickling over again with every attempt. Inwardly she knows it’s her own fault for not having brought a cloak. Some Goddess I am, forgetting to measure the changing seasons.

Of course, the whole thing could have been avoided had she just taken the main road, as she has been for the past almost-week now. But it’s Eagus who guards the temple’s front entrance, and each time she relays her failures to his face and the light in his eyes dims further, the more she feels her own resolve splinter.

She watches her steps, one foot in front of the other, the scent of earth rising at each crunch beneath her boots. Evening air bites through her layers, numbs the tip of her nose, stiffens her fingers, but she pushes through. By the time the Sealed Temple enters her bleary sight, even her toes have lost feeling.

Groose is stationed at the smaller side doors, his bare arms crossed over his chest in boredom. The internal heat necessary to maintain warmth in this prewinter chill isn’t something Zelda wishes to think about. He wears a dull expression, weight shifting intermittently from one foot to the other, only to straighten abruptly when the other enters his view.

“Zelda!” he heralds her with a start, hands raising habitually to his hair. “Wasn’t expecting you… or anyone, really.”

Spirit genuinely lifted at his sheepishness, she offers him a small smile. “Not a very heavily trafficked part of the woods, is it?” she concedes, voice shaking through rampant shivers. So freezing is she that she hardly feels herself blush.

Fortunately, Groose seems to dismiss it as merely a trick of the cold. Still, his features twist with concern, and unable to wear his thoughts anywhere but on his (nonexistent) sleeve, he unclasps his cowl and throws it over the other’s shoulders. On his massive frame, it had hardly reached his biceps; on Zelda, it covers her down to the elbow.

She starts to protest, only for her breath to catch in her throat.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says shyly, mirroring her growing flush as he returns to his post. “I mean, it’s nice out. I was gonna take it off anyway.”

She could just about smack him. “It’ll only get colder,” she tries amicably. Caught off guard or not, the additional warmth is welcome, and she’d hate to seem ungrateful.

But Groose only shrugs. Looking askance, he gestures vaguely towards the chambers beyond the door – and both their expressions instantly fall.

“Any luck with the bastard yet?”

It comes across not pryingly, but solemnly. Zelda shakes her head softly, not daring to trust her voice. Before she can even hope to gauge his reaction, the tears have sprung to her already stinging eyes, and she tilts her head back in a futile attempt to prevent their spilling.

Through silver haze she beholds the sky, the faded blue expanse withering into the lilac of twilight. If there are any stars, her frustrated eyes obscure them; yet the moon ever glares down upon her, almost contemptuous in its own right. It’s full tonight. On this prelude to winter, with the thinning of the veil, perhaps Ghirahim will at last be willing to speak.

“Maybe tonight,” Zelda chokes, wiping the cold pearls from her cheeks.

When she lowers her chin, she finds Groose staring off towards the ground, a pensive look on his face. “Yeah. Maybe tonight,” he echoes.

The wind picks up, and Zelda pulls his cowl tighter around her trembling form. With a half-dry sniffle, she squares her shoulders and stares ahead, steeling herself for whatever torment is to come. Much as she would love to put it off forever, there’s simply no eluding the inevitable.

“Hey.” Groose’s gentle, yet carrying chords tear her back, and she finds him looking at her with the same effortless self-assuredness she’s always known him for. He gives a sharp nod, fist grinding into his open palm. “Yell if you need me, all right?”

She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t considered giving Groose a go at the obstinate demon lord, to see if he’d remain as stiff with those meaty hands wrapped around his slender neck. Allowing herself a smile at the thought, Zelda nods her appreciation, then pushes through the doors.

The stone is cold and rough beneath her fingers – none of which prepares her for the forlorn exhibit beyond. The temple’s interior, though sheltered from the wind, is somehow colder. Once she’s crossed the threshold and the door has slid shut behind her, emitting a terrible creak, her breath begins to fog. The Gate of Time has long since stopped ticking, leaving a frostbitten chill to permeate the air.

The chamber’s dusky gloom weighs on her very soul. Were it not for the crags overhead allowing the scarce light to reflect off its sleek craftsmanship, her lethal target would be lost in the darkness. As it is, violet diamonds gleam from the patterned blade, guiding the girl’s way forward.

Her footsteps echo softly through the empty room, absent feet carrying her tense form to the central dais. She feels disconnected, like she were merely watching herself from the sidelines, helpless to influence all about to unfold. When at last she’s climbed the pedestal where the wicked sword rests and closed her fist around the hilt, the leather is eerily hot on her skin.

She knows it won’t last.

The heat surges first through her, like liquid fire in her veins, before flitting from the dark blade in a series of geometric patterns. Diamonds flicker from gold to red to blinding silver, dancing ethereal against a dusky backdrop. After a moment of eerie stillness, they multiply and converge, the prostrate form of the spirit within constructed before her very eyes.

“Ghirahim.”

He lies on his side, draped like a regal corpse over the top few steps, crimson folds splayed about him like blood. His dark eyes are open, but distant, white lips set in a perfect frown.

He says nothing.

“… Lord Ghirahim?” Zelda tries after a moment. Use of his full title hasn’t made any difference thus far, but she figures it’s worth trying anyway. The first time, stifled amusement had flickered across his gaze. Now, even that has stilled.

“I know you’re angry with Link,” she continues, prepared to recite the same list of queries she’s been asking since one week before. “Does this mean your loyalty is still with Demise?”

Again, no answer. Not that she expects he would confess to such a thing anyhow.

After a strained silence and no difference in Ghirahim’s countenance, Zelda reluctantly continues.

“You know that without a master, there’s a chance you’ll have rotted away before the Demon King reincarnates. Would you really rather die than be bound to anyone else, even temporarily?”

Silence. If anything, the mention of death only appears to bore the demon.

With mounting frustration, Zelda strives to infer even from this as much as she can. Is he not catatonic? Is he just ignoring her? Is this petulance, or is something more sinister afoot? The demon has always been quick to make his every thought and feeling known, beyond pleased with how it tends to make others’ skin crawl – but now, now that she truly not only wants, but needs to know what roils beneath that palled surface, he draws the shutters taut.

“Do you fear retribution? Is that what this is really about – that you’re afraid Demise will hurt you for bonding with Link, even if it’s just for survival?”

For the first time in days, she receives a response.

That being the subtle curl of the demon’s upper lip.

Inhaling deeply, Zelda releases a heavy sigh. How much has changed since her first attempt at holding this trial – leastwise, on her end. Her stiff, rigid demeanor has declined slowly over the week’s course, chafed away until little was left behind but the raw nerves of an exasperated human being.

Some goddess, she self-mocks. Ghirahim must think much the same.

Again she sighs, this time softly. “Or do you just not know anymore.”

Head bowed, she lowers herself into a sitting position, the earth’s chill quick to seep through her clothes. It’s hardly a question, directed more towards herself, and rhetorical – yet a scoff huffs through the palled figure’s nostrils.

Zelda freezes. A frail spark of an idea dawns, and her spirits deftly rise. Could that perhaps be the key to goading him into a reaction?

Brows knitted, she allows his blade to rest across her lap. (Disrespecting his weapon yields no results, she’s since found. On the third day, her tapping it against the corroded stone formations had only succeeded in lulling the creature into a pained sort of doze.)

“Magic always seemed so otherworldly to me,” she muses aloud, too shy to hold his gaze even if it doesn’t return hers. “I remember when I was thirteen, sitting through Instructor Owlan’s lectures about photosynthesis and the inner workings of different types of plants. It was all so complex, and yet, it made sense. Magic…”

“Is no less sensical.”

Her eyes perk up, spine rigid as she sits suddenly straight. Despite the sultry lilt to the demon’s voice, his figure appears just as meek. In a languid display of petulance, he turns on his side, facing away with a roll of dark eyes.

“Wretched child,” he murmurs, almost more to himself. “I’ve truly no idea what your divine soul was thinking when it chose to incarnate like this. It’s no mystery why your blessed scheming ultimately failed. Carried on the shoulders of a brash young knight, no less.”

Somewhere during all this testy mumbling, Zelda finds herself bent slightly over his sword, leaning forward in subconscious interest. Even as a young half-Sheikah lord, Ghirahim always had quite the penchant for spellcasting, as far as her divine memories could deduce. Between goading him at her own expense and appealing to his ego, she may extract a few answers after all.

“The moon is full tonight,” she tries, “although… I guess you can probably tell. I hoped it might reveal a little more about, well… about what’s been going on lately.”

Palled shoulders shake in humorless mockery. “’What’s going on,’ stupid girl,” he calls drearily, “is not the work of magic and monsters, but of a self-absorbed brat with an inflated sense of importance.”

Zelda recoils as if she’d been struck, what little pride she’s clung to stinging at the admonishment. Numerous counterarguments race through her mind, bubbling to the tip of her tongue – but she wills them to fall silent, pouring her energy instead into maintaining her composure. I’ve gotten him to speak, at least. That’s progress.

“It really isn’t that complicated, Your Grace,” Ghirahim sighs. “Our dearly beloved grew accustomed to a certain adventurous lifestyle whilst fulfilling your many requirements, thus acquiring a thirst for newfound discovery and a taste for excitement that properly utilize the skills so honed at your behest. Nor was he alone. And now that he’s chosen a suitable companion to replace the one he lost, you,” he casts an irritable glower over his shoulder, “have done nothing but strive to yank that finely woven rug out from under him – and rather maliciously, at that.”

As if to signal the conclusion of his tirade, Ghirahim lowers his head and curls into himself, seemingly in preparation to sleep. Before returning to outright ignoring her, however, he throws one final, condescending jab in her direction.

“It requires neither magic nor moonlight to see that, Zelda. All you really need to decipher the root cause…”

He trails off, words stolen as by sudden realization. Gently, the demon shifts first to sit on his knees, then gingerly, still facing away, climbs to his feet. Around them the world has gone deathly still, even the dust motes hanging in harrowed suspense as slowly, he turns towards her.

“… is a mirror.”

The look in his near-black eyes defies readability, yet never has he appeared to her more… human. Somehow, it only worsens the sense of foreboding lodged in her gut.

He reaches beneath the folds of his cloak, and Zelda’s grip on his hilt instinctively tightens.

“I’m surprised you haven’t inferred already.” His shell of boredom cracks as anticipation heightens. “You’ve clearly not forgotten the Curse of Shattered Sight, or the pieces necessary for its casting…”

Slivers of moonlight spill through the overhead crags. Ghirahim’s sallow frame practically glows in their embrace, the crimson of his mantle turning black as night. A sudden chill runs through Zelda’s body, and she bolts to her feet, golden warmth coursing through her jostling nerves – but her power is cut short.

She cannot seal him. For whatever horrifying reason, she cannot seal him.

Intricate patterns dance across the walls and floor, scattered by the jagged shard produced from those inky folds. Exposed to the moon’s unfiltered light, it boasts a luminescence entirely its own.

Zelda blanches in recognition.

Behind the darkening figure of the demon lord, where the Gate of Time had once stood proud, stark tendrils wind and unwind into a ghostly latticework. It spreads like a virus, a sort of geometric spiderweb, accelerating alarmingly – until it hangs like a curtain, suspended somewhere between this plane and the next.

Ghirahim, the moon’s rays shimmering off his silver crescent of hair, shifts to face her fully, entirely unphased. Stars swim in the blackened pools of his eyes, but Zelda’s wide-eyed stare never leaves the cursed shard in his gloved palm.

“You-,” she starts, the frigid air like fire in her lungs, “you carried a piece of that mirror… on Skyloft…”

The demon only clicks his tongue. “Poor Zelda,” he coos, though his weary demeanor contradicts the effort. “All the power and knowledge of a goddess; and yet, when burdened with all the fallacy of a fumbling child, what good does it do?”

A shiver wracks the girl’s spine. With her free hand, she pulls the cowl around her shoulders tighter still. The black curtain silhouetting Ghirahim’s frame flickers and ticks with odd, linear pulses. She can’t quite explain it, but it seems to beckon her somehow, as with its own gravitational aura…

“Kill me,” Ghirahim continues darkly, facing the warped tear in space, “and your dearest will never forgive you. Seal me away and you’ll only have handed me off to another generation’s whims. Release me, and who knows what manner of havoc I’ll create upon this world so entrusted to your capable hands.”

With a leisure entirely uncalled for, he saunters full circle once more. His left hand curls around the mirror piece hauntingly aglow in the dusk; his right extends in invitation. Perhaps, the gesture might even be sincere.

Eyes narrow, Zelda cants away slightly. She may be unable to seal him now, but he still can’t hurt her. Not so long as she maintain her hold on his sword.

“What if,” his voice drips liquid honey, carrying with it an aftertaste of poison, “there were another option?”

---

Link’s heart skips a beat as he spots the first sentries scouring the distant sky. Fortunately, they present mere specks against the orange ether – at least for the time being. Through the maelstrom that is his pulse, he reminds himself to thank Pipit for the head start he’s been bought.

I’ll make this up to you, Pipit. I promise.

The vines are rough in his calloused hands where he clings to the edge of a small isle, a rolled up leaf roughly the width of his sailcloth tucked into his belt. Despite how smooth its texture, the material proved remarkably sturdy when it carried him to the rock-chain that led to his Loftwing’s cage. Even now, a strange sentience seems to radiate from the leafy cluster nestled in its nearby patch of soil, the sail in his keeping feeling somehow alive.

With the breeze in Link’s hair comes the pull of his Loftwing, concern blooming sharply in their passing connection. Though it pains him deeply, the knight gently nudges his mount away. No good can come of drawing the others’ attention, so long as it can be avoided.

Link peeks stiffly over the isle’s grassy ledge. From here, the beating of a patrol bird’s wings echoes starkly from that of his own Loftwing, silhouetted feathers circling steadily closer. The leafy platform that brought him this far breathes only a few yards away.

Calculating the needed swing, Link reaches for the tin still hooked to his waistband. Unlatching it, he takes aim. He only gets the one, critical shot…

The tin lands upon the leaves before tumbling into the grass, the impact, though brief, enough to trigger the plant’s ascent once more. As hoped, it follows the same path that had brought Link here, lively greens humming softly to themselves as the enchanted foliage returns to its base of origin.

Ducking again beneath the isle’s rocky ledge, the knight listens carefully for any change in the patrol bird’s course. Only when the bean plant’s whirring fades to silence, the dark wings smaller on the glowing sky, does he release the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

Jaw set, hands shaking, Link launches himself from the earthen wall and into the open sky.

Several equally small islands dot the expanse below, varying shapes and structures hardly catching the young knight’s eye. Retrieving his makeshift sailcloth, he tilts his weight to hover towards a landing with a concave structure, the many walls sure to hide him from unsympathetic eyes. The familiar jolt in his shoulders breaks his fall as the leaf deploys, its slightly narrower size bringing him down more swiftly than he’s grown accustomed.

He's hardly blinked before solid earth rests beneath his boots, barren walls blocking the vicious glow of twilight.

A chill seems to permeate from the earthy cavern, seeping from the very walls through Link’s clothes and embedding deep within his bones. The sweat on his brow grows cold, and with a sudden gasp, he shudders.

“Oh, Ghirahim,” he mutters, aloud, in hopes the use of his voice will somehow chase the chill from his blood. “What have you done…?”

Vainly rubbing friction into his arms, Link pads softly towards the mouth of the cave, peering cautiously at the earth far below. Without the cloud barrier to obstruct his view, the Faron Woods are easily spotted, the towering mass of the Great Tree close enough that he can even make out the leaves still clinging stubbornly to its proud boughs. Even in the eerie, molten gloom of twilight, the woods boast a tapestry of rich reds and yellows, autumn’s final offering of life before winter claims its worn soul.

The crisp aroma wafting around him tells him that he’s close.

Almost directly beneath his island shelter, a grey heap of what once stood a proud, reverent shrine, the Sealed Temple looms forlornly. Dried tendrils like skeletal claws creep up the sides of the hallowed ruins. At first he dismisses it as merely an effect of the changing seasons.

Then, squinting against the stinging wind, Link wonders whether the circle of death isn’t expanding before his very eyes.

Sniffling lightly in the cold of the shadows, he takes a minute to regather his thoughts. Zelda likely wouldn’t leave the temple unguarded, nor is it a risk he’ll willingly take. At the very least, she’s sure to have someone posted at both the main entryways. Link blinks the water from his eyes as he again scours the landscape, his gaze ever lured back to the imposing branches of the Great Tree.

Surely, they would hide him from the temple’s sightline before his falling frame could be identified.

An especially sharp breeze carries his breath on the wind, his lungs aching at the loss. He knows he’s running short on time. Each second wasted brings Zelda closer to a verdict – and Ghirahim…

Whatever fate awaits him, or Link, whether together or apart – no torment could be greater than never knowing.

Leafy sailcloth at the ready, Link leaps from the cavernous isle’s ledge and plunges towards a shadowy earth.

---

Violet clouds billow across a molten sky, orange slivers flitting through the crags in the stone – and a black hilt comes dangerously close to passing from a pale, trembling hand.

Lost, wrought, and desperate, Zelda senses the tinges of doubt lapping at the corners of her mind, but she is determined to hold them at bay. Should the demon turn on her now, then what? Will she be cursed forever to wander the earth, bearing witness to the wreckage her own recklessness has caused? Oh, but if Ghirahim stays true to his word – if he vanishes evermore behind the curtain of twilight…

Eyes like the void bore into her being, the demon’s outstretched hand aglow in the darkness. No malintent seeps from his dark gaze; no fire, no fury, as he’s so often been prone. Nothing but a frigid emptiness stares back at her now, a weak desire to do little more than exist.

Perhaps, after all these years, the realm beyond has finally begun to suit him.

Perhaps this is mercy.

Zelda’s arm, once held protectively against her body, reluctantly unfolds. Long, slender fingers have just begun to graze the dark leather, her own knuckles as white as the other’s gloves, when a muffled shout carries from just outside the crooked doors.

Both heads snap in the commotion’s direction, where Groose’s arms can be seen flailing before his meaty hands reach up to tug at the leafy cowl pulled over his head – a split second before Link – how? – shoves gracelessly past the chiseled stone.

His eyes, oceanic pools, land first on Zelda – but pass through her in an instant, locking onto the demon who beholds him with…

Not with the cold fury he’d exuded days before; nor with indifference, contempt, or loathing – though all flicker past his face, the concoction so fleeting it may not have even truly been there at all. What contorts Ghirahim’s severe, sallow features now…

Is longing.

It’s only a moment, and Zelda watches the events unfurl, slowly; yet her body feels to be frozen, as though to intervene here and now would be to challenge the will of the gods themselves.

When the sword is torn from her grip, she doesn’t cling to it. When Link sprints into Ghirahim’s welcoming embrace, she offers no protest.

Only when both men disappear into the realm beyond does she realize what it is she’s allowed.

Chapter Text

Dawn slips through the crags when Groose comes barreling into the ruined temple, and the breath is immediately pulled from his lungs. Far to his left groan the great double doors, the light glinting off Eagus’ armor as he, too, stumbles past corroded stone. Even at his hurried pace, it will take him longer than the other to reach the dais.

At the foot of the stairs stands Zelda, her brows knitted with concentration, but for once, Groose can hardly pin his focus to her. Not with the… entity… center the platform.

He’d wanted to dismiss it as a trick of the light, but this is no ordinary shadow. The gaping mass is something surreal, and far more sinister, thin red tendrils slithering across its surface in geometric patterns he can’t hope to make sense of. Not a stone’s throw from it, Zelda stands – no, hunches, her boots planted so firmly they may as well have fused with the earth. Her arms stretch out before her, fingers alight with the same radiant glow that sifts through her hair.

Groose’s heart lurches. Zelda’s golden head is missing her cap, the article lost somewhere he doesn’t care to look. While each golden lock writhes, billowing about her shoulders in luminous strands, it’s the wind, or lack thereof, that has his head spinning.

It isn’t pushing at them, the way that wind ought to. It… it’s drawing them in.

Eagus stops roughly the same distance from the haunting display. He reaches across his armored torso to grab at the hilt of his sword, though what he intends to fight with it – or how – doesn’t appear to have occurred to him at all. Shaken by the commander’s presence, the shock that had muted Groose unhooks its claws, and every thought in his brain, coherent or otherwise, comes spilling out.

“Zelda!” he cries. He raises a forearm to his head, the shadow’s pull tugging red strands into his eyes. “What- the- Ghirahim?! Where is he?! And Link- and – what is going on?!”

The girl’s eyes creak open, narrowing to fierce, azure slits. “Groose…”

Behind her, Eagus’ grounding voice carries on the shadow’s corrupted gale. “Zelda. Where is the sword?”

Pale features pull taut, and it’s all Groose can do not to rush to her side. The urge to cradle her in his arms, to shelter her from this pulsating void and whatever wickedness it might entail, is nearly overwhelming, yet he refrains. Zelda’s being radiates sheer determination, like the fabric of reality itself were rested on her shoulders. An immeasurable weight for so petite a frame.

He thinks, in that moment, she is every bit a goddess.

He notices his yellow cowl is still wrapped around her. She speaks, her words a strangled growl, and he realizes how her throat must burn with strain.

“Don’t come any closer,” she warns, sweat beading beneath golden bangs. “If I don’t keep this portal open, they could both be lost forever.”

---

The Otherworld is nothing like he’d imagined. Mostly, in that it’s… beautiful.

The ruins of Hylia’s temple are reflected in a manner so surreal. This world seems drenched in perpetual moonlight, shadows stark against the pale blanket of dust. Link’s eye is instantly drawn to the open sky, where the great silver orb looms sovereign.

He can’t explain it, but the Moon almost seems… sentient, somehow.

What lies beneath it stuns him silent.

Four figures gowned in white, splayed in a circle on a stone mosaic. They appear to be bathing, or basking, in the Moon’s presence, their hoods pointed towards the center of a dais, each mere feet apart. An ethereal chanting emits from their shrouded faces.

As his gaze lingers, Link notes the pool of silver liquid swirling in the diamond-shaped groove between them. It connects to a series of shallow canals, each of which disappears beneath a figure’s snowy robes.

Robes Link swears he’s seen somewhere before.

He’s just begun to voice his curiosity when a firm, but gentle hand slips onto his lower back.

Ghirahim’s presence is a canopy of warmth, his guiding touch a familiar comfort in this strange landscape. A sliver of white creeps into Link’s vision, the demon appearing by his side with an unusual reverence in his red-brown eyes.

The phenomenon startles more than any of the demon’s previous antics. Until now, Link has always perceived Ghirahim as an apex predator, a dominant force in a world that was never meant to contain him. But here…

Here, Link is smaller still. Thus, blindly, he submits to the other’s gentle prodding, eyes ever glued to the enthralling ritual. There will be time for questions later.

---

The demon leads him through the temple’s interior, down spiral stairways and across vast chamber floors. It isn’t long before the similarities to the world of light end altogether. Stained glass windows lose all color, vaulted ceilings reaching high as the sky itself, caved in where their pillars have since collapsed. Gradually, the architecture becomes dark and elongated – distorted, like shadow.

The light of the Moon never wanes.

The further they trek, the less urban the environment becomes. Gnarled roots tear crags in the walls, stripped of their grandeur some time ago. Through the cracked earth float smaller forms of wildlife – butterflies alight with bioluminescence, illuminating the dark chambers a ghostly green. Like-colored fungi dot the crippled stairs, while tarnished walls play host to ivy blooming with flora.

As their surroundings decrease in extravagance, and in structural integrity, Link’s curiosity again is piqued. Already his jaw is slack, and likely has been since they’d entered this strange realm. He dares puncture the sacred silence.

“Ghirahim.” Thick motes of dust crunch beneath the knight’s boots, while Ghirahim’s steps are silent. The demon cants in his direction, but doesn’t otherwise respond. “Were those…?”

“The Garo.” How mesmerizing to hear that silver voice, when not long ago he’d wondered if he ever would again.

Even if it is devoid of all emotion.

“Each month when the Moon is nearest the earth, they gather atop the temple ruins, where our worlds connect.” He halts in his tracks, turning to fix the other with an intent stare. “It is uncouth to disturb the faithful whilst they worship.”

Before the human can conjure a response, Ghirahim resumes his walk, at a much brisker pace.

But Link is nowhere near done with him. “Ghirahim,” he calls, incredulous. He chases after the other as he ducks through a hole in the wall, Link stumbling over rubble and kicking up dust, the disturbance hardly worthy of his attention. The demon is already nearly out of sight, only the pointed ends of his cloak, black in the moonlight, to betray his path.

It leads him from the ruined building, into what resembles a thickly wooded grotto. Brambles split the ground beneath them, the terrain uneven and perhaps even hostile. He grapples with darkness broken only by the occasional floral growth, pale-yellow petals opening like lilies whenever he draws near, spilling something like starlight into his eyes.

Now and again he’ll blink it away, only for a massive frond to drape over his body, its weight increasing until carrying himself forward feels like wading through molasses. As quickly as it occurs, he’s suddenly reset; and without proper time to contemplate, the knight will simply push through an alternate obstacle.

Like a white beacon in a bleak void, a familiar crescent catches Link’s eye.

“Ghirahim, please, will you just wait-!”

His plea is cut short as a tangle of weeds ensnares his ankles and legs.

Immediately he’s pulled under, though under what, exactly, he can’t possibly know. All he knows is that his lungs constrict, his outcry swallowed, and that his feet are no longer on solid ground. Panic seizes the young knight’s chest, crushes what little air he has left, numbs his senses and frazzles his mind–

Until it all at once stops. Link’s knees thud hard against an earthy firmament, his surroundings black as pitch. Eyes blown wide, he fumbles in the dirt, bolting to his feet with such abruptness his head spins. A moment more and his eyes adjust – and hone in on a faint red glow.

Only this substance is not organic. At least, he doesn’t believe it is. The soft, bloody light slithers in threadlike tendrils up what he recognizes as… fingers.

A hand.

Two hands.

“Red…,” rasps a weak voice, “… or blue…”

Memory sends shivers up his spine.

He makes to retreat, to bolt in another direction – which one, or what might lie in any, he doesn’t consider. He only wants to get as far away from this forgotten nightmare as quickly as–

The soft chime of bells on a breeze stills the ringing in his ears. Fluttering red and gold diamonds warm the chill from his bones, and in a crimson flash, Link once again finds himself beneath open sky, the light of the forest all encompassing.

Ghirahim releases his grip on the younger man’s shoulder with a bit more hostility than Link feels he deserves. “Learned your lesson, yet, sky child?” he seethes, eyes narrow.

Safe as he knows he now is, Link’s heart yet hammers against his ribs. He wishes to retort with a sarcasm equally scathing, but unfortunately, a sputtered, “Th-thank you,” is all he can manage.

“I’ve about had enough of you nipping at my heels,” the demon snaps, unhindered, “and in my own realm, no less. Will I truly never be free of you?”

He may as well have wrapped his claws around the other’s heart and squeezed. Even so, a melancholy taints that typically sultry tone, a shade of sadness buried almost too deep to detect.

But Link knows well how to look for it by now. “You don’t mean that,” he counters, still a bit short of breath.

Ghirahim is already walking away again – and again, Link starts after him.

“Ghirahim, please just talk to me!”

“What more can I say to you, Link?” The demon’s stride is brutal, his voice inviting a mystic frigidity to what was previously tepid air. “Your intervention spared me. Mine, in turn, spared you. We are no longer indebted to one another.”

The knight nearly loses his footing. Every word from the other’s mouth adds a weight to his heart, ever sinking, interfering with his every step. “This isn’t about repaying debts.” He gulps back his own nagging doubt. “Don’t pretend it ever was.”

He just barely hears the chuckle rumbling deep from Ghirahim’s throat. “I’m afraid you are in no position to be giving me orders, darling.”

“You’re right.”

This, at last, seems to grab the demon’s attention. He freezes (to Link’s imminent relief), the abruptness of it uncharacteristically graceless.

A few paces remain between the two, but Link makes no effort to close it. He’ll not risk scaring him off yet again, or the chance to catch his breath. “You’re right. I can’t make you do anything. I can’t take away your choices. It isn’t my place, and it never was.”

He half expects the other to sneer.

And hardly believes it when instead, Ghirahim sighs, all at once weary. He turns to face the other with deliberate leisure, the glower in his visible eye inscrutable.

Link fears his heart might stop right there.

Then, with a roll of chestnut-colored eyes that could almost be considered playful, “Come with me, you insufferable little ant.”

---

If he didn’t know better, he’d think Ghirahim was planning on killing him.

After trudging along for what feels to be hours, the terrain starts to resemble an overgrown garden. Link is reminded of the small alleys between houses back on Skyloft, where weeds grow unchecked, leaving ugly, uneven patches where they’ve strangled the grass. The air is somewhere between earthy and foul, its natural crisp hardly masking the scent of rot.

When they come upon a steep incline leading underground, Link’s pulse quickens.

Ghirahim senses his hesitance before the human can even voice it. “Don’t get cold feet on me now, sky child.”

He doesn’t await a response. Presumptuously confident that he’ll be followed, Ghirahim starts down the barren pathway. That mocking lilt kindles an age-old flame, and with a petulant frown, Link squares his shoulders and follows after him, the both of them swallowed by the earth.

A small diamond hovers just above the demon’s gloved palm, its golden-red glow their only light. From its weak range Link can just make out the faint outline of a tunnel, the narrowness of which is nearly more suffocating than the plain, inky shadow.

In his rising panic, he can’t keep quiet for long. “Are you gonna tell me where you’re taking me?”

“I’m not ‘taking’ you anywhere.”

“You said to follow you!”

The demon casts a condescending glare over the edge of his mantle. His mouth is veiled, but the other can hear the frown in his voice. “Do you always blindly do as you’re told?”

Link’s stomach lurches. He recoils, halting, indignantly striving to stammer out a response.

Ghirahim, lacking even a semblance of mercy, is only much too thrilled to take advantage. “Because if so,” he drawls, leering promisingly into the shorter man’s space, “I rather wish I would have known sooner. Oh, the delectable things I could have done to you…”

Link’s heart threatens to leap straight from his chest and beeline for the tunnel’s end. Stunned speechless, he swallows, hard.

The other licks his palled lips in that unsettling manner, one that’s come to stir excitement in Link. Only when his lascivious stare relents does Link release the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Come along, then,” Ghirahim sighs, all impishness gone.

Link suddenly doesn’t think he’s ever been so tired in all his life.

---

Neither speaks for a time. All that fills the pressing silence is the distant skittering of insects through the walls and along the low ceiling.

Skittering that grows occasionally louder.

Low voices whisper from places he can’t quite pinpoint. “Fresh meat…,” they wheeze.

Link’s arms and neck break out in gooseflesh. “Gh-?”

“Hush.”

He’s unsure whether this nonchalance should have him comforted or perturbed. All around them sifts the musk of decay, from blighted concrete to spoiled meat. It’s when the latter acquires a perfumy edge that Link truly feels panic begin to spawn.

They move forward, until Ghirahim’s luminous stone reveals a slight discoloration in the wall on his left. With exaggerated flamboyance, he moves aside, facing the other and bowing sardonically at the waist. “Go on then,” he says, gesturing one spotless glove.

Link’s feet may as well have become one with the floor. “Uh… what?”

The sultry crook of a white mouth twists in irritation. “I can’t very well unblock the exit without extinguishing our light source. And if I remember – as I most certainly do, Link – humans’ nocturnal perception is dreadfully inferior to that of one such as myself.”

He pauses, allowing this ultimatum to register. Then, once satisfied that Link’s confusion has sufficiently lifted,

“… or would you prefer that I leave you here in the dark?”

The knight forces a swallow, reluctant to press ahead without the assurance of his guide. “Can’t you just teleport?”

Ghirahim straightens, eyes narrow, ridged brows flat. “You really don’t know where we are, yet, do you?”

Silence. Link merely stares at him, face blank, until the other sighs with such dramatic flair that Link half expects him to pretend to faint.

“I suppose I’ll have to explain it to you later. For now, know that there are boundaries in place which not even my magic can cross. To attempt it would land us both in maze akin to that beneath your world’s ancient cistern – only here, I rather doubt our previous luck would repeat.”

Understanding breaks out across the younger’s face, though he’s still a bit dubious. Nodding his acquiescence, he places both palms flat against the mortared cinderblock. It’s bone-chillingly cold, and slick with mildew. Determined not to feel it any longer than absolutely necessary, he shoves with all his might.

The stone gives way with a screech that sets his teeth on edge, clouds of dust flying as it slides across the floor. He coughs desperately, dirt flying up his nostrils – and nearly retches when it yet fails to mask the odor.

It’s several times worse here, that stink of rot. And the voices have gotten louder. “Fresh… meat…!”

Cold water trickles up his spine – then powerful digits twist into his collar, yanking him back in a violent lurch.

“This one is not up for trade,” snaps a voice like liquid silver.

“Leeeeeaave it!”

Ghirahim’s cloak once again encompasses the knight’s vision, gemstone glowing redder in his upturned palm. Past the meager scope of light, Link can vaguely make out the off-white of soiled gauze.

He tastes bile.

“How might I coax you into forsaking your post?”

Link steadies his breathing. If Ghirahim believes this creature can be bargained with, perhaps there isn’t truly any imminent danger.

Although it does bring another inquiry to mind.

Before he can think to phrase it, the creature wheezes again. “Leeeeeeeaave me fresh meat! I grow tired of thesssse that crawl and that creep!”

As though fleeing the creature’s insatiable hunger, the skittering of the insects heightens. Link sees their creeping silhouettes disappear into thicker shadow, and trembles.

Ghirahim only cackles that deep, honeyed laugh. “I’m afraid this one is no different,” he coos. It’s almost amicable, like he were engaging with an old friend in an argument they’ve had many times over now, and had come to grow fond of the routine. “This little grasshopper is mine to do with as I please.”

The light glints off his visible eye as he casts a subtle look over his shoulder. Perhaps it’s only the adrenaline, but Link swears he catches something strange flicker briefly therein.

“I will not leave him,” the demon concludes.

Link could almost forget where he is.

Then the demon’s free hand flies with such speed the movement can hardly be perceived, snatching a beetle the size of Link’s fist from the wall. Its legs perform one last series of twitches as it breathes its last, faintly bioluminescent ooze leaking from the crushed exoskeleton.

The spell now broken, Ghirahim extends the macabre offering to the mummified creature without another word.

“Thissssssss,” the creature thrashes and rasps. Slowly, like it were struggling against invisible chains, it closes its bandaged fingers over the proffered corpse. Its voice becomes increasingly soft, distant. “I bear you no remorsssssseee…”

As those putrid limbs curl around the prized meat, the creature begins to fade, until nothing is left but the ghostly afterglow of its existence. A low hiss dissipates, bleeds into the rattling of chains, and a door Link hadn’t known was there swings open.

The air is no longer foul.

He follows Ghirahim into a small alcove, which opens into a misty grove. Whisps of light dance on graceful strings, soft and pale and alive. Above them, the Moon’s watchful eye gazes onward.

The night is cool, crisp and chemical. It tickles Link’s lungs when he speaks. “Is it safe to ask what that was?”

“The Gibdo were human once.” Ghirahim sounds tired. “Residual effects of especially powerful spells embedded in their fresh corpses. Tired of the constant thrashing against their coffins, Demise found another use for the embalmed brutes.”

Link suppresses a shudder. “Then… their souls…?”

The other slows. His diamond disintegrates, tiny gemstones fluttering through the silver mist until gone. “Their brains operate only with base functions: hunger, motor skills, speech. Limited comprehension.” He meets Link’s eyes. There’s almost a sympathetic gleam. “I’m afraid that’s all the comfort I can offer you.”

“Ghirahim.”

Link’s features harden. Something has been nagging at him ever since the Garo’s hymn faded from his ears.

“Where is your sword?”

Silence thick as the brambles blankets the pair, the spirit’s visible eye unblinking. While his sallow skin practically glows, his shroud appears black as night.

“I am my sword.”

With no further explanation, he turns away, cape billowing in a flourish to signify finality.

---

The air becomes increasingly brisk as their path leads them up pewter-like steps, the formation crude and almost unnatural. This stairway circles around to a ledge, over which a steep incline makes for a nasty drop into a pool of luminescent… water?

“Do take care not to fall in, my dear,” drawls Ghirahim, as if reading the other’s thoughts.

Link hardens his resolve. Something about the murky glow down below has his hackles standing on end. It emits a faint chemical smell that leaves a metallic taste in his mouth.

Everything about this realm strikes him as so… wrong.

Luminous motes light the way before them, like fireflies, but cold. His skin breaks out in gooseflesh, his breath fogging. Shivering, he tries rubbing friction into his arms, and all the while his guide never slows. Across the chasm he spots the mouth of a cave, icicles hanging overhead and dripping with the same eerie blue fluid. Skyglow scatters off a gentle dust of snow, and in a stab of epiphany, he knows exacfly where they are.

This world is, after all, a reflection of the one he knows.

“North Eldin.”

Icy winds whistle past stone, white patches stark against their pitch foundation. Ghirahim does not deny the other’s observation.

Link’s memory is filled with red berries, with green grass, with frothy waters and billows of steam. I lived everywhere, a voice like velvet had said.

It almost feels sacrilegious, disturbing a quiet so profound. But Link cannot restrain himself. “What happened here?” he asks.

Ghirahim halts upon a downward slope, leaving Link a glimpse beyond his highbacked mantle. The demon’s chin is just visible beneath his silver cut. Each strand is like silk, length uncannily concise: not a split end to be seen. The phenomenon has Link wondering whether the threads aren’t as much like steel as the rest of the living sword.

Or is that precisely why he chooses to veil one side of his face?

“I got away from it all,” comes his answer. His voice, known for its sonority, bleeds into the docile landscape – sallow, severe, yet somehow repressed.

Link’s heart aches in that moment, nostrils flooded with the ghost of the warm scent of earth. Lying the way he is, he can just make out the overgrown vines on the ledges directly above, green whisps silhouetted against an empty sky.

His space behind the waterfall.

He had thought that slipping away from the crowds, from the bustle of the waking town, would provide his mind some space for clarity. When that failed, he’d attempted to take on a new perspective, praying that the angle would bring to light some glimpse of renewal previously untouched.

“The snow won’t harm you.” Ghirahim’s matter-of-fact tone has the other jolting back to the present. “Eitr originates from within the mountains. The sky, on the other hand, is pure.”

By now Link’s joints are so numb he doubts he could bend them if he tried. “Ei-…?”

“Eitr.” The demon folds his long legs beneath him, his face still masked from the other’s view. “Potent toxins give it the distinguishable blue luminescence. To ingest it is death.”

He cants his head ever-so subtly, but enough that the light of the glowworms reflects briefly off his azure diamond. Link remembers to breathe.

“I can only imagine what it might do to a mortal. Perhaps nothing. But I’ll not have you risk it.”

There’s a warning in those honeyed chords. Nevertheless, Link wills himself to fall in by the demon’s side, the two of them overlooking the rapids below.

A wolf’s lonely howl carries on the wind.

It’s strange, the knot in his chest. Here they are, alone under a blanket of warm, peaceful quiet. The moment that Link has been waiting for, and he can’t think of a single thing to say.

“What are you doing here, Link?”

Ghirahim echoes the knight’s own thoughts, though his cadence isn’t quite as curt. He may even sound genuine. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Your Goddess essentially banished me under threat of death.” There’s that sardonic lilt. “Though I suppose that’s not what you meant.”

No. It wasn’t. “She was your Goddess, too, once. Wasn’t she?”

Ghirahim does not respond.

Link continues, leaning back to look to the sinister ruins of a temple whose devastation is far lesser than its counterpart’s. “Is that what that place is? A sanctum for Demise?”

“For the Moon, you fool.”

The younger man spills out a curious huff. The cold burns his ears, worsened by his stagnancy. “You… worship the Moon, then.”

“The Garo do.” Even as he speaks, Ghirahim sounds to be piecing things together in his mind. “In tandem with another god. One I encountered very recently, in your own world, as a matter of fact. I believe it was he who plucked the Garo from their miserable enslavement at the hands of Hylia’s favored, delivered them to this realm and granted them free passage between. Until that day beneath the cistern, I’d never known exactly how the Moon by Himself could offer such power, or if the ritual you observed just earlier had anything to do with it.”

Lines run parallel in Link’s mind’s eye, and he struggles to make sense of them. This realm, a shadow of the one he knows; this demon, a reflection of his own darkness. Grief. Betrayal.

“Is that what Demise did for you?”

At last the demon meets his eyes. His skin is near luminous in the skyglow, moon-cast shadows stark and severe. “The Curse of Shattered Sight was not my invention,” he begins, as stern as he is solemn. “It was an art long expelled for its dark, sinister nature, buried deep beneath the bloodiest fragments of Sheikah history.” He looks briefly askance, and winces. “My kin. I went to great lengths to uncover this spell. Dark as it is, it is powerful, and its mass effect could have ended the war – or at least turned the tides in our favor.”

Link hugs himself tighter while he listens. It feels that the demon may have recited this same tale many times before.

“With shards of hate in their eyes, the Demon King’s armies would have turned on one another. It was assumed to be part of their nature. At the time, I believed they would have torn their own to shreds before our troops even arrived. But the High Council refused to sanction my request.”

A crinkled up wanted poster unrolls in Link’s memory, vaguely captioned ‘unlawful practice of the forbidden arts.’ “But you did it anyway.”

For a moment, Ghirahim is once again quiet. “Preparations were made.” He tilts his head back with a resentful inhale, lids heavy, lashes low. “Then I was discovered.”

The other can’t help but inwardly muse. What if Ghirahim’s ‘treachery’ hadn’t been discovered in time? Would the armies of Demise have been defeated, as he’d hoped? Would Hylia have had no need to shed her divine form? Would the Zelda he knows even exist – and if so, would the two of them have been friends at all?

A gulp of chilled air reminds him that ultimately, what-if’s matter not.

“So they exiled you?”

Ghirahim shrugs one shoulder, and leans back on his hands – a picture of relaxation. He bathes in the moonlight as a remlit might bathe in the sun on a languid afternoon.

When it becomes clear that the demon doesn’t intend to continue, Link offers to finish for him. “And that’s when you became a turncoat.”

“I admit, the whole thing is rather ironic.” It’s almost humorous, how casual he is about this last detail. “But really, can you blame me? How could anyone allow all this,” he gestures at the whole of himself, “to go to waste?”

Without even meaning, Link barks out a laugh. “No, I think I get it,” he says. The light winds sting, bringing tears to his eyes that freeze before they can fall. Absently, he stares over the cliffside, admiring the patterns formed by the freezing eitr. “Everyone needs to feel like they belong somewhere.”

Again, that lachrymose silence falls over the pair. The human’s bones are numb, frigid air biting at his nostrils even as he breathes, but the maelstrom in his heart churns on.

“You don’t belong here, Link.”

The demon’s words startle him. “Ghirahim…?”

A grey chin dips low, nearly perched against his collar. Link envies him his cloak. Ghirahim has never displayed vulnerability to the elements before. Perhaps things are different here.

Before either can conjure another word, the demon shifts, dark gaze pointed to the Moon. Silver shadows pool in those distant craters, patterns similar to the heavenly body Link knows to hang above Skyloft forming what looks to be a face. Only here, so close, this face is far more distinct. Sorrowful.

Gently, a gloved palm cups the human’s face, slender fingers carding through his bangs.

“Ghirahim,” Link strives to gulp down his rising trepidation, “why did you bring me here?”

The demon’s face is somber, docile – even when those powerful digits tear a lock of honeyed strands from Link’s head. With just enough body heat retained to feel it, the human releases a sharp, startled yelp.

Gingerly he rubs at the ensuing tenderness on his scalp, cheeks burning so brightly he’s sure it would melt snow.

Overhead, the Moon starts to look as though He might weep.

Solemnity glistens in Ghirahim’s eyes, glued to his trophy. “Demon,” he muses with a scoff. A white mouth presses into a tight line, golden strands now curled around his tightening fist. “Even before the war, the term carried so many negative connotations. Lesser beings, cursed with innate wickedness and bound to play the scourge of the light world if not first eliminated.”

Fresh moisture stings Link’s eyes. Quickly, he blinks it back, breath hitching. “You know I don’t think that way. Not about you.”

“No. I suppose you don’t. But you see,” he leans back on his elbow, similar to how Zelda once had while preparing to spill the latest gossip when she and Link were alone in his dorm late at night, “in this realm, we spawns of the underworld are the norm. All things considered,” he nudges Link’s shoulder, a suggestive glint in his eye, “that would make you the bad guy.”

Stark against this casual pose is the hardened edge in Ghirahim’s features. The contrast between the two – and worse, the reminiscence of his childhood friend’s mannerisms, not in warm lanternlight atop a threadbare quilt, but here in the cold, hard dark of the Netherworld – freezes the blood in Link’s veins. Were he able, he would inch away. As is, his limbs refuse to move.

“And when you’re bad,” the demon presses, his inflection dropping wistfully, “you just… run.”

The howling of the wolf grows louder. Link’s vision starts to fade. He opens his mouth to speak, to shout, to plead – for clarity if for nothing else – but his lips are frozen, his nerves encased. Around him, the light of the glowworms blurs until his vision is entirely consumed.

All at once, he is swathed in serenity.

Through the misty azure he sees the demon rise, his silhouette, though obscured, unmistakable. A voice like spun sugar echoes darkly in his ears.

“Worry not, sky child,” it says. Word by word, their volume recedes, falling into such distortion the other can hardly discern the rest. “Perhaps, together, we shall greet the dawn.”

The last thing he knows is that he is no longer cold.

---

Heat rolls in waves off Ghirahim’s shoulders, the path through the temple ruins much more strenuous upon reentry. Leastwise, by the time he arrives at the inner sanctum, the Garo are sure to have concluded their lunar congregation. Silver lining, as his kind used to say.

Four components lightly jostle and clink in a nine-square talisman, tucked safely within the folds of his velvet cloak. Skin tingling with anticipation, long drawn out by the length of this journey, he checks each hidden item again.

Oil of pyrite crushed with essence of almond, diluted with vetiver root. The blood of the great dragon Faron, Warden of the Woods, taken from his blade and stowed in a small vial. Nightshade myrrh fermented in the Deep Woods and infused with an iron Truth Key.

And of course, a lock of hair from the intended.

A thick huff escapes the demon’s nostrils, his mirth ironic and even a bit sour. That old former-demon from Link’s island in the sky – Batreaux? – may not have been the most scholarly choice as far as magical consultations go, yet when he’d suggested a ceremonial handfasting, he’d actually been on a steady track. Naturally, Hylia’s favorites would have the arrogance to believe their traditions began with their own kind.

But Ghirahim knows better.

His spine is aflame, thighs stiff and sore, when at last he reaches the top of the final spiral staircase. As hoped for, the faithful have since departed – and center the mosaic, nestled comfortably within the shallow groove, rests his target.

A single tear, just larger than the demon’s fist, aglow with the silver light of the Moon’s wisdom and sorrow.

Already, he can feel the blue flames sparking between his fingertips.

Every spellcaster worth their quintessence knows the first staple of the craft is to focus; to empty one’s mind and set clear intentions. And never before for Ghirahim has it proven more difficult. He collects the Moontear with a storm in his heart, its ethereal light pulsating in rhythm with the torrent of his thoughts – already a negative omen. This isn’t like him.

But then, nothing about this feels right.

He lays out the nine-square, checkered fabric shimmering as it fuses with the stone. The gem-patterned groove through which the Moontear was harvested hardens into pale agate and lapis lazuli, and thus it will be until it’s served its purpose.

The demon pauses.

Once again, Ghirahim fingers the items in his keep, turning the spell over in his head. Incantations ancient and powerful are but shadows to him. Where has this hesitation all of a sudden come from? Three sacred flames lie under his and Link’s belt, as well as multi-natured conflicts too numerous to count. This is what it was all to be for.

But Demise…

In truth, he’s hardly considered the possibility of bonding once more to his former master. His rage, his indignance, had not been towards the stolen chance, but towards the one who stole it.

Link. Over and over and over again, the demon twists that honeyed lock around his forefinger, until even his steel circulation is nearly severed.

He looks again to the Man in the Moon, to the bitterness and truth in those hollow eyes. He’s not certain what he expected to find. There is nothing.

Nothing. And that is precisely the extent of what remains for him here, now, isn’t it? A world cold and beautiful, but empty, devoid of infant kikwis and scholarly Gorons, desert sunsets and volcanic hot springs.

When you’re bad, you just run.

Steadily, the sensation of certainty thaws his heart. He uncaps a vial, the one with the dragon’s blood, and lights it with azure flame; then, begins the meticulous process of anointing the talisman. Fi had been Hylia’s creation, and hers, therefore, to bind. But Ghirahim…

It all comes down to that thread of fate.

---

Cccc-r-r-rr-EE-

SNAP.

SPLASH-

Hisssssssss…

Steam rises from an aqua pool, the water rippling where loose ice had fallen in. Droplets run steadily down high stalactites, dancing reflections disappearing in the rising mist. Or is his vision simply blurring…?

All Link knows for certain is that he is as warm and heavy as the fog that engulfs him.

Soft blues morph into white clouds, turquoise waters into a periwinkle sky. ‘Together, we shall greet the dawn.’

Voices. Muffled, but he’d recognize them anywhere. One in particular he doubts he could ever hope to forget, much as he’s tried.

“Get it together, man!” bellow Groose’s surly chords. “C’mon, you licked that ugly grease ball – some shadowy thing oughta be nothing!”

“Groose, would you please not shake him?”

Link stirs. So the stabbing sensations in his head aren’t strictly mental, after all. Slowly, his vision clears, the first sight to greet him being that lightly tousled, flaming red pompadour. Groose’s iron hold releases his shoulders, and he forces himself to sit.

In the corner of his vision, he swears he spots a white wolf standing in the morning mist, eyes like sunlight boring into him. But before he can look closer, it vanishes into the fog.

“Wh…?”

A soft voice hushes him. Groose’s hulking form moves aside, making way for Zelda’s much smaller frame. Kneeling beside him, she places her warm hand to Link’s forehead, and immediately the pounding in his skull recedes. Like open arms, a sense of belonging, of rightness, encompasses the knight.

Still, one detail nags persistently at the back of his mind, clawing its way to the front. “Ghirahim-?”

Zelda’s somber expression cuts him short. Hovering a pace or two off, Groose casts a frown in another direction, just out of the other’s line of sight. Link doesn’t need to look to know Eagus is also standing nearby.

What he doesn’t expect is for a silver voice to answer so plainly.

“Am I permitted to speak, now, Commander,” the demon sighs, bored, “or will you try to cut my throat?”

Link shuffles around in time to see Eagus’ whiskers bristle. A growl rumbles from his chest. “I would cut out your tongue, if only-”

A curt, distinct flicker of Ghirahim’s eyes stops the commander mid-threat, and he turns his head to eye the disgraced knight, head still hazy. Ghirahim, like Link, is perched on the cold terracotta, only from the agitated drumming of his fingers it appears he’s been holding himself still for a while now. His mantle is missing.

Neither of them is in chains. That’s… a good sign?

The light scraping of metal on stone brings his attention back to Zelda. Her eyes glisten, pensive, as she holds up the demon’s sword.

Except… perhaps demon is no longer the right word.

The steel is still black as the void, but the white tribal patterns are a stark silver. Furthermore, there’s now a curve to those threading the blade itself, the leatherbound hilt stark against Zelda’s pale hand. The gem at the cross guard at first appears to be a gentle yellow, but changes as he regards it from slightly varying angles: soft violet, then pink, then orange, then blue.

The colors of a morning sky.

This weapon, which has played the source of so much grief to those present, secure in Zelda’s grasp. Yet she doesn’t cling to it, and her eyes reflect the shadow of defeat.

Link scarcely manages to tear his eyes from the sword, looking again to Ghirahim. At first he’d thought it simply the light, but no. The bit of color to what should be ashen skin now marks the man’s complexion: light brown. Like Impa.

Ghirahim discerns the young knight’s realization as though he were reading a singular sentence. “Yes, sky child.” If he attempts to feign boredom, it falls flat. “It would appear there is truly no limit to what I’m willing to suffer for you.”

‘I am my sword.’

As if to punctuate the new irrelevance of the former fact, a sheath of gold light pulses from Zelda’s grip and shimmers over the length of the blade. Ghirahim does not so much as flinch.

Link starts to lose feeling. His eyes lock firmly to the other’s. “You didn’t.”

“I did.” His chords are hushed, tone thick with emotion. “I… am my sword no longer.”

Eagus, meanwhile, runs a tired hand over his face, some of the tension seeping from his armored shoulders.

Ghirahim shoots him an unstimulated glare. “What now, Commander? Is this reunion not touching enough for your taste?”

“No, that’s not it,” the other sighs in that gruff, weary voice that so often follows a moot attempt at disciplinary action. His brown-grey eyes glaze, arms folded over his chest. “Just… debating whether it isn’t too early in life to retire.”