His night is spent crouching over the fire, gazing absently into scarlet flames. It's not that the inn isn't considerably more comfortable, nor is he lacking in terms of finance, but something about the way the searing tendrils lap hungrily at the open night air is simply too captivating to stray from.
Besides, it's not like he'll be able to sleep, anyway.
One solid month has passed since Link's laying claim to the sword that seals the darkness – and since then, not a trace of the one fiend who's managed to truly strike fear into his heart. The first few nights following were spent in harrowing distress; surely, any day and a number of bodies would turn up dead, their corpses showered in fleeting diamonds. They never do, though. Days turn to weeks, and he begins to wonder whether the soft chimes on the breeze or the flashes of silver in the corner of his eye aren't mere figments of his own paranoia.
He'd hoped that, once the sacred blade was made his once more, the sleeplessness at least would subside. Yet the knight can seem to do anything but relax.
Cicadas hum their coarse sonata while the smoke staves off the cold, in addition to various unwanted pests. It truly is a wonder, how many creatures haunt the desert once the sun's scorching glare retreats. The Stalbeasts prowling about the cool sands are not the least of it, either; Link will gladly face off with a flighty Lizalfos over these irksome mosquitos any day. Praise be for the Bazaar's various occupants, ever tending to the pit of embers now smoldering before him.
The flame, seemingly eternal – can it perhaps be likened to his torment?
As the sun rises over Kara Kara, painting the dunes a light, sandy pink, the world at last comes fully alive. While the insects retire from their nightly symphony, a new type of ruckus is swift to take its place. The melting pot of an oasis buzzes twice as loud as newcomers gripe about the heat, seasoned visitors sway in weary resignation, and exasperated merchants saunter through the daily motions of upkeep. Link, ever one to admire the beauty of this untamed world, secures his gaze to the eastern sky, watching the speck of a white sun illuminate an infinite canvas with various shades of pinks, golds, and blues.
Until the Bazaar bids welcome to a rather unusual band of travelers.
Granted, the oasis is known to host all manner of individuals, from Gerudo to Rito to Hylian and beyond. These ambiguous figures, however, appear not so typical by any standards. Most Hylian visitors wrap their feet in gauze designed to repel the shifting sands, but these travelers sport leather-thong sandals; and where any other human traveling by night would bundle themselves in thick layers, these others wear loose, reflective clothing, as though the moon shining down upon them not hours ago had carried the same heatwaves as the noonday sun.
Stoic features have settled across their hard faces, stiff as the native cacti – and who could blame them? Even after dark, the desert is merciless. Observing the party from his peripheral, Link counts a total of five, each wandering off to explore the different aspects of what Kara Kara has to offer.
With itching fingers, Link reaches for the holy steel secured to his back. A certain sense of rightness floods him whenever they brush against the hilt, like a familiar presence in a room, or perhaps in this case a world, full of strangers. Lest he startle any nearby travelers, he masks the gesture by adjusting his spaulder – which, frankly, was overdue anyhow. Link's stature being below average in terms of Hylian build, the voe garb he'd purchased in Gerudo Town would inevitably hang just a smidge loose; but until he can circle back to a Great Fairy, it will simply have to do. (Of course, his vai clothing is just as breathable if not a better fit. Its lack of protective quality is the main reason he disregards it now, or at least that's what he tells himself.)
He's hardly gotten it to rest comfortably on his shoulder, the gold belt still sinking awkwardly low on his hips, when one of the newcomers – a gangly, darker-skinned male – approaches.
"Sav'otta and blessed morning, fellow traveler." The double greeting comes out hardly more than a squeak, his voice as shrill as his limbs are stringy. "How the Goddess rains her mercies down upon us, calming the northern sandstorms just so!"
Across the oasis sits a Rito with deep mauve feathers, reclining wearily against the trunk of a palm tree. Not a moment before the stranger opens his mouth, the molting bird turns his beak blatantly in the two men's direction, a slight ruffle hexing his shorter plumes.
Ignoring the occurrence, Link stares questioningly at the apparently-Hylian stranger, striving to mask his growing discomfort. In the number of months since his awakening, very few strangers have initiated conversation – and fewer still with such formalities. Yet despite his efforts, his suspicion, in any length, apparently breaches the surface.
"Excuse my abruptness," the stranger adds coolly, bowing in subtle apology. "Upon seeing Gerudo threads upon a Hylian frame, I could not help but wonder whether you hail from the city a mere hour's walk from here. Does my judgment fall short of the truth?"
Countless visions flash through the young knight's head, from unforgiving desert winds to mechanical camels to topaz laced with mysterious spellcraft. Though Vah Naboris's unstable marching remains a number of miles away, overstimulation yet looms overhead, threatening to render him incoherent. Thus, on a whim, he whips forth the simplest possible answer.
'I've been there recently,' he signs, praying the stranger will understand his hands alone.
Fortunately, he does.
A wry smile creeps up the man's bronzed face, as though amused at Link's preferred choice of communicatory methods. "As I thought," he muses, lips curled over yellowed teeth. "You may then be interested to know that treasure hidden by an ancient civilization lies just beyond the storm's former eye – or at least, that's how the legend goes."
Ancient civilization. Treasure. The words of the Gerudo chief ring in Link's ears, fresh tales of an heirloom possessing the ability to repel even Naboris's powerful generation of lightning. Before his interest reveals itself, the knight prods a bit further.
'What kind of treasure?'
The stranger's grin widens. "After many years of inquiring around the desert, I've been forced to reach one simple conclusion: only the Seven know."
Eyes narrowing, Link locks the other man in an icy stare. 'Why are you telling me this?'
"That garb can only be purchased in the city, which, as I'm sure you know, is only accessible to women – yet your rather exposed form tells me that vai you are anything but. You'll forgive me for being so forward, but I had hoped that through whatever channels had earned you that armor, you may have also gleaned a bit more information on this treasure than what might be available to the average voe."
Could it be the Thunder Helm?
Link allows his gaze to avert, the urgency of his quest turning over in his mind. Before a response can work its way to his fingertips, however, the stranger speaks again.
"I can see I've piqued your interest," he practically teases. "And it just so happens, I know exactly the spot where this treasure is said to rest. So why don't I cut you a deal?"
This time, Link doesn't attempt to hide his skepticism – which only seems to increase the stranger's amusement.
"Since I've so tediously conducted the research necessary to locate this loot, why don't I lead the way to it? That's a fine-looking blade you've got there," he eyes the Master Sword almost lewdly, "I can't imagine you'd struggle to take out any enemies along the road. Upon our arrival, we'll claim the valuables and split the profits – fair enough, yes?"
Again, that one same Rito preens skittishly, motions carried by the light rippling across the water's crystalline surface – and again, the young knight dismisses it, mind twisting and churning and choking on its own indecisiveness. There doesn't appear to be anything threatening about this traveler – though taller than Link, the man boasts a frame incredibly frail. Even if, when all is said and done, the stranger were to attempt to grab the Thunder Helm (assuming this 'treasure' is just that) and run, he's no match for Link physically. His defenses rise, nerves squirming beneath the man's sly, unblinking gaze; and yet, the logic of the situation cannot be denied.
'What of your companions?' he inquires stiffly.
"We travel only after nightfall, and fortunately, the marker is but a few hours' journey. If you'll reach a decision quickly, though, I would be much obliged, for my brothers and I expect to leave on the morrow."
How convenient.
'I'm not fond of traveling with individuals who won't tell me their name.'
The stranger clasps his hands to his chest, head tilting playfully. "Please, call me Nobiro."
Link sways beneath the beating sun, feet dragging unwillingly through oceanic dunes. Though the sun has yet to reach its peak, the earth has already faded to a hard golden-red. Several feet ahead, his strange escort practically floats, a sort of ghostlike glide over loose sands.
Meanwhile, the air seems to shimmer – a mirage, or smoke…
… smoke?
For the umpteenth time in the same number of weeks, his vision fades in and out, his mind beginning to wander in two places at once…
Neither curtains nor blinds hinder the breeze flowing through the island's bazaar, currents circulating warm and welcomingly – and that in addition to the ventilation set up in the corner forge. Still, the longer they linger, the thicker the scent of smoke permeating the area.
"Well, you came to me not a moment too soon, kid."
Gondo's full lips curl at the corners, a lopsided grin framing stark white teeth. Whether the eyes behind his goggles remain settled on the wooden bow on the countertop, or have lifted to examine Link's eager expression, there's no way of knowing.
"This thing is a relic," he continues, meaty hands planted on either side of the tool in question, "and that's a generous way of putting it, for sure. Frankly, I'm surprised it hasn't already burst into splinters!"
While Link fights the urge to drum his fingers, the demon beside him displays no such restraint, tapping meticulously along his hip. Growing steadily more anxious, though not atypical when the two venture together amongst the public, Link shifts his weight, praying the demon's impatience will go mostly unnoticed.
"Keep up, Champion!"
Link starts, shaken so abruptly from his heat-induced recollections. It takes a moment before he fully processes Nobiro's words.
"'Champion'?" he repeats at the other man's back.
"Hm?"
Momentarily the knight's pace falters, brows furrowing slightly. The shrug Nobiro displays can't really be called a true effort at feigning ignorance.
"Why did you call me that?"
"Call you what?"
He doesn't look behind, even to glance over his shoulder, yet Link can clearly make out the smirk in the strange man's voice.
"Do watch your step, though, my friend," Nobiro hollers, tone taking on a more serious note. "The desert is said to possess strange powers, mystical gluttony known to consume the likes of you and me. And sanity is its most favored delicacy."
"Can you fix it?" the knight asks hastily.
The smith's head cocks curtly to the side, head bowed as he scratches at his finely trimmed scruff. "The wood is aged, and extremely brittle. I could infuse it with a pliable metal…"
Link perks up, just slightly.
"… but it'll take some time."
Of course. It's not like it doesn't make sense: Gondo will need time to heat the metal to a moldable texture, carefully cool it to the point where it won't damage the bow's integrity, then allow it to set naturally. As much as Link had hoped not to dawdle any longer than necessary, all in all, a wait was inevitable.
"We understand," he says. "How long, do you think?"
"An hour, maybe two. I'd even give it a little longer, just to be on the safe side."
Two hours, possibly more, of everyone staring wide-eyed at the back of the demon sword's head. Two hours of catching sharp turns from his peripheral as the local Hylians pretend not to be perturbed by his presence. Two hours of subjecting Ghirahim to cold, ostracizing, not entirely unwarranted treatment from the people Link has known his whole life.
Low growling pulls him back once more, deep-throated snorts carried over a dry wind. In its embrace, Link is made to feel rather suddenly exposed – a side effect of his armor's design, to be sure, but a disturbing sensation, nonetheless. When he looks towards the monstrous cacophony's origin, he finds numerous pillars of sandstone protruding in the distance.
"The Gerudo icehouse," announces Nobiro, gesturing towards the sand-worn structures. "An excellent marker in this terrible wasteland, albeit plagued by pesky beasts."
Indeed, several Bokoblins can be spotted scurrying about beneath the ruins' shade. As the pair draws closer, Link reflexively reaches for the Master Sword's hilt, but the creatures pay them no mind.
Perhaps odder still is the absence of his scrawny escort's timidity at the beasts' presence. Hadn't he requested the knight accompany him specifically to fend off such foes? Yet there he is, strolling casually across their visual field as though it were a trek he's made many times before. Why, he even goes so far as to reach casually into his traveler's pouch and retrieve… a banana?
"It's crucial to keep up one's strength in so severe an environment," Nobiro observes, "and what better to sate one's hunger than a mighty banana! Would you like one, Link?"
Before he can refuse, Nobiro throws his head back with a harsh cackle.
"I jest, I jest," he heaves, peeling the fruit ravenously. "I would never share such a delicacy with my own mother, much less yourself."
Link looks to his taller companion, heart sinking at the cloud of resignation settled across that sallow face. 'What do you want to do?' the human signs.
Thankfully, the crudely-performed hand gestures are understood.
"Don't look at me like that," the demon snaps, accentuated with a roll of dark eyes. Link can't help but note the way the lantern light flickers through them, gleaming like stars in a blackened sea. "You will not be riding that bird of yours so near to the Surface without a proper weapon, one capable of subduing enemies from great distances. Honestly, Link. We've been through this already."
While he catches a glimpse of Gondo, jaw twitching at the tone laving the demon's words, Link allows himself to smile – partly to soothe whatever worries may be nagging at the other human. Mostly, his veins ignite with warmth, keenly aware of the true intention behind Ghirahim's protective, slightly overbearing demeanor.
Once he's landed a playful jab at his companion's elbow, Link returns his attention to the smith. "We'll wait."
They've barely turned away before Link's wandering mind, scrambling for ways to amicably pass the time, begins to entertain a rather scandalous train of thought. Biting his lip to keep from smirking too ostentatiously, he casts a subtle glance up at his companion.
Ghirahim takes the bait, meeting ocean eyes from over the edge of his mantle. The human's gaze travels briefly towards the empty niche behind Gondo's forge before returning, searching the demon's face for understanding and approval. Though his white mouth remains veiled, Link can clearly glean the smile in his eyes.
Using his unwelcome presence to their advantage, Ghirahim glances overtly about the bazaar, sneering beneath his mantle at the faces buried so hurriedly in their various tasks. Link, brimming with excitement, doesn't await any signal, rather tugging the demon with scarcely lidded eagerness into the corner.
The knight has little time to assess the tight space before he's slammed not a hair too gently against the wall adjacent the doorframe, hair yanked with such force that his neck cranes. His yelp is swallowed the instant pale lips meet his chapped ones, a skilled tongue tracing the seam of his mouth.
When Ghirahim at last pulls away, Link doesn't waste time catching his breath. Fingers once balled against the demon's chest grip fistfuls of crimson velvet, and he shoves off from the wall, reversing their positions. He's forced onto the tips of his boots simply to reach the taller man's mouth, but Ghirahim makes no effort to resist, drawing Link's upper lip between his teeth and sucking fervently. Sweat beads beneath Link's many layers; whether the heat spawns from the forge or from a force more surreal, he can't be bothered to care.
Sword-calloused digits wander beneath the demon's cloak, digging beneath the thin garments there, peeling them down along with him as he sinks to his knees-
When Link comes to, it's with a racing heart and fluttering stomach, the whirlwind of emotion stirred by such vivid memories fading from pleasant to nauseating in a matter of seconds. Lately, these visions of the demon lord have seared his image permanently into the young knight's brain, to the point where his mental appearance by itself carries little effect. It's the longer, more detailed recollections that threaten to drive Link mad.
He thinks of the monster at the inn, seated so regally amongst the innocents he'd massacred, and doubles over in the sand, retching up bile and gasping for breath. Comparing the remembrances of the Hero's eldest incarnation to the memories since made in this life, the contrast is heart wrenching, the idea of their affection nothing short of absurd.
Could they really have once been so happy together?
Zelda's voice echoes steadily in his head, calling out frantically with words too obscure to comprehend.
… Only the echo isn't just in his mind.
And the voice, after a moment, is no longer Zelda's.
"Link!" it calls, and he now recognizes Nobiro, who's been standing over him for Hylia-knows how long now. "Come on, then, Champion! I would have expected more from the Chosen One."
By now the hour must be nearing noon, and though the air still swelters, the sun no longer scorches directly – a phenomena that at first, Link had chalked up to his frequent drifting in and out of lucidity. As his consciousness returns in full to the present, he can see that he's been lead into a relatively narrow canyon, the cliffs of the highlands blotting out most of the light. Sand drips from the higher ledges, cascading in a series of thin, steady pours of fine golden dust.
Watching the knight closely as he absorbs their surroundings, Nobiro reaches the conclusion that Link has sufficiently gathered his wits.
"Good," the thinner man spits, hands secured firmly to his hips. "For a minute there, I feared I might have to carry you the rest of the way – and wouldn't that make for an undignified first impression!"
Link rises to his feet, mouth awash with bitterness. Curious, he arches a brow at his strange escort.
"First impression?" he repeats aloud, pushing past the dryness in his throat. On whom?
"Oh, yes." Nobiro's face splits in a snakish grin, the air around him beginning to shimmer. "Master Kohga has been dying to meet you… O Hero of Hyrule."
A vacuum seems to open in the space to his front before Link's hand can fully enclose around his sword's hilt. The stranger who'd escorted him thus far disappears into nothingness, only to reappear with a sharp gust.
With a shrill cry of unsheathed metal, the Master Sword rains down upon him. Stumbling back, blood staining his skintight suit of the same color, gapes the inverted eye of the Yiga Clan.
Nobiro's voice carries the same tinny, airy quality as before as he heaves in protest. "There's more where I've come from," he manages in a seething rasp.
The same sensation tugs at Link from every possible direction, the billows to follow accompanied by ominous sets of laughter. Gorge rising, the knight dons his gold-plated shield, stance already assumed.
And just like that, he's laughing hysterically at his own expense, chiding himself for having been so easily mislead.
"Walked right into that one, didn't I?"
The apparent ringleader clutches at his wounds, trembling visibly as he raises his sickle. "Drop your weapon, Champion. You are sorely outnumbered."
Though his face reverts to its steely glare, Link's amusement silently persists. As if he hasn't beaten worse odds than this feeble attempt at an ambush.
Heated wind whips past his ears as he dives into a shoulder roll, separating himself from the enemies' circle and raising his shield in time to repel two pairs of arrows. No sooner have the projectiles ricocheted into the sand does he jab his blade, quick as he dare, into the injured Yiga's hip, sending the foe stumbling back several paces. The damage merely teeters on lethal, but he doubts the deceiver will attack directly from here on.
Several pockets of space ebb in distortion, a heavy sear of shadow magic left where two Yiga begin to reenter the area behind him. Link traces the sensations carefully as they do, his eyes never leaving the bows of the clansmen reappearing to either side.
They draw with unnatural speed, firing no fewer than four leaden tips as the Hylian springs back on his hands. The air of three buzzes on his skin; the last grazes his ankle, biting into the flesh like a brood of hungry maggots.
His teeth grit, he hisses in pain, yet he manages to knock one clansman off guard while the two bowmen vanish in a flurry of paper sigils. Twisting the clansman's arm with dislocating force, he uses the body as a shield in its own right, shoving them closer towards their comrade without releasing his hold. Blood drips down his tendons and pools slick into his shoe, threatening his footing in tandem with the shifting foundation.
And indeed, the Yiga's footwear is far more suited to this environment.
A pointed toe digs mercilessly into the gash, throwing the knight into maddening discomfort but a second too long. From there the Yiga shakes loose from his grasp, whirling to the rear and hooking their boot into the crook of Link's knee. He's driven to the ground before their change in position registers, that same boot stomping hard on his injured tendons.
Through clenched teeth he releases a strained cry, yet the grip on his sword only tightens. The clansman to his front lunges, the numerous spines of a demon carver glinting in the dimmed canyon light. With an ear-splitting clang, it just bounces off the Hylian's shield.
His arm rattles from impact, his scalp aflame as his hair is yanked back. He twists against the hold, and before either clansman can raise their blade to his exposed neck, lands a firm kick to the stomach of the soldier behind him. With no time to revel in the way they fumble so gracelessly, Link thrusts his own blade forward – and catches the demon carver not a second too soon.
The bladed wheel seems to spin in the Yiga's gloved hands, striving to break from the Master Sword's stagnating angle with such tenacity that it very nearly appears alive. Each twist of the knight's sacred broadsword is met with equal skill, entrapping both warriors within a sick carousel of dancing steel.
Until the clansman's comrade recovers, swiping Link's feet out from underneath.
He lands at first on his wrist, then his elbow, allowing the shock to divide throughout his upper body. Meanwhile, the mocking laughter of not one, or two, or three, or four – out of nowhere, it seems to be dozens – pounds thick against his skull.
When he lifts his head, it's to stare up the notched arrow poised inches from his face.
Since their initial conversation, Gondo's expression has gone rather sour, his mouth pressed into a thin line. The full two hours have yet to pass, but it can't hurt to check in, can it?
"How's it going?" Link lightly inquires, approaching the counter with careful steps.
He fights a blush when he's forced to clear his throat.
"One of my finest accomplishment yet," comes the hearty reply. "It still needs another minute or so to solidify completely, but once it does, I guarantee this bow will last for years to come."
Gondo's tone betrays no distress – although, when he leans in, Link can't help his growing concern.
"Just…," the smith now speaks in hushed tones, strange compared to his typically booming chords, "next time, if you want to give your demon a… workout… maybe don't do it so close to my shop?"
Link buries his face in his arms, a fierce flush stinging from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears. Worse yet, he's sure he can feel the eyes of every soul occupying the suddenly stuffy – isn't it stuffy? Maybe a bit overcrowded? – bazaar boring into him.
Seriously, is the whole population of Skyloft here?
Not five minutes later, as he and his companion stroll side-by-side through the open doorway, the knight finally feels it safe to voice his confusion. Flustered, he doesn't bother wracking his brain for any recently-learned hand signs.
"How could they have known?" he whispers, still embarrassingly hoarse.
Ghirahim emits a low chuckle. "Your hat may or may not be significantly out of place."
In an instant Link's hand has shot up to feel at the article – and sure as can be, the seams sit far from their intended spot behind his ears.
"Why didn't you tell me?!" he squeaks, frantically adjusting the angle.
The demon throws his head back, laughter ringing sonorous and full through the open plaza. "And spoil half the fun?"
"You make it so hard to love you sometimes."
That honeyed cackling bounces through the canyon walls, gripping Link's stomach in a silver vice. His blood runs cold, his eyes flit from the ten or so clansmen surrounding him to the ledges looming overhead, searching fruitlessly for the laughter's source.
Can he really be here? Was it coincidence that reunited them? Or is it he who is responsible for this entire attack, plotting and scheming ever since the Hero reclaimed the sword that seals the darkness?
Link hears the projectiles whistle through the air, squeezes his eyes shut…
They reopen at the piercing CRACK that splits the air. Not a few feet from where he'd fallen, the two Yiga bowmen drop lifeless into the sand, the handle of an obsidian dagger protruding from the white mask of each.
Diamonds ripple in shades of silver and gold, cascading from the demon's cinder skin as he leaps into the midst of the fray, two mismatched swords of similar length in either hand. In one fluid motion, he takes the head clean off Link's primary assailant, blood spurting in thick drops from the severed neck. Before the body hits the ground, Link is once again on his feet.
Though still panting heavily, the knight is fast upon the clansman who'd attacked from behind. Using their hesitance to his advantage, he strikes with an upward slash, tearing the sickle from the enemy's hand. They scramble, sloppy and frantic, to retrieve it, only for the Master Sword's pommel to slam into their jaw. He pays them little more mind as they sprawl limp onto the ground, turning instead to face the others.
And nearly gapes at the horror.
More limbs writhe fresh in sands stained red than there are remaining clansmen. Those to whom they'd once belonged were quick to flee, phantom traces of their spellwork still slithering in thin whisps of scarlet. A demon carver ricochets off Ghirahim's twin blades, the dark steel hardly twitching in response to the Yiga's blows.
The sight is sufficient to sends shivers up Link's spine.
Where the clansman's lean muscle tremors beneath his form-fitting garb, every ounce of strength poured into their showdown, Ghirahim hasn't bothered to so much as fall into a stance. He remains upright, posture immaculate, a wry grin curving up his angular face as he parries what may as well be the efforts of a child. And still, he saunters forward, steadily driving his opponent back until at last they've been cornered against the earthy terrain.
Sand crunches to the Hylian's rear, and he can scarcely tear himself from the chilling display.
Dropping to one knee, Link sweeps the clansman's feet from beneath them, reversing his grip on his sword as their back hits the ground. With increased momentum, he drives his blade into their shoulder, eliciting a jarring cry of pain. He flips from their defeated form seconds before they roll to their feet, keeled over, vanishing in a ring of suction as quick as their magic will allow.
In his peripheral trail two paths of sheer darkness, the sting of Ghirahim's steel engulfing Link in an otherworldly embrace. He shudders at the ethereal hum on his skin, not aimed towards him yet still carrying so heavy an impact, the Master Sword seeming to come alive in his hand. A shadow covers the desert chasm as those twin blades swing and twirl in a deadly dance. By its conclusion, the Yiga facing off against this voracious performer barely retains their one-piece form; even once they've hastily retreated into a vortex of their making, lush flecks of crimson speckle the sand.
At once, the adrenaline shifts, the harsh overlap of shrill cackling and terrified screams having faded abruptly to silence. All that remains is the pounding in Link's skull as he's hit, in full, with the realization that he and Ghirahim are now completely alone.
Something snaps, and without his whole awareness, he's upon the demon in a torrent of blue steel.
Shock flickers briefly through flintlike eyes while Ghirahim blocks the initial blow, their metallic clash muffled by the ringing in Link's ears. If this turn of alliance had been unexpected, the demon is quick to recover, capturing every holy strike that follows between saber and longsword. A sole opening, however momentary, is all either man needs to secure the upper hand.
And when it comes, it falls to the demon lord.
Link stumbles back from a particularly fierce blow of retaliation, twin blades thrust against his broadsword before his shield arm can hope to rise. The sheer force of it should, by all rights, have sent him sprawling. Fear creeps cold into his chest as he meets his opponent's eyes-
But the bloodlust therein has since fled.
Rather than seizing a well-earned victory, the demon leaps back into a stylish, inhumanly heightened flip. He lands in a low crouch, weapons extended to either side, head bowed low as though in reverence. It isn't until the black steel has dissolved, countless fractals fading out of existence, that Link dares approach.
He halts directly in front of the kneeling lord, stance relaxed, but grip tight on his weapon, nevertheless. Ghirahim, hands raised to the level of his eyes, meets the other's steely eyes - and finally, he speaks.
"Is that any way to thank a fellow swordsman for going out of his way to lend a hand?" His tone melts like liquid silver, a lascivious grin painted upon seductive white lips. "Over the course of so many lifetimes, dearest, your manners have certainly yet to improve."
From such a vantage point, Link finds himself staring down at the sultry creature, yet it far from feels that way. Ghirahim's tone is thickly condescending, and much too coolheaded for someone driven to their knees with an unbreakable blade pointed at their throat.
But then, after all that the Hylian just witnessed, there's no justifiably falling for this crude exhibition of feigned defeat. The demon is here because he wants to be, and for no other reason – a blatant affront to the knight's own sense of fairness.
"Draw your weapon," he seethes.
A red tongue slithers over pale lips, accentuated with a bloodcurdling slurp. Ghirahim's grin never falters.
"I think not, little hero, when you could never resist the sight of me on my knees."
Link's heart leaps into his throat mere seconds before his blood begins to boil, stony features starting to crack under pressure. As strongly as his indignation yearns to put a swift end to this creature, to sink his steel into the diamond facets of a blackened core, he refuses to dishonor himself, his queen and his country, by shedding the blood of a surrendering opponent.
He isn't so foolish as to turn his back on one such as Ghirahim, either.
"What's your ploy?" he tries, gesticulating vaguely with his shield towards the soiled sands behind. "Did you help stage this- this bloodbath? Turn on your fellow men and slaughter them in cold blood the minute it became convenient for you?"
Throughout this outpour, his voice remains unwavering. What is it about this demon that so effortlessly draws audible speech?
"Don't insult me, Link," Ghirahim sighs, highlighting with a subtle eyeroll. "If it was your hide I wanted in any sense, I would simply take it by force or else die trying. Far be it from me to stoop to such deceitful measures."
"Why should I believe you?"
"There now, child." He wags a gloved finger, tone positively dripping with mocking admonishment. "Have I ever been anything but plain with you?"
Though he is loathe to acknowledge it, Link's ears flush with shame – at his own baseless accusation, at this vile creature being so despicably right. In his anger, he looms a step closer, twisting his wrist until the Master Sword's tip rests against the hollow of Ghirahim's throat. The demon doesn't deign to recoil.
"If you think that this," Link spits, "or anything else you may conjure, could ever redeem you from what you did in Akkala, to all those people, to me," he can't hold back a mirthless laugh, "you can think again."
A dark chuckle emanates from within the demon's chest, the kohl beneath his eyes crinkling with delight.
"Rest assured, dear boy, I am as unrepentant now as the day we met."
He presses forward into the naked metal, black droplets oozing from supple grey flesh.
"So do what you must."
A red sun sinks low on the horizon, tinted grass blanketing their ledge overlooking the western sky. Beneath the floating isle, scattered clouds reflect pale, molten gold.
Ghirahim can't tear his eyes from the sight. Even when the crescent of his hair is ruffled in the light breeze, he can't be bothered to correct the misplaced strands. Views that had stilled his heart over so many centuries upon the Surface rest safe in his core, a handful of the gods' most breathtaking paintings coddled within his memory – but this, the world above the clouds…
Another thousand years, and he doubts he'll be able to forget.
To his right, the little Hylian slumps absently against his shoulder, whittling away at a dark wooden block. As the bulk begins to take refined form, Ghirahim allows his attention to refocus, admiring the display with near equal infatuation. From the steady turning of calloused fingers, as nimble with a carving knife as they are fearsome with a broadsword, to the flawlessly smooth facets of the masterpiece they shape, the demon wonders whether this human could rival even Din's divine hand.
After all, it takes no small amount of natural talent to replicate Ghirahim's sublime shape.
The figure has taken on a humanoid face, its features curving into an angled jawline, framing a narrow nose and slanted eyes. Its hair slicks back to a sharp point, reminiscent of the diamond center its forehead.
Swallowing a smile, Ghirahim flicks his tongue in the unsuspecting craftsman's ear – and chortles out loud at the squeal he's rewarded.
"Ghirahim!" whines Link, glaring wide-eyed and incredulous. "Why did you do that?!"
"Because you weren't paying attention to me."
Link's mouth twists into a frown, one ocean eye twitching. "I almost sliced half your face off, you ass!"
Licking suggestively at his teeth, Ghirahim gently pries both wood and knife from his companion's hands, checking from his peripheral as Link watches with scrutinizing fascination. By the time it's handed back, the carving boasts an intentional web of jagged etchings, each sprouting from the gemstone core on the figure's chest.
Link turns the modified trinket over in his hands, tracing softly over the intricate, familiar-looking patterns.
"Are you…," he stammers, looking to his demon as if for guidance, "are you sure?"
Though he knows it isn't the most elegant gesture, Ghirahim shrugs. "I consider it a healthy reminder," he says, "of the extent of greatness of which you are truly capable. On that near-final battleground, for the first time in eons, I did not hold back against an enemy – yet still, I was… bested."
It's beyond apparent, both from the subtle turn of his head to the overt hesitance in his voice, that this is anything but easy for Ghirahim to admit. Link prods further, broaching the topic with carefully-gauged tenderness, line-walking the rope between boastful and patronizing.
"I- can I ask why?"
Dark eyes swim as they hold the other's gaze, daring Link to look away. He doesn't, rather searching the blackened pools – and his heart sinks low at what he finds.
Worry.
Grief.
"You are not immortal, Link." His tone is soft, a borderline whisper; as he speaks, his mouth barely moves. "And while I've accepted that I will inevitably outlive our partnership, I…," again, he looks away, now clenching a fist to his uncloaked chest, "I would prolong it for as long as I possibly can. My own scars remind me that… that I needn't be so afraid of losing you prematurely."
Reality settles like a cloud choking out the sun, and a dry lump takes painful shape within Link's throat. Around them, the air has gone stiff, a horrid throbbing directly behind his eyes. He pulls the demon closer, their collaboration resting in his lap.
"I wish I could just order your sadness away," Link half-sobs, half-chuckles, blinking back moisture. His discomfort recedes, slowly but steadily, while Ghirahim strokes soothing patterns into his back.
"Oh, sky child," he breathes into thick, sandy hair. "Life is never that simple."
"Just…"
Pulling back slightly, Link falls back into Sign.
'Promise me that, when I am gone, whenever that may be, you won't do anything stupid?'
The truth is, such impossible commandments carry no effect – as useless as though they were simply left unspoken. Whether shouted or signed, his master could never alter the spirit's own feelings; any promises made to the contrary are meaningless, empty. It isn't their bond, therefore, that compels his grappling efforts to obey; no, what compels him now is a force far more powerful.
"You have my word."
When Link returns in full, the muscles in his arm have gone lax, the Master Sword's tip planted loosely in the sand. He blinks his stinging eyes, blaming their discomfort on the dry desert winds. Still kneeled before him, Ghirahim's arms have fallen to his sides, ashen features akin to stone.
Frustration simmers within Link's chest. His head drops, he wants nothing more than to throw it back and scream into the sky. For a minute he imagines doing just that, pictures the flocks of birdlife silhouetted against a blue sky, flapping hurriedly at the disturbance bouncing through the chasm. True tears now prick his eyes, the knight struggling to pace his breathing.
Staring back into Ghirahim's near-black gaze, orbs he now notices flicker a deep chestnut color under sunlight, Link wonders if these visions don't simultaneously pass through the demon's own mind.
"Not having second thoughts, now, are we?" he chides darkly, all sardonic merriment evaporating. "Or did one of our cultish potassium enthusiasts land a blow to your head prior to my intervention?"
Link resecures his shield before sheathing his sword, praying to whatever gods may be willing to hear that he won't come to regret this decision. He's fairly certain that, no matter how far down the line, he most definitely will; and yet, he can't bring himself to strike the demon down.
"But for the love I bore for you in a past life," he rasps, low enough that anyone else would be straining to hear, "I would kill you now."
A pause hangs heavy between them as the knight averts his eyes, grateful for Ghirahim's choice to respect the brief silence.
"Knowing what I know now," Link concludes, "I… I can't."
He lifts his eyes, and considers Ghirahim's deepened frown a hard leap from rewarding. The world has gone still, his own spark as dead as their desert surroundings. Numbness spreads like a parasitic blight; worried he might succumb, Link turns on his heel, one foot in front of the other. Crusted blood flakes around his ankle, fresh rivulets beading beneath the scab; the gash, though shallow, is caked with dirt, but he pushes through. If he can retrace his steps back to Kara Kara Bazaar, he can hunt for new leads…
Behind him, Ghirahim's honeyed chords curdle.
"You are, by far, the most pathetic incarnation I've ever known."
Had it come from another, Link would have likely ignored the comment. But this is Ghirahim. He hollers over his shoulder, not once looking back,
"Better luck with the next, then."
