Title: Bloodstained

Author: Spirit the Fire Dragon/Scribbled Sol

General Ghirahim sassiness, mentions to the past suicide attempts


When the Hero returned, Ghirahim hunched his head down with his back already to him, unwilling to hear whatever he had to say, whether it good or bad. He closed his eyes as he approached, and kept them shut as the Hero spoke. "Ghirahim, good news. I just had a whole talking-to about dark magic and whatnot, and Zelda said if you were purified and proved yourself worthy, she'd restore your Linkage."

Ghirahim didn't respond.

"Ghirahim?" the Hero took a few steps forward, his hand reaching out. The silence from the usual flamboyant demon concerned him. "Ghirahim, what's wrong? Didn't you hear me?"

"I heard you."

"Well? It's a good thing!...right?"

"If you say so, Master."

"No, no, no, no…Ghirahim, you know you don't have to call me that, right?"

"That's what you are. Why call you something that you're not? You insist on my name when I am nothing; I am yours to do whatever you please with. I am your slave, and as worthless to you as to anyone on this Surface because of my broken Linkage. You insist I am something worth saving when you know, deep in your great big heart, I am a broken, inconsequential, insignificant trinket."

The Hero was silent for a long moment, but what Ghirahim didn't see was the utter look of breathlessness and shock on his face. He was blown away by the sheer amount of self-loathing, and had to take several moments to gather his thoughts and articulate them.

"Look, I don't think you're any of that. I know that everyone doesn't trust you—and I'm starting to think that you don't trust you—because of Demise and your past with him, but I've found that I really do believe in you, and to a certain extent, I do trust you. I know you don't have your magic, and you're really down on yourself—" here, the Hero glanced down at his bandaged wrists, "…but need I remind you that I don't have magic? How can I miss something, or have use of it, if I never had it?"

Ghirahim furrowed his brows and glanced over at the Hero, who had crouched next to him unthreateningly before his little speech. His blue eyes were filled with nothing but truth—no hints of dishonesty, or lies, just hope that he would believe his words. What Ghirahim found strange—and no, strange was not the same as comforting!—was that the Hero hadn't attempted to smooth over anything. He didn't say he trusted him completely, or that reference to his wrists that others would have skipped right over in fear of a breakdown.

Ghirahim looked down at his hands and said, sourly, "If you wish to…purify me, then very well. I will no longer be a distraction or delay to you or your quests."

The Hero furrowed his brow. "I'm not forcing you to do this," he said, quietly. "I only thought you'd like your magic back. You know, to help with…" he gestured helplessly to his bandages, "…things."

"My magic will not replace my niche in this new world you and your friends are creating. I have no place in it. Nor will I ever."

"Well, that's the thing," the Hero said, somewhat carefully. "Since we're the ones, you know, creating the world, I'm pretty sure we can make a spot for you somewhere."

Ghirahim glanced over at him, and noticed the hopeful upturn of his eyebrows and the quirk of optimism on the corners of his lips. The Hero thought, briefly, that he had gotten through to the demon, finally said something right, but instead of a returned smirk-smile, he got averted eyes and a meager shrug.

"If you say so, Master."


Ghirahim, despite being weakened by both blood loss and lack of magic, was still a demonic sword spirit—ergo, not mortal. As his body was not restrained by mortal faults, his body mended with startling speed. Not a day and a sunrise later had the slashes on his wrists puckered to pink scars. His body was still weakened severely, and it took several more nights of increasing physical activity for him to gain the strength to even stand steadily under his own power.

The Hero mostly left the demon alone when he was working, checking up on him periodically to tell him to eat, to not work so hard as to hurt himself, and to offer some company. He could generally tell he was unwanted but Ghirahim never spoke a word against it; he seemed to not speak out against anything, good or bad, when it came to the Hero. Trying to gain favor with his new Master.

Ghirahim seemed to completely rearrange himself in the days following his suicide attempt. To the Hero, he reorganized his priorities now that he had a Master to serve, even one he loathed; he set about first to regain his strength to more of use. He deliberately moved himself away from the Master Sword so it would not be in his general line of sight, as to not tempt him. He asked permission (with a smooth, emotionless mask, a clear spoken thanks and a deep bow whatever the answer) before he did anything outside of his normal routine—that included journeying to the nearby spring to wash himself and to even leave the temple's walls. He was careful with his tone and with his gestures, even eventually offering his limited services to the building crews that had descended from the Sky to erect homes on the Surface. Though he was denied (somewhat vehemently) the offer had made the Hero smile, secretly.

Many days after, the Hero approached Ghirahim with his practice sword and shield slung on his back and his travelling pouch filled with the necessities. Ghirahim seemed to be meditating by the Tree of Life, but kindly opened his eyes and lowered his hands to his lap as his Master slowed.

"Yes, Master?"

"Seriously, Ghirahim, you can call me Link."

An old argument that the Hero knew he would not be winning any time soon.

"What can I do for you?"

"If you're willing," the Hero continued, "we can set out to the Skyview Spring to purify you."

Ghirahim blinked, seemed to reign himself in, and asked, "Why the Skyview Spring, Master?"

The Hero sighed. "I spoke with Zelda last night. She said we needed to purify you, your body and your mind before she would consider blessing another crystal for you to restore your Linkage. The only place she could think of were the sacred Springs. That is, if this is what you want."

"What I want means nothing," Ghirahim spoke, holding the Hero's eyes with a calm certainty that almost sickened the other. "I am nothing but simple property for you to use as you please. Should you wish to purify me, as you say, then I will do so. If not, then I will not. If I may, you must not think of me as the regrettable nemesis you fought before Demise's defeat with a plan and power. I am a broken sword spirit under your complete and utter control with no emotional attachment."

The Hero frowned briefly, then shook his head with a stormy look of that's bullshit. "I won't believe that, Ghirahim. Goddess, you're the epitome of emotion and passion! I'd be damned if I, of all people, didn't know that. You've put on this ridiculous façade of a slave and I'm not buying it, not for a second! You're not broken, Ghirahim, you're not useless or wrong or pathetic—you're just alone and left in the hands of someone you hate and you're confused because they're treating you with kindness. I don't think of you as my slave, I think of you as Ghirahim, the ridiculously dressed demon that was passionate about what he did and how he did it! And frankly, out of everyone in this room, you're the one that hates yourself the most! Stop this ridiculous 'yes master' crap and get angry! Get emotional! Let me know what you're thinking! 'Cause I care what you think, despite what you think of me!"

Ghirahim stared up at the boy in green, with his face red from emotion, into his blazing blue eyes. He took a breath through his nose and he stood up, unwinding his mile long limbs and straightening his feline spine until he stood at full height, dressed in Skyloftian clothes that hung strangely on his alien body. Ghirahim let out the breath he took between his fanged teeth, and asked, calmly, "I have leave to speak freely?"

"Yes!" Please just say what I want you to say, the Hero internally cried.

Ghirahim nodded, looked through the Hero for a moment as he thought, then raised his eyes again before he spoke. "I despise you, Master. I despise everything you stand for and everything you are. I loathe every fiber in your body and every thought in your head. I loathe that you defeated and killed everything I held dear simply by allowing me to resurrect my hated Master and force him to remind me how I loathed him more than I you. I hate that I have fallen into your hands and you treat me as if I am a friend, one that cares how you feel or think. I care not if you should live or die, nor shall I ever. And that is what I am thinking. I am thinking that I despise you for wanting to help me, or restore me to any sort of power or position that I held before you were conceived. I loathe your olive branch bearing hand and your golden heart. I would gladly skin you and wear your pelt if it should mean I would be free of your damned thoughtfulness and caring nature. That is what I think, Master."

Ghirahim held his Master's gaze for a moment longer before he turned on his heal and went to sit amongst his bedroll to continue his meditation.


Apologies for the lateness and length! I lost the inspiration but recently began playing SS again and now it's come rolling back. It'll take me a bit to get my groove back, but I will, and soon we'll be cruising again along the rewritten Bloodstained era.

I would like to thank you for your reviews, but as I've completely lost track of them, I won't be replying to them. But thank you for the comments you left, I do appreciate them!

-S