Eagus' office is a meager, closed off space, crammed lackadaisically towards the back of the sparring hall. It comprises only a desk littered with dull traffic reports, most of which he hardly skims, as well as minor citations pardoned without a second glance (and hardly a first); and an old wooden chair, from which he bolts upright the instant Zelda bursts through the door.
"Zelda," he greets, his deep, burly voice as crisp as it is urgent. "You'll excuse my skipping the pleasantries, but have you seen Link in the past couple of days? He missed his shift yesterday morning-"
Abruptly he trails off, silenced by the girl's pained expression. At the moment, Zelda can do little more than look away, heart still pounding from her hurried entry. Her oxygen-deprived head fights to find phrasing; her gasping mouth fumbles for coherence.
"Link went with me, before his shift yesterday," she rasps between breaths. "I pulled him away. To the Surface."
At this, Eagus's face relaxes somewhat, though suspicion lightly dusts his features.
"The Surface," he repeats.
Wordlessly, he sinks back to his chair, hands folding gently before him.
"Normally, I prefer that my knights report to me first if they're planning on aiding the settlement in leu of perimeter guard. Link knows this. So then why…?"
"It's my own fault, Commander." Outwardly, Zelda's composure is steadily returning, in spite of how she dreads all that's sure to ensue. "In fact, that's why I'm here. I had a task that I trusted only him to help with. It shouldn't have taken long, maybe an hour or two at most, but then…"
How on Din's earth is she supposed to explain this? What to include, what to leave out, how to avoid falling down a bottomless wormhole of demon lore, divinity, and personal tragedy?
She doesn't notice her own fidgeting until Eagus's curt tone pulls her back.
"Zelda." His voice turns ominously soft, the stern lines of his face quickening her pulse yet again. He leans forward ever so slightly, grey eyes pinning her in place. "Is Link hurt?"
Not yet.
"If he isn't already, then he likely will be soon. I'm afraid he's…," fallen ill? Gone insane? Again, her gaze averts but a second too long, "he's been taken."
Save for the brief, subtle twitch of the muscles in his jaw, the commander does not move an inch. A heavy pause hangs low over their heads, their shared silence hammering away at Zelda's nerves. The two may as well have turned to stone.
Until at last, Eagus opens his mouth and speaks.
"How many reinforcements do you need?"
"Of all the peculiar creatures I've encountered in my rather lengthy life," drawls Ghirahim, "you, child, are perhaps the most enigmatic of all."
Startling at the sudden break in the silence, Link casts the demon a quizzical look. Not that Ghirahim's loquacious nature requires any prompting. Padding softly along the ancient tile, their path illuminated by odd sconces aglow with orbs resembling fireflies, Ghirahim's steps don't kick up even a single mote of dust – of which there is plenty in these dark, earthy caverns. With his typical regality, he elaborates,
"Actions speak louder than words, a fact with which I'm certain even one sporting manners as unrefined as your own ought to be well acquainted. Speechless tendencies aside, you were never a hard man to read. And yet…"
His musings pause, as do their strides, as the pair come upon a cobblestone platform. Its either ledge is outlined by square pillars of like material, supporting a gabled roof that must have once been ornate. Jumbled strands of ivy hang from its aged, grey shingles. Past the shallow staircase at its foot stands a rather plain-looking wooden door, not unlike those of the dormitory upon Skyloft, only this structure appears to be older. Much older.
"And yet?" Link prods. For whatever reason, unbeknownst to himself, he's curious to know what Ghirahim thinks of him.
Gaze growing misty, the demon hesitates. Two trees stretch towards the empty mist above, their bases sprouting from where the floor meets the walls. Several slabs of stone have broken and split about their massive roots, but it's their skeletal boughs that Ghirahim appears fixated on. Hardly paying the other any mind, his only response is an inquisitive hum.
"You were saying?"
"… Oh. Yes."
Those branches hover no less than twenty feet high, bereft of life and thicker than a man's leg.
"And yet," Ghirahim proceeds, eyes falling shut, "the text thus painted upon your pages has become contradictory of late."
Link squints up at the mantled figure, whose focus has once again diverted. Must the man be so cryptic?
"What do you mean?"
A sigh heaves through veiled lips, dark eyes creaking open. "What I mean, is that there was a time when you would stop at nothing to appease your divine puppetmaster." Link tenses, already wondering if pressing the demon hadn't been a mistake. "And now, here you are – risking soul and sanity, braving trials far steeper than any previously bestowed upon you, for no reason other than to maintain a higher chance at successfully defying that same character's wishes."
Link opens his mouth to protest, then just as quickly snaps it shut. It had never been his goal to defy Hylia in any capacity, but is it really so unfair of him to step out and trod his own path for a change? He can't help but believe that the humanity of her vessel must come with the innate possibility of human fallacy. Anything that can bleed can just as easily slip in judgment, right?
But does that really change anything?
His mind races for some mode of argument, rampantly darting here and there only to return with the gnawing conclusion that perhaps, just maybe, the demon is right.
The thought makes him sick to his stomach.
"It was rather a rough scene back there," Ghirahim persists, doing little to alleviate the other's distaste. "I've been dying to dissect the matter more intimately, without the hindersome chatter of the girl and her lackey. Truthfully, I'm as clueless in the matter as they. Why are you so bent on preserving me, despite the potential risk to you and your kind?"
The air becomes unnaturally thin, and just like that, Link is uncomfortably aware of the closeness of the walls. The simple truth of it is that he's been avoiding the subject since that one fateful day, when Zelda's quick, panicked sobs rang high in his ears as he fled without a word.
Thankfully, Ghirahim grants him much needed, albeit minor, reprieve.
"You needn't answer this very instant," he says, rubbing gingerly at his chest. Link wonders just how critical the injuries beneath that cloak. "Doubtful that your human mind can perceive it, but a hex guards that door. If my memory serves, the switch to lower it is situated atop one of those limbs."
Again, the demon's gaze drifts upward, settling hazily upon the treetops. Link follows more gradually, searching in a familiar fashion for some method of access. The location may be new, yet he can't help but feel by now that he's done this countless times already.
Many of the vines creeping up the walls appear withered, but if experience is anything to go on, the lush patches gathered higher up should be able to support his weight. Even with this extra sword, strapped rather awkwardly to his back…
Whatever the case, time is not a luxury they can afford to waste, meaning he'll just have to chance it. And so, without further hesitation, he brushes past the other's velvet drapes.
"Link," calls Ghirahim, a hint of weariness slipping into his voice. "Do you think me so weak? With only myself to carry, I can make the journey with ease."
"You should save your strength," Link replies over his shoulder; and to himself, Besides, I could use the distraction.
Ghirahim's hair, from Link's peripheral, catches the dim light as he shakes his head. "You're wasting your time. And mine, for that matter."
Certainty dances in that sing-song voice, and Link can't help but smile.
"You don't need to worry about me, lord," he hollers, heart fluttering with self-assurance. "I've been climbing vines and scaling walls my whole life – and in case you haven't noticed," he hangs back, gripping a cluster of thicker vines with one hand, "I've developed quite a knack for it."
From this vantage point, it's easy to catch Ghirahim's smirk, pointed canines glistening from the shadows of his mantle.
… Is it bad that Link is enjoying this?
Caught up in the high of the moment, he places his hand without looking – and with a yelp realizes too late that the wall is no longer before him.
Frantically he grabs at the air, fingers curling and curling over and over until at last they find purchase with a stray vine. He grasps it with both hands, friction chafing and stinging as he skids to a graceless halt, the warm ooze of blood almost cooling in comparison as old callouses crack open. Heart thudding rapidly, he chances a blushing look over his shoulder, but the demon has vanished.
Ignoring the blood rushing in his ears, Link reinitiates his climb with a heavy eyeroll. There's not a doubt as to where the other has gone off to.
Every brush against the rough surface is agony on his fingers. In attempt to pacify the burning assault, he strives to keep his fists curled tight enough that only the leather of his gloves makes contact – even still, each harrowing tug and pull has him hissing through clenched teeth. No matter the decrease in distance between himself and the broad ledge, he can't reach it soon enough.
And of course, the moment he does, Ghirahim is there waiting. Behind him juts an unnatural elevation, bronze-like in color with a fittingly dull shine. Overall, it's strikingly mismatched against the organic texture of the tree's ragged bark.
From the impeccability of his posture, it appears that the demon's claims hadn't been a stretch. His hands rest easy on his hips, and though his curtain of hair and high-necked mantle conceal the greater half of his face, that one visible eye smiles.
"I take it that little stunt of yours was a classic above the clouds?"
Link's mouth crooks in response, but he otherwise brushes the other's taunts aside. Kneeling tentatively, he begins rummaging through his pouches, plucking a small clear bottle and placing it by his feet. He fumbles with his gloves, grimacing, discarding them carefully into a neatly forming pile, then proceeds to uncork the bottle with his teeth.
"Tell me, sky child," Ghirahim doesn't alter his lofty stance, save to tilt his head, "are you truly so keen on keeping me entertained, or do you simply enjoy pain?"
When the heart salve's soothing effect glides across Link's itching flesh, he can't be bothered to flinch.
"Regardless…"
A soft, metallic chime echoes in his ears. It's his only warning before the demon's long, nimble fingers dig into his shoulders. Reflexively, he jolts.
"I did enjoy the view."
"Why," Link whirls full circle, facing the crouching demon with an incredulous pitch, "do you have no concept of personal space?!"
For all its predictability, Ghirahim's smirk is no less unsettling. At that pearlescent flash of teeth Link's heart races anew, head lightening, spinning, dancing in thoughtless circles.
"Why are you," the demon retorts, "so adorable when you squirm?"
The corners of Link's mouth seem to grow a mind of their own. Coloring slightly, he wipes a hand over his face in attempt to assuage them. He snatches up his gloves, reinstating them with exaggerated concentration while shoving to his feet. Eyes still glued to his hands, he turns on his heel and approaches the metal switch.
"I hope it was worth it," he squeaks, voice maybe just a touch higher than he'd like. "And you get on my case about 'wasting time.' You didn't think I'd fall and not bother getting back up, did you?"
"I won't deny that the thought crossed my mind."
Again, Link rolls his eyes. Faron's crescent insignia marks the switch at his feet, painted upon its unpolished surface with fading black ink.
"Yet you trust me to wield you?"
Suction tugs at his looser clothing as space becomes warped, the invisible aura once blocking the door lifted as Link puts his weight on the metal. To his rear, Ghirahim emits a dark chuckle.
"It would appear I bear a masochistic streak of my own."
Feeling inexplicably light, the knight removes himself from the button.
… Then stops short.
He senses it jutting back into place the second he steps off. While Ghirahim practically sneers with delight, Link's eyes narrow.
"You knew," he growls.
His irritation is short-lived, however. Ghirahim's lighthearted cackling is strangely contagious, red velvet rippling down his chest as his shoulders shake. It's all Link can do just to sigh.
"You stand on it, then," he orders flatly, moving aside. The air buzzes momentarily once his weight is fully withdrawn. "I'll go through the door, then you can return to your sword from here."
He fully anticipates some patronizing or condescending jab. Somehow, though, Ghirahim utters not a word. With a knowing glance at the human's curious features, he does exactly as instructed.
It's almost… uncharacteristic, seeing Ghirahim so compliant.
"I suppose I ought to make myself accustomed to taking orders from you," he explains, rather casually, from atop the flattened switch, "master."
Link couldn't stop himself from cringing if he'd tried. That one word, though the title itself had once been so familiar to him, is enough to cause his throat to constrict. His breath hitches, stomach lurching, a deep unrest stirring in his soul.
He feels the other's gaze narrow in on him.
"Don't tell me your previous weapon was prone to disobedience?"
Link doesn't answer, contemplating this bleak epiphany with growing despair. Altogether, Fi probably gave more orders than she took, having been forged to function more as a guide than as an actual servant. He'd simply assumed that it wasn't in her nature to argue.
Digging his sailcloth from the larger of his satchels, the human prepares himself to leap, muttering the simplest possible response. "I guess I never thought about it."
Before the other can respond, his feet leave the branch. The freefall is exhilarating, providing body and mind alike a kind of weightlessness that he hadn't realized how desperately he'd craved. The only blot in his mind being the wind on his skin, rushing through his hair and flapping at his clothes…
Then his shoulders jerk, sailcloth catching the air. He despairs at the abruptness as his senses return, a crashing force simultaneously physical and mental. It had been a welcome relief, discarding them entirely, however brief the phenomenon. Far too soon, he is reunited with the ground, dust clouds billowing around his earth-worn boots.
Inhibiting spell disabled, the door gives without a fuss, and Link crosses the threshold as though it were no different from that of the washroom back home.
Home.
For so long, home had meant Skyloft. Whatever the endgame to this bizarre journey, there's no arguing that Ghirahim could never belong in such a quaint, peaceful place. Even just the looks he would surely receive set Link's teeth on edge, not to mention the revival of the monsters that once haunted the island at night; and the restlessness…
But then, upon Link's own return, had his experience been much different?
The lock clicks shut behind him, and with a surge of warmth, the heavier of his swords ignites with demonic life.
You needn't look so despondent, Link, chimes Ghirahim's soft, sultry voice. Just think on it. A sword is to be used, wielded by a master – and how exactly are that master's objectives to be fulfilled should his tool suddenly start working against him?
And there it is, the dreaded confirmation. The logic is sound, yet hearing a living, sentient creature – especially one as eloquent and capable as this – refer to himself as a tool…
It just doesn't sit right.
I sense your continued distress. Ghirahim's tone exudes notes of unmistakable fatigue. Perhaps that's to be expected. Allow me to put your mind at ease. Once you wield this power in your hand, you will most certainly acclimate quickly, as you so often do upon picking up new skills. In the meantime…
A change of topic. Praise Hylia.
… Have you given my last question any thought?
Never mind.
Link exhales with unmasked leisure. The truth is, he doesn't want to discuss either subject – ever, if only it could be helped. But to hold another's will entirely within his own, for their life to belong wholly to him…
Pensive, he looks ahead, taking in his new surroundings with fresh distraught. The hall before them is long and narrow, with splotches of mildew blighting the cinderblock walls. Condensation drips from a low, mossy ceiling, coating both plant life and stone in a glossy sheen. At the pathway's far end, what appear to be double doors guard entry to the next room.
"What did Demise do to you?"
The inquiry startles Link perhaps more than it does the demon lord. In his life, the knight can think of no one who would willingly subjugate themselves so completely, yet Ghirahim seems to charge at the opportunity with a full and eager heart – first, with the Demon King's resurrection, and now again with Link.
He gave me purpose, comes Ghirahim's quick, forward reply, and I will expect you, little hero, to do the same.
"Hylia gave me purpose," Link almost snaps, glaring at the hilt over his shoulder, "and she did it without using any kind of submission curse to force me."
Indeed. And just look at how that's turned out for her.
Pulse flaring, Link falls silent. Suddenly the floor seems unsteady beneath him, and he finds himself reaching absently towards the wall for support. Again, there's that nauseating sense of space closing in. Could that be his answer? Defiance for defiance's sake?
Is this whole venture of rebellion merely Link being petulant?
Before his thoughts run amuck, Ghirahim's voice grounds him once more.
I understand that you will need time to digest all this. Our imminent obligations aside, you'll excuse my resting here in this form for the time being. Being in two places at once can become quite taxing, particularly after so eventful an afternoon. As of now, you had best get us out of here; all else is secondary.
Though his heart yearns for resolution, Link knows the demon is right: there are more pressing issues hovering before them. If we're to survive the task at hand, I'll just have to resign myself to tabling the issue, at least for now. Navigating this dreary structure can't be much more difficult than all the other trials in all their ghastly variety that he's since overcome, so with a nod, Link moves his feet forward.
As he begins trudging along, one bittersweet thought occurs to him. With Ghirahim bound to obey his every command, Zelda and the others will have to trust him.
… Right?
Though one would never guess it from her typically forward approach to life, courage has never been one of Zelda's stronger suits – and the caverns beneath Floria's cistern are swift to remind her.
Eyes moistening with fear, she peers cautiously about the damp, musty hellscape, a small sphere of golden light hovering inches above her upturned palm. Her vision grazes over the rotting hides of the undead, with their loose flesh scarcely clinging to half-exposed skeletons as they shrivel from afar. The divine aura of the Goddess repels them, rendering them harmless in her presence – it was for that very reason she had insisted on covering these grounds herself – yet the mere sight of the cursed beasts never fails to unnerve her.
Nothing here fails to unnerve her.
Pools of malice, endless impurity filtered from the waters above, Zelda can accept as a necessary evil; although traversing the stony banks of the thick, bloody substance, she can't help but wish otherwise. It's the empty shackles with their broken chains, still bolted to the crude earthen walls even after so many centuries, that turns her muscles frigid and her bones brittle. To think of the spirits of those who had perished within their confines, of all the final moments defined by these wicked halls…
No. It does no good to dwell on such sorrowful events – not for them, not for her, not for Link.
Link.
It feels not that long ago that the two were practically joined at the hip, discussing every minute detail of their once-boring lives. From the deepest, darkest reasons why they each fought so persistently to attain knighthood, to whether the first bite of the apple really was the best (Link insisted it wasn't), the pair left no stone unturned. She thinks of Groose, painted green with jealousy, of how he'd eventually resorted to blatantly bullying Link in attempt to push the smaller boy away – and how it only made Link and Zelda grow closer.
Every time the older boy would sneak a heart fruit off Link's plate at the cafeteria when he wasn't looking and give it a sloppy lick before putting it back, Zelda warned him. Every time Groose would tear pages from Link's textbooks the day before an open-book/open-note quiz, Zelda helped him copy the same material from her own to use instead. Every time crumpled bits of paper would mysteriously land in Link's hair during lectures, when Groose just so happened to be sitting behind him, Zelda herself would take the fall, shooting warning glares that instantly caught Owlan's attention – thus taking the heat off a visibly distracted Link.
Then Ghirahim.
The demon himself had hunted her relentlessly, on top of sending vicious hordes in pursuit. His ruthlessness had foiled plans that were nearly a millennium in the making, ultimately snatching Zelda from a well-earned victory, at Link's expense as well as her own.
A shiver dances up her spine, shadows flickering as her light briefly pulses.
She recalls the invisible binary snaked around her frail form, of its suffocating strain on her every nerve. She recalls her lifeforce draining inch by inch, the soul sucked from her body as a leech takes blood from a wound. She holds back a shudder, the memory alone enough to make her skin crawl. The pain had been brief, and she was quick to recover, yes, but it's the sense of utter betrayal that's left her so deeply shaken.
That same boy who she's known all her life, who she's so tenaciously stood up for at every possible opportunity – her best friend in all of Skyloft – no longer seems to be bothered in the slightest.
She thinks, again, of Groose, of how rashly he's since thrown himself at the demon lord. Even perceiving little of the being and his craft, it was enough that Groose comprehended only one thing – that Zelda had been hurt, and that Link, amongst others, may be in danger as well.
And where is her knight now? How could such devotion be lacking in her own chosen one? Had Hylia been mistaken in selecting Link?
Or has Zelda been mistaken in her expectations of the Hero?
The shaking of her knees pulls her back from her trance, guilt clawing at her chest, stray tears rolling down her cheeks. With haste she brushes them away and, swallowing the lump in her throat, forces herself further along the crooked pathway.
Bathed in the glow of Farore's sacred flame, she had given Link the chance to explain his thought process; but he only became flustered, leaving room for Ghirahim and Groose to interject. She knows now that, if she's to hold out any hope for an explanation, she'll first need to get him alone.
Strategies shifting loosely in her mind, Zelda carries herself back towards the central tower with quickening steps. The instant her feet cross from the riverbank of malice onto manmade tile, a weight lifts from her shoulders, and she extinguishes her light with a sigh of relief.
She's not surprised to see Groose making his rounds nearby. He catches sight of her shortly, hands self-consciously rising to stroke at his hair. It's uplifting, how easily she can cast him a smile.
"Any news?" she calls from the level below.
Eyes downcast, the boy wordlessly shakes his head. Zelda can't say she'd been expecting a different answer.
"I'm sorry-," he starts when her gaze drifts away.
"Don't be. Just help me tell the others to call off the search. If we haven't found them here yet, we probably never will."
Groose hunches somewhat, cadence trilling indignant. "You're giving up?!" he demands, more shocked than upset. "You'd leave Link alone with that- that-"
"Not at all." She dismisses his incredulity with a wave of her hand. "I think I know where they're likely headed. Gather everyone towards the entrance, and we can discuss it further as a group."
Straightening, Groose offers no further protest. Features set with a determined nod, he starts towards the ground-level exit, skipping steps all the while.
Zelda watches him until he's bound completely out of sight, then releases a breath she hadn't known she was holding. By now, Ghirahim is sure to have recovered enough to at least make it past the main exit. Even if he hasn't, she'd never forgive herself if the two were to become desperate enough to take the lesser known, alternative route from the cistern.
Din, Nayru, and Farore above – please don't let it be too late.
If Link had hoped a renewed sense of adventure would help clear his head, only moments within these halls prove him sorely mistaken. The first hallway seems to stretch on forever, each step hardly bringing the duo any closer to the doorway ahead. Growing anxious, he glances from side to side, finding that the walls as well are barely moving in sync. When he quickens his pace, the phenomenon only worsens.
Be patient, chimes Ghirahim's stern, yet soothing voice. You are in the presence of sorcery.
Willfully steadying his breath, Link manages to take solace in the demon's proximity. He's not Fi, not exactly, but his loyalty and knowledgeability are a comfort, all the same.
By the time they reach the double doors, swaying on rusted hinges and reeking of rotted wood, hours seem to have passed. It's out of necessity alone that the knight pushes through.
The sight that greets him sends shivers up his spine, yet fascinates him beyond explanation. The chamber is round, and huge, earthen walls mottled with ivy, algae, and many other types of creeping foliage less familiar to the human, all surrounding an amphitheater-style arrangement of cinder seating. Center the arena is a crudely-wrought fence with corroded bronze plating, dappled with rust and dull with age. Four torches sit evenly spaced among the spiked pickets, illuminating the stone dais with an eerie substance that only vaguely resembles flame.
Link stares at the otherworldly light with reverent trepidation, afraid to move even a step closer, lest he provoke the wrath of some unseen force. Just thinking on it elicits a shudder. The room appears empty, yet he feels that the eyes of thousands are upon him.
Simmering unknown to Link within the black steel on his back, a host of dark essences assails the demon lord. The ebb and flow of their thirst for blood, stemming from every possible source – some purely carnal, others truly vengeful – hones in from all directions. Poised as the pair is presently, Ghirahim surmises that Link's cognitive functions are best focused on the ghostly luminescence; therefore, until such a time as the crawling, skulking fiends overhead prove a true threat to their progress, the demon determines the wisest course of action is not to alarm his endearing wielder.
That being said, the knight has only to cast a glance upward to discover the truth.
Directly across the arena, a large opening frames what can only be the exit. Nothing but shadows are visible beyond, but at this point, just about anything sounds better than remaining here. Someone, or some ones, have been laid to rest in this place, and no good can come of the lingering presence of the living.
Squaring his shoulders, Link crosses the boundary into the arena.
And immediately, the light changes.
The torches once shone a pale blue, reminiscent of the moon rising full over Skyloft. The moment Link enters their ominous glow, the spheres flicker into a spectrum of unusually colored flames, writhing and lapping at the stale air as though they were…
…alive.
Link feels his gorge begin to rise. The word could not be less appropriate.
Yet even so, graced by this sudden shift, the floor comes alive with the soft outlines of innumerable eight-legged beasts. Mouth dry, stomach churning, the human raises his head, gripping instinctively at the hilt of his sword-
Do not fear, little hero, a silver voice whispers. You cannot see it, but a barrier stands between us and them, concealed via ancient magic. These creatures are for show. Nothing more.
'What kind of show?!' Link wants to shout, but he dare not utter a sound. Once his fearful stare drops from the infestation above, it befalls a vision sure to haunt him for years to come.
Four translucent, vaguely silhouetted figures hover over each torch, so faint that at first glance he'd nearly dismissed them as a trick of the light. Only when their humanoid limbs stretch outward, fully-fledged lanterns materializing before his eyes, does he accept the wonder as truth. Orbs like molten metal gleam from within their sunken heads, harrowing contrasts to the dull, ratty wears that encase their slim forms. These eyes, for so they seem, bore ravenously into the Hero's soul – then vanish altogether, the vibrant flames along with them.
The room falls not into darkness, but into the same bland scape of decay as before. From across the dais, a spoked gate falls over the exit, shrill notes of metal on stone reverberating with a gut-wrenching clang.
In the moments thereafter, Link's rapid breathing is the only sound. His pulse is erratic as he attempts to fully process all that's occurred. Without the light of the torches, the eight-legged shadows have all but faded into obscurity.
All is silent, all is still.
In a span he isn't proud of, he considers turning back. Even if a horde of knights still raid the cistern, the pair's chances with them must surely soar compared to this. Then the air to their right shimmers, as though beheld through a curtain of smoke, and in its wake appears a plain old door, identical to the one through which they had entered this madness to begin with.
Before he can look twice, a searing pain blooms across Link's back, and he jumps forward with a yelp.
Of course it wouldn't be that simple, seethes the demon. Sullen, vindictive whelps, taking their frustrations out on anyone who happens upon them. Not that they can be blamed, all things considered.
"Ghirahim." Link clears his throat, surprised at how quickly it's gone dry. "Do you know where they went, or why?"
Well, dear boy, they are acting up because a mortal has intruded upon their restless slumber. Poes do that, you see, having passed from this world in a fit of sheer rage. I sense their individual auras just beyond that door, so clearly, they intend for you to follow them.
Link swallows, cautiously approaching the now-empty dais to examine the torches more closely. Whatever the explanation for all this chaos, assuming there is one, it's clear enough that these and the spirits will be key in the duo's getting out of here.
"Then what?"
Then, Ghirahim's voice echoes a sigh, we find out what exactly it is that they wish in terms of mollification and, so long as the price isn't too steep, pay our way forward.
Frowning, Link starts for the door. "I don't like the sound of that."
A mirthless chuckle resounds in his head. Nor I, little master. Best case, we waste precious time, so I suggest you get a move on. My dowsing, as you like to call it, will guide you. I take it you are familiar with the practice?
Humoring the sword with a firm, "I am," Link stiffly closes the distance, willing himself not to dwell too heavily on these many words of warning. Silently, he thanks the Goddess in her wisdom for all he's endured up until this point. The heroic grooming under his belt is all he can credit for not losing his nerve here and now. He's just reached for the brass handle, limbs scarcely bending to his will, when once again Ghirahim's voice rings softly through his mind.
Link, he chimes, tenor breathy, yet urgent.
A pause. Brows pinched, the knight waits with a shadow of worry. It isn't like Ghirahim to struggle with anything he wishes to say.
… I beseech you, as my wielder. Be careful, and… good luck.
Though Ghirahim's exhaustion is stark, his senses remain alert. Taken from the knight's back and pointed forward – wielded with two hands, despite his recent decrease in size – the demon sees far more than his companion could ever hope.
"The hall is… twisted," states Link, growing steadily monotone.
And indeed it is.
His steel vibrates, gemstone pulsating, both ushering the young man onward and guiding him as would a blind man's cane. Link follows dutifully, careful not to trip over the threadbare rugs scrapped at his feet. With each proceeding step, the mangled architecture seems to correct itself; then a glance back informs him that in reality, no change in the structure has occurred.
Sensing the knight's dumbfounded surveyance, Ghirahim allows himself a soft chortle. There are many phenomena in this world that defy explanation.
"I've noticed."
Having set a steady pace, it isn't long before the odd curves are behind them, and Ghirahim finds himself held at the threshold of a cobblestone labyrinth. White threads are strung along the highest arches: tangled, haphazard webs, their ghostly glow shrouding the ugly, shriveled-up figures within.
Watch for the shadows of the monsters that hang from the ceiling, he warns.
Link offers a curt nod in acknowledgment before resuming their trek.
Further in, the halls seem to echo the distant humming of the dead. Several turns are made while Ghirahim deduces the knight's strategy. Fortunately, the Poes are, leastwise at the moment, stagnant, yet such a sliver of grace can hardly be considered as much. The demon's senses do not account for obstacles, leaving Link to solve this dreadful maze on his own. Initially, the course he sets appears random, but after a few short minutes of venturing deeper through, Ghirahim finds his wielder vigilantly aiming not to stray farther than need be from the Poes' varying signals.
There is a number of instances in which the demon senses a carnal hunger looming not far above. He tingles with anticipation, prepared to shout into the other's mind, but Link always manages to scurry out of reach before an alarm need be raised. Each time one of the living talons, with their leathery hides and overall repugnance, is forced to retreat upon its ghostly thread, Ghirahim can't help the glow of satisfaction within himself.
I'm impressed, he admits, more to himself than for the knight's edification.
Sporting that haughty, crooked grin, Link chuckles softly. "You didn't really think that magic swords are the only reason I'm still alive?"
I should hope not, comes Ghirahim's sultry reply. It would be most disgraceful for a sword to have to carry his own master.
If Link had conjured a retort, it's quickly swallowed in light of the blade's sudden spike in whirring. The presence of at least one Poe is near, even palpable, and yet…
Nothing appears any different.
"Ghirahim," says Link, swinging the blade's tip about the corridor in a building panic, "I don't see anything. Do you?"
Mood darkening once again, the demon growls, a low rumbling at the back of Link's skull. It's here, he spits. It has to be.
The human lowers his blade to rest against the floor, exhaling softly as his muscles relax. Ghirahim can sense his strain at having held the weapon aloft for so long. Tentative, Link kneels, running his hands over the cobblestone where the pulsing had been most intense.
He evidently doesn't notice the floor growing darker.
Link-!
His voice has hardly rung forth when the knight rolls from the shadow's mark, sword still in hand. Thick claws scrape briefly along the stone where the Floormaster descends, lingering only a moment before sulking back to its grim home overhead.
Had he the strength, Ghirahim would spring from his sword that very instant and wring the boy's dithering neck.
Did I not warn you to be careful?! he cries. That was entirely too close! Even if I possessed the strength to hold your hand, a little effort on your part would be much obliged!
Link rises from his crouch, the blade in his hold grazing the floor as it follows his movement. Lips pursed, he can't be bothered to do more than huff, bangs ruffling. "I dodged it, didn't I?"
Barely, you imp!
"I can handle myself." He starts off again – notably, at a quicker pace. "Calm down, Ghirahim. That's an order."
His responsive scoff is anything but amused. I'm afraid I am not bound by your orders just yet, darling.
"But you ought to get used to it?"
Why, the smugness, the audacity-
Between the slippery nature of these blasted Poes and the never-ending predatorial nature of every creeping beast that flees from the sun, Ghirahim has little patience for being argued with.
Persist with this reckless abandon, he teems, and you won't live long enough to solidify our pact to begin- WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE GOING?!
The boy laughs – by Demise, laughs, swatting playfully at the cross guard below his grip.
"Like you said," he chimes a little too lightheartedly, "we need to get a move on, to avoid those nasty hand-things if nothing else. We can come back and try looking for this Poe again later. For now, let's find a different one."
Were he corporeal, Ghirahim would open his mouth to argue. The logic of the little knight's plan, however, bears more merit than he cares to admit.
Perhaps your Goddess was more merciful than I thought, he drawls, not making the slightest effort to mask his exasperation, when she deprived your previous sword of emotional capacity.
Again, the boy smiles, though now more with chagrin than with mischief. "Oh, don't worry. Fi got pretty fed up with me, too, sometimes."
Oh?
He's curious, though he can't claim to be wholly surprised. As more corners are turned, the buzzing in Link's hands intensifies.
"Sometimes, when I would really be struggling with a trial, she would tell me my 'chances of not being the chosen one are increasing.'"
The human alters his voice in imitation of the spirit, raising and lowering awkwardly in attempt to mimic her bell-like echo. Without even realizing, Ghirahim cackles.
Well, sky child, maybe you and I will prove a better fit than I'd originally anticipated.
Link's mouth crooks into a cheeky type of smirk, eyes momentarily adrift. Ghirahim can feel the twitch of his shoulders, the knight's fingers curled tight around his hilt.
By now the hum of the first Poe has all but completely faded, indicative of its having moved on to a new location. Sword held high, Link follows the nearest trail through a series of short corridors, shuffling hurriedly whenever the shadows beneath his feet threaten to engulf the pair. Each hallway cuts off at a perfectly square angle, which at least reduces their shadow-dodging into little more than a cumbersome chore. It isn't until this Poe, just like the last, vanishes from his mind's eye that Ghirahim again begins to simmer.
Feeling the sword go still in his hands, Link slows to a wary stop.
"You don't think they're moving through the walls, do you?"
Ghirahim responds as though he'd already considered the possibility. They are hardly moving at all, Link, he says, struggling to maintain his composure. They are in one place at one time, and then, they are not. It's as though they were…
"Teleporting."
In his mind, Ghirahim nods.
"Poes can do it, too, then?"
As they speak, Link begins to backtrack, retracing prior steps.
It isn't quite that simple.
"Is teleporting simple?"
Comparatively speaking. He offers a light chuckle. Only living, breathing creatures such as myself are capable of bending space to our will. For us, vanishing and reappearing is a craft not easily perfected, but not impossible. Poes are not wholly of this world; thus, they must establish a channel of like energy before they can hope to perform even a similar technique.
Link contemplates this information in silence. Then, "Wait…"
Remember you mustn't dally too long in one place!
"I know, just…"
He pauses dead in his tracks, the curious tossing of his head growing frantic.
"This doesn't look familiar, but I swear this is where we came from."
These halls are all dreadfully similar, Link. You likely took a wrong turn. Now move!
He shakes his head stiffly, to Ghirahim's increasing agitation. "I've counted every single step since that first Poe – a trick that Fi taught me when I first started navigating the Surface. There was a jagged scrape here where I set you down, and now it's gone. See?"
Blood boiling (in a manner of speaking), the demon first skims, then scrutinizes the area at which Link gesticulates. Nothing but smooth stone meets either sense or sight.
Link. It takes no small amount of effort, sustaining even a miniscule air of calm. Are you suggesting…?
Solemnly, the knight nods. "The maze is changing."
Before the demon can react, his steel is secured once more to the young man's back.
And just what do you think you are doing now?
"Dowsing hasn't helped us," Link replies hastily, scampering through the corridors once more. "I'm gonna do some exploring on my own, and it might help to keep my hands free. I've solved plenty of mazes before, Ghirahim. I'm gonna get us out of here. I promise."
While the boy's confidence should be far from reassuring, Ghirahim finds himself clinging to it, a lonely lifeline in a sea of poor fortune.
And what of the Poes? he demands, perhaps more panicked than truly scathing. Have you forgotten that we need them if we're to make it out of this nightmare?
"Right now, we'll be lucky just to make it out of this labyrinth. I'll find a way, all right? I always do."
A low growl resounds in Link's skull, the spirit of the blade growing restless. I should certainly hope so, sky child. For both our sakes.
In the ensuing quiet, Link's lips remain slightly parted, the constant muttering of numbers and directions spilling under his breath. His optimism, Ghirahim knows, is dubious at best, but unless it proves a hindrance, he concedes to refrain from shattering the young knight's hopes. After all, should they turn out to be fruitful in the long run, rebuilding them will be a much greater challenge than tearing them down.
What he wouldn't give to take form by the knight's side, to simply snap them back to some place that makes sense. If only to preserve his sanity, he begins counting in rhythm with Link's gait, sword bouncing along his back, only to lose steps whenever the knight gives a heavy shrug to redistribute the weight on his shoulders.
He's sure he's about to burst when the kind melody of Link's chords washes over his steel.
"When I first started flying," he converses, almost casually, "the sky was a lot harder to navigate than this. All the islands looked the same to me. Even the maps we were given after our Loftwings chose us didn't help much, since we were too young and stupid to read the elevations. I was, anyway."
Is this meant to be comforting?
With a forced chuckle and a smile to match, Link rubs at the back of his neck. "I'm just saying, if I could figure this kinda stuff out when I was little, braving it now shouldn't be a problem, right?"
It is a problem, Link.
His shrug is, interestingly, friendly, and not even a little defensive. "Well," he half-laughs, "good thing I have a lot of experience coming up with solutions then, huh?"
Hours seem to pass like this, the youth strolling and chatting, urgency vaguely suppressed, rambling about his sweet childhood and pretty homelife above the clouds as though nothing were out of the ordinary. Watching from his blade, the way he waves his hands as he speaks, so enamored with his own tales that he likely doesn't even realize these little tics, Ghirahim insists upon being appalled. The truth is, though, in so dire a situation, the display is rather… charming.
"At first I was worried about having a Loftwing. Everyone made it sound like such a huge responsibility, almost like having a kid, and I just kept thinking, 'But I am a kid!' But they're really independent. There's this island full of trees that grow the kinds of fruits and seeds that they eat. Sometimes I would sneak off and spend hours, even days, just hanging out with my Loftwing and his buddies, napping in their nests. Gaepora was furious the first time, wondering where I went and why I was skipping school."
Soon enough, adventures with Loftwings turn into entire life stories, all of which Ghirahim struggles to follow. Foolish boy, not seeming to realize the demon has no way of knowing who 'Gaepora' or 'Pipit' or 'Fledge' are. Groose is a name he recognizes, as is Zelda, mentions of both bringing tremors to his core. Yet after a series of descriptions of the youths in their innocence, spying on one another from treetops and teaming up to draw remlit whiskers on a dozing preteen Link's face, Ghirahim feels his tensions slowly begin to ease.
"I know we're not all getting along very well right now," Link skitters from another shadow, his only acknowledgement of the threat, "but really, that's normal. Well, kind of. We always end up on the same side eventually. Even if Groose tends to take things too far. You know he birdnapped my Loftwing right before a big race, right?"
You poor thing.
Ghirahim's humor is dull, but Link carries on unphased. "Yeah," he says, "I could've been held back another year."
He laughs. It's genuine, at first, but then… mournful.
"It feels so stupid now. Wing Ceremonies, graduation, knighthood – they meant the world at the time. Now…"
The world has gotten bigger.
Link's shoulders sag. "Yeah."
Again, the human has slackened his pace, gaze falling somberly to the floor; and Ghirahim, yet again, prepares to light a fire beneath him when the youth's features shift abruptly, contorted into an inquisitive scowl.
"Wait a minute…" He crouches, squinting at the far wall. "Ghirahim, do you see that?"
He doesn't. Not right away, anyhow. Gradually, the pieces drift together, a haunting display of tattered robes and flaming eyes.
Sweltering, scathing eyes, eyes, EYES.
The longer they stare, the louder the notes ringing inside Link's head.
"Your friends… What kind of… people are they? I wonder… do those people… think of you… as a friend?"
Link, MOVE!
He rolls from the shadows not a second too soon, the Floormaster landing with a soft thud before retreating to its web. Now to Link's rear, the Poe's obscure silhouette vanishes with a cackle, its taunting echo singing through the halls. Ghirahim makes to chime in warning, but the knight has already taken the bow from his back. He reaches for his quiver, notching an arrow with uncanny speed…
The second it's let loose, the Poe leaps from the cinder. His target now trapped within the wall behind, given no place left to hide, Link repeats the process with greater leisure, forcing the irksome creature out into the open.
Its presence doesn't last.
Draw me, quickly, barks the sword spirit.
Fortunately, Link does as instructed without qualm, pointing the blade in every direction until Ghirahim's core practically croons with its ghostly aura.
It's far, he observes. I believe you've sent it back to the central chamber, gods willing. Whatever the case, I urge you to continue employing this strategy until you've smoked them all out.
Though he appears altogether unsettled, Link nods in accord. "Did you hear it, too?" he asks shakily, aiming the sword once more.
Ghirahim hums with energy as he picks up the nearest scent. Something to do with friends. I would avoid thinking on it too hard, my dear. Poes have a nasty habit of prying into one's mind and bringing forth some concept, memory, or what-have-you most effectual in throwing that person's head into chaos.
Link swallows hard, but otherwise steadies himself. He gives a straightforward, "Right," then continues to follow the sword's vibrational hymn.
The second Poe is much the same. No longer do either sword nor wielder count steps or mark turns, simply adhering to the spirit's guidance until another shrouded face appears along the walls. Link looses three arrows, having missed the first target by a mere second's timing, then collects them again when the grisly cackling fades.
"The right thing… What is it? I wonder… If you do the right thing… does it really make… everybody… happy?"
Cowards, spits the demon lord. Preying on the vulnerable, prodding at a young Hero's conscience. They are unworthy of your meditations, child.
But he can tell by the stagger in Link's gait, as well as the color swiftly draining from his face, how the ghosts' efforts are chipping away at his resolve.
Two more, little master, Ghirahim soothes in encouragement. Two more, and we'll be well on our way.
Now, as he races through the halls, Link bites anxiously at his lip, flooding the demon's senses with the sweet fragrance of fresh blood. It isn't like that of the dead, left to rot until such a time as the earth swallows their worthless remains. No, the blood of the living has far more to be desired, capable of properly enriching a demon, even – no, especially – from within the confines of his blade…
Only when the human's teeth are withdrawn does Ghirahim realize they've come to a halt. Two more arrows fly, the deep, mocking laughter of their third catch dancing through the air.
"You… what makes you… happy? I wonder… What makes you happy… does it really make… everybody… happy?"
Immediately, Link… trips.
No. He is thrown.
He rolls several paces, sword left clanging upon the floor, before the nearest wall breaks his violent tumbling. Clutching at his ribs, the knight can scarcely lift himself onto all fours, the wind knocked wholly from his lungs. Ghirahim is helpless to do more than wait, crying out for his wielder's swift recovery, that he may be claimed once more.
Between blade and master, a translucent hand withdraws into the cinder floor.
"Your true face… What kind of… face is it? I wonder… The face under the mask… is that… your true face?"
Through his gasping and panting, Link lunges, desperate, for his fallen weapon.
"It makes me happy," he coughs, taking hilt in hand. "Anyone claiming to be a friend of mine won't oppose that."
He stands, determination hardening his youthful features.
"I won't pretend any longer, that I am content with the life I once had."
Link reverses the grip, raising the sword over his head.
"Nor will I continue to wear a mask to preserve anyone else's comfort."
Falling to one knee, he strikes the ground. A melancholy shriek splits the air. It rattles Ghirahim's blade, resonating from the tip of his steel to the pommel upon his hilt. The gemstone, his core, nearly shatters upon impact, emerald light radiating from within, shining down on every inch of stone within material range.
When finally it softens, then fades back to darkness, every last trace of the Poes' auras has fled the dark tunnels.
For a moment, electricity dances through Ghirahim's steel, tingling evocatively, a sensation he hasn't known since… well, since the last time he was truly, properly wielded. Soot streaks the floor, scarring the stone from a central point where the blade had been thrust.
Link stands, his breathing labored, entire torso heaving. He straightens, beginning to lift his weapon and allow the spirit within to guide their way forward, both parties drunken with a deadly concoction of adrenaline and thrill.
Neither takes notice of the deepening shadows, until the Floormaster's stinger jabs into Link's spine.
