Title: Bloodstained rewritten

Author: Spirit the Fire Dragon/Scribbled Sol

This is a complete revamp of the previous 23 chapters. Major spoilers for SS. Will include suicidal thoughts and attempts. Will also include bonus material and alternate endings. This is, admittedly, a much darker take than the original. Be warned.

Ghirahim was a faithful servant, there was no denying it. He faithfully fought by his master's side at the beginning of his conquest, enjoyed the spoils of a winning war, lost with his dignity intact even as his master fell; he wandered the Surface for countless years planning and lying in wait for the Goddess reincarnate to be born.

So long he had worked, so long he had carefully planned and built up an entire army; he had worked so hard and so carefully for so many years to free his master after he had been imprisoned. The years and years of harsh dedication paid off when finally, finally his master stood before him again, in all his former glory. Even the irritating presence of the Sky Child couldn't spoil this reunion.

In hindsight, it would have been better if the Sky Child had spoiled it. He could have dealt with an enemy's intervention; he could have understood and rationalized it. But this…this disregard from his own master, the very one he had dedicated his entire existence to as unfathomable…and it hurt. It hurt.

Ghirahim was a faithful servant. He was. But he would not serve a master who did not acknowledge his hard, dedicated work. He had served Demise for so very, very long and he hadn't even spoken to him. He would have even taken an insult!

And so Ghirahim was left with a choice, a split second decision that would determine the rest of his life. He could die alongside his master, alongside a master that didn't appreciate him or his work in the slightest bit…or he could sever his connection with his master, completely eliminate the bond between them as master and servant. He would be even lonelier than before, a useless blade wandering the surface…but that was better than dying alongside a master that didn't give a damn about him.

Wasn't it?

Ghirahim didn't give himself the chance to second guess his instincts. Within the sword Demise held now, raising it to plunge it into the ground and possibly shatter him to join him within the Master Sword, Ghirahim mentally reached out to the telepathic bond that connected him to Demise and severed it.

Demise felt it, Ghirahim knew, he felt the bond slither and snap. Ghirahim, just a step away from panic, disintegrated the sword as Demise plunged it into the ground. He pulled the physical sword apart, bit by bit, before tugging them all together in an orb of flashy black and red magic; his consciousness could only sustain the wisp form for a matter of moments.

Ghirahim managed to teleport himself, as the wisp, only twenty feet away from the two enemies. He landed in the reflective water with a hiss, surprised that he had reverted to his demon form and of the pain in his chest.

He felt startlingly empty and alone. His mind felt fractured and lightened, in some strange way, and his limbs felt eerily disconnected from his control. His magic felt frayed, and it ebbed away from his grasp and control, flickering like a barely alive baby bird in the back of his mind. The pain in his chest was a throbbing, dull ache, but he was grateful for the pain because it reminded him that he was, in fact, alive. The water he was lying in was neither warm nor cold.

He may have been there for moments, minutes, hours or days; time seemed to slow and stretch and speed up in that place, and the only way he could even remotely gage the time was counting the number of breaths he exhaled that made the water before him ripple. Even then, his breaths could have been coming minutes apart or seconds apart.

Ghirahim was only pulled from his monotony when he heard—well, more of felt—the ripples and splashes of an approaching person. An approaching person with a Master Sword, who also happened to be wearing a green tunic.

His black eyes slid shut, and for a moment he considered teleporting away to safety, but the magic was out of his reach, as was the will to survive. At that moment of desperation, he had saved himself but at a cost so great; he was now so alone, a blade without a wielder, and he was completely useless. What was there for him? There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Let the Hero do his worst, Ghirahim thought.

The silence stretched on, and Ghirahim found himself opening his eyes and straining to hear the sounds of a blade unsheathing or steps coming closer. He could barely sense the Hero standing relatively close to him, but not close enough for a fatal strike…what was the Hero waiting for?

"Do I have to spell it out to you?" Ghirahim rasped, his eyes staring out unseeingly over the unending water, to the horizon of blue sky and clear water. "Kill me, Hero."

The Hero was silent for a long time. "Why?"

Ghirahim closed his eyes. "I was assuming you were smarter than you looked. I suppose my assumption was wrong. I am your enemy; you defeated me and demolished my pride and dignity. Spare me the shame and kill me."

"But…you wouldn't fight back?"

"Do you think it would be a fair fight, Hero? Do you honestly think I could hold my own against you in this state? Or would it ease you conscience if I wasn't taking it lying down?"

"I'd…it would be murder. Cold blooded."

It was then, at that moment, that Ghirahim realized how exceptionally young the Hero was.

"And if I stood and drew my blade it wouldn't?"

"It would be self-defense. You would die honorably."

"Hero," Ghirahim hissed as he lifted his head and looked to where he was standing, his arms curling awkwardly under his torso and making his seethe as they brushed against the extensive and nearly lethal wound on his chest. "No death is honorable. Dying in battle or for a loved one is never honorable. Death is ugly, messy, and plain ghastly. You of all people should know that. What would it matter if you killed me while I was standing or while I'm lying down? I'll be dead either way and my blood will be on your hands either way. Now if you'll be so kind, please put your blade through my throat and spare me any further agony."

From his downcast position, Ghirahim could only barely see the look of contemplative pity on his face and shining in his blue eyes. After some long moments of silence, the Hero shook with head with an air of finality. "No," he said. "Death may not be pretty, but you can die honorably or cowardly. But I won't kill you. You…no. You can survive and thrive, Ghirahim. I can help you heal from your wounds and give you some supplies and you can go live whatever life you want."

His voice was calm, sure and sturdy, but every word he said drove a stake into Ghirahim's chest and nearly sent him into a strange fit of rage and panic. "Don't you understand, Hero, in all of your grand and priceless and holy wisdom? I'm asking for you to kill me, I'm begging! Who are you to refuse a plea for death, you mangy piece of scum?"

The Hero's eyebrows rose at his furious insults, but his voice was calm as he spoke. "I'm Link, and I don't want to kill someone I can help. Come on, let's get you back to the temple…maybe Zelda or Impa could do something for that wound…sorry about that, by the way."

Ghirahim tried to slap his helpful hands away, but the Hero didn't jerk away and instead grasped onto his wrist and dragged the demon's arm over his sturdy shoulders, gripping his opposite hip as he hefted Ghirahim from the water and to his unsteady feet.

Ghirahim, by the time they were halfway to the portal, was running out of both insults and energy. His eyes were sliding shut even as his serrated tongue stilled. He didn't see the Hero smile to himself, and he was only barely aware of the bleached white light around them and swallowing them whole.