Two Swords Clashed
A/N: Hello everyone! Here is my newest Ghiralink fanfic, with it's currently working-title. To be brief, this is a medieval-type AU focusing on Ghirahim and Link primarily. My OCs Ardaia and Rynae feature in places. Here's hoping that you all enjoy it! Please tell me what you think!
Chapter 1: Caught
"Caught," he repeated for what must have been the millionth time.
The word was a curse, an omen, in Ghirahim's view. The word that cut him off from his sole chance at freedom. The word that announced his doom, sealed his fate.
"That's right," a rough voice answered him. Ghirahim glared up at the bulky man who held one of his bare arms with one massive fist. He received a cruel smirk in return. "Not many of you last more than a month. But you somehow managed to stay hidden for no less than a year."
"You couldn't leave me alone for just another day?" Ghirahim growled, reluctantly allowing himself to be pulled down the crowded streets. No one made any move to help Ghirahim, instead choosing to duck out of sight, keeping their heads down. All dressed in clothes that were either too big or, in most cases, far too small, all scattering into rundown houses that looked as if a gust of wind would knock them down. Ghirahim knew some of them, had eaten with a rare few. But they didn't meet his eye as he cast his sullen, dark-eyed gaze at them.
"You should know how the law works," his captor accused. "All you can really do now is congratulate yourself on a job well done."
"Obviously it wasn't done well enough," Ghirahim muttered. He glanced down at his clothes and grimaced. White wool had turned to a dull grey a long time ago, and his makeshift scarlet cape, the ends tattered, was riddled with patches. His once-pale feet were dirtied and calloused, but he had grown used to walking barefoot. The cobblestone pavement felt familiar, but this trip was not one he wanted to be taking. Especially not in the company of someone as rude as this man!
"My lord should be very pleased with the newest addition to his staff," he commented, and Ghirahim scowled.
"Like he really needed another person to slave away for him."
He was shaken roughly, and his feet were dragged forcefully along the pavement. Ghirahim hissed, righting himself before any damage was done.
"You ought to learn some manners," the man warned. He stroked his thick beard with his free hand. "However hard that might seem."
"Says the man who took my gloves and the change in my pocket. I never got your name, either."
Another shake. "Garwin. Not that it really matters. Now be quiet."
Ghirahim did as he was told and kept his mouth shut from then on, humming quietly as they walked and glancing around at what he could see. Noise filled the streets; merchants shouting about how good their produce was, how cheaply it was selling for, the shrieks of young children chasing each other with sticks. The strong smell of whiskey and the laughter of some drunkards drifted from the window of one building, while the scent of baked goods and warm pastries came from the opposite end of the street. Ghirahim had a feeling he was going to miss it. Unless he found a way to escape his predicament, he'd be working for the rest of his life.
With that in mind, Ghirahim spent the last few minutes of their walk taking in as much as he could. Compared to spending a year working for these so-called 'noblemen', living in this shambled area seemed like it would be absolute paradise.
"Take a last look at your precious 'home'," Garwin sneered.
"A walled town," Ghirahim muttered, almost to himself. "Not exactly wonderful, but I'll miss it."
"Oh, get over it, would you?" Garwin chided him. "One year is all you've got to work. Although now that I think about it, it's longer than most have."
"At least I have something to be proud of, then," Ghirahim spat. "It certainly doesn't improve my bad mood, though. I'll be in the fields after the year is up."
"You've got that right. It'll do you some good, get your attitude in control."
"I think these rules are absolutely horrible."
"Well, I'd advise you against being this open in front of Lord Smith," Garwin warned. "His son wouldn't be too pleased, either."
Ghirahim was half-listening, looking into the window of a small toy shop when he locked eyes with a short child no more than ten years old. Dressed in scruffy clothes much like his own, he stared at Ghirahim from his position in the alleyway, between the shoemakers and a bakery, and lifted his left hand, splaying his fingers. Ghirahim gave him a curt nod in return. To anyone else, it was just a silent greeting, a simple sign of acknowledgement. But not to them. The child turned and ran into the shaded alley, not bothering to look back. Ghirahim could only hope that the boy would be able to run quickly enough to deliver his message in good time.
Ghirahim was turned away from the street then, and he and Garwin resumed their walk. Ghirahim sighed, taking one last peek over his shoulder at the streets he'd darted about in for so long.
"I nearly forgot about Lord Smith's son," he said absently, eyes flickering toward the sky. "Is he as arrogant as I've heard?"
Garwin wasted no time in shaking Ghirahim again. "Link is a fine young man. Sixteen or seventeen, about your age. His father is very proud of him."
"Oh, I can only imagine," Ghirahim muttered. Children that grew up surrounded by wealth were always the worst, always ignorant and so demanding.
They turned a sharp corner and Ghirahim let out his breath in a low whistle.
Much as he hated the man, Ghirahim had to admit that the lord of the Faron province did have good taste. He owned more than enough land, and had enough wealth that he could fill it. Surrounded by tall fencing and massive gates, he lived in a building that was too small to be a palace but far too large to be called a mansion. Pristine white all over, with pale green roof-tiles and tower-tops. A field specially for growing the best crops Ghirahim had ever laid eyes on, and another one for livestock. A path lined with white and red roses led the way to the front doors, dark mahogany brought from Faron Woods.
They approached the gate, and Garwin quickly explained their presence to the nearest pair of guards. Both were dressed in silver and green attire, with the symbol of the goddess Hylia, the Triforce, adorning the breastplates of their armour. One of them gave a shout to a pair inside the gates, and within seconds, a group of six men were pulling them open for the new arrivals. Ghirahim grimaced as he stepped forward, into noble territory.
Garwin seemed far more comfortable inside these gates, where he knew he belonged. It was a long walk to the front doors, and Ghirahim grew more uncomfortable with every step.
"A new member of staff," Garwin said to the pair of guards at the doors. They each gave Ghirahim a smile, not ones that Ghirahim would call friendly.
"How long was this one free?" the one standing to the left asked.
"No less than a year," Garwin replied.
The one on the right made a noise of astonishment. "So this must be Ghirahim, then. I didn't think we'd ever catch up to him."
Ghirahim frowned, eyes narrowing in immediate suspicion. "How do you know my name?"
Garwin glared down at him. "Don't you speak until you're spoken to." He returned his attention to the two guards. "You'd be right in saying that this little scoundrel is the infamous Ghirahim."
"Lord Smith will have to keep a tight watch on him, then."
"He'd better. This one vanished inside a walled town; he could be trouble in a place like this."
Ghirahim scoffed, rolling his eyes as the guards went about pushing the doors open.
"Here we go," said Garwin gruffly. Ghirahim took a deep breath, scowling.
"...Here we go."
Link tried not to slouch where he stood in the entrance hall, all gleaming silver and green like the rest of the house. He glanced down at his reflection, bright blue eyes meeting his bored gaze. The fabric of his pale green coat was a little uncomfortable against his white shirt, buttoned right the way up. He flicked a loose strand of dirty blond hair from his line of vision, trying to stand up as straight as the man standing next to him.
His father was a man that radiated authority and demanded respect. Although he had more grey hairs than blond, he was still a formidable man, with a steely gaze that sent people running. He wore the same clothes he so often did when greeting his new members of staff, dark green over white, the Triforce embroidered neatly onto the front.
"Do we really have to do this again?" Link asked, breaking the silence. He didn't take his eyes from the front doors, where a pair of guards stood eerily still, their spears close by.
"Of course," his father replied. His voice was deep, and not one that left room for exceptions. "It's customary. It's the law."
"I know that," Link muttered. "But this is the third time this week I've had to stand here and greet them. I could be reading."
"You'll understand better when you're older."
Link huffed. He'd heard that one a million times before, that everything would be much clearer in the future, that he would make a fine lord someday.
He smiled when he heard the familiar mewing of his tiny Remlit, Cyra. The palest of browns, she wound her way between his boots, striped tail swishing contentedly. Her large round ears twitched as she sniffed around curiously, investigating.
The guards stepped out of their positions as the wooden doors swung open to admit Garwin, towing along the newest addition. Link sighed, wishing he could return to his reading. It was only when Garwin came within a few feet of Link and his father that Link saw just how unusual the new addition really was.
He stood as straight as Link's father did, an accomplishment in itself; his chin tilted upward ever so slightly as he smiled confidently –though in saying that, his smile never reached beyond those thin lips. White hair that had once been clean covered one side of his face, concealing his left eye. His remaining eye was sharp and deep brown in colour, sweeping past Link to instead observe the décor. His skin was pale, underneath all of that grime. It was his attire that stood out most to Link, white woollen clothes that came just short of clinging to him. Link thought he saw some small bumps just under the fabric, but it could have been anything caught out on the streets. Something that looked like a cape hung from his shoulders, with a deep hood and plenty of patches. He went barefoot, too, and Link wondered whether he was uncomfortable with not even a pair of socks to wear.
"Not a bad place you have here," he remarked, his voice surprisingly smooth. Link raised his eyebrows in surprise; no one emever/em spoke before his father. Until now, it seemed. Risking a glance at his father, he saw the man was just as surprised, and most definitely irritated. He cleared his throat pointedly, and the white-haired teenager offered him another faint smile.
"Remove any weapons you are carrying," Lord Smith ordered.
In regards to weapons, Link didn't expect much, since Garwin usually took what he found in everybody's pockets, and most didn't have a lot to give up anyways. But this was a different story, it seemed. As Link had suspected, there were some things hiding up this person's sleeves. With an ease that told Link the gesture was practiced, he brandished a small blade. The tiny handle was no more than a stub, while the blade was incredibly flat and frighteningly sharp. The next came from the other sleeve, similar to the first but not quite as polished.
He wasn't finished, though. Lifting one leg almost daintily, he produced another from the inside of his trousers before slipping another from the other side. Link couldn't help grinning as he reached back into his hood and revealed another. The last slipped out from underneath his yellow sash. He bent gracefully at the waist, laying out each knife in front of his muddied feet.
"I'm fairly sure that's all I was carrying," he said casually. "But you can feel free to check for more if you want."
Garwin glared fiercely at him, and Link's father looked quite taken aback at the manner of this peasant. Link himself couldn't force his smile away. When the snowy-haired male met his gaze, Link tried not to grin at the mischievous wink he was offered. This commoner was -surprisingly enough- quite amusing.
"What is your name?" Lord Smith asked curtly.
"My lord, it's-"
"I am the one they call Ghirahim," the peasant interrupted Garwin, his tone brimming with self-confidence.
Immediately, six spears were pointed at his throat.
Link supressed a noise of surprise at the sudden hostility –well, at the sudden rise in hostility. If Ghirahim was frightened or startled in any way, he didn't show it. He merely flicked a strand of hair out of the way and never let his smile falter.
"I had a surname once," he continued, "but it's been a while since I've had to use it, and I've forgotten it."
"… I see. And I am Lord-"
"Oh, there's no need; I already know who you are," Ghirahim interrupted with a smile. Link winced when Garwin shoved him so hard that Ghirahim actually dropped to his knees, scuffing them on the small knives. His unnervingly pleasant expression hardly faltered in front of Link's father, who stared at the thin youth with open dislike. The spears had followed him, pointed in exactly the same way as before. However, after a brief few seconds of terrible silence, Ghirahim picked himself up with as much dignity as was possible in a situation like this and fixed Link and his father with another smile, seemingly oblivious to the weapons aimed at him. In all the time he'd been standing in this hall, Link did not recall anyone stepping through these doors with a smile on their face. At least, not anyone who didn't belong to a wealthy House.
With only the slightest show of discomfort, Ghirahim adjusted his posture, positioned himself properly and cleared his throat. The red stains that were forming about his knees didn't appear to faze him in the least. Link couldn't figure him out at all; he was like some sort of actor, so casual about everything; and in front of a man like his father, too! That took real nerve.
"And tell me, how long were you free, Ghirahim?" Lord Smith asked.
"No more than a year," Ghirahim said proudly.
Link gaped unashamedly; no one had ever arrived here that had lasted more than seven months. Ghirahim had only one day before he was a free man, but it seemed that hope was to be forgotten now. Link had to admire that feat, though. Staying hidden in a walled town like this was surely no easy task, and Link couldn't ever imagine being able to do it himself.
"In that case," Lord Smith said, "you will serve my House for no less than and no more than a year. You will work every day without fail until the day of your release. You will then be moved to the neighbouring crop fields, where you will remain for the rest of your life, and you will do this without trouble or complaint. Are we perfectly clear?"
"Of course," Ghirahim said smoothly. "Working is just fine for me, though not being able to complain is a little… restricting. Nevertheless, I'll do my best."
Link didn't think Garwin could seem any more disapproving. It was hard to resist snickering at the bearded man's outraged expression.
"You will begin working immediately," Link's father instructed. "You'll receive a hot meal at six o'clock in the kitchens, and you will then continue to work until the hour of ten. Another worker can show you to your room."
"A hot meal, hmm," Ghirahim mused. "That will be nice."
He was given another shove from Garwin, though not as rough as the first. Link watched as Garwin reached down and scooped up the six knives in one meaty fist, before grabbing Ghirahim by the shoulder.
"I'll take him to the kitchens, my lord, and put him to work," he assured, with a hasty bow. He waited for Ghirahim to do the same, and when he caught him staring into space, he forced him into an awkward bow before pulling him down the nearest corridor on Link's right.
When they were out of sight, Link glanced at his father to see if he could figure out what the man was thinking. Link himself didn't know whether his annoyance or amusement was winning over the other. He didn't recall anyone behaving in this way toward someone of such high class. It was only now that Link noticed Ghirahim had not once addressed his father as even 'my Lord'. Just who did he think he was?
"What do you think?" Link asked carefully.
"He's trouble," Lord Smith replied coldly. "Anyone who can evade capture for that long is bound to be problematic."
Link shrugged indifferently. He thought Ghirahim was unusual, but someone who looked like he knew how to have a little fun. Cyra circled impatiently around his heels, bumping her head against his legs insistently. He smiled down at her.
"I'm going to my rooms," Link announced, breaking the brief silence that had fallen. When his father said nothing, he took off in the direction of his quarters without another word.
"Never in my life have I seen such behaviour," Garwin growled. "How could you even think to speak like that?"
Ghirahim shrugged one shoulder, looking around at the heavy curtains and paintings in gilded frames and all of the other fineries that were to be seen. Vases on small wooden tables lined the hallway they walked down, a plush carpet underneath his feet.
"I didn't really have to think," Ghirahim said absently, trying to ignore the stinging pain at his knees. "That's the way I've always spoken to people."
"Well, you ought to go about fixing that."
Ghirahim huffed, wishing Garwin's grip on his shoulder wasn't quite so tight. The man was awfully rude for one who talked of having decent manners.
After turning a corner or two, they reached a pair of smaller doors, and Ghirahim felt his stomach growl when the familiar scent of baking hit him. Even with the doors closed, there was plenty of noise to be heard from the kitchen, the clanging of pots and the chatter of chefs and spit boys all came together in one large racket.
"You'll have to get changed out of those things," Garwin said as they approached. "Can't have you walking around without shoes, either."
"What will happen to the clothes I'm wearing now?" Ghirahim asked, horrified at the thought of giving them up now. They'd been earned, given to him only after a lot of hard work. Even if they'd been damaged beyond repair, he would hold onto them.
"Most people just dispose of theirs," Garwin told him. "Though I suppose you have some sort of policy that means you've got to keep them?"
"I've just grown fond of them, is all. Can't I keep them in my room? Under my pillow or someplace else?"
"I don't think anyone would object to it," Garwin said reluctantly. Ghirahim really did not like this man.
Then a pair of giant doors were pushed open, and Ghirahim was introduced to the bustling world of the kitchen. All he could make out through the steam were people of all kinds rushing about and shouting; it was a hub of commotion. And it was terribly stuffy, compared with the breezy streets outside. Ghirahim took it all in with curious eyes, scanning the different areas of the room with interest. He'd never been in a room with so much food, so much of it being cooked, in his life.
"Go and ask someone to find you a uniform," Garwin ordered him. "Hopefully I won't be seeing much of you anymore."
"Nice knowing you," Ghirahim muttered with a scowl. Garwin left, the doors slamming behind him and leaving Ghirahim to find his way around.
Slipping around and avoiding a run-in with anyone, he weaved his way through the onslaught of workers, nicking a piece of bread as he passed. He soon found that the kitchen was a massive area, each section as busy as the next. Dinnertime wasn't too far off, so Ghirahim figured there was reason enough for all of this bustle.
"What are you doing in here?" a booming voice asked from behind him. Still chewing on a crust of bread, Ghirahim turned to address who'd spoken. A round man in a greasy white apron and hat leered down at Ghirahim, beads of sweat lining his forehead.
"As I understand," Ghirahim said, gulping down the last of the bread, "I'm to work here until the hour of ten."
"A newcomer," the chef groaned. He looked about him before jabbing a finger at an unassuming worker stirring a pot full to the brim with potatoes. "You!"
The boy jumped and turned on his heel, darting over to the chef. "Yes, sir?"
"Find a uniform for this one," the chef replied, giving Ghirahim a push so he could join the boy. "Be quick about it!"
The boy started off without even checking to see if Ghirahim was following. Luckily, Ghirahim was more than accustomed to walking at a brisk pace, and he kept up with ease. They reached a small storeroom at the very back of the kitchen.
"You can find a uniform in here," the boy said quietly, so much so that Ghirahim strained to hear him over the rest of the noise. He didn't bother with a thank you, instead opting to simply pull the door open and see what was inside.
Not much, aside from rows and rows of uniforms on one side, and piles of cleaning supplies on the other. Ghirahim sniffed distastefully at the uniforms, a combination of green, silver and black, with a pair of shining black shoes to accompany it. Ghirahim huffed to himself for a bit, eyes narrowing in disgust; not only at his new clothing, but at the whole situation.
"Of all the people in this bloody town," he muttered exasperatedly, "why was I caught? How did that happen?"
He paced up and down the length of the room –which wasn't that great a distance- he pushed back the awful stinging, instead cursing under his breath and blaming everyone and everything under the sun for his misfortune.
"Having to smile for that pretentious idiot and his son," he seethed. "Making us all slave away in this rotten place. Demise better have a good reason for not sending help by now."
Not that he needed it, of course. Ghirahim was sure he could find some way to get out of his current predicament, without having to rely on another scruffy, inexperienced brat. It didn't look like one was coming soon, either.
So with a last resigned sigh, he undressed himself. He hissed as he dabbed at the cuts he'd received with one of his cape's ends. After the blood had mostly dried, Ghirahim folded up his old clothes and pulled on his new white shirt, the unsightly crest of House Smith embroiderd onto it. A pair of black trousers with a long green stripe running along the length of the leg, black socks, and matching shoes that were a little too tight for Ghirahim's liking followed.
"A uniform. How degrading this is."
"When you're done complaining," a deep but soft voice interrupted, "I'd appreciate your help."
Ghirahim whirled on his heel with a sharp glare for whoever had spoken, coming to a halt with his fists clenched. No one eavesdropped on him! That was his own job, after all, and no one was better at it than he!
"What the hell are you doing?" Ghirahim demanded. The dark-haired boy shrugged, his sun-darkened skin contrasted with bright grey eyes. Dressed in the same uniform as Ghirahim and just as scrawny, this insolent teenager seemed to slouch where he stood, taking a bite from an apple while Ghirahim glared daggers at him.
"Like I said, I need some help," he said. "Are you going to help me, newcomer?"
That was the last straw for Ghirahim. "Who do you think you are, brat?"
"My name's Rynae," he replied evenly.
"That's not what I meant. Who are you to address me the way you are?"
"I'm just what you are, aren't I?" Rynae responded. "A street rat. I didn't get your name."
"Ghirahim," he spat. Rynae's eyebrows shot up.
"That Ghirahim?" he asked, actually looking surprised.
"The one and only. It seems I have some sort of reputation."
"You stayed free for a year," Rynae reminded him. "I don't think I've ever heard of anyone who lasted so long out there. And now you're here."
"Well," Ghirahim said with a smile, revelling in the attention being given to him, "aren't you lucky?"
"I suppose I am," Rynae said with another shrug. He finished off his apple and grinned. "Didn't think the legendary Ghirahim had such a bad temper, though."
Before Ghirahim could rant any further, Rynae held up his hands in some gesture of surrender.
"Come on, Ghirahim. Let's not get off to a bad start, now."
Rynae pulled the door open and stepped outside. The smell of steaming vegetables and minced meat caused Ghirahim's stomach to growl in its cry for nourishment. Rynae noticed, looking over his shoulder with a wide smile.
"And let's get some meat on those bones of yours."
"… As if a little sprout like you has any reason to say that."
