A/N: Heeeeyyy...sooo...I'm not dead. Sorry to keep you all waiting.
Edited 4/2/2019
Giddy laughter. Sneering grins. Sulfur and bile and blood. Tens, hundreds, thousands of them, pursuing him like a remlit pursues a mouse. Not hunter and prey. Monster and plaything. And he was the plaything. The plaything that didn't know it was already dead.
Run.
And run he did. Or, rather, run he tried. But he couldn't run. Why couldn't he run? His legs slogged forward through something thick and black, some viscous fluid that reeked of iron, vomit, and sulfur. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Oh, they were really laughing now. Roaring at the futile attempt that was the plaything's escape. But he pushed harder. Faster. He needed to go. Needed to flee! Needed to—
Run.
To run! Yes, to run! He needed to run!
The fluid was rising now, snaking up his calves from his ankles, cementing his legs in place. Heart pounded in alarm. Chest heaved in panic. He tried to force himself forward, straining through the sludge, swimming with his arms. He needed to escape! They were going to kill him! No, NO! He didn't want to die!
A wave of dry heat blasted his body. The fluid was wrapped around his thighs now, binding him in place. Thick tendrils snatched his wrists and held him aloft. Arms shackled. Legs immobile. He writhed. He thrashed. He screamed, cried, pleaded to be released.
Run.
They shrieked in delight. Oh, this was the moment they had all been waiting for. The final capture of the plaything. Drums pounded, pulsing through his body with savage ferocity. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. The putrid molasses boiled and bubbled, swelling up in front of him. It dripped off of a dark figure in thick plops.
Run!
The black grease parted to reveal a fanged smirk, then a pair of blood-red eyes. Helpless, he spat at the demon, who only chuckled. Boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom. A clawed hand caressed his cheek, and he couldn't help but shiver in disgust. Raucous jeering. A malicious smile. The snap of fingers.
The fluid prowled up his chest, flattening out over him like a second skin. It encompassed him, crawling up his spine, up his neck. No. No! He didn't want this! He wanted to live!
It paused in front of his face for an agonizing moment. He squirmed within his prison, pointlessly resisting the inevitable. The demon howled in victory.
"Take him."
Then the blackness was forcing itself down his throat, up his nose, and into his body. Choking, gasping, seizing. It shoved its way into his lungs, suffocating and smothering.
Too much! It was too much! He needed to breathe! He needed to break free! He needed—needed—
Run!
To run! He needed to run! But the evil wasn't just invading his body anymore. No, it was seeping through his form into something deeper, and it began to wrest control for itself. Thick, hot oil splashed into his eyes, searing and blinding and thieving. It wrapped around his chest, crushing, molding, reforming. It was shearing him apart and forging him into something new, something terrifying. The ropes inside his belly spread out, forcing their way through his guts and into his blood. He wanted to scream, wanted to cry, but he was powerless against the onslaught. As it wove itself into the very core of his soul, it began to steal his light and putrefy his spirit. It was obliterating him, piece by piece, starting with his mind.
Bones crunched beneath the pressure, snapping and twisting as he was transmuted. He needed air! Needed to breathe! But the thick sludge was stuck in his lungs, stuck in his throat, stuck in his mouth. His chest heaved, pleading for the air to rush in, but no respite was found.
Laughter echoed, haunting and vile and achingly familiar. Convulsing, he tried to tear himself free, but it was too late. He wasn't himself anymore. He was becoming something different. Something foul.
No! He couldn't! It was too much! Hot and cold and searing and stretching and crunching and—and—and it was killing him! He was going to die!
Except he never did. Death would have been too sweet. Or…maybe not. He didn't have to fight against it. After all, what difference would it make? He was trapped, plain and simple. He had done it to himself, too, gotten so wrapped up in being the hero and saving the Goddess-damned day. Now, here he was. Pathetic, weak, helpless.
Anger riled within him, something deep and carnal and true. He hated being weak. To be weak was to be a burden. To be weak was to be useless.
He could not be weak. Would not be weak.
He would fight against the weakness, and he would win.
Deep inside of himself, the blackness retrieved his vulnerabilities, the things he kept close, the flaws to be exploited, the tender care he held for those most precious to him. It teased them out and held them aloft in front of him.
Love was a millstone around his neck.
Emotions would only hold him back, drag him down.
He gave the word.
His weaknesses were crushed.
The darkness released him, easing him down to the ground. Yellow grins flashed through the night. He didn't have to worry, though. He wasn't weak anymore. They couldn't break him.
He would break them first.
The dark figure motioned him closer, dripping with blood and pitch. Oh, it would get what it deserved. He charged towards it, blurred vision pulsing scarlet with rage. Closer and closer. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. He would kill it. He would slaughter it. It would pay.
No weapons. Didn't need weapons. He slashed out with his hands, and his fingers sliced through the monster too easily, like a knife through fog. It sneered, piercing into him with his blood-moon eyes. Cackling in delight, it dissipated into the wind like smoke, seeping into the pitch and vanishing from sight, taking the creatures with it.
Then he was alone, and the resulting silence roared in his ears.
Writhing in fury, he snarled, crying out to the godless skies. Someone would pay. There would be justice at his hands. Boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom. His heart thrashed in his chest. Anger coiled tighter and tighter inside him, ready to explode.
A glint caught his eye. Within the pool of black, a distorted reflection glowered up at him.
His reflection.
He blinked as his heart skipped a beat.
…That was him?
Horror broke through his fortress of fury, shattering the walls like glass. The world around him quaked and began to crumble. His hands shook and his knees buckled, landing in the blood-pitch with a thick splash. Beady eyes glared back at him from within the mirror pool.
He was—oh Goddesses, no! No, that wasn't him! It couldn't be!
The reflection menacing back at him was not one of a man.
He wasn't a Skyknight anymore.
He was the darkness.
Pipit bolted awake with a terrified cry and rocketed out of the bed. At first contact with the cold floor, his ankle buckled beneath his weight, and the young knight crumpled to the ground. The collision jarred his fractured ribs and his already throbbing head whacked the boards. Gasping and wheezing, he clutched his bare chest as he skidded to a halt. Oh, Goddesses, it hurt more today. Moving would likely make it worse, so he lay there on his good side, trying to catch his breath without moving his chest too much.
What the hell was that dream? He could still feel the pressure of the cold blackness against his skin, spreading thick and oppressive over his form. The jeers and laughter echoed in his ears. The crushing force on his chest clung to him, just as it had before it crunched his bones. The hairs on his arms prickled in revulsion at the memory, and he shuddered in disgust.
It was just a nightmare. It wasn't real. Just a dream, nothing more. Just a dream. Just a dream. Just a—
"Pipit!"
The wooden divider groaned across the hard floor and in barreled Karane. She rushed to him and knelt at his side. "Are you alright?"
"Define alright," he moaned, blinking as his vision began to focus.
Above him, Karane gave a slight sigh. "Well if you're making jokes with me, you're not dying." He turned to look up at her, and found her gazing down on him with a sympathetic smile. "Come on," she said. "Let's get you up off of the ground."
Easing into a sitting position, he mumbled his thanks for her assistance. Everything was sore, and he tried not to stretch or twist his ribcage as he limped back towards the bed, good arm slung over her shoulder. A fierce wave of vertigo nearly took him to back down to the floor, but Karane was there to support him through it.
"Why am I so dizzy?" he rasped, voice raw from the previous night's events, as the floor rolled beneath his feet.
"Well, when was the last time you ate anything?"
Pipit blanked. When was his last meal? Other than the handful of sour berries and stale bread he had scarfed down on the Surface—
—The thick pitch forced itself down his throat—choking him—smothering him—he needed air—couldn't breathe—couldn't—
"Exactly," Karane said matter-of-factly, startling Pipit back to reality as his heart pounded away in his chest. "It's normal to be lightheaded when you don't eat for three days."
He swallowed, fruitlessly trying to banish the feeling of thick corruption from his gullet.
It was a dream. A stupid, stupid dream. It would pass.
Once he was seated upon a pink quilt, he realized aloud, "I slept in your bed last night?"
"And most of the day too," she said as she pulled up a chair. "It's nearly sundown, so you've been sleeping for...about eighteen hours."
Pipit raked his fingers back through his hair as his ears warmed. "I'm sorry, Karane. I didn't mean to—"
"Don't worry about it, Pip," she said as she swept her tousled locks into a messy ponytail. "You were exhausted. After you calmed down a bit, I had you lay back so I could take a look at your ankle. Not twenty seconds later you were asleep, on top of the covers and everything. Your mom brought you those extra blankets so we didn't have to disturb you. I was going to bring you some food after your wounds were dressed, but since you dozed off while I was manipulating your sprained ankle, I figured you needed the rest."
He nodded with a grimace as she pulled his injured ankle into her lap and unwound the supporting bandages for a closer examination. "Doesn't that look, well, kind of scandalous?" he said. "I mean, I slept in the women's wing, in a woman's bed—in your bed—last night."
Karane smirked and waved a hand in dismissal, though her cheeks were a touch rosier than they had been a moment earlier. "It's not like Zelda is was going to use hers," she said as she pointed a thumb at the wooden screen separating the two rooms. "And besides, after everything that happened, where you slept is the least of people's concerns."
He cringed, partly at the way she manipulated his ankle. "That bad?"
"It's the talk of the town. A wailing loftwing in the dead of night, two mounts tearing at each other's throats, a swarm of Skyknights called in to subdue them… It's quite the tale." As she rewrapped the joint, she continued, "I'm not sure if anyone actually knows the real story other than the professors, Headmaster Gaepora, and us. They want to keep it that way, too, considering this involves an artifact only whispered of in half-remembered legends."
Pipit nodded and pulled his foot back to the floor after she secured the bandage. It made sense to keep it all a secret. Something with that much power could easily be exploited if it fell into the wrong hands. "Speaking of loftwings, how are they? Is my bird okay?"
The hand going for a washcloth froze. Karane chewed her lip for a moment before she murmured, "He'll survive, but he is going to be out of the skies for a while. You both will."
Brow furrowed in worry, Pipit demanded, "What happened?"
Her ears drooped. With a sigh, Karane said, "It was bad, Pip. The skyknights had never seen anything like it before. Loftwings don't fight like that—like Red did. It was like he knew—"
"What did Red do to my loftwing?"
She paused, breaking eye contact. "He snapped its wing."
—Bones snapped, crunching and twisting, contorting beneath the force—molding him into something terrible and putrid—something corrupted—
Pipit sucked in a shaky breath as his stomach dropped to his feet. A chill ran down his spine, and he shuddered.
It was a dream. It was just a dream. He needed to focus.
A broken wing was a curse for a loftwing. They weren't meant to be grounded. They were creatures of the sky, and taking away their flight was devastating. Granted, it meant he was stuck on land too, but he could deal with being cooped up for a while. For a loftwing, though…
"How long?" he asked, mouth dry.
"Standard is six weeks, longer if he keeps trying to break out of his stall to come find you," she said with a slight smile. "He must be really worried about you."
Pipit usually checked in through their bond every few hours. The poor thing was probably panicked; he had been asleep for eighteen hours and hadn't checked in at all. Feeling guilty, he sighed and wiped a hand down his face. "I'll have to go show him I'm alright. I doubt anything else would be enough."
Karane agreed before moving to gently remove the bandage around his neck. Pipit frowned; he did not remember that particular wound being tended to.
"When…" he said, motioning towards it.
"Right before I wrapped your ankle," she replied, gently unwinding the white fabric as he tilted his chin up for easier access. "As tired as you were, I'm not surprised you don't remember. You didn't even stir while we cleaned and dressed it."
"We?"
"Your mom helped."
He hadn't considered his mother. She must have been an emotional wreck. "Is she doing alright?"
"She's better than she was. Before you came back, though, she was a frantic mess. Seeing and taking care of you has helped a lot. Sorry, this will probably sting," she added before she began to ease the innermost layer of crusted gauze away from the seeping blisters on his throat.
He hissed through his teeth as the fabric was removed and the air nipped at the exposed wound. Some parts of it throbbed; others were strangely numb. Karane gave it a quick once over, murmuring to herself as she examined it. One she was satisfied, she turned and began slathering a poultice of honey and fragrant herbs onto a fresh section of bandages.
"It isn't infected, which is better than I expected. However, it will leave a nasty scar. You will have to keep it bandaged for a while, and I'll change the dressing twice a day until the blisters heal. After that, you won't need to keep it covered, but you might want to wear a scarf for a while to hide the mark."
Pipit grimaced. "I hate scarves. They're scratchy, and it always feels like—"
"—Like ants are crawling up your neck no matter how much they are worn or washed, I know, I know," Karane interrupted with an amused smile. She began to loosely wind the honeyed gauze around his neck. "Would you rather describe to every curious soul how you landed a hand-shaped burn on your throat?"
Pipit's mouth opened and closed, failing to come up with a response that supported his view. She had a point. Begrudgingly, he said, "I guess I had better get used to the damn things, then."
Wearing an itchy scarf was undoubtedly better than trying to explain how his own brother had nearly killed him with his own hands. Not that he could fully explain what actually happened or how exactly the handprint had been seared into his skin.
But that hadn't actually been his brother, though. No, that wasn't Link; it was…that thing, the Triforce-thing. Pipit had no idea what it wanted with Link. Was it sentient? Did it have a will of its own? It had certainly seemed so the other night. How could it seize control of someone like that?
What kind of terrifying power could take his brother from barely conscious to throwing people across the room?
Too many questions. Too many complicated questions he didn't have answers to. It was making Pipit's headache worse. Then again, maybe that was just the dehydration.
He really hoped Link was alright, that his brother was still in there somewhere, that the Triforce hadn't permanently taken control.
Karane fastened the gauze around his neck and moved to examine the stitches in his cheek. As she removed the covering bandage, Pipit asked, "How's he doing?"
The medical apprentice sighed and applied a cooling ointment to the skin. "He's hanging in there, but it's too soon to predict which way it will go."
"Is he awake?"
She shook her head. "In time. He has a hard battle in front of him, but Link's a fighter." In a quieter tone, she added, "He has someone he's fighting for." Her hands paused after adhering a new bandage, sullen eyes lost in thought.
"You miss her," he said gently.
"It's hard not to," she said, dropping her hands to her knees. "She's been gone for months now. It's painful sitting next to her empty chair in class, knowing she should be there. Some days, I don't even think about her, but others it just hits me and I…" Her hands fisted in the fabric of her pants as she took a steadying breath. "Then Link goes missing for days or weeks at a time and always comes back looking so haggard and bearing new scars… It makes me worry if she's alright. And then you go off and lie to me—don't think I didn't piece that together as you were leaving—and you come back like this—" she gestured to the swollen field of blue on his side as the corners of her mouth began to twitch downward, "—and then I'm trying to help stitch up my dying friend, who is somehow launching people through wardrobes, and—" her voice cracked, "—and I can only watch as he holds you up by the throat, and then your eyes are rolling back into your head and you stop moving and—and—" A tear broke free of its confines and tumbled down her cheek. Her shoulders shook and her chin quivered.
"Pipit, I was so scared," she said through red, watery eyes.
He had been terrified too. The reminder of the Triforce's raw power caused the hair on his arms to stand on end. The burn on his throat still pulsed, and he could almost smell the acrid stench of burning flesh. Link's screams echoed in his ears as he relived the arrow extraction.
An involuntary shiver ran down his spine. No, he couldn't focus on that. He needed to be strong. She needed him to be strong.
Letting out a shaky breath and shoving the awful memories back, he gently placed his hand over hers. "Come here," he whispered, motioning to the bed. She allowed him to lead her to the covers next to him and she immediately sat, hugged her knees to her chest, and buried her face into his shoulder. His arm curved around her, and he stroked her hair. Her breathing came in and out in shuddering breaths as she tried to suppress her tears.
Pipit leaned his head against hers and stroked her strawberry hair. "It's going to be okay," he murmured, mostly to her. "You don't have to worry about me anymore."
She nodded against his shoulder and wiped at her eyes. They were both silent for a moment as she reigned in her emotions. In a weak voice, she said, "I'm glad you're alright."
"That depends on your definition of alright," he corrected with a crooked smile.
She chuckled a bit in response and sniffled. "Then I'm glad you're mostly alright."
"Hey," he said after a long, silent moment, "you did great back there. I don't know how you stayed calm and level-headed through all of that."
"I was freaking out. You thought I was calm?" she responded, skeptically peeking up at him from her position at his side.
He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "You sure acted like it. Hylia knows you did better than me, considering I was too busy panicking and throwing up all over the floor."
Karane chuckled. "Says the person who threw himself into harm's way and told the Triforce 'No'. Who does that? I knew you were stubborn, but wow. Who else can say they went up against the Triforce and won?"
"You call this winning?" Pipit said, pointing to his bandaged neck. "Because I don't. I call this living to tell the tale."
"Fair," she said as she snuggled back into his side.
It seemed she was content to rest her temple against his shoulder, and he was content to have her form nestled into the crook of his arm. He had really missed her, and having her close was a huge comfort to his battle-weary self. Maybe one day, he would tell her that she was one of the reasons he kept fighting, even when he was surrounded and outnumbered by things that wanted him dead.
Well, that would involve explaining all he went through down there, on the Surface, and he didn't want to burden her with that. Nobody needed to be burdened with that.
No, that he would keep to himself.
Against him, her breathing evened and slowed. A lopsided smile crept onto Pipit's face. He was glad that she was calming down. He had mentioned going out to see the hatchlings once he returned, but with broken ribs and a grounded loftwing, it seemed that was not going to happen anytime soon. "I guess—"
Karane startled and sucked in a sharp breath. Her eyes darted around for a moment before settling on Pipit, who was thoroughly confused. She visibly relaxed and leaned against him once more.
Gently, he asked, "Did you doze off?"
She nodded, rubbing an eye with the heel of her hand. "It's been a long day."
"Have you gotten any sleep?" he said, only now noticing the dark circles under her bloodshot eyes.
She shook her head. "Only before you knocked on my door. I've been up helping Owlan since."
"Has he gotten any sleep?"
Karane chuckled lightly. "Probably not. I don't think he would be able to even if he tried. I offered to take the first watch over Link so he could get some rest, but he wouldn't hear it." She stifled a yawn and blinked the fatigue back. "Now what were you going to say?"
He scratched at the back of his head. It seemed silly now, waking her just for this. She was waiting on his response, though, so he couldn't back out now. Hesitant, he managed, "I guess I won't be able to keep my promise after all. Do you want me to tell you where the nest is so you can go see the hatchlings?"
Karane gave him a flat stare for a moment before it clicked. "Oh, uh, no. That won't be necessary." Her toe drew circles into the floorboards. "It wouldn't be the same without you," she added with a tiny smile.
"There won't be any more hatchlings for another year. Are you sure?"
She nodded. "I can wait until then."
A bloom of warmth sprouted within Pipit. "It's a date, then."
"I'll hold you to it this time," she said as she stood to head back to bed.
"Oh, Karane?" he added, stopping her in her tracks. "You, uh…you have a little…on your cheek…" he trailed off, motioning towards the gray smudge. It must have rubbed off on her while she was leaning against his shoulder.
Which meant that he was still covered in grime.
She rubbed at her face and peered at the resulting spot of ash on her fingers. Then she shrugged and replied with a smirk, "Yeah, well, you've got a little…" she gestured up and down his body, "…all over you."
It was also all over the blankets he had passed out on, he noticed as he ran his hand over the covers. Pointlessly trying to brush some of the soot off, he said, "I can wash these for you, if you'd like—"
She waved the notion off. "I have other laundry to take care tomorrow of anyway. I'll just wash 'em then. Anyway, if you hurry, you might be able to get into the wash room and take a bath before a certain someone gets in there an hogs the tub. Still haven't figured out who that is…" she trailed off.
"Are you trying to tell me I need a bath?" he said with a playful smirk.
She snorted and put her fists on her hips. "Yes. Now, if you don't mind, I need to go lay down, or I'll fall asleep where I stand." She moved to head back to Zelda's room.
"Before you go, there's…one more thing," Pipit said. She looked back to him, expression changing and when she saw the sincerity in his eyes. He hesitated. Even with bags under her eyes and hair disheveled, she was beautiful. Anyone could see that. He suddenly felt sheepish and shifted his gaze to the floor as his ears warmed.
She had stayed up all night tending to his wounds and all day tending to his brother's, and here she was yet again, putting his needs before her own.
She was something else.
He didn't deserve her, not after all that had just happened. Not after all he had done.
She shifted, bringing Pipit back to reality. He cleared his throat and said, "Uh…thanks for, you know, for taking care of me and all."
At first, there was silence. Then she walked over to him with a gentle smile, bent down, and lightly kissed his grimy cheek.
"Goodnight, Pipit."
After his much needed bath, in which he ended up having to completely drain the brackish water and refill the tub, he found himself hobbling down to the kitchens, using the single crutch Karane had left for him. Originally, he had been grateful for the baggy tunic she had provided; considering his fractured side, it was much less painful to struggle into than one of his more fitted shirts. But now, as his crutch repeatedly snagged the extra fabric on the way down the stairs, he was beginning to doubt its worth. He was so preoccupied fiddling with the tunic that he nearly bumped into Headmaster Gaepora. The large man expressed his relief in seeing Pipit up and about, and thanked him for his bravery. After some small talk—and a reminder that he was not, under any circumstances, to tell anyone of the incident the other night—the headmaster ambled upstairs with a towel slung over his shoulder.
The young knight was grateful for the headmaster's departure. His stomach clawed away inside him, begging to be fed. It had been almost three days since he had eaten a proper meal, and Pipit was really feeling it. Even if there was only some hard bread and an apple leftover from dinner, he needed something.
To the kitchens it was, then. With it being late evening, old Henya would have gone home already, so it was likely he would find his mother working at this hour. As he managed down the hallway, the temperature began to rise. The closer he got, the warmer it became. He found himself drawing the collar of his loose shirt away from his neck in discomfort. It was a dry heat, one that was far too familiar for his liking. A whiff of sulfur soon reached his nostrils, and he began to grow restless. The rank smell reminded him too much of his fight out of the molten mountain, where the very rocks reeked of death.
Maybe he didn't want to go to the kitchens after all.
His stomach immediately objected. He needed food, and food was in the kitchens; he would have to tough it out. It was just a bad smell and some heat, after all. Nothing to get worked up about. He could handle it.
The young knight limped through the archway, using the crutch to take the extra weight off of his wounded ankle. Within the sweltering kitchen, managing several different things at the same time, was his mother. Her brow was slicked with sweat, and the apron covering her patched dress was dusted with flour. She was kneading a ball of dough against the butcher block counters, and didn't notice him enter.
"Hey, Mom," he said softly.
She startled and whipped around, brushing a few stray locks out of her face. A grin widened across her flushed face. "Pipit!" she exclaimed, abandoning the dough on the counter and striding over to embrace her son. He shrunk away, trying to prevent any further contortion to his ribs, so after some awkward deliberation she settled for a gentle side hug. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"
He smirked sheepishly and shrugged as she stepped back. "I've been better."
Her ears twitched. "Your voice! It sounds terrible."
Pipit dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. "It's just a little hoarse. It'll clear up in a day or two," which was only half-true. There was no need to tell her why he was so hoarse.
Granted, she had helped bandage his neck, so she probably already knew.
If she did, she didn't mention it. She smiled, though her eyes were sad. "I was so worried about you. These past few days, I almost…" She seemed to lose herself in thought before she recollected herself with a breath. Plastering on a polite mask, she said, "You must be hungry, yes? When's the last time you've eaten?"
In perfect timing, his stomach voiced its desire.
She chuckled softly, the amused glint in her eyes seeping into the rest of her expression. "I know my son. Growing boys need their food." she said, striding back to her dough to finish it up. "I have a few quick things to attend to, but then I can heat you up some of the leftovers from dinner tonight."
As much as he wanted to reprimand her for referring to him as a child, food was too appealing to turn down. His stomach, however, was in a state of conflict. The stench of sulfur was nearly overwhelming inside the kitchen. His nose crinkled at the smell, and he found himself searching for the source.
"Mom—ugh—what in Skyloft are you making?"
"The smell?" She glanced over her shoulder as she worked the dough. "Sorry about that. I was trying to get breakfast prepped for Henya tomorrow and didn't realize two of my cucco eggs had gone rotten until I cracked them open. I haven't had a chance to take the trash out yet," she said, nodding at the source of the rank stench in the corner.
He nodded, brow furrowed, trying to ignore the pervasive odor. On the opposite countertop rested a raw leg of lamb upon a wet butcher block. Next to the block lay a large meat cleaver, one with striking similarities to the very one he had been struck with on the Surface. It was already smeared with blood from a previous butchering session, likely just minutes before his arrival. His lip twitched at the sight. Subconsciously, he put more distance between himself and the weapon. He had dealt with enough cleavers for the time being; there was no need for him to associate with this one.
That didn't stop his heart from beating faster.
His mother shaped the now thoroughly kneaded dough into a loaf and set it aside to rise. After dabbing at her brow and wiping her hands on her apron, she snatched up a wooden peel from beside the oven and slid it beneath a different loaf that was ready to be baked. She headed towards the oven, and motioned towards it with her head.
"Would you be so kind as to open that for me? My hands are occupied at the moment," she said as she held the peel in both hands.
He hobbled over to the oven, managing to the best of his ability in his injured state. The heat, paired with the stench of rotten eggs and the sight of the cleaver, had him strangely agitated, and he couldn't put his finger on why. He opened the oven door for his mother. A blast of dry heat hit him, and he screwed his eyes shut in response.
A shudder ran down his spine, and he felt the world around him shift and morph.
When opened his eyes once more, the kitchen was gone, replaced by an expanse of rock, ash, and liquid fire.
He suppressed a gasp. This was—it couldn't be—
No, he didn't want this. He didn't want to be here.
He was back down on the volcano.
His heart thumped in his chest faster and faster. Boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom. His body was frozen in terror. Everything moved too fast, and the figure in front of him blurred through his reality.
The hand that went to grip the rusty meat cleaver was not his mother's. It bore stumpy, brown fingers and yellowed claws crusted with blood.
It was the decorated bokoblin. The very one that had struck his side with a cleaver and fractured his ribs. The one he had kicked into the lava. The one that should have been dead.
But it wasn't dead. It was here, and it was furious.
It snatched the tool up from the rock, positioned the leg of lamb on the surface, and cleaved it in two in a swift stroke. The two resulting pieces twitched. Pipit heard more of the monsters around him, their war cries echoing just out of sight, their hot breath creeping down his back, but he was transfixed on the decorated swine in front of him, paralyzed in fear.
A putrid mix of sulfur, rotting flesh, and death assaulted his nostrils. The heat was suffocating. His feet were cemented in place, and every muscle in his body tensed. He couldn't move. Couldn't think. Needed to breathe, needed—
The creature before him turned to face him, growling through its teeth. The monster stalked towards him with cleaver in hand, drops of thick crimson spilling off the blade and sizzling on the scorching rocks.
He needed to get away. Needed to run.
A hand reached for him and dug into his shoulder.
No, it was going to—he needed to—he was—
"Pipit, what's wrong? Are you okay?"
He startled and sucked in a breath as the vision shattered. His mother's blue eyes peered into his own, her expression concerned.
…What?
Pipit's gaze flitted around as his heart hammered away in his chest. The volcanic rocks and ash were gone. He was back in the academy kitchen. The oven still blasted him with heat; in his stunned state, he had never closed the door.
What in Skyloft had just happened? It had felt so real. Too real. The panic pulsing through him had his stomach twisted into knots.
He shook his head, trying to clear the experience from his mind, and frantically composed himself. After taking a steadying breath, he managed out, "Yeah, I'm…I'm fine. Sorry, my ribs."
His mother's ears drooped in sympathy. "Do you want to go sit down? I can bring your food to you."
He nodded, murmuring his thanks, before he stiffly hobbled over to a nearby table, away from the direct heat of the fire. He sank into the wooden bench and wiped his sweat-slicked face. Trying to control his breathing, he focused on the whorls in the grain of the table. His eyes traced the lines and swirls in an attempt to stop replaying the scene he had just witnessed.
Eventually, a steaming bowl appeared before him, and he mechanically forced food he couldn't taste into a stomach that no longer wanted it.
A/N: I'm so glad to finally get this posted! Chapter 7 is already well under way, along with various scenes from later chapters. Writing is a slow process for me as a full-time graduate student and full time graduate-assistant, but it is something I look forward to. You guys are one of the major driving forces keeping me going, and I deeply appreciate all of the feedback and encouragement (and grace! So much grace!) you have given me. I am sorry that it took so long to share this with you, but I hope it was worth it.
If you loved it, hated it, or thought it was superbly "meh," please let me know. I welcome your feedback, whether praise or criticism.
Love love love, friends!
Shnarf