The heat of the forge would have been unbearable to human skin. Even the visitor found the stifling space unpleasant. The air was souplike as she passed a hand through it to tuck a strand of her own hair behind a tapering ear. She was forced to hunch over to avoid bringing the too-low ceiling down on both of them. Her stare remained fixed on a statuette carved into the opposite wall, avoiding the smith because she knew how she bothered him. Though far from docile, Gorons were a peaceful race, and even this most skilled of weapon-crafters would rather have left the war behind with his brothers. He had, after all, a home to rebuild, and a long life still to live. The visitor knew this, but she had no other choice.
With a hesitation uncharacteristic of his proud heritage, the smith presented his masterpiece to his guest. It was little more than a fruit knife in his hands and less than a razor in hers, but a human hero would never meet a finer sword. Though somewhat plain in design, the blade was elegant, light, and balanced.
Its creator ran rough fingers along its surface, tracing the curve of its bold edge. "Your Grace, this weapon is my pride and joy. Whatever you mean to do with it..." Here he dared to meet her gaze, squaring his mighty shoulders as his confidence returned to him. "...please treat it kindly." Not without difficulty, he lowered himself to one knee and relinquished the sword. "My brothers and I will never forget everything you have done for us."
Cradling the blade on one hand, she placed the other on his shoulder. He relaxed, an expression of dazed awe drifting across his face. Relief and gratitude seeped through his craggy shell from her fingertips, and when she withdrew, he wore a smile to match her own.
"Thank you," she murmured. "You have my protection, now and forever." The heat clung to her sweeping skirts as she backed out of the forge, careful not to brush against the doorway. The twilight silhouetted her against the mountain, but even drawn to her full height, she was not as imposing as she once had been. Limping out of view, she braced herself against the cliffside and peeled away her dress. Silver beaded at the edges of the half-closed gashes crossing her torso, the damaged surrounding tissue black and crumbling like overcooked meat.
She could almost hear Demise's scorn ringing in her head; the demon was laughing at her. You're dying, goddess.
Perhaps that was so, but she still had time and, more importantly, a task to fulfill. Hiding her wounds away once more, she tilted her head skyward and willed herself to return to the people she had raised above the clouds. She closed her eyes for only a moment, then opened them again upon stone walls. Cool, fresh air and daylight leaked through thin cracks in the otherwise smooth foundation. Even from the safety of her statue, she could feel the energy of the souls flitting around the island outside. The hope in their fragile human hearts lent the goddess a fresh surge of determination as she lay the sword before the pedestal in the center of the chamber. Her hands began to tremble as they hovered over the blade, and her features twisted into a grimace as her palms split and more of her silvery blood dripped onto the steel. It began to hum gently, and she mimicked the tone, coaxing it into a ballad that resonated with her own infinite spirit. Beyond the walls of the chamber, every life on the island stopped to catch the sound.
At length, the goddess' voice grew weak. She dropped her bleeding hands to her sides and fell silent, eyelids fluttering. As she tipped backwards, a silver shadow sprang from the divine blade, stretching wordlessly to cushion her fall.