He was grumpy, watching the wide, metal clad spans of his master's back. Ganondorf was not his true master, only a small fragment of the hatred that had been forced on the bloodline of the goddess and the hero's soul. The Gerudo King was confined to a mortal body, one that had to be reinforced with metal to keep the weak flesh safe. Demise had not needed something so crude and simple.
Still, Ghirahim followed him, kicking pebbles out of the way as he followed with a tight obediance, mouth bracketed with the grudging trust he had for the man that had pulled him back from the limbo he was forced into by the hero boy bearing the name of the hero he had known. He was unsure if he should be grateful of Ganondorf's save, but he knew that the man had need of him and the Twili Usurper.
Above all else, even with the sand blowing mercilessly through his hair, and with the trust of placing his projection in the hands of another, Ghirahim waited for death to come for him again, waited and hoped that there was something for him after darkness pulled him in for good.