One day, I wondered what happened when Ghirahim disappeared from Demise's grasp. And then this happened. I hope you enjoy it!

With a roar, the Demon King attacked, sending the sky child reeling backward. The human – Link, Hylia's chosen hero – quickly recovered and swung his weapon mightily. The opponents' weapons met with a flash of sparks, tremors running up the hero's arm with the strain. If Ghirahim could have felt mirth in his current form, he would have cackled with glee at the sight of Link's weakness.

There was no way such a puny, insignificant human could defeat his master in battle. True, the sky child had thwarted Ghirahim at every twist and turn, time and time again, but it remained his opinion that the only reason the boy still stood was because of the sword in his hand. The master sword was a bane to all demons, and every time it had pierced the Demon Lord's skin, the touch had burned deep, scorching whatever had taken the place of a soul inside him. If he had ever possessed one.

Ghirahim was certain that his master had the skill to keep the master sword from harming him; he was not only Ghirahim's master, but a master of swordplay. The Demon King was also in possession of the greatest known demonic power, and the very antithesis of the master sword – the Demon Sword, Ghirahim. He was confident they would win.

But with each blow the human child dealt to his master, he began to doubt Demise's resolve, and eventually, his abilities. He felt the strength begin to ebb from the great demon's limbs until he was forced to using the power of lightning to fuel his assaults. This seemed to stymy Link for a few moments until he realized that he, too, could use lightning against his foe.

Ghirahim slowly retreated further and further within himself with each pulse of electricity that skittered across his glossy surface, watching with fascinated disgust as Demise fell before the hero of legend.

He could stand it no longer. Someone as weak as Demise was not fit to be his master, to wield him against the forces that sought to rid their kind from the face of the earth, if he could not destroy a single human child.

As he had so many times before, Ghirahim willed himself to disappear. An instant later, the great, black, diamond-shaped sword ceased to exist, leaving the Demon King defenseless save his own dwindling powers. The demon lord sought a place of solitude in an attempt to nurse his wounds, bringing with him the hope that, one day, someone would be strong enough to use him for what he had been created for – to destroy all that stood in opposition of his master.

The sword remained in this undisturbed place for several thousand years, always waiting for the strength of another to peak his interests. Many a time period, he felt flares similar to those of his original master, but he ignored them, remembering the betrayal from long ago.

An instance or two occurred when he would feel power from one had never met, but he found that time erased even the greatest of these forces, just like Demise's careful planning and rise to power. After, what was waiting a few hundred more years in comparison to how long he had already done so?

It was after a particular surge, full of darkness and creatures called 'twili,' that he began to realize that he could no longer remember his name. He had not been called anything in such a long time, had not heard the voice of another, neither within himself or outside in the physical world, that it no longer seemed feasible that he could be called anything. In truth, all signs of his existence had disappeared, and that of a Dark Master Sword, had been wiped from history, no doubt with the aid of the goddess.

This realization was met with a dull, completely ignorable throb of panic. He knew he should be more worried about something like this, but he could not find it within himself to care. It would be several more centuries before it dawned on him that his very consciousness was fading, just like his Master Sword counterpart those many eons ago, from the sword, slowly leaving behind a weapon of dark energies with no one to keep its power in check.

With the loss of his awareness also began the process of losing his memories. At first, it was nearly unnoticeable. He could not place a face with a name or vise verso, or he would forget the order of events in which occurrences had happened to him. But then huge portions of his personal history disappeared. How had he ended up in this sword state, for he clearly remembered once walking on his own two feet. Was he ever truly alive once, and was he so now? Could this even be called living?

He did not know, and could not remember.

There were things he did recall, and those few memories he clutched on to with all he had. He was afraid, with what was left of him that could feel, that he would lose everything that he once was, and he clung to the thought that these memories, ridiculous and trivial though they were, held some semblance of his original self.

There were flashes of a boy garbed in green, his bright blue eyes staring intently at the sword's forgotten form with rage, mild disgust, and faintly disguised hope. In another, ugly monsters scurried to execute his bidding, although he could no longer remember what he would have commanded such creatures to do. Images of a monster – his former master, he was sure of it – secretly meeting with a divinely beautiful woman, the goddess... Hylia... More held the monster's wrath and the woman's tears. They were lovers once,a fading thought provided helpfully. Until they betrayed one another.

Despite these memories, the spirit in the sword was dying, and the only way he thought he would not: without a fight.

A traveling company was gathered around a fire one night, each telling stories of legends, rumors, anything to pass the time. The party had settled into camp with high spirits, but the conversation had taken a turn for the dreary a few hours past.

"...And then the 'ole family was cursed the be spiders, but not the tiny kind. They were huge, ugly critters, 'alf man and 'alf spiders, an' ye could hear 'em crying out fer 'elp from tha' creepy ol' 'ouse of theirs. An' they was stuck like tha' fer years..."

"But then the Hero of Time came, blah, blah, blah. That's boring." There was a round of agreement from the others gathered there. "What about one that doesn't have a happy ending? That hasn't been solved by the Hero of Time, or any other hero, for that matter?"

An older man, maybe around 50 years of age, scratched his beard in thought before snapping his fingers. "You hear the one about that place a little off from Kakariko? They been havin' some difficulties with some redeads. Not only that, but their own deads are givin' them trouble, too. They ain't stayin' dead. A kid was out late and had her little dog walk up to her for a petting. But that dog had been buried good for a few months." He paused for effect, glancing around the fire with satisfaction as he noted the eager eyes upon him. "They been callin' it the Cursed Grounds, they have. Crops've been dying, too. Nothin'll grow off that land but death itself."

The man raised his hands over his head for emphasis as he continued. "But they also been sayin' that there's an object of great power in the middle o' all this. That been causing this craziness. That whoever claims it will be the holder of great power."

A couple of the men chuckled and stood to return to their own little areas for sleep. "You had me until that last part, old man," one said. With that, they departed, leaving the storyteller, his wife, and a teenage boy still sitting by the light of the flames.

The boy watched them go, eyes darkening as he narrowed them at the retreating men's backs, before turning eagerly back to the man before him. The light reflected faintly off the dark blonde of his hair, making a few strands appear golden in hue, as he asked, "What's this object supposed to be?"

The man shrugged, the loss of his audience making him lose his motivation to continue. "I dunno. Something important, I reckon."

"How would you find it?"

He glanced sharply at the boy, in both annoyance and worry. "I dunno. Don't be gettin' any thoughts en yer head. 's just a story, yah hear? Nothin' more."

Disappointed, the boy nodded and retreated to his own bed, temporary as it was.

Come first light, the boy was gone, leaving behind merely an indentation in the ground where he had slept for those left to see, before they, too, moved on. Only one man wondered what had become of him, but he was soon forgotten between the blue of the skies and the changing of the land underfoot.

Two days later, a boy identical to the one last seen in the traveling company was witnessed passing through Kakariko Village. Strapped to his waist was an old, rusty, one-handed sword that he had, in all likelihood, found in a junk heap on his travels. Mothers shook their heads and told their children never to follow his example; on the path he had chosen, they guessed he would be dead in a matter of days. Not many found peace in the Cursed Grounds.

Thank you for reading! Please review, :3.

Love, SeascapeMural.