The air within the temple swelters and sways, even in the chambers blocked off from the magma. Ghirahim's typically resilient form feels to be melting against the heat, yet it's the low groaning of the stone that urges him forward.

Link sprints by his side, jasper earrings glowing brilliantly against the shadows. Chamber after chamber and hall after hall disappear behind them as they hasten towards the exit, Ghirahim's hand-and-a-half sword gripped tight in the knight's hand. Its third transformation left it truly stunning: thinner, hardly jagged, with a smooth-but-wicked cross guard and a gleaming diamond pattern not unlike that of the demon's spirit form. But the rising magma gives them little time to admire it.

Water fruits shrivel and hiss as they burst into flames, their delicate skins caught in the spray. As the pair passes through the terracotta crossing, droplets from one flower catch Link's arm, bubbling into vapor upon contact. His teeth grit audibly against the pain.

"Can't you just teleport us out of here?" he shouts while they duck through the next doorway.

"And into a pit of liquid fire?" the demon retorts. "Unless I can see where I'm going, it's much too dangerous."

Although the more the fiery waves lap at their feet, the more tempting it becomes to take the risk.

The opening foyer is hazy with smoke, a scarlet tempest sloshing beneath the bridgeway. It fills the gaping chasm where the stone is broken off – an impossible jump.

Fortunately they don't need to jump.

He can sense Link's distress as they near the stony ledge, but Ghirahim refuses to slow. "Brace yourself, little master," he warns, and grabs the knight's upper arm.

A chime, a flash, a flurry of crimson gems – and they land neatly on the opposite side.

Link stumbles as Ghirahim pulls him to his feet, up the shadowy staircase and into the light. Though when at last they reach the top, the atmosphere does anything but clear.

He sees them, for the first time in ages, without at all catching their scent, thoroughly masked by volcanic fumes. The dull gleam of their metallic shields, the splotched patterns of their sick-green scales. He can hear them growl – a nauseous, deep-throated gurgle – from before the archway at the bridge's end, no fewer than three in number: slime dripping from putrid jowls, tails sweeping violently from side to side.

To his right rasps the human's labored breathing, the tip of his blade digging into the stone while he leans for support. And though the excursion of their leap had been comparatively easy, Ghirahim yet finds pangs of exhaustion clawing at himself.

"Can you get us past them?"

"Not without leaving us both exposed."

Link releases a strained groan, which the other internally echoes. Even at his strongest, the little knight had always struggled against the paradox of formidability that is the Lizalfos. Entirely unphased by the roiling heat, the three before them await confrontation with gentlemanly patience – and yet that animal hunger shines brazen in their eyes.

Gemstones clink and glitter as the demon returns to his steel. The diamond beneath the cross guard, now a vicious red, pulses faintly. His senses fully awaken, and Ghirahim hums despairingly at the grisly extent of his wielder's state. The tendons in his heel scream with discomfort, having been caught in the fiery spray – a weakness that, though small, could well prove fatal.

Be strong, Link. I will help you time your strikes.

He nods gravely before moving forward. A limp darkens his stride.

The first of their opponents has scarcely advanced when the knight demonstrates wisdom in his technique. Instantly it drops into a sweep, mace aimed low, and Ghirahim chimes accordingly. Link dives into a shoulder roll, tentative to his injured ankle, and comes up around to face the beast.

One jab to the soft skin under its neck, and the creature falls dead.

Ghirahim trembles at the taste of its flesh, of reptilian essence running hot down his blade. He's little time to savor it as another Lizalfos charges, its metal arm swinging down hard. Another chime warns of its descent, which the knight swiftly heeds, slashing upwards whilst he ducks. A shrill cry pierces the smoke as the lizard's tail is severed from its body.

While the beast withdraws beneath its shield to nurse its wound, two others emerge from the haze. Link manages to fell one with a well-timed strike before its companion sneaks up from behind. In a never-ending dance of steel on steel, Ghirahim warns of the creeping foes; and for every one felled, another two seem to take its place.

All the while, the magma beneath the bridge rises higher.

It rumbles and rolls with every shift in the earth, molten globes leaping from below as debris falls from the mountain – but to Link, the rest of the world may as well have disappeared.

Be aware of your surroundings, Ghirahim cautions. Link-!

It meets the knight's left shoulder in a burst of scarlet, eating through tunic and chainmail as though they were paper. The skin blisters in an instant, a low sizzling drowned by his guttural cry.

An emboldened Lizalfos seizes the moment. Ghirahim lunges from his sword without a thought, black steel pieced together from hilt to tip – and buries itself in the creature's neck. Frantic and snarling, the demon kicks it from his blade, while behind him, Link cuts the head off its overconfident peer.

Its confidence is shared. Another of its companions emerges from the haze – where Ghirahim catches the mace's low whirring too late. He turns hardly in time to witness the spiked sphere tear strips of leather and flesh from Link's left calf. Shouting wordlessly through clenched teeth, the knight swings his blade towards the beast, only for his mangled cries to dissipate when a solid kick lands upon his ribs.

The sword flies from his hand and, a ways off, spins to a scraping halt.

Ghirahim can't think to retrieve it, the Lizalfos leaping, intent on crushing the human's skull. Within the second Ghirahim is shielding him with his body, sticking the creature on his saber and flinging it with a shout into the lake of fire. It emits a harsh shriek as its hide meets the flames, webbed limbs flailing for but a moment before cut into still silence.

To the duo's rear lies the archway carved into the mountain, elegant framework for the crude tunnels beyond. A stone stairway connects it to the bridge, and it's at the foot of these stairs that the demon's blade rests. He casts it one wistful glance past the string of reptilian carcasses, before Link's strained coughing tears him away.

The world surrounding them goes eerily quiet. Deafened even by the gentle tremors in the stone, Ghirahim makes to assess the other's injuries. As he does, adrenaline gives way to panic.

Link barely sustains consciousness. His entire left sleeve has burned away, exposing the raw, blistered flesh beneath. The leather of his right boot has melted from the ankle, the burn beneath glowing an angry red, but is miniscule compared to his left calf. The skin beneath the torn boot has been cut to bloody ribbons.

Even lacking true medical expertise, the demon knows little time is allowed before the damage becomes permanent. With haste he unfastens the knight's larger satchel, nearly tearing threads in the process. He's only just uncorked the bottle of heart salve when Link's trembling hand shoots up to grab his wrist.

Ghirahim snaps his gaze towards the other, at first with incredulity, but is given pause at the shake of Link's head. His breathing is shallow, eyes blown wide. His free hand clutches his side.

And Ghirahim recalls. His ribs.

With a snap he conjures an obsidian knife, slicing through the layers of cloth and mail as gingerly as he can manage in his frantic state of mind. The bruising is predictably severe: the skin, though unbroken, black as pitch.

"You have internal bleeding," says the demon. "Will the salve be effective if applied topically?"

Staring into the other's eyes, he discerns the dread pooled within. Link's neck is stiff as he again shakes his head, tendons pulsing.

A cloud settles over Ghirahim's mind. Summoning another knife, he holds the hilt to Link's quivering lips. "Then you know what needs to be done."

Link swallows, hard, but bites down on the leather willingly.

His hands spasm, whimpers muffled, as the demon cuts through to the severed arteries. Working quickly, Ghirahim sets the knife aside and runs through the bottle with ungloved fingers. Blunted nails dig into the stone, but Link is careful not to squirm, not even whilst hot salve is brushed against his bleeding vessels. One at a time, Ghirahim watches as they close, globs of crimson returning to their rightful place. Even once every sinew is restored, the smoke mingles heavily with the rich scent of iron.

The methodical hum of the magma is split as metal clatters against stone, and when the demon raises his focus, he finds the knight's eyes fallen shut. His injured calf, which he'd so carefully kept elevated, rests limp against his knee.

Very little heart salve remains.

Ghirahim scoops the remainder onto his fingers, heat of another nature boiling within him. He rubs it hurriedly into the exposed tendons, desperate to save the limb. Torn ligaments deep inside reconstruct, but by the time the poultice runs dry, the injury as a whole does hardly more than cauterize.

The knight's other injuries – his shoulder, his ankle, his means to wield a sword and carry himself to safety – remain unhealed.

"It's not enough."

He repeats it, over and over, louder each time, as though doing so could possibly mitigate his fury. With rising anxiety, dark claws scrape fruitlessly at the glass walls, but all residual splotches elude him.

"It's not enough. Not enough. NOT ENOUGH!"

His voice echoes from the mountain face, returning to hit his eardrums many times over. He feels as though he were outside of himself, a noncorporeal voyeur helplessly observing as the scene unfolds – and what a pathetic sight he makes. Claws clench into fists, clinking and screeching as he tears at the air above his bowed head.

"It's not enough…"

Familiar images blur in and out of focus, crawling up his spine to sift through his skull. Blue skies turned violet, black clouds bursting into white – sharp as noonday shadows beneath a clear expanse, they invade his mind. Silver storms, black tornadoes – the Gates of Time…

It will be enough. It has to be.

Drawing in a sharp breath, the demon glances down again. He focuses in on the worst of the burns, half-exposed vessels still pumping dutifully from beneath the charred flesh. It's not good, but neither is it fatal. Gently, he lifts the young knight into his arms. If he can get Link to relative safety, locate a few heart fruits, then-

He's hardly spun on his heel, bent on reclaiming his fallen sword, when the dull glint of tarnished armor catches his eye. Perched like a gargoyle at the top of the staircase, holding his transformed blade over the wireframe railing, is the Knight Commander.

Instinctively, Ghirahim's lips curl into a snarl. "Unhand me."

When the commander's grip loosens, black steel dipping towards the flames, the other's heart nearly gives. A low whine rings in his ears.

"Is that really what you want, demon?"

The daunting heat is all but forgotten, his whole world feeling to have frozen. Ghirahim doesn't dare move. He remains frozen in place, crouched down on one knee with the little hero's body limp in his arms, and stares into the commander's eyes. They glare from beneath a grey helmet, unblinking. His lips, framed by a set of unsinged whiskers, twitch into the slightest hint of a smile.

"Once upon a time," he bellows ironically, "the Goddess Hylia created a blade of divine steel, endowed not only with intelligence, but with the resilience of a god – a weapon unlike any other. When news of this weapon reached the enemy's ears, he became determined to forge one of his own."

Ghirahim listens with growing impatience, indignant at this mockery of history. Does the human simply mean to demean him?

As the commander – Eagus, as the other recalls – persists, his volume drops but a hair. "The sword of the Demon King mirrored that of the Goddess blade in as many ways as they differed. His weapon became alive in every sense. However, unable to create this life from nothing, Demise instead tethered his steel to the soul of one borne of flesh."

"Do you mock me, human?" the former lord growls. "Do you think I'd forgotten my own history?"

"Just the opposite." Now the wretch's mouth curls into a dreadful smirk. "I was hoping that you could educate me. We all know the Goddess blade to be indestructible. I wonder…"

Ghirahim's throat tightens. He only vaguely notices his claws digging into Link's thigh.

"… is yours?"

His breath catches. Before he can begin to conjure a response,

"And if it is, I can't imagine you'd want to spend the next Hylia-knows how many centuries at the bottom of a volcano. Even if it should become dormant, or extinct, who would be able to claim you from beneath so many sheets of hardened rock?" A chortle. "Who would even know to try?"

"You've made your point," Ghirahim spits. His voice retains its steadiness, yet he feels himself pale. "What happens now?"

As if on cue, the younger knight stirs. His face contorts into a short-lived grimace, then reverts to restless slumber.

Eagus gestures with his eyes. "We Hylians don't turn on one another so easily," he says coldly, smugness gradually fading. "You may find this difficult to believe, but I am not here to hinder you. I came to offer my services – and, well," his head dips lightly towards the injured Link, "it appears you're both in dire need of it."

Ghirahim says nothing. He glares through narrowed eyes, searching the human's aged face. Though it surpasses Link's own in terms of years, there still lacks that hardened edge, worn only by warriors who have seen death by the masses – and often been the cause.

Even so, it's impossible to mistake the sinister glint in those eyes, a perverse satisfaction at the other's helplessness.

A light tremor wracks the mountain. Eagus, having given the demon sufficient time to respond and seeing it neglected, withdraws his outstretched arm. A short breath of relief escapes Ghirahim's chest with his blade again hovering over solid earth, though any feelings of pleasantness die quickly.

"Stand up."

Ghirahim's stomach churns. His teeth clench so fiercely he fears they may crack, hubris stinging at the effort of his obedience.

"You and the Hero will accompany me through the tunnels, to the eastern boundary of Eldin – and urgently."

"Where Her Grace awaits with a gaggle of your kin, I don't doubt." He holds his head high, the points of his cloak snapping wildly in a scorching gust – even at his lowest, he's sure he must be a sight to behold. "In exchange for my compliance, therefore, you will first return my blade to me."

Eagus doesn't mask his scowl. "I'm afraid the sword will remain with me until we reunite with the others."

Demonic eyes narrow in warning. "And why should I at any point refrain from cutting off your hands and throwing what's left into the fire?"

That miserable frown doesn't soften, though Ghirahim takes what pride he can in the flicker of fear passing through those eyes.

"It's not an unreasonable request, demon. Your goal is to assimilate, or so you say. Consider this an opportunity to prove your peaceful intentions."

Dread wells in the demon's core as he weighs his options carefully. Link's wounds, he knows, though non-lethal, are severe. He needs medical attention, and sooner rather than later. The Knight Commander can lead them to just that. And should Ghirahim attempt it on his own, at the summit of a volcano, mid-eruption, with predators of high intelligence in numbers unknown lurking around every corner…

Twisting his steel into the dirt, Eagus interrupts this bleak trail of thought.

"Time is of the essence," he says impatiently. "Will you come along willingly?"

At last the demon breaks their gaze, falling intermittently from the gem of his sword to the tattered form in his arms. Link's breathing comes in soft, shallow wheezes. Crimson rivulets pool within his scourged flesh.

Words are deemed unnecessary as again, Ghirahim meets that horrid stare. Finding the demon to be sufficiently subdued, Eagus relaxes and steps off to the side, red earth crunching beneath his boots. The purpose of the motion is keenly grasped, even without explanation, yet the commander can't help but leap at the chance to degrade him further.

"Stay where I can see you at all times," the man orders tonelessly. "I have a feeling you know the way."


Fire and brimstone become a thing of the past the further one descends through the eastern tunnels. They were, after all, carved for that very purpose. Crude, earthen walls turn to smoothly laid stone, terracotta walkways still somewhat preserved after so many centuries of disuse. Cold torches line the arched halls, unlikely ever again to know the caress of flame. All that illuminates their path is the occasional Keese, smoldering in slumber.

The scenery could almost be nostalgic, were it not for the dog nipping at his heels.

A bout of blessed silence, and it barks again.

"I'm tempted to ask," he begins much too informally. His voice is like grating glass. "… how you managed to spread your influence that night, in my people's otherwise peaceful home? Or I would be, if I thought I could trust a word of it."

The demon rolls his eyes, not that the man behind can see. No matter the current balance of power, he'll not be put on trial. "Deceit is not in my nature," he replies flatly, "nor could a simple creature like yourself hope to understand the intricate workings of what in this world lies Unseen. That being said, in matters of this particular curse…"

He pauses abruptly, silver strands rippling as he turns to deliver a wicked sneer.

"… only the frail of head and heart can in any capacity be swayed. Make of that knowledge what you will, Commander."

He's prepared to resume their trek when the point of his blade whirs through stale shadows, coming to rest at the hollow of his throat. Greying eyes narrow in the dim firelight. "You will answer for your crimes, demon," the commander says darkly. "In this life or the next, your wickedness will catch up to you."

"Remind me to clear my schedule."

"Turn around and keep walking."

Eagus's voice raises an octave, the demon's own steel just short of breaking skin. Stepping back with deliberate leisure, Ghirahim hums proudly, then does as he's bidden.

The corridors run up, and sometimes twist down. Some are serpentine. Some are straight. They've begun to descend a downward curve, Link's calves dangling slack over the demon's arm, when the first rays of sunlight cut through the darkness. Of course, Ghirahim thinks. No one would have been around to repair the old gate, or had any reason to.

Still, as the age-old scent becomes increasingly familiar, unwelcome memories skulk about more freely.

"Get a move on."

The commander's bark reminds Ghirahim precisely where he's come to be – how far he's fallen. He hadn't realized how his movements had slowed, the weight in his arms rendered ungrounding by the consuming essence of times long past.

They were better times than this. More dignified.

Blood boiling deep within, the demon turns again to face the other – and pulls his lips back in a bloodcurdling snarl. Only for a second do the human's eyes gape, body recoiling as he leaps back in fear; and while Ghirahim is certain he'll be made to regret it in some capacity, he yet gives a haughty cock of his head before continuing onward.

Whatever retribution awaits him, it stands that for the short remainder of their venture through the caves, Eagus does not utter another sound.

Not until the tunnels' maw is behind them.

"Halt."

The unexpectedness is so effective, Ghirahim would have done exactly that no matter what was spoken. By the time Eagus has recovered this audacity for speech, an open sky yawns overhead. Dark whisps curl against the blue expanse, fading gently into oblivion as they near the eastern horizon. Below the treeline of distant spruces and pines, the brittle ruins of a once-thriving village stand dim and forlorn.

"We'll stop here for now," the commander elaborates. "Enchanted jewelry or no, the boy could stand to be rehydrated… and so, for that matter, could I."

Ghirahim turns with a hollow stare. The commander's appearance differs beneath the improved light. Layers of soot dust his suntanned face, which he wipes with the back of his hand. It isn't the crow's feet that mark the first true signs of age, nor even the silver threads sprouting from his chin, but the deep rings sagging heavy beneath his weary eyes.

Holding the man carefully in his peripheral, Ghirahim lowers Link onto the ground and crouches before him, propping his back against the mountainside.

"Enchanted jewelry," the demon echoes, unlatching the knight's canteen. "So your haven above the clouds values knowledge, at least."

"Hmph." Eagus retrieves a small vial from the pouch on his belt. Once uncorked, it emits a strange, almost coppery odor. "These days, it's become essential. Thanks to you."

"You are most welcome. Though I'm sure you would have been content to allow your society to devolve. Blessings often come in disguise that way."

While Ghirahim cups the younger knight's cheek, he chances a sultry glance at the other. He's just in time to capture that displeased glower before Eagus holds the vial to his lips, grimacing whilst he downs its contents. It takes another moment, but the demon recognizes the scent: blood of the horned lizard native to the region, watered down and boiled with Boko horns. That would explain how the man didn't succumb to the fires of the mountain.

He looks to the magnificent longsword, and to the white knuckles gripping its hilt. Soft, faded tribal patterns reflect off the blade when the sun hits it just so. A fine weapon for a fine wielder – if he can reclaim them.

When Eagus doesn't deign to speak again, Ghirahim hones in on his task of guiding water down Link's throat. As it turns out, tilting the knight's head far enough let the fluids flow without choking him is a feat easier said. Getting the angle right is nothing less than a science, one that will surely wake its subject along the way.

A rather disturbing thought occurs to him. Does Eagus intend for Link to regain consciousness so soon? And if so, to what end?

"Kakariko Ruins lie not a mile from here," the commander muses aloud, staunching the flow of Ghirahim's own ruminations. "But I guess you knew that."

The demon casts him a curious glance, one brow arched in suspicion. Does he mean for me to give something away?

"My scholarly duties on Skyloft ended many a year ago. Yet there are some stories you simply can't forget."

"To be sure." With his thumb he swipes stray droplets from the corners of Link's mouth. Perfect lips, singed with smoke. He'll have them properly cleaned and embalmed before long, then feel them again pressed to his own… won't he?

"Remind me again how that battle went down? You lead an ambush of demons and other foul beings through these very tunnels, and during the volcano's annual eruption, no less?"

A mirthless chuckle. "You really do know your history," he chimes in false praise. "The Sheikah knew very well what they were getting into bed with when they chose to settle so near an active volcano. I imagine the founders thought themselves clever, digging elegant moats about the town's circumference to direct the flow of lava. Arrogant zealots, the lot of them, left their primary means of escape unguarded. They never saw us coming."

"And would not have had to," the commander's tone darkens, "had its location not been betrayed by one of their very own."

Ghirahim redirects his attention, and finds himself the object of a glare of sheer, embittered disgust. With feigned boredom he deflects it, rolling his eyes 'til they land again on the sleeping Hero.

Eagus is far from content to leave the matter to rest. "I've always wondered," he seethes, "what kind of monster could turn on his own kind."

"Tut, tut, Commander." The demon chides him smoothly, though his hair begins to bristle beneath that stare. "We were at war, let me remind you. None of the carnage was personal."

He gives a crisp flip to his curtain of hair as the other scoffs with incredulity.

"No," says Eagus, "I supposed it wasn't. Just business as usual."

A flash of heat rolls through the demon. Why, you presumptuous-

"Daft of you to believe a handful of paragraphs could summarize me. Daft, but not surprising."

"You're certainly right about one thing." The Knight Commander's tone rises in aggression, "and that's that I don't understand you, not in the slightest."

Dirt and gravel crunch beneath his boots as he looms nearer the other two, the demon's blade swinging absently in his grasp. Cautious, Ghirahim rises to his feet. Though the demon may be taller by several inches, Eagus does not allow it to deter him.

"The people who raised you, guided you, watched you grow up – sold into destruction, and for what? For a handful of power. No, demon. I do not understand it at all."

Imbecile. Back away while you still can. "I'll not explain my actions to you, human."

"Tell me, Oathbreaker," but the man appears to be a glutton, ravenous for punishment, "did you look away while their throats were slit in front of you? And afterwards, when your twisted comrades celebrated your victory, did you go along with them? Or did you secretly mourn?"

"Whilst my enemies' throats were cut before me," the demon echoes slowly, calmly, bitterly, "I gazed into their bloodred eyes, and smiled."

He leans in further, yet the commander does not back down.

"And when it was all over," he flashes his teeth in a sadistic grin, tongue flicking leisurely over one perfect canine, "I certainly did mourn, knowing that so sweet a victory – a vengeance – would never again be attained within my lifetime."

A fire blazes within grey-brown eyes, much too close to dismiss. Black steel twists in the commander's clenched fist, tapping rhythmically into the dirt. Ghirahim doesn't doubt the strength required to hold that fire at bay; and by the gods, is it tempting not to spur it on further.

"Well." Eagus's voice drops dangerously low. "No need to grieve for your warped sense of glory forever. Should Her Grace continue to insist on sparing your life, I'm sure you'll relive it soon enough."

Confusion in its purest form washes over the demon, and before he can think to stop it, the other is upon him.

"You… you don't know, do you?"

Skin suddenly crawling, Ghirahim walks warily backward. He's not taken two steps when Eagus offers him clarity.

"The Demon King's curse," he says. The ignorance in his face is not one so easily feigned. "With his dying breath, your master took hold of the threads of fate, binding his eternally to that of the Goddess and her knight. In this life or another, he will revive, and wreak havoc upon the earth once more."

Every word, every syllable falls slowly upon his ears, echoing faintly over and again. He repeats them internally, commits them to memory, tearing each apart and digesting it thoroughly within a matter of seconds. All the while the words of his master's phantom chant in an unending verse: 'Both the Hero and I are bound by this curse. I shall rise again, and claim you. Unless…'

His heart drops to his stomach. A wintry sensation pulses through his veins.

'… your allegiance has already deviated?'

Those same skulking memories flood the demon's mind, and this time, the gates are broken. The scent of brimstone is thick, the lava is blinding – and the screams of the Shattered harmonize in a haunting lullaby.

"He will rise again…"

Those visions of his prime recede bit by bit, only to make room for others more recent. The eolian cave; the rains of Lanayru; the cavern behind the waterfall; the Goddess's warning above the cistern, 'Dead for now'; the little hero's consistent insecurity about how he might compare to Demise.

All at once, it makes perfect sense.

And Link. His new master-to-be. The whole time, had he known, and kept this secret to himself?

"He will rise again."

Though the demon mutters softly, and only to himself, his words carry.

"Your pride alone ought to damn you," Eagus says low, "along with your sincere lack of remorse. For Link's sake Zelda may wish to see good in you, but there is not a doubt in my soul that yours is truly lost. Were you under my jurisdiction, I would deliver your sentence this instant."

"Fortunately, he's not."

Both heads turn. The voice belongs to Link.

He kneels in the dirt a few paces from the corroded archway, his injured limb trembling horridly. His bow is drawn, arrow notched, aimed carefully at the commander's wrist. For how long he'd been waiting, or how much he had heard, remains to be seen.

"Link." Eagus's voice softens considerably, yet retains its stern edge. "Lower your weapon, son."

"I mean to," the younger knight heaves. His chords quicken, breathing pained. "Just drop the sword and I will."

"Link."

Eagus whirls to wholly face the younger, then freezes when that arrow follows the motion. Even when he blinks, Link's lids hardly touch, deathly blue orbs framed perfectly in white. Without fail, they remain locked onto their target.

Finding strictness less than effective, the commander attempts a different approach.

"I know you're nervous," he tries. Ghirahim scoffs, but is ignored. He's reminded of a boundaryless fool striving vainly to soothe a hissing remlit – and if he interprets Link's face correctly, the young knight feels much the same. "But we all know that this isn't entirely your fault. Just… just put down the bow, and we can get you help. You have my word."

"I'll take my chances without it, Commander. Drop the sword. Nobody needs to get hurt here."

Neither party breaks from their frozen stare, the only movement that of Link's heaving chest. Even while this silent showdown stretches on, Ghirahim finds himself but slightly restive. His gaze travels from that pointed arrowhead to the crest of his blade.

"Ghirahim." Link's quieted voice alternates address. "Can't you do something?"

He can…

He does.

The chiming is soft on a nonexistent breeze, and he reappears to the younger knight's right. Link doesn't flinch at the sound, nor at the breath ghosting the uninjured side of his neck – but when obsidian fingers curl around his bow where the arrow is notched, he stiffens.

"You," the demon lord whispers, silver hair tickling the Hylian's ear, "have humiliated me for the last time."

A SNAP and a CRUNCH overlap, and both bow and arrow collapse into splinters.

A beat passes feeling not unlike eternity, with Ghirahim staring absently into the dirt. He feels shame, and disgust, with Link and with himself. Demise would likely flog him for all this foolishness.

And Ghirahim would thank him for it.

"I think we've lingered here long enough, Commander. Don't you agree?"

He doesn't look, but can sense the man nod. "Yes," says Eagus, sounding strangely unnerved. "Yes, I believe you're right. You will lead the way to the Ruins, then. Our Loftwings will meet us there."

Somehow Ghirahim doubts that 'our Loftwings' includes Link's.

Wordlessly, he complies, lifting Link beneath the arms to support his mangled leg. The human's sharp, pained grunt is all the protest he offers. Their pace slows considerably with the knight only able to limp along, his grip on the demon's shoulders reluctant. Ghirahim doesn't meet his eyes. Doesn't wish to. Shifting clouds roll in over the sun, casting a blanket of grey over the barren earth; and with each short, strenuous step, the specks dotting the horizon morph gradually into rubble.

"What's the matter with you?"

Per the usual, Link's whispering is far too loud. Still, the commander's aura gives no indication that he's heard.

"You are in no condition to run nor to fight, little hero. And should I resist, you will die. I'm afraid there's simply nowhere else to turn."

By now the haze has almost completely dissipated. The skeletal remains of Kakariko take shape, soon to form broken labyrinths of charred cinder and distant memories.

"We'll figure it out." His voice tightens. "We always do-"

"There is no 'we,' Link."

The other may attempt to recoil, but it's futile to resist the demon's hold.

"All those times you opened your mouth to utter some pretty speech about free will, about wishing to honor my choices – yet you withhold from me the knowledge of any option you disprove of."

He can feel the human's heart grow frantic, even sick. "I didn't… I didn't think about it like that, okay? I-"

"You what? Did you actually believe you were saving me? Or did you merely wish to play the Hero once more?"

"Ghirahim." Link swallows nervously. "What was I supposed to do? You were a war criminal, and still technically are."

The sting of those final words rattles him deeper even than the wounding of his pride, and for reasons he can't fully place. A creature so lofty as he, once a fearsome and bloodthirsty warrior, shaken to silence by such a trivial accusation?

Before he can even begin to make sense of it, the words spill reflexively off his tongue. "Yes," he agrees softly. "That I am."

Although the knight's breath hitches, he makes no attempt to argue.

A little at a time, the demon is brushed with the essence of numerous individuals, among them the spirit maiden and her redheaded hound. At what point, whilst untangling the individuality of each potential fiend, the epiphany dawns upon him, he couldn't hope to say. And yet it remains so.

Ghirahim is completely unsure of what he ought to do.

"Think of your home and what devastation nearly befell it," he speculates. "Perhaps you and I are simply not for one another."

"That isn't true," the knight snaps quietly, his resolve suddenly firm. "And I think you know that."

But Ghirahim is past the point of willing discussion.

Her Grace meets them at the border, once again clad all in white, jeweled sandals on her spotless feet. Four other humans flank her, some wearing variations of Link's own uniform, others dressed according to the more casual of Skyloft's citizenry. Those seasoned by their years of service boast masks of neutrality, but from the demon lord they cannot hide their overall unrest.

Zelda's worried gaze falls first to Link, and her hand flies to cover her gasp.

"By the Golden Three," she breathes quietly.

Dislodging the knight from himself, Ghirahim shoves Link forward with no amount of gentleness. The redhead lurches and catches him with one meaty arm, low clouds of dust kicked up at the ruckus, then beckons towards another. Nodding, a tall, lanky boy with shaggy blond hair steps forward, and soon Link is supported by both, his features twisted in pain.

Eagus does not halt until he's inches from the Goddess. "Zelda," he greets, rather irreverently. "His wounds are terrible, but not urgent. He will live."

Though she exhales with relief, Ghirahim yet senses her persistent unease.

"Very good, Commander. He will remain in your custody until…"

When she struggles for the proper wording, Eagus completes the sentence for her. "Until further notice."

The demon doesn't bother to hide his scoff. "And you've the nerve to call me 'oathbreaker.'"

Two sets of eyes, one aged and one youthful, glower in their own colors of contempt, perhaps even contrition. Perhaps. Teeth digging into her lip, Zelda offers the commander a hesitant nod. And when Eagus faces the demon yet again, black clouds seem to gather.

Ghirahim extends one clawed hand. "My sword," he says plainly, his features like stone. "I've upheld my end. Now release me."

Zelda's pale, dainty fingers snake around the commander's front, curling around the leathered hilt. Even as Ghirahim so much as thinks to move, he feels as though the whole of his person were sodden.

From the corner of his vision, he can clearly discern Link's pleading stare, darting hopelessly between the two.

The commander shakes his head. "You wish to assimilate," he says, like an echo from afar. "You will therefore be tried according to our laws."

He relinquishes his hold entirely, leaving none but the Goddess to carry the demon's blade. With a low whine, his vision in tinged with gold, his arms and legs completely immobile. His lips, however, curl into a sardonic grin.

"My master was right," he sighs. His tone doesn't betray the sting of defeat, much as he reels within. "What could I have expected, having lain with dogs?" He looks to Link, and his smile drops. "Birds of a feather."

"Can you not silence him?" Eagus asks, a bit rhetorically. But before the girl can answer, he's spun on his heel and begun to march forward, subordinates quick to fall in line.

Zelda only frowns. "Forgive me, Link," she mutters. "I have to keep my people safe."

"We will return to the sky immediately," the commander calls, addressing all as one. "Link's position being unique, we'll have to discuss our next actions while his wounds are being tended to. As for the demon," that gruff tone darkens, "his fate is in the Goddess's hands."

A humorless cackle climbs up Ghirahim's throat, which he's disinclined to swallow. "Has it ever been in anyone else's?"

Zelda's brows furrow, blue gaze pinned to the ground – a curiously solemn demeanor, considering how events have unfurled in her favor. Across the pale-blue sky behind her, a murder of Loftwings approaches, six great birds oblivious to the fact that they carry his fate upon their colorful feathers.

Before the otherworldly tint of gold becomes all-consuming, the last thing Ghirahim sees is the caldron of bitterness and self-loathing simmering in Link's eyes.