Edit: Wow! So a small part of this was completely cut out somehow? Added that back in, but it doesn't actually really make much of a difference to the story?
He was warm. Ghirahim was warmer than he had ever been, the kind of bone-deep warmth that erased the world and always led to the most refreshing sleep possible. This was odd because normally he was cold, unable to produce heat on his own. Even before, back when his master was with him, he never warmed beyond his normal chill. His master did not hold him close enough to share his fierce warmth, so it was rare for Ghirahim to feel so comfortable. In fact, he seemed to be surrounded by softness, and although the best sleep of his life playfully tugged him back to dreamland the weight in his arms alarmed him enough to slide an eye open.
Tufts of honey blond hair shifted with each of his breaths, tickling the underside of his chin. Under his arm a chest gently rose and fell. A soft green blanket draped itself over Ghirahim. There, across the fluff of hair in his face laid a hand against the pillow he was using, slightly curled and ever so often twitching. Soft sighs occasionally rose from the one next to him.
Ghirahim wondered how he had come to holding the little sky child after all was said and done. When Demise had been defeated, Ghirahim was left weak and more than lost. He hadn't known what to do with himself, and had wandered around on the Surface for a while before stumbling upon the Goddess and her chosen hero. Feeling angry but with no real drive to fight anymore Ghirahim had simply followed them around as the pair tried to map out the Surface.
Apparently he hadn't been stealthy enough though, because one night as Hylia had gone to bathe in private Link had called out to him.
"You don't have to hide anymore, Ghirahim. We forgive you. I forgive you."
Ghirahim had been left flustered and shocked, but that quickly gave way to anger. How dare this boy think that I am the one that needs to be forgiven? But still he followed the two in the shadows, fuming but feeling less and less furious as time passed. Loneliness and the tempting thought of finally, finally having someone to talk to who would actually maybe hopefully care about what he said made him nearly reveal himself to them fully several times, but pride and a small lingering sense of loyalty to Demise (his-master-bastard-hate-hate-love-please-come-back-need-you-hate-you-master-so-lost-come-back-failure-sorry) kept him back every time. Finally, he realized how pathetic he was being – hiding from two kids? – and marched out to join them while pointing out arrogantly that they would get nowhere without him, and if they had just taken a left back at that tree they would have found a shortcut, but of course they wouldn't know that. Both of his companions had merely smiled at him as they turned around to find the path he had spoken of.
That had been some time ago, and since then he and Link had slipped into a comfortable routine of staying up later than Zelda – he had learned her name was such – to work on the plans for a beautiful city the Skyloftians were planning on building on the surface, and then falling asleep together in the make-shift bed Link had made. Ghirahim still marveled at how warm the boy was, how soft and comfortable it was to just hold him like this.
A different kind of warmth flared through his chest. It had been happening frequently around Link lately, and Ghirahim wondered if he was sick. Could a sword get sick? In all of his long existence he had not felt such a tender, burning feeling. But it was not bad. And, Ghirahim decided as he pressed his nose into Link's hair and snuggled further into him, if it meant he would no longer feel so cold, would feel nothing but this warmth, Ghirahim decided that maybe being sick was a good thing.