Hello, members of the Legend of Zelda fandom. Allow me to introduce myself; I am BanishedOne. As this is my first LoZ fanfiction, I'm aware that most of you probably are unfamiliar with all of my other works, so let me warn you ahead of time..
If you're easily troubled by extreme reading material, (or you have a heart problem), I might advise that you skip over my fanfiction. ^-^
Otherwise, enjoy.
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/Prologue/
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Amidst the war, the goddess Hylia summoned the most skillful swordmaker in her kingdom. She offered him her finest blessed steel, a material that was unrivaled in strength, and she commanded the swordmaker to follow her instructions without fail.
'Take this steel, and use all but a quarter of what I've given you. From it, forge a large, heavy sword. This sword is to be magnificent to behold, so much so that it can never be sheathed. This sword must be the finest weapon you've ever crafted.'
The swordmaker, despite his haste to aid the goddess, placed his greatest care and effort into crafting the sword that the Goddess had requested, following her orders precisely. It took him many weeks of effort, continuously melting and folding the blessed steel, then hammering it down, and sculpting its magnificent form. In the end, he returned to the goddess with the final product, the incredible fruit of his labor.
The goddess gratefully took the sword from her deciple. She then used her power to breathe life into the creation, forging a spirit to dwell within the weapon. This holy creature was sculpted as perfectly as the sword itself, a being that was without flaw.
The spirit of this sword was an androgynous beauty, unsuffered by the extremes of true masculinity or femininity. It was able to feel the same realms of emotion as human beings, yet it was blessed with a strong enough reserve and logic to view its own emotion, as if through a pane of glass, and make clear, concise decisions based on reason as well as compassion, and with the intelligent spark that was creativity.
And as pleased as the goddess was with this result, instead of thanking the swordmaker for his perfect obedience, and his wonderful work, she levied unto him a most tedious command. 'Now that you've created a perfect sword, and the finest work you can muster to the best of your ability, I wish for you to use the remaining steel I gave to you, and now forge a better blade.'
Despite his exhaustion from the dedication he put into creating the last blade the goddess requested, the swordmaker set to work in creating yet another perfect sword, focusing his skills, knowing now that he was meant to create something even greater than what he believed was his finest work.
He used the remaining steel, though he hadn't nearly as much to work with this time. Because of this, the swordmaker created a long blade that was sturdy, and powerful, yet lighter to wield than its appearance suggested. He sharpened it with such great care that the end result frightened him, and he wished more than anything to destroy his own creation. He knew that if this sword ever fell into the wrong hands, the otherworldly quality of this blade could possibly cut that which was immortal; perhaps even Hylia, herself.
Nervously, the swordmaker journeyed to present this new sword to the goddess. He warned her, as well, of his fears concerning this blade, cautioning her as to who she should allow to ever take hold of this sword.
The goddess thanked her deciple kindly, but reassured him that she knew exactly what she was doing, and that she was grateful to him for his continued service, and meticulous work. She then brought forth the first sword the swordmaker created for her, and summoned the spirit from within.
To be without doubt, the goddess ascertained as to whether the swordmaker truly believed that the second sword he made was indeed more powerful, and more perfect than the first. At the moment he assured the goddess that the second sword could best the first, the goddess took the second sword in hand, blessing the magnificent blade with her light at just the simplest touch, and she used the holy blade to slice in half the spirit she had created, which dwelled inside the first sword.
As the spirit was cut into two separate pieces, it melded itself into two beings, the minor imperfection now staining one male, while sculpting the other a more gentle female. With intent, the goddess made certain to cut free all of the darker traits she had imbued into her creation, all of the imperfections that could be found in human beings, and could poison a pure spirit and twist it into something malevolent. These traits were patched with no particular care for detail into the male half of the spirit, while everything else was allowed to remain within the female half of the spirit.
When at last the goddess finished with this task, she beckoned the female spirit into the sword that glowed with blessed light in her hand. As for the first sword, it was flung without so much as a single touch into the chest of the male spirit, and this is where it was sheathed.
The male spirit, true to the traits the goddess had used to create him, cursed the goddess as his pride was offended, knowing that his blade was meant to be a magnificent beauty that was too perfect to ever be hidden in any kind of sheath.
And, upon that one single curse, the male spirit was sharply banished from the goddess's kingdom, and sent to dwell among mortal creatures.
In horror, the swordmaker bid the goddess to tell him why she had cast off such a powerful weapon, fearing that evil could come to possess the blade, and that it would be used against her. Again, in her wisdom, she reassured the swordmaker that she was aware of the gravity of her own actions.
Intentionally, she had asked her disciple to create a sword that was too perfect for any creature to turn down. It was a sword that mortals and demons would all long to possess, driving them mad with their own yearning, yet it was much too heavy for all but the very strongest arm. As well, the spirit within the blade was a pitiful patchwork of mankind's most horrid, violent traits, barely able to hold together or control himself in his state of incompletion. The gnarled persona of this wretched creature surely would be impossible for any to control, leading hapless victims to tormented fates, save for someone far darker, and more ominous.
The swordmaker never came to understand the goddess's intent, even as she explained it.
She placed a perfect weapon, like bait, on land, where her vile enemy, Demise, was sure to lust after it. He would believe that this blade had possibly been lost, by mistake, and that he had obtained the ultimate weapon, which he could use to finally rule all. However, the goddess had already seen to the creation of a better weapon, one that would act as the weakness to the first, which Demise was completely unaware of. In this way, the Goddess cleverly set her enemy up for failure.
Meanwhile, the first sword spirit, as he found himself gracelessly cast to realm of mortals, he patiently waited to come into contact with any creature that could aid him in obtaining vengeance. He simmered and seethed in his resent, bitterly aware that he was an imperfect, incomplete creation, given life only to be cruelly discarded.
This shrouded his spirit in the inescapable, suffocating clutches of hatred, slowly defiling him from the inside, out.
:: ::
The fight was over. The struggle was lost. He could see it, and he could hear it, despite his own waning strength. He trembled within the metallic clutches of the blade that housed him, and in Demise's dying grasp, but this tremble was not in fear; actually, he would likely never come to know what had caused his stir, knowing that he, himself, often branched one uncontrollable emotion into another and another, until he couldn't even recall the thought that was the original spark of this process.
There was too much thought, and too much emotion to contain, let alone sort into anything comprehensive. He didn't stick around to ponder. Instead, he teleported himself away. There was no reason for him to stay by his master's side, especially when his master was already down on his knees.
Amidst the teleportation, he reconfigured, sheathing his blade within himself again, so to walk on his own two legs. Upon his weakened legs he landed, finding that his body was especially heavy, and difficult to keep upright. If anything, he was still standing with the strength that his pride, alone, offered. Still, pride would only carry him so far.
It hurt to move, but he managed to cross his arms over the gaping wound in his chest, protecting his one truly weak area, though it was already thoroughly gouged, and weeping the metallic crimson fluid that was his lifeblood. If not for the agonizing feeling that was surging, like electricity, through every fiber of his being, he might consider worrying about what a mess he was making of himself; he preferred to maintain concentration on things like breathing, however.
His blurred optics reflected the light before him as he stared into the portal, the gate of time, prepared to venture back through it, as Demise was now dead, no matter what time he bothered himself with surviving in. The endless vortex of blue rings shined in his eyes, as if they were two, coal-black mirrors, but he did not yet step through.
A quiet jingle met his ears, the shifting of fabric, the stretching of muscles; he glanced over his shoulder in remembrance. 'Oh right,' he was thinking. That damnable, goddess-serving wench was still here, and as Ghirahim turned his narrowed eyes to her, trying to let her see as little of his bloodied self as possible, he noted that she was glaring back at him just as hard as she came back to her feet, looking satisfied to get some cheap vengeance now that he had been efficiently 'gentled down'.
He maintained his over-the-shoulder glare, tightening his arms over his chest as he grimaced, and focused on pouring his utter hatred into what was visible of his expression. Impa, however, shifted to merely watching her enemy with neutrality, which evolved steadily into righteousness and superiority.
The sleek woman held no ill will within herself, observing her enemy's state of disarray. She was willing to let him walk away, to let him escape back through the portal; without a master, he was no threat. He was nothing. He would tuck his tail, hide away, lick his wounds in shame, and never muster the courage to show his face again.
She addressed him calmly, simply, her tone impassive, and her voice gentle, despite her disliking of this creature. She felt that his being here, and being here looking as if he had been beaten within an inch of his life, at least, was a decent omen. "It's over, then, is it?"
To the question, Ghirahim hardened his glare, swearing that if he had enough strength left in him for even an ounce of magic, he would gut that cocky wench! How -dare- she stand there and act so coy? How dare she rub this bitter failure in his face? How dare she?
The corners of Impa's lips upturned, just barely, as her piercing eyes maintained contact with Ghirahim's own steely gaze. She was unthreatened, no, worse, completely unafraid.
The bitter, angry, injured spirit could think of nothing to do or say in his defense, nothing to even make himself feel slightly better; nothing, nothing, nothing! All he could do was slip away through the portal, hoping to be otherwise unnoticed, and hoping, as well, that he could get himself far enough away, to some form of seclusion.
He wanted to be away from everything.
:: ::
"Master.. If I may suggest a strategy?," his voice echoed inside Demise's mind, like some quiet adviser, whispering secrets into his ear, "I think it would be best for you to avoid the strikes from his sword for now. Instead, focus on putting the boy on the defensive, in order to, first, destroy his shield. After that, no matter how powerful his sword, he'll be unable to match you."
Paying no heed, Demise brutally battered the meager child before him, swinging the massive blade in his hand with vigor, and bloodlust. Too bad he was actually battering the hero's shield and sword, and not making one single significant blow on the blonde boy. This was what had begun to make the dark sword spirit anxious concerning strategy, and he forced himself to speak up, though his master hate-hate-hated when his tool acted as if it were superior in -any- way.
"What makes you think I need your strategies or suggestions to best this child, tool?," hissed the demon king, "No human has ever managed to stand against me without swiftly meeting their end."
Demise maintained his calm, focused barrage of attacks; Surely the boy would tire out soon enough, and once he lost the speed of his steps, and his quick reflexes bent under exhaustion, the demon king would tear the tiny boy into pieces. (And enjoy it.)
After some reluctance, and not seeing any end to this fatal pattern his master had fallen into, Ghirahim spoke up once more, "I realize that you are powerful, sire, but I've fought this boy numerous times already. I've stood against him, analyzing his fighting style as it matured, and I'm relaying this information to you, for your benefit."
Again, Demise paid more heed to his ego, and thrust his sword even faster and harder, more as a means to punish Ghirahim than the Hero, in truth. "Like I said.. I don't need your suggestions."
This is where Ghirahim started to grow desperate. "Master," he began, wanting to chew off his own tongue at the subservient tone to his voice, "You may wish to take into account that while he may only be a human child, he was selected by the goddess Hylia for this very purpose.. I'd hate to say it, but," He -REALLY- hated to say it, "It might be better if you don't underestimate her judgement, if only to side with caution."
"Indeed.." Demise was laughing, in his head. "Her judgement concerning you was rather accurate. She cast you off, a useless creation. Why don't you just shut up? For all your darkness, the part of you that consistently reminds you that you are her creation begins to show, and it is truly sickening."
With Demise having made his point absolutely clear, (or sharp, however you take it), Ghirahim ceased talking, hoping that it improved his master's concentration, at least.
But, as the battle waged on, the Hero never once faltered. Never once did he begin to lose his determination, and even if he was utterly exhausted, and hiding that fact, he never slowed, and his strength behind his sword did not wane, not even by a fraction of a fraction. On the other hand, Ghirahim was all-too-aware that his master was breaking a sweat; he could feel it in the palm of Demise's scaly hands.
And Demise wasn't the only one that was beginning to break. If swords could flinch, or flail, or scream in agony, then Ghirahim would have to fight to remain still and silent. Each time he felt the Master Sword, his sibling sword, his other half, connect to him, steel-to-steel, the light from within that blade jolted through his frame, breaking his resolve bit by bit. It wasn't because light was inherently stronger than dark, because Fi was surely feeling the same sensation of pain at having to clash with her darkened twin, but it was because light and dark were two opposite, opposing forces, which naturally attempted to banish one another upon contact. And, unfair as it may have been, Ghirahim was already insultingly aware that Fi's blade was intentionally forged to be stronger than his, and that he could not just bear this to the very end- Eventually, one sword would break, and he knew it would be him, as begrudgingly as he was forced to admit that to himself.
"...Master," Ghirahim uttered, pushed to the edge, or backed into a corner, or whatever other metaphor one could use to express complete desperation, "I cannot endure this.. If you continue to subject me to strikes from that blessed blade... My own blade will surely shatter..."
"If I shatter you," Demise hissed, his voice obviously becoming desperate as well, "it will be the moment I strike this child down, and you'll be revived in his blood. I've broken you to pieces far too many times to remember, yet always at a time that your blade is coated in blood. You'll endure this. You will, because I order you to do so.."
"Yes," Ghirahim agreed, though he had no belief in his own words as he spoke them, "Yes, Master..." He remained subservient, despite his sureness that he was at his own breaking point, but even so, for the shortest moment he assured himself that -IF- Demise lost this battle, he will have deserved it..
'Curse him,' Ghirahim was thinking. Feeling bitterness for his master's loss, his -own- loss, was the most he could manage. A night had passed him by while he hid himself in the coverage of thick brush, a circle of dogwood trees, overgrown with vining honeysuckle, and a carpet of moss beneath him.
(It might have been pretty, but -damn it-, he was sleeping on the ground.. And he hadn't even recovered enough strength to do anything about it.)
'Curse him,' he thought again, 'Pompous, useless, overgrown, imbecile.' Ghirahim would deny that he ever served such a foolish, egotistical idiot, but the truth remained, Demise had been stronger than him. Demise had been strong enough to force Ghirahim into submission so very, very long ago. Demise had been strong enough to blacken Ghirahim's blade with the blood of the innocent, and while Ghirahim might have enjoyed that part of it, he recalled that Demise had also been ruthless enough to use his sword to the point of shattering it, only to force the spirit to reforge his own steel, in blood, far more times than the spirit wished to recall.
Having his sword -broken- might have not killed him, but it wasn't pleasant by any stretch of the word, and it took a lot out of him to regrow himself. So, naturally, Demise forced the blade to heel at his touch, and broke him apart so many times that Ghirahim couldn't refuse- He had to accept Demise as his master. He was too exhausted to do anything but submit.
That tore apart his pride more than anything else, truly.
Aside from brute strength that Demise held above him, Ghirahim still considered all demons to be beneath him. They tried to walk on two legs, and they spoke in their primitive, unrefined little tongues, but they were all just stupid animals. They all went about killing, and shedding blood without any perception of why they even did so. They lacked thought, blackening the world beneath them in endless sprees of carnage, but in the end, they lacked what Ghirahim knew he had. Reason. Tact.
Stupid animals without thought. Weak of mind, weak of will; This is why mortals always bested demons. This is why all that was left of Demise were ominous clouds and empty threats that he conjured on a whim.
That idiot. That dim-witted fool. For all of Ghirahim's carefully laid plans, his own master was the malignant tumor attached to it all. He spoiled it! He spoiled it! He spoiled it all without a single regret! Maybe he was expecting his sword to resurrect him again, like an obedient servant? Maybe that was what he meant in promising to return? Feh- Ghirahim would be damned if he wasted any more time on him.
At this point, Ghirahim was convinced that this was all just an intricately constructed game. Perhaps Hylia, herself, created demons, and the forces of darkness, if only to keep her people from growing complacent. Mortal creatures needed to be challenged in order to live happily, after all. They need a little Darwinism to keep their lines thriving. It was cruelly suitable.
Ghirahim raised his fist, and pounded it back against the ground in fury and resent; it sent enough pain surging into his injured chest to stop his heartbeat, if such a thing was possible, but he didn't even regret the pain.
As he laid crumpled, and feeling embarrassingly tiny, he attempted to clear his head, pushing the thoughts of bitterness out, lest he crave more punishment for his own failures. With no place else to look but up, his dark eyes unwillingly focused on the fluttering shapes of blue sky between the canopy of leaves above him. It was an ever-moving world of endless blue and the yellow-green that leaves turned when the sun showed through the chlorophyl of their tissues, tracing the patterns of their veins in between, and it was all dappled with harsh, golden sunlight.
The sword spirit could feel those dancing splashes of warm, yellow light moving across his skin, tickling him and making him want to fidget and itch, only to send pain racing through him all over again- He hated it. The only reprieve was a light breeze, which served to cool him, since he was more accustomed to darkness. However, the breeze contributed to his torture as well, rustling the scent of honeysuckle and the pink and white blossoms of the trees around him. It wasn't that he minded flowery smells, in fact, he quite liked it, but here.. It was sickeningly sweet, suffocating. It was heavy on his chest as he forced it to expand and contract, burning all the while.
The heavy, fresh, sweet perfume of fragrant blossoms, of renewed life in spring, so young and tender, it reminded him of.. Well, it reminded him of plenty of people, but it reminded him mostly of that girl. She was so soft, like a tender blossom in his hands, and she smelled as sickeningly sweet as these accursed, flowering trees. She smelled as fresh and alive as this beautiful forest, or so Ghirahim begrudgingly recalled.
This was life as Hylia intended it. It was pathetic.
"Are you satisfied..Hylia?," Ghirahim coughed his curses, barely able to piece together understandable language from the blood settling in the back of his throat. "Are you satisfied? ..Did I serve the purpose of my creation to the fullest of your intentions? ...Was my failure to your liking?"
All over again, the sword spirit caught himself pounding his fists into the ground, springing his pains back to the surface, back to their previous intensity, and again, he dared not regret his own self-harm, because he was too busy expressing his explosive anger to care how much it hurt.
He preferred to be angry and in pain than to admit that he was now without purpose, without reason to live, and though he had spent his life trying to rebel against his creator, he had done exactly as she always intended. He failed.
Suddenly, he stopped moving altogether, the pain becoming far too much for him to endure while flailing; and it wasn't just physical pain. There was also his forsaken emotion regret. Tentatively, he raised his hands above his head, letting his sharp, black eyes scan over his gloved palms. The white material was no longer white material at all- It was reddish-brown material that was caked in blood and dirt. His fingers trembled, his hands disgraceful to look upon, and what was worse... The rest of him looked just as bad.
His white clothes were covered in blotches of filthiness, mostly from battle, but some of it was fresh from his choice of resting area, and surely his clothes had been ripped in more than one place, as well. His hair was disheveled, and matted with blood, and some of it clung to his face, glued to his skin from having been wet down with who-knows-what-all.
He dropped his hands to the ground, turning his head to the side as he struggled to curl in on himself. He wanted to vanish, to disappear without anybody ever seeing him. Pushing his face down against the soft, cool moss, he felt as if he could hide away, ashamed of his appearance, of his broken body, and of his accursed failures. He wanted this to end; however, he knew better than to think he could locate the proper means to his own end in such a horrid condition. It was beneath him.
It was beneath him to look imperfect, even in death.
"..kyuu?"
With a harsh crack, Ghirahim's head snapped to one side, his wide, dark eyes turning toward a sudden sound that had come to disturb him. He glared toward a new opening in the surrounding foliage, noticing that a young Kikwi had found its way into the mess of vines for whatever reason these silly rodents crawled around under bushes.. Probably looking for a hiding place.
At first, Ghirahim was so utterly bothered by this equally surprised pest that he felt he could very well bare his teeth, and hiss like a snake in a burrow, finding company most undesirable. He didn't do this, of course, wanting to maintain some semblance of his dignity, and he settled for staring the little rodent down as it froze, and stared back at him.
But what would a little rat know of dignity, anyway? The spirit couldn't believe he could stoop so low, but at this point he supposed it really didn't matter anymore. If he wanted to right himself, he had very specific needs to get himself back on his feet. He dragged himself up to his knees, keeping one hand pressed to his wound, though it seeped blood as easily as it had the moment it was caused, the leaking crimson gushing between his fingers.
Ghirahim was much too injured for magic, and he couldn't summon his weapons, but his will to survive now, to fix his situation, it was beyond even his ego, and he reverted to his most basic instincts, to something that felt primal, as if he were some beast in the wilderness. He may have been lacking weapons.. But he still had his hands.
The Kikwi, however, was even closer to its own instincts, and it had sensed some amount of danger from the very moment it waddled under the foliage. With a panicked cry, the little creature ducked out of sight, leaving the tortured spirit on his own, once again.
Ghirahim could do nothing but collapse, his energy sapped beyond his will. He laid still, breathing the scent of Earth (which he detested), and hating..everything. He felt so small, and weak. He had fallen from his once pristine perfection. He had failed. He had been bested, and all this together amounted to a pain much more debilitating than the one in his chest. Collectively, it pushed him very near to a state of unconsciousness that the body is forced into out of pity from the weakening will of the mind, only able to bear so much before breaking. He almost considered asking Hylia to end it for him, to make him disappear, to vanquish him as simply as she had breathed life into him..
But no.. No.. He would not do that. In his pain, he cursed Hylia, hating her now as much as he hated her the day she made him.
"You can make me suffer all you want," the spiteful creature breathed his words lowly, swallowing dryly before he continued, "You can leave me down here to perish.. You can let my spirit fragment until the entirety of my being vanishes from existence... But I swear I won't beg you to end it. I won't beg you to set me free, I won't beg you for release... I'll rot or rust, and I'll suffer for an eternity before I turn to you for aid! I swear.."
::
He wasn't aware of how long it had been that he was sleeping; it appeared to have gotten a bit later in the day by perhaps only a few hours, but for all he knew, it could have been another day altogether. Another thing he wasn't sure of was when he moved to sit upright, propped back against the trunk of the dogwood tree.
The weak spirit stretched his back, his body seeming to grow more stiff the longer he spent lying around, gushing blood. (The moss in the clearing was disgusting, with stains of blood streaked here and there, and wherever the sword spirit had situated himself.)
For all the bleeding, however, rest had certainly brought back some spark of energy deep within the spirit's frame. He wondered if his body had grown desperate and had begun to repair with his own blood. This didn't sound likely, because his blood was probably as drained of iron as it was possible to be, from having repaired so many times in the recent past.
Slowly, Ghirahim took a breath, inhaling as deeply as he could manage before letting the air escape his lungs.
His newly awakened state of calm seemed to serve him well, because the same Kikwi from before was perched just outside the clearing, looking in through a tiny hole it had made in the curtain of vines. The small creature was curious but nervous, and it watched Ghirahim carefully, observing with some degree of concern. It could certainly feel the dark aura of hatred and malice that tainted the spirit's very being, but it could also feel the divine touch of the goddess beneath all that, and this seemed to hold greater weight.
The nervous creature shuffled outside the makeshift den, troubling itself with rolling along a pink-skinned fruit that was almost the size of its tiny body. It pushed the fruit into the den, tiny paws extending as far away from its body mass as they possibly could, so that the rodent could get the fruit close enough to the spirit for it to grab, without the spirit being able to grab him up, instead.
He obviously meant this as a gift, to help Ghirahim recover.
Quietly, Ghirahim watched the creature struggle with placement of its offering. He placed one hand over his wounded chest as he kept his dark eyes fixated on the jittery rodent; the tiny Kikwi might have been focused on getting this food-item into reach, but he never removed his beady little eyes from the much larger creature. He was cautious, while the injured creature was as still and silently suspicious as a serpent.
Idly, Ghirahim extended a hand once he felt the offering was close enough for him to grasp without having to reach very hard for it. He lifted the rounded fruit in his hand, and carefully scrutinized its pink skin, seeming as if he would reject it at the slightest flaw.
When he found it to be to his liking, he placed it near his white lips, and bit into it; his focus remained, all the while, on the Kikwi who was also still watching him carefully. In silence, the sword spirit allowed himself to indulge in the unneeded form of sustenance, if only to appear that he was grateful for the gift. The truth was altogether another story; he was utterly discontent. He was displeased, and it showed quite clearly as he lowered the fruit to be idly cupped in one hand, and he licked the sweet juice from his lips before he spoke up in his gentlest tone.
"This won't help me," his voice was no greater than a whisper. He was extremely weak for his injuries, and it was even audible in his speaking. "These sorts of things don't meet my specific needs.."
The Kikwi tilted its head curiously as it listened, the tip of its needle-snout twitching in frustration, showing that it clearly understood that its effort had been to no avail.
As if in peace, Ghirahim extended his fingers to the tiny creature, letting it get a quick sniff with its long, needle-like snout, letting it see a momentary gentleness, and perhaps this all helped it to identify whether the spirit was dangerous or harmless. Then, he slowly withdrew his hand again, bringing it to rest in his lap.
Remaining patient, the spirit laid his head back against the tree trunk, finding it no more comfortable than simply holding his head up himself. Still, he let his eyes fall shut, and felt he could doze off again. He wished that this would restore more of his strength, but he thought not.
The Kikwi continued to watch, beginning to believe this other creature was trustworthy, as it hadn't shown any sign of outward violence. He looked upon the sleeping spirit, thinking his skin had fallen paler, and more lackluster than it had been; he could see that the spirit was injured, but he didn't know how to help.
"I need something else," the spirit finally whispered, as if he had read the rodent's very thoughts. The observant creature squeaked, and nodded, letting out the occasional, 'Kyu?,' to urge the spirit on in his explanations.
"There's.. Something else you can give me," the wounded spirit continued, "..if you want to help-," here, the spirit seemed to tense, his speech hindered by the pain that came with speaking. One hand came up to clutch at his injury again, his entire body trembling in a jolt of paralyzing discomfort.
The Kikwi decided that he didn't want to let the other creature weaken any further, as his injuries were clearly intolerable, and he needed help. The rodent's naive concern outweighed his nervousness, and he chattered in a soft, squeaky tone, reassuring, comforting, padding himself ever closer on his tiny paws, until his delicate paws rested against the other creature's thigh, and the Kikwi was intent on crawling up closely enough to observe the injury, and seek further help.
Ghirahim's eyes were merely slits as he watched and waited, the stony darkness of his irises looking dismal and blurred, but still able to perceive the image of the tiny rodent as it crawled near, trusting him, tending to him without any second thoughts.
And then, without any warning, the malice from underneath his pretenses struck like a serpent, and Ghirahim's hands were around the neck of the too-trusting Kikwi. Actually, the creature was quite rolly-polly, and so the sword spirit was unsure if the part he was brutally squeezing could really be called a neck, though surely a spine, esophagus and trachea were somewhere beneath his tightly curling fingers, being crushed while the helpless creature let out choked cries, and looked up in terror.
It wasn't long before a resounding 'crunch' could be heard, and the small rodent coughed blood from it's needle-snout before going entirely limp. Ghirahim felt to be squirming beneath his own skin at the relief this would offer, and he bit his lip to stifle his own joyous giggling. The type of madness that overtook him then, from the very first drop of blood spilled, was one that was difficult for even him to comprehensively explain, let alone control.
The dead Kikwi was dropped from his grasp, but the sword spirit set upon it like a starving carnivore; his deep, black eyes lusted for the sight of red, consuming red, beautiful red, glorious red. He wanted to paint himself in fabulous ruby, overwhelmingly vibrant scarlet, and goddesses, was he ever close to doing exactly that. He found, though, that the more he longed to spill crimson, the blacker his vision grew, as if he were possessed by otherworldly forces, but despite that, his body still moved, and it moved with quick, brutal ferocity, the pain from his injuries lost in the spiral of insanity that was consuming him.
The steel beneath his skin was brittle from bloodloss, but not so much that he could fragment himself, and his fists remained heavy weapons as his fingers tightly balled, and he lifted his hand up over his head before slamming it down upon the body of the small rodent, crushing its fragile bones, rupturing its delicate inner workings, but not yet tearing its skin, though small droplets of blood bubbled out from its narrow snout.
With the creature appropriately shattered to pieces on the inside, the sword spirit, who seemed now more of a demon, clawed at the downy fur of the Kikwi's underbelly, ripping out tufts that gently fluttered away in the breeze, until the spirit's claws at last came to shred into flesh, and finally the creature was torn open, and its blood was accessed like a most precious resource. Again, it was lifted into the twisted spirit's hands, and raised up, so that the flow of crimson poured down upon the spirit's gouged chest like a healing ointment.
Quickly, the sword spirit's body latched onto the rich supply of iron in the blood of the Kikwi, and the injury was mended in the bloodbath, the skin closing, albeit messily, leaving behind an ugly mark, like a wound that had been poorly tended with stitches and overly sticky bandaids.
As Ghirahim came down from his high, he still outwardly celebrated, a smirk pulling tightly at his pallid, cracked lips, the tip of his tongue trailing out to clean away a stray splash of blood that had dirtied his face. He could feel himself coming back, regaining strength, getting back to himself. But the further his blood-borne giddiness slipped away, the more he recalled that he wasn't even close, not yet, to his once glorious perfection. Actually, it was right the opposite, and his gut twisted in a flurry of sudden anger at that knowledge. He must have looked so pathetic, butchering little animals with his hands, as if he were merely a slightly larger, equally filthy animal.
His grin turned easily to a grimace, and he slammed down the body of the Kikwi as it was emptied of blood; however, he continued tearing at the dead creature, though instead of his previous desperation to fulfil his own needs, he now struck the dead animal out of nothing more than explosive fury.
This was beneath him. This was beneath him. This was so, so, utterly beneath him.
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[To all readers: Please take a moment to help lighten the mood for yourself after the gruesome closing to the last scene by reading this next scene to the sound of 'Groose's Theme'. Thank you, and enjoy.]
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"Are you sure you can handle this?," the blonde girl crossed her arms over her chest as she smirked playfully, yet gave the towering male at her side a disbelieving stare.
"Don't tell me you're doubting me, too!," the red-haired male cried out in his defense, having had more than his fair share of semi-polite doubt concerning his actions recently. Honestly, nobody took him seriously at his word. Why was that?
Zelda laughed at how offended the taller male grew, yet she still batted a small, elegant hand at him as if to calm his heartbroken disbelief. "No, of course not!," she reassured, "It's just that.. This seems so unlike you, Groose!"
It wasn't that the young girl thought that Groose was really going to get himself into any serious trouble, but she was honestly a bit worried about him. It seemed like almost no time had passed between the day that she was breaking up playground-esque fights that Groose had started, and now, the day he had decided to settle on the surface, taking on the responsibility of building a home for himself, as well as others- That was his plan, anyway.
Zelda shifted her eyes down toward the ground, gazing off into nothing as a gentle smile tugged at her pinkish lips, but she allowed a melancholy look to cross her face. It was stupid that she felt a stir of sadness just knowing that everybody around her was, just, -growing up-, but.. It all seemed so surreal, like it had happened far too quickly.
"Hey, what can I say?," Groose shrugged, proud despite his friend's doubts, "A lot has happened recently. I'm not the kid I used to be!"
It was true, and Zelda knew it. She quietly laughed to herself, feeling strange at how much she had come to respect Groose, of all people, but she dared not let him know, or else he'd get far too sure of himself. "Now I know you're giving yourself way too much credit."
"Oh c'mon!," Groose whined, desperate for Zelda's approval. He glanced back to the quiet party following along slightly behind, looking for some backup. "Link, will you please tell her? Tell her about all the things I did while she was napping!"
The young hero snapped his head up to look toward Groose and Zelda, who were walking side-by-side in front of him. He blinked for a moment, the blank look on his face making it entirely too obvious that he was off in space, and not -really- listening intently. He did manage to filter in what Groose had been saying to him, though, and he offered a soft nod to go along with a sincere smile before granting the verbal reassurance that Groose had been hoping for, "He's not lying."
"Yeeah!, see?" Groose pumped his fist with pride, nodding his head to Zelda in a manner that just oozed 'I-told-you-so', while she sighed in exasperation and rolled her eyes at him through the unimpressed grin that still lingered on her lips.
"Hey, hey, Link!," Groose called out, looking over his shoulder again, as he waved his hand at Link to keep filling Zelda in on all the helpful things he did, "Tell her about how we fought that scaly monster, and how I blew it up with the Groosenator!"
"No way!," Zelda chimed in, giving Groose's arm a playful smack, "Stop trying to steal Link's spotlight!"
'Blew it up' probably was an over-the-top way to explain the part Groose played in fighting the monstrous, weakened form of demon king Demise, but.. Groose did seem truly proud of himself, and excited in a 'I-really-did-something-good' way, rather than just boasting for the sake of impressing Zelda. Link knew better than to under-praise Groose, no matter how minute his contribution. Having some help was better than none at all, and Link was truly, truly grateful.
"It's true, though," Link calmly assured, "He did help fight the monster. He was extremely diligent and brave. Don't write him off so easily. His determination really is something else.."
This was probably a bit beyond the extent of praise that Groose was expecting to receive. It was easy to tell that he was embarrassed from the way he chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck in a flustered manner.
"Alright then," the much smaller, blonde girl spoke in a pleasant tone, her voice like the gentle chime of silvery bells, "I believe you, but still.. This is a lot of work for one person to handle alone! I'm worried about you!"
"Hey, it's no problem," Groose calmly reassured, "I fell in love with this place, so I was already planning to build myself a house here. But I don't wanna turn into some kind of hermit, so of course I can build other houses. That way, people from Skyloft can come down here, too, even if it just for a temporary vacation."
Zelda looked around, admiring the semi-untouched area in Faron Woods that the small group had wandered to, nodding her head in agreement. "There is a lot more room here." For a second, she continued to survey the surroundings, just taking in the glory of it all, then she laughed to herself, speaking up determinedly, "Well, I can't let you do it all alone. I'll help you however I can."
"You don't have to do that!," now Groose waved his hand at the blonde girl by his side, as if to deter her. "Just keeping me company is enough!"
Instantly, the young girl crossed her arms all over again, her tone turning steely, "You think I can't handle it?"
Groose gasped, having not meant to offend Zelda, "No, no, that's not what I'm saying!," he attempted to recover.
This somehow reminded Link of when Zelda's father had tried to have a serious discussion with his daughter about how dangerous it would be to become a Knight of Skyloft; that only led to Zelda becoming even more determined to prove that she was capable.
"You shouldn't try to talk her out of it," Link cut in, hoping to save Groose the heartache of even continuing the conversation, if he hoped to get anywhere.
Groose shrugged his shoulders guiltlessly, stuttering an explanation, "I'm not, I was just-" The tall, red-haired male noted that Link was shaking his head, and cut himself off, quieting his own words with a defeated sigh,"..nevermind."
After smiling in triumph, the girl cast her kind, blue eyes back in the direction of her best friend, smiling at him with her own radiant brand of hope. "So, what about you, Link, are you going to help out, too?"
The young hero nodded his head instantly, more than willing to help his friends, as loyal as ever. "Of course I will.."
The discussion came to an abrupt halt when the trio noticed a distant rustle from somewhere off the path that laid behind them. Link was probably the one who noticed it first, noting the sound in the back of his mind, even when it was still very far away. Now, as it began to grow closer, drawing the attention of both Groose and Zelda as well, Link turned to face it at the same time as the other two Skyloftians.
The sound of vegetation shifting around the body of a rapidly moving force was swiftly approaching, and grew only nearer, until all three members of the wandering group spotted movement of leafy branches, and stirring of heavily overgrown patches of forest, then at last the cause of the disturbance scampered out onto the path.
The trio had all been tense as they watched and waited, but a collective sigh of relief was heaved as a Kikwi came rushing into their midst. Link was the only one who actually recognized what this creature was, but Zelda and Groose easily caught on that the small being was virtually harmless.
While the Kikwi was harmless, however, it was also clearly troubled by something that was potentially less harmless, so nobody present dropped their guard.
'Kyu.. kyu... kyu..,' the Kikwi panted, its tiny breaths ragged from the exhaustion of running. It had heard that Link had returned to Faron woods and went on a desperate chase after the well-known, young hero.
Link took a few steps closer to the Kikwi, concerned at how unnerved and afraid the small creature appeared; anyone would assume that the forest was being suddenly overrun by a hoard of bokoblin, knowing that Kikwi preferred to hide over running until their tiny hearts exploded.
"What's wrong?," Zelda spoke in concern from behind Link. She didn't need to know what a Kikwi was to recognize that it was troubled, and wish to help.
Giving the small creature enough time to catch its breath, the group patiently waited to be enlightened as to the problem, and why this tiny thing had approached them with such haste. The Kikwi hadn't even properly slowed it breathing before it peered up at Link with desperation in its beady eyes.
"You're the Hero in Green, aren't you?," it paused, still panting, "Link? Link is your name, right?"
Link nodded his head to the Kikwi. He wasn't terribly surprised that he wasn't actually acquainted with this particular Kikwi, yet it was perfectly aware of who it was speaking to.
"I've been," it gulped, panting, and panting, "I've been looking all over for you. -We've- been looking all over," it panted further, until finally it seemed to have caught its breath. "The chief Kikwi sent a handful of us out looking for you, hoping to locate you. We were so afraid that you had returned to the sky, and that you weren't coming back."
Automatically, Link knew better than to assume that the Kikwi's were simply alarmed that he had departed; there was a reason they were looking for him, yet he was puzzled at what it could possibly be. "What's going on?," he asked, his voice laden with concern, yet perfectly calm.
The Kikwi fidgeted at the mere thought of what the answer was, not even wanting to discuss it in any detail. He was practically glancing over his shoulder at every otherwise normal sound of the forest. He wrung his tiny paws, but answered, "There has been a terrible disturbance in the forest, and we need your help."
From behind him, Link could hear Groose chuckling, and muttering, "Link saves the world, and now these little critters want to run to him anytime something goes a bit wrong. One of them probably got stuck in a tree." He also heard Zelda giving him a slight elbow in the side.
"Please!," the Kikwi begged, panicking at the notion that Link might refuse to aid him, "Please, Hero in Green, this is truly urgent! We desperately need your help!"
"Calm down," the blonde boy spoke softly, trying to put the small creature at ease, "Take me to the Chief."
"Right!," the Kikwi squeaked, a wave of determination coming over him as Link agreed to help. "Follow me!"
The Kikwi bolted off so quickly that Link's eyes widened in surprise; he didn't even know that Kikwi could scamper so quickly. He turned to Groose and Zelda in a rush, a concerned expression making his thoughts most apparent. It was his, 'will you two be alright?' look.
Both Groose and Zelda nodded to Link, without him even needing to say anything, Groose promising to look after Zelda with a certain vigor as they urged Link to hurry after the Kikwi. He nodded in return, before turning on heel, and chasing after the desperate Kikwi.
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/..to be continued../
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"Master?" Ghirahim questioned, his voice caught on the threshold between confusion and mild concern. "Master, why are you not attacking the boy?"
With an equal amount of confusion, as well as a touch of fury, Demise hissed a response, almost as enraged as he was embarrassed. "Damn it!," he cursed, "What is this confounding weapon that this human child is waving so enthusiastically in my face?"
Ghirahim wavered, uncertain if he should even risk further upsetting his master with an answer. For a moment, he watched from the blackened confines of his blade as Demise's head whipped sharply back and forth, up and down, trying desperately to keep from losing sight of the perceived threat.
"..Master," Ghirahim began, still feeling hesitant, though he gathered his courage, "That's just a bug net.."
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[Has anybody else tried waving their bug net in Demise's face? His reaction is hilarious.]
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