I don't own the Legend of Zelda
This was it. It was all over. Finally, he'd done it. He had killed the skychild. They'd won. There he layed, a crumpled heap, a lifeless corpse. His once bright blue eyes full of innocence and warmth, now stared upwards, cold and empty. His trade mark green tunic was smeared with the deep red of life called blood, that continued to pour from a large gash in his chest. His blond hair was now mingled with blood and dirt. Ghirahim jumped from the platform, which Link had been forced from moments before, and landed, cat like, at Link's feet. Cautiously, he walked around Link, inspecting his most recent prey. It wouldn't do for him to make a mistake, not now when he was so close. Satisfied that the skychild was indeed dead, he turned his attention towards the spirit maiden and finished the ritual. Nothing could stop him now.
Ghirahim should have been happy. He had everything he had ever wanted. He had achieved his goal, his master was revived and was taking over the whole world, everyone was at his mercy. Yet Ghirahim couldn't shake this empty feeling, like a piece of him had died along with the skychild. He had never felt like this before and wondered if this new sick feeling in his stomach was some kind of illness. No doubt due to overworking or excitement over his master's return, he mused. It would go away in time, he reassured himself. However, he was sorely mistaken.
If anything,Ghirahim's new found 'sickness' got worse. At night he was plagued by vivid dreams filled with boys in green. He became obsessed with the colour. His servants were ordered to cover his newly acquired manor in nature's colour, everything must be green: the walls, the floors, the curtains, even the fancy chandelier in the hall was made of green tinted glass that caught the light, casting green shapes around the room. The servants couldn't understand it, why this sudden obsession with the colour that, weeks before, he had loathed? His master didn't seem to notice or even care about his sword spirit's decline, he was far too busy. Besides, as far as Demise was concerned Ghirahim was just a tool, easily replaced.
Months passed. Piece by piece Ghirahim fell apart. He found himself with no appetite, he stopped wearing make up, he didn't brush his hair, he wouldn't wash, and eventually he stopped getting out of bed all together. He was an empty shell, a shadow of the once proud demon he had been, which seemed like it was a lifetime ago. He didn't care anymore. No-one cared. His master never cared, he could see that now. He had used Ghirahim and then replaced him with a new, better sword spirit. Ghirahim was no longer needed. His army of bokoblins didn't care either. They only followed his commands because they feared him. They would probably welcome and even rejoice at his death. For the first time in his life, Ghirahim realised how unhappy he was and this realisation only succeeded in making him feel even more miserable.
One dark, achingly lonely night, after a now familiar dream featuring a green clan boy, Ghirahim had had enough. He was sick of it. Sick of the constant knots in his stomach;sick of what he had let himself become; sick of the skychild for ruining his life, even after death. Uncontrollable anger welled up inside him as he grabbed the object nearest to him and lobbed it at the wall. The leather bound book collided with the wall with a crash and, loose pages making a bid for freedom, slid to the floor. Sighing, his anger subsided, and he crawled out of bed for the first time in days. As he picked up the book, he cast his eyes over one of many pages that had been scattered across the floor. He gingerly picked it up with trembling fingers. One sentence in particular stood out to him.
Remorse-feeling of sorrow and regret for something one did.
Grasping that piece of paper like a lifeline, he stared at it for what felt like an eternity. Remorse. Was this what he had been experiencing? Impossible, he must have murdered and hurt hundreds, no thousands and had never felt the slightest twinge of guilt. Why then should he feel remorse for the death of one insignificant boy? A particularly irksome and irritating boy who constantly attempted to thaw his carefully thought out plans. It made no sense. However, nothing made sense to the demon anymore. He was so startled by this new information that he did something that he hadn't done since the skychild's death. He laughed. A cold, humorless laugh, that made him sound insane. He was insane, driven mad by regret and longing. He was sorry he had killed Link and he had been a fool to not realise this sooner. The laughter stopped as suddenly as it had come. It was too late now, far too late to turn back the clock and start over. Link was dead, there was no way to bring him back and say sorry. Ghirahim almost envied him, Link could feel no pain, nothing at all, all his senses had been numbed by death. Ghirahim ached to join him, to be rid of all feeling and emotion, to be free but he was scared. Scared of what awaited him after death, a plunge into the unknown.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sound outside. His pointed ears twitched, someone was softly calling his name. Ghirahim dropped the paper in his hand, it floated back down to earth as he wrenched opened the door and looked down the hall. At first glance it appeared empty, but then he noticed the blue figure, which emitted a soft blue glow in the darkness, hovering near the front door. The figure's aura felt familiar to the demon, though he could not place it. The blue being beckoned him and he followed it without a moment's hesitation, somehow he knew that it was the right thing to do. The figure in blue danced ahead, out of the manor, deep into the woods, too fast for Ghirahim to capture more than a glimpse of it's features. At last they came to an ancient, long forgotten clearing deep in the woods. The mysterious person stood in the centre of the clearing, next to an empty stone pedestal that looked like it had been untouched for centuries. He could see her clearly now; her pure, blue light had brightened and fillied the clearing. Her skin was blue and seemed metallic, the large blue gem on her chest told him that she was a sword spirit, like himself. Her every movement was graceful, elegant, with her arm-like sleeves waving slightly in the breeze. As he stared at her she spoke in a flat, informative yet some how reassuring tone, her face remaining expressionless.
"I am sure that my sudden appearance has startled you. Allow me to explain. I am Fi. We have met before, though as I was in a different form there is a 70% chance that you have not recognised me."
Instantly, at her words, something in Ghirahim's mind clicked.
"You're his sword, aren't you?!" He exclaimed, pointed a gloved finger at her.
She nodded. "You are correct. However, with the death of master Link my conscious has been fading and there is a 100% chance that soon I shall sleep in my sword form, to wait for master Link's reincarnation to finish his destiny."
Ghirahim was confused, "Reincarnation? Why are you telling me this? I killed your master, why give me the opportunity to ruin his destiny again?"
"You feel regret. My mater liked to help people and give them a second chance. So in honour of his memory, I shall help you. I'll help you to ease your guilt." She nodded towards the pedestal. "You can sleep here, in sword form, Link shall return one day and you can ask his forgiveness."
The demon hesitated, "And if he doesn't forgive me?"
Fi smiled slightly, "He will."
His mind made up, Ghirahim licked his lips and changed into his sword form in a flash of black diamonds. Fi lifted the jagged, black sword skyward and placed him in the pedestal. She turned and drifted away, leaving Ghirahim asleep in his pedestal where he awaited his skychild, his blade shining in the light of the rising sun.
