Where Ghirahim seeks out an artifact for Ganon, and Link falls deeper into insanity.

Note that the section that involves Ghirahim is Thursday night, and the start of Link's section opens up into Friday.

I tried my best to whip this out (without my betareader again, she's been a busy bee!) through work, classes, and stress. Here's hoping I didn't lose my touch! As always, thank you for the comments and kudos! I really enjoy reading your thoughts 3

Responses to reviews at the end!

EIGHT - FOREBODING

Lon Lon Industries' head of security was both the most boring as well as the most pleasurable job Ghirahim had ever been blessed with by his master. Though he knew well that the immortal vessel of Calamity never had his best interests at heart, it was he who was chosen to take on the security detail and all the shadows and metaphorical dirt that came along with it. Not that there were many options. Past lives and current immortality had made Ganon distrust many, but who could ever distrust their blade, their right-hand man who'd been there since the very beginning?

Granted, Ghirahim was stuck with the man. True, he didn't bear the same powers as his master, that royal wench, and the curse that came along with it. Yet he did bear the troubles of immortality, to a degree. Like with both Ganon and Zelda, time would never harm him. Instead it would wash over his back like the burning water overhead. It would brush over his skin, barely even scald the pale flesh despite the intense heat, and mix with the blood and the dirt until there was nothing left but remnants of grime clinging to the edges of the drain.

Time… how ironic that time was now the one and only enemy that stood before him, forever there and yet forever out of reach.

He shifted and the water drowned him of sight and hearing until he shut off the showerhead. Within seconds the burning heat of the shower dispersed, allowing the cold to settle in over the teal accented bathroom. It coaxed in a thick curtain of mist, yet the mirrors still picked him out amongst the aftermath of the shower. His blurred reflection stuck out like a sore thumb even on the wet surface. A smear of white accompanied by a prominent, black circle on his chest.

The circle, his core, was visible proof of both his devotion and his contract to his master. It had been the sign that most possessed blades such as himself wielded in a time that had long since been forgotten. That as well as a sign or origin of his power though even that… Yes, that was likely the one and only thing that his master's curse had restrained. Ever since the Hero of Time, the only mortal he'd ever had the pleasure of calling an arch enemy, had perished along with his legacy, the core at the center of Ghirahim's chest had ceased in its glorious, crimson glow. In fact, the core itself, once having taken on the visage of a brilliant crystal that looked to have been woven into his bare skin, was colored with a vile black that was far worse than the black ichor that had coated his fingers moments before. The black of the core was unable to pick up the gaze of light, forever dull and silent as the dead's eyes.

He pulled his gaze away from it, from the fuzzy, blurred image of the black diamond that struggled to take form in the clouded mirror. Instead he turned his attention to the pile of soiled clothes that he'd discarded at the center of the linoleum floor. There was already a ring of blood and black ink forming underneath and around the clothing, and the after scent of shampoo and body wash seemed to have done little to subdue the stench of death. Still, death was a much preferred scent over whatever flowery garbage he'd just used to rid his body of the remnants of the journalist.

Relenting little more than a sigh, Ghirahim chucked the clothes into the bathtub, stopped the drain, and let loose a torrent of cold water. He'd only managed to snag the bottle of hydrogen peroxide underneath the sink when his cellphone rang. The curt ringtone bounced off the walls and drew his brows together. Yet as he stood to peer above the counter, spotting his wondrous master's name flash in bold, white letters, he couldn't help but let loose a devilish grin of excitement.

The call had barely reached the second ring when he'd answered, hearing at first a spell of silence, and then what he was sure sounded like a grunt of approval.

"Excellent job, though I would not recommend going so public next time."

Oh, so there would be a next time then? Brilliant. Experimenting with the drug had been fun, even if it was messy, and after both seeing and hearing his master's enjoyment and hint at a plan, his grin turned darker, wider. It split his face into vile proportions, lips peeling back to show off unnaturally bone-white teeth that could very well be fangs.

"Now, about the mirror…"

He'd finished scrubbing at the clothing, his fingers raw from the residual drug and chemicals, by the time Ganon had passed along his next list of instructions.

If the Hero really has returned as our princess claims then he may be the key to end this wretched curse. Now, I imagine he has been blessed with his uncanny courage and the like. Knowing the goddesses, he may somehow have retained memories from past lives, like the princess and I have. Regardless, no matter what, I am more than certain that he will react in different ways when in contact with the mirror than from what we've grown accustomed to seeing. Same goes for whatever the mirror touches. It shall not harm us due to our origins so go to the warehouse and carefully take a fragment of the mirror. Though I am certain and right, as I often am, we should still test it on another. They should react negatively, perhaps even show similar signs to those who have taken the opioid.

He'd only heard snippets of history from Ganon when it came to the mirror, an artifact that had been forged long before the Triune had ever considered their chosen heroes. One that was made from wretched darkness more sinister and blacker than the dark that had forged Calamity. What was it his master had called it… Twilight? Yes, that sounded right.

Leaving his clothes to air out along the edge of the tub, the pale man slipped into a loose pair of jeans and a simple collared shirt of vibrant red before heading out the door with a skip to his step. The smile that had forged along his face had yet to settle, and the closer he got to fulfilling his master's orders, the more twisted the smile became. Though for once it wasn't because of his simple desire to please his master. No, for once he was feeling giddy, ecstatic because this would mean that they would be one step closer to finding their long lost Hero. That is, if the man, the myth, the legend had indeed returned to this world.

It would almost be too good to be true…

But Ghirahim wasn't one to ever dwell on such depressing thoughts. Especially when it involved the Hero. Even now, as time had brushed past him, Ghirahim had yet to meet someone he'd deemed worthy of dying by his blade. Well, there was more to it than that. No one had that gaze, no one held themselves with such courage no matter how far they had fallen, like the Hero of Time had. His skilled swordsmanship was a definite plus too, almost up to par with Ganon himself.

It's been so long since I've gotten to enjoy running my blade through skin and muscle alike.

The drive to the warehouse was relatively long, at least half an hour's drive from his flat, thanks to the city's rush hour traffic. The building itself was nestled within the projects near the outskirts of Faron, partially sitting on the city line of Ordona. A place where poverty was much more prominent, holding a certain stench along the dirty streets and abandoned storefronts. Originally, the warehouse had been surrounded by a buzz of activity. A few crimes and solicitation here, a murder or two there, and slowly but surely the business and neighborhood that surrounded the warehouse had dwindled away into nothing but broken glass and empty streets. So much so that the vacant buildings mimicked that of a ghost town, shadows and remnants of past lives still lingering in the guise of debris and litter that flitted along the street as Ghirahim peeled into the one-way.

He'd barely caught sight of the two-story warehouse when he felt it. A cool, slithering sensation that wove in-between his vertebrae like a slimy snake. It wrenched a shudder from him, pulling his teeth against one another as his foot spasmed against the accelerator. The sensation was exhilarating as it pushed against him, running over him like the water from the showerhead. Abrupt and violent, somewhat comforting, and incredibly harsh to the point where it burned. It set his nerves alight, tickling his thoughts with giddy malevolence, and punctured him with a burst of heat that seemed to dig through his crystal with invisible hands.

Its grip, its twisted sensations that filled his mind with carnage, seas of blood, and towers of the dead, felt eternal. As if it had been with him since the beginning, but as its malevolent intent melded with his own, it was gone.

Or at least it had settled, reeling its darkness back into a swarm of whitenoise that bit at the back of his eyes. Only when he drew closer, eyes catching along the dark windows of the warehouse, did the whitenoise drip down onto his chest. It gouged a place for itself there, remnants of that puncturing heat urging him to pull at his collar and check the state of his core. The obsidian crystal was as dull as ever, devoid of all life and sensation except for that distant burn, a faint yearning.

Come see the ruin and power only I can provide.

Peculiar, especially when the sting persisted as he grew closer.

His master, as he often was, seemed to be right that the mirror wouldn't influence them. At least not enough to make them lose their sanity. However, if he could feel it without even seeing it in person then how would the Hero react? And could any mortal feel that bittersweet pull of darkness like he could?

Metal rafters akin to bones seemed to be the only fixture that was intact within the ribcage of the warehouse. They criss-crossed over one another and ran along the far corners of the walls. Walls which were caked in aged dust, the once gray paint peeled and frayed like flaking skin while the floor stretched onward, cloaked in tall, yawning shadows. Metal shelves sought refuge there, all bearing a look of rust as they stood tall enough to where they almost touched the ceiling. Boxes, bottles, and large totes were stacked on the shelves, along the floor, in every crevice possible.

Towers of boxes surpassed the shelves in height, taking up most of the floor space, while many of the totes were left open, a myriad of textiles strewn about. There was no rhyme or reason to the clutter, and it seemed to only get worse as Ghirahim went deeper into the warehouse. Yet the clutter didn't bother him. Not as he felt the pull at his core or the buzz that continued to run along his nerves.

At the back of the warehouse sat a single, narrow door. Its paint looked fresh, untouched by age and dust, but as Ghirahim turned the knob, it gave a heavy groan. He'd barely opened the door all the way, his boot ready to cross the threshold, when he was met face-to-face with the barrel of a rifle. It didn't deter him though.

As soon as the barrel waved in his face, Ghirahim swatted it away. It quickly withdrew then, pointing upward. "Sorry, sir. The cameras have been down for the past week, and we were not aware that you were coming here." The gunner, a man who far surpassed ghirahim in height, quickly stepped back to the side.

"Ah, Ghira, about time you show your pasty ass." The sniggering comment drew Ghirahim's gaze away from the man with the unfamiliar face to meet none other than Vaati. Though Ghirahim's skin was as white as winter, Vaati's was likely as white as fresh death. It held more pigments, darker shades of grays and lighter pinks, that seemed to match his dyed purple hair. Though the hair was never quite as jarring as his features. His jawline was more rounded, chin sharp and triangular, and his eyes stretched along chiseled cheekbones that held a hollowness of a skull without skin.

Where Ghirahim was over security, Vaati was over finance. A strange role considering what his past life had involved, according to Ganon. Which begged the question, why was he here and not back at Lon Lon?

"To what do I owe the pleasure? You don't normally make your way down here this late… unless…"

"Just here to take a look at the mirror." Ghirahim replied.

At the mention of the mirror, Vaati raised a brow. Although it wasn't necessarily rare for Ghirahim to come down to one of the warehouses, but to have come here just for the dusty, old mirror? Well, it wasn't just any normal mirror. He at least knew that much. The mirror itself was most definitely haunted, perhaps even possessed, but what did Ganon want with it anyway? True, he had a weird fascination with "Triune" trinkets, but this… the mirror was dangerous.

"Oh, and the merch too?" Vaati asked.

"Not right now. I still have the last shipment of merch at Lon." Ghirahim's gaze wandered off to the two screens that were plastered along a portion of the wall. Both of them were displayed in a gridview, each grid displayed a camera's view except for the last row which flickered on a solid blue screen.

Past the screens was a line of metallic countertops, their surfaces cluttered with digital scales, series of pipes and plastic baggies, empty syringes, and a pile of what looked to be used gloves. There were three others that lingered in the room, working quietly with the paraphernalia while passing brief glances to the warehouse's guest.

With a wave of his hand, Vaati led the way into a narrow hallway that split into two more hallways. They took the left that opened up into a much larger, longer room that was dressed with shelves and bright lighting. Each shelf housed a rectangular pot, a cluster of plants spilling out from each one. Most of the plants looked familiar, despite the strong, skunk stench giving them away, but as they walked down the line of weed, both the stench and color seemed to change.

The change was gradual at first, so much so that Ghirahim didn't notice it until they passed a pot of blackened weed. He stopped then, eyes narrowed as he moved toward it only to find others much like it.

"It's been happening a lot lately. Once they start taking on that color, they're useless. And it spreads. We tried moving that damn mirror back to prevent this blight from spreading, but it hasn't helped." As if to prove the warehouse's struggle in the production of medicinal plants, Vaati stuck to Ghirahim's side and brushed a finger over one of the many blackened stems. The plant as well as its neighboring plants crumbled into ash at their feet.

"This is the mirror's doing?"

"What else could it be?"

"Have you had anyone consume these plants, test the effects? Sure, the scent," Ghirahim sniffed, "isn't as strong as it was when we first walked in, but surely these aren't all ruined. That would be devastating. I'm sure this hasn't affected us financially yet, but neither I nor the queen's bed will be able to calm his rage once he finds out about this." He turned his head to meet vaati's gaze, a grin slitting across his face. "That's why you're here, isn't it? Already seeing financial slack."

"As always, I have a strong desire to paint the wall with your blood. Of course that's why I'm here."

"Then get yourself a guinea pig and test the effects. If it's like the opioid then perhaps we could fix that little bit of slack."

"Didn't I hear you say that the opioid is deadly?"

"The addictive high is worth the risk. Either way, if you don't, I will." Ghirahim said as he moved away from the blackened plants, taking the lead toward the door.

"On who?"

Each step that led to the door felt heavier and heavier. A feeling that counteracted with the pleasurable chill that coiled around him. It was accompanied by the faintest of whispers, something foriegn and wrong yet welcoming all the same.

Come and bask in the darkness.

At the very command, he felt his core burn with a scorching heat. It forced him to draw a hand, covering his chest, but not even a single bit of warmth met his palm. Still the absent fire that licked along the core persisted, and with it came the beckoning pull. It was much stronger now, acting as a pressure that pushed along his backside. Invisible hands that pulled his own hands away from his chest and over the door knob.

The door opened in dead silence, and the thick shadows that met them seemed to only encourage the pull. If it wasn't for the fact that he felt a familiarity with the pull, if it wasn't for the rise in his core of which he hadn't felt in centuries, he likely would have been scared. It would have been a first. Still, knowing that this mirror was this attuned to darkness was electrifying. He couldn't help the smile that climbed its way along his lips once again, his eyes squinting against the black.

The room before them was much smaller than the others, perhaps the size of the entryway cut in half. Though that could have been because it was crowded on one side with both wooden and metallic crates. At one point in time the crates had taken up the expanse of the floorspace, but once they'd acquired Ganon's new fancy, they'd had to make room as well as try to keep the goods from being contaminated. A meaningless attempt if the blackened plants had anything to say about it.

Vaati flipped a switch somewhere behind Ghirahim as he went deeper into the room. Only stopping to glance at the floor when his boots sloshed.

"Damn, lights aren't work-holy shit!" Vaati abruptly took a step back into the threshold, his voice ricocheting loudly within the confines of the room.

Much of the floor was covered in a large, soupy, black puddle. At least, that was the only way it could be described. Tendrils, no longer than Ghirahim's thumb, stretched out in jagged spirals from the edges of the puddle. Thin like veins that seemed to be buried into the floor, that pulsed underneath the glow of the light that spilled from the room full of plants.

He lifted a foot and felt the slightest resistance. The liquid clung to the bottom of his foot, and when it came away it reminded him of crusted flesh from a sunburn. It relinquished his boot soundlessly, and though they were partially in the dark, he was stunned to find that it hadn't left any residue behind.

"Is this the mirror's doing?" Vaati asked from the doorway, his face scrunched up in disgust as he watched the pale man continue toward the far corner of the room. His boots sloshed along the strange fluid despite its consistency.

If Ghirahim heard him, he made no sign as he followed the length of the fluid until he reached what looked to be a circular object hung on the wall. Its form was obscured by a tarp. A tarp of which was dripping black ink. It was then as he grabbed the ends of the tarp, unfazed by the colored water that began to taint his hands, that both the burn and pull loomed. The sensations dug into his conscience, forcing all will and thought to the side, and it drew him to pause for the fraction of a second before removing the covering in one motion.

The mirror, with its smooth, obsidian face and intricately woven runes of pulsating crimson, rippled as the tarp fell away. Its edges dripped with the black ooze, and as it took on his reflection, the shifting darkness behind its glass fell silent.

And then, as soon as the mirror's influence had increased, as soon as his eyes met a distorted reflection splayed out across dead black glass, it stopped. In an instant, its hungry, gravitating pull left him. Its abruptness was both alarming and unsettling as it brought forth a wave of despair and hunger. Though over and for what, he wasn't quite sure, and that in itself frightened him.

Again, fear wasn't something he was familiar with and just by recognizing it, he couldn't help but let a giggle slip through sneering lips. To think that he, Ghirahim the Demon Lord, was scared? This, the fear, wasn't just electrifying, it was scintillating, impassioned, divine. His giggle sputtered into maniacal laughter.

It was perfect.

Numbness was something Link had grown accustomed to; however, this empty feeling was colder than winter and heavier than heartbreak and dread stacked on top of one another. His throat closed under the pressure of it, his voice drowning in the absence and silence that it brought along with it, and for once in his dreams, he sought for an anchor on the nightmarish creature before him. He'd done so many times before in past nightmares out of fear. Out of an attempt to stop the blade that had always wreaked havoc in his dreams from becoming intimate with his throat. Yet now he grabbed at the skeletal wrist in hopes to ground himself as the dead shade's words hung lost in the air. They had vibrated along his bones, jarring his teeth, but as soon as the words had been spoken, he'd lost them against the cold that enveloped the dreamscape.

"What-what did you say?"

That single red eye was all that he could see through the pitch black that had taken over. A steady red that stayed as still as his heart surely was right now because those words… I had felt fear at his words just then, I'm sure of it.

Why?

You must regain what you have lost, or you will soon perish.

His fingers tightened along the skeletal appendage at his shoulder, slipping along the shivering bone as it quivered with the shade's next words.

"You are not ready, but I must warn you. There will always be semblances of evil in this world, shadows under our feet and venom on our tongues, but there will come a time when this world is so wrought with shadows that she too, much like you, will perish. It will begin with war, followed by plague and famine, and from the battlefield, death will reign."

"And though my words may fall far from your belief, you are the only one who can stop it. Because, child, to save this world, the people will need a Hero, you."

Hero, Hero, Hero.

There it was again, that awful word that set his nerves on fire. It burnt away the numbness, the emptiness that clung to him, and it urged his other hand to seek out the arm he'd anchored himself to. It licked along his skin, the fire infuriating him so that when he found his voice, he nearly screamed. "Why me? I'm just some drug investigator, an officer. I'm not some fated hero!"

Link's voice trembled along the dark void that stretched beyond them, and if it disturbed the shade, the shade made no sign. Instead it remained, unmoving and mute. Then, slowly and with the heaviest sigh, "Your heart and soul, body and mind, are branded by destiny. You cannot escape your purpose. You are and will always be a Hero for the people. A Hero who is valiant and courageous, selfless and considerate."

"What? You make it sound like I'm some kind of tool, a plaything!"

That red eye seemed to brighten, to pulse with a heartbeat. "A tool? Plaything? Blasphemy. Do you believe yourself to be that insignificant, that unworthy? You are nothing of the sort. Though you are a child, a human, this is true, but your heart, your soul, they are brighter and purer than any other. Only you can be the Hero, the one that both the people and this world need."

Pure? Link scoffed, shook his head with a vengeance.

"You question and look down on yourself too much, whether that be from past experiences or from insecurities, but I assure you that you are worthy. That and whether you like it or not, you are the Hero of Time. The one who shall take blade in-hand and wield it with Farore's Courage, just as I and those before you have done time and time again."

"And if I don't? If I fail? If I refuse!"

"Then, like you, everything around you, everything you love and cherish, will wither away into darkness. Now, face it. You need to face your demons, Hero. Whether you like it or not, you are the Hero that we want. The Hero that we need."

The shade withdrew, relinquishing their grasp and drawing their presence away from him, but his hands were still wrapped like snakes around the bony arm. It gently tugged its arm away, and yet Link persisted. His fingers tightened. His gaze narrowed, brows furrowing, but when he opened his mouth to retaliate, to question, or to argue, nothing but silence fell from his lips.

What did he want to say? That this was a dream, even if it all felt so real? Even if it tickled some form of nostalgia that lingered in the back of his mind? That he was not and would never be a hero? That having those who depended on him, who looked up to him, scared him? Because if he failed, what then?

You can't be everywhere, Link. You can't save everyone.

His whole body spasmed at the ethereal voice that ran over his heart, Malon's words akin to fingers over the strings of a harp. Yes, she'd said that to him the day he'd failed to save a life. Again when he'd had to use his firearm to shoot to kill. The lives then and the lives that followed and ended before him always required the accompanied assurance, but the weight of a human being dying in his arms always unnerved him. It was almost as if their blood had fused with his skin. Their last words, last gaze, ingrained in his memory.

And what about failure? The dreams had a knack for taking everything he'd built and burning it until not even ashes remained. Always showing him what he could not do and who he could not save. Even going as far as to show the dead that he would come across in his line of work the next day. And the dreams with Malon…

"I can't-I'm not…" his voice had fallen into a whisper.

The shade pulled its arm free, armor groaning from the movement. When it next spoke, its voice matched his own. So much so that he almost thought that he'd said it aloud.

"You can, and you are."

With barely three hours of sleep, Link sat up along the side of the bed and ran a hand over his face. For once he'd woken up normally, the dream having ended on a decent yet confusing note. It was a nice change of pace, but the voice, the warning, from the shade was akin to ants on his skin. He remembered every word, could recite it like the FPCD's oath. It had been the first time in a long while that he hadn't woken up with a start or in cold sweat, but he still felt the fear, the grating nostalgia, and the anger from the dreamscape pushing against him.

Fear because those words, they made sense. They felt real somehow. As if he'd heard them before or had known them to be true all along. Nostalgia because it felt deathly familiar, as if the voice, the touch, and the presence of the shade were a distant memory. While the anger… the anger swarmed deep within his gut, undefined and raw.

A hand touched his back, quelling the drove of emotions and thoughts at the warmth it offered. It ran up along his spine until it met his neck. A second hand slipped over his opposing shoulder to descend down his chest, and then a curtain of vibrant red hair brushed the side of his ear as Malon placed her chin over the same shoulder.

"Did I wake you?" He murmured, and she loosely coiled her arms around his neck in response. Her breath tickled his ear as she curled into him just as she'd done last night.

They sat there for a moment, her face tucked against the side of his head as he breathed in her scent. He could get drunk off it, the faint traces of pine accompanied by the sharpness of citrus. It was only when he brought his hand up to her arms, fingers tracing circles along a forearm, that she broke the peace between them.

"Will you be home later tonight too?" Her voice was heavy with sleep, and she tightened her embrace around his neck.

"Depending on how the interview goes… probably? I also have to take up your suggestion and get permission to have Lon Lon look at the black substance."

"But you barely even slept…"

He grimaced, knowing full well what she'd wanted to say. I'm worried about you. It's what drove him to gently pull at her arms so that he could turn and face her. His right knee pressing against hers as he sought out her forehead underneath the mess of her bangs. His lips ghosted over her freckled skin while her hands resituated on his shoulders. "I didn't have a nightmare," he pulled away, "and I slept pretty well since I was next to you."

He was doing it again. Ignoring her concern, turning it around, but she was too tired to chastise him. That and he had woken up normally, unlike the past few nights where he'd been thrashing both her and himself awake. "Flattery will not get you anywhere."

He caught a glimpse of her smile, and pulled back, smiling faintly himself. As he walked toward the small closet, she buried herself back under the covers. It wasn't warm enough for her though, not while he was out of bed. "How are you feeling today?" She was muffled underneath the covers, but Link had heard her nonetheless.

He slipped on a pair of dark tan pants, his eyes scanning over the collared shirts that hung from his side of the closet when she'd spoken up. Her question rekindled the torrent of emotions that the dream had created, forced him to pause as he reached for a black undershirt. If he spoke honestly then she would incessantly worry, as she often did. She worried and stressed enough as it is.

She doesn't need to worry about me.

A lie, he knew. Worry, in her case, was the many signs of her endearment for him. Yet it bothered him, to burden her with his troubles. That and she'd surely think he was insane, not worth the trouble.

"Better than yesterday, I guess?"

"Tomorrow is your birthday…"

His blond hair peeked out of the head opening of the shirt, and he snaked his arms through the sleeves in one motion. "Yeah." Don't remind me. Adjusting the shirt, he then turned to look for his sweater as her head popped up from the pile of blankets. "I know, I'll try to get home earlier, but you know I can't promise anything. This is the second body and we still haven't figured out the drug."

He didn't miss the sigh that resonated in the bedroom. It chased him out into the living room where he found his work boots. They were lying on their side, having been chucked against the wall right beside the door. He'd barely even slipped the right one on, fingers hovering over the lip of the boot, when Malon stumbled after him. Their bedspread licked at her heels as she pulled it tight around her body, her bare legs peeking out at the small opening as she made a beeline to the couch.

"Do you have to go in today?" He asked as she plopped down, the couch creaking in protest.

"In a few hours. I don't want to though… just want to sleep."

"Well, you have been working an awful lot lately. When's your next day off?"

"Mm, Saturday, if it all goes well, and I don't get called in."

He nodded along with her words, and found himself hoping that she would get called in. It would mean no surprise birthday party, something he was incredibly fine with, but knowing her, she'd merely postpone it until later in the night. With his second boot on, Link straightened, and said, "I'll let you know when I get off, if I can."

They'd made their goodbyes, her parting words wishing him well and asking him to be safe. It was then that he'd hurried out into the autumn morning, tensing against the chill as he rushed to the clammy cold of his cruiser. He'd barely slipped in, turning his key in the ignition, when his eyes gravitated toward the pen. It stood within the passenger side's cup holder. Seeming innocent and simple, as if the magical blade was a figment, but the dream from earlier burned alongside his conscience. The words of the shade danced around his thoughts, meshing with his own until he reiterated them aloud.

When Hyrule falls into ruin, a man garbed in green and bearing a courageous heart will appear with the sword of evil's bane.

Those words buzzed along his tongue like poison, and the sound of them brought forth another memory. The book in the library didn't answer his questions, but its contents were similar to the shade's prophecy. It, too, had mentioned the existence of a hero and a sword, hadn't it?

What was it the shade had called him?

Hero of Time. It came to him before he could even pose the question, his mouth moving on its own accord, and yet they were made without sound. As if he hadn't spoken it aloud. Curious, he tried it again, but as he voiced the title, it was voiced in stillness. Silent, nothing, and it only solidified that his insanity was reaching a new level.

"I'm so delusional."

Underneath the fluorescent lights, Link found himself admiring the dark tone of Nabooru's skin. It reminded him of the autumn leaves outside, but warmer and fuller. She sat rigidly in her chair across from him, eyes deadset on the small notepad in his hands as she fingered the drawstring of her dark gray hoodie. Its print nearly screamed across the expanse of the round table, bold letters spelling out Lanayru Spotlight in bright red letters. Her features didn't look as sharp as they had last night, but her face remained as blank as a slate. All but her brows showed no sign of emotion or thought.

"This interview is being recorded. Please know that you are not under arrest, and that you can leave whenever you wish." Pipit spoke up from beside Link, his hands clasped together as he leaned against the table. She nodded absently, ember eyes still glued to Link's notepad. "We just have a few questions about your employee, a Revali Rito." Link felt his partner's eyes on him, signaling him to begin.

Clearing his throat and flipping to the scrawled out questions he'd made hours before the start of the interview, he asked, "When was the last time you saw Mr. Rito?"

"Tuesday. He'd stopped by in the office to pick up his camera at… eight, maybe? Yeah, eight." Her voice was solemn, brows drawn.

"Did you have any contact with him since then?"

"No."

"Have you known of him to take any drugs that were not prescribed to him?"

Her face lit up with emotion, her features sharpening into blades as her eyes snapped up to meet Link. Anger flushed out the somber expression, her voice was tinged with certainty, "He was not a drug user."

"Did he have any connections to drugs?"

"No. Revali isn't-wasn't like that. Hell, he rarely had any friends as it was because he was all about the next big scoop. Work was his drug."

"Did he have any enemies that you were aware of, anyone that would want him dead?" Pipit jumped in. It earned him a look from Link. The idea had been brought up this morning during a briefing between all of CID. Though Revali had not committed to self-harm, he had been tied up. Faint bruises had been found around his wrists and ankles after the ambulance had transported his body to Valoo. Urging them to consider that, if anything, Revali's death was not from a simple OD.

"He's a journalist. I'm sure he's pissed many people off, but made them angry enough to kill him? No."

"Do you know if he was working on a scoop then? Where did he go Tuesday morning?"

"I had told him to look into requesting an interview with the Department of Child Services about a child abuse case that had fallen through the cracks. I don't know if he went there though. He has Tuesdays off."

"Was there anything else he was looking into for Spotlight?"

"No... " her voice wavered, and her features gradually softened. "I mean, he had a lot of things he wanted to look into, sure. That's how Spotlight's journalists are, you know, we seek out cold hard facts. He was always keeping his ear to the ground in hopes to find stories that would put our station above the rest."

Link nodded slightly as he scrawled out her answers in the form of a bulleted list, his face contorting into a frown. This was getting them nowhere. Surely a journalist had enemies?

"What kind of stories was he looking out for?" Pipit continued.

"Ones that would make people gasp or stop and think. You know, the ones that pluck at your heartstrings. There really isn't a way to describe it, the station focuses on all sorts of stories like white collar crimes, drug busts, child abuse cases, animal cruelty, all that."

"Was there ever a specific story that may have put him in danger?"

"No, not that I'm aware of."

"Was there ever a point in time where he brought up an idea for a story that could put him in danger?"

"I feel like we're going in circles with these questions. No."

"Right, sorry. We're just trying to figure out if he was in any danger, Ms. Rise."

"I know, I know." She sighed and finally leaned against the table with her elbows. Her fingers sought out her temples, eyes closing. "He was such a hard worker, loyal and determined. I'm sure he made some enemies down the line. I did try to keep him from making any dangerous enemies though, as I do with all of my journalists. And would reject some of his ideas. Some of the stories he'd suggested, I'd knock down because we didn't have enough proof, and we aren't a station that focuses on half-baked lies and baseless scandals."

"Were there any that you 'knocked down' recently?"

"Yeah? Like I said, he's a hard worker. He'd wanted to do a story on the queen, bring to light how she's not one for publicity, and is against cameras and videos. It wouldn't get us anywhere though. So what, you know? It's just a tradition that the Royal Family has had, but he kept insisting it was strange. Especially because the queen always appeared in cloaks and face masks. I mean, yeah, that's weird, I guess? But it's always been like that. Then there was another he'd wanted to look into and air. It had to do with the Ganon Dragmire. You know, the CEO of Lon Lon Industries. He'd kept saying how it was just this huge business front for some underground dealings. That too was far fetched, the guy is all about the people and has helped law enforcement catch the bad guys."

Link couldn't help but draw his eyes up from his notepad, the name of Lon Lon's CEO starting his heart into a frantic rhythm. He'd heard the name of the man many times, but had never met him in person. The idea of that, of meeting him in person, made him feel uneasy. Just as much as hearing his name being spoken aloud, the syllables ringing in his ears.

Whatever she'd added and whatever Pipit had asked next fell onto deaf ears. The name sparked that ever present nostalgia and fear. Even more so than when he met Ghirahim or saw Nabooru for the first time in person. It both confused him and worried him. Especially when the dream from this morning flitted into his mind once more, the shade's voice taking flight in his thoughts.

The Great Calamity… For some reason it felt fitting to use such a title alongside the name of "Ganon Dramgire."

I have been meaning to reply to all of these, but I've been so busy as of late!

FinalFVII: Thank you so much! I'm glad it didn't feel out of the blue they they were together as I was, at first, a bit hesitant about it. Their relationship will definitely be a bumpy ride, oof.

Guest: Haha, I know right? It is definitely scary, especially in the situation that both he and she are in. Thank you so much for your review!

James Birdsong: Thank you! I hope you continue to enjoy it.

D: Bless you, you sweet, sweet guest! Thank you so much for your review!

MisterUnkn0wn: Thank you for mentioning that chapters 2 and 4 were the same! That and I really enjoyed your review! I'd noticed that too and had honestly gotten tired of seeing the same old same old. Figured, why not, y'know? Glad you you enjoy it!

Nothin'Fancy: As always, thank you for your support, love!

Guest: Thank you!