The climb was long and arduous. Link's feet were blistered and welted. His face was frigid to the touch. His clothes were torn, and his arms were tired. But he kept going.

He grabbed above himself with his free hand, the other carrying Ghirahim's limp body, and his mind carrying the deepest burden he'd ever felt. He pulled himself up one last time, finally reaching the top of the spire. He hoisted up Ghirahim's body, and rolled over onto a small dusty clearing at the pinnacle of his destination.

His beaten, broken body sprawled out upon the rocky ground, as his lungs frantically pulled for air they couldn't hold. His mind faded in and out of consciousness, but it never let go of its one goal. As soon as it was physically possible for him to do, Link staggered to his feet. Pulling up Ghirahim's form upon his shoulders, Link stumbled towards the modest shack. An inviting warmth glowed from inside the hut, and smoke poured upwards from its straw roofing. The stone exterior showed signs of heavy erosion, likely from the high speeds of the winds at this altitude. The wind carried the soft, mellow tune of whistling out from the structure.

It had been a long time since Link had felt the comforts of a shelter. Even longer since he had felt the comforts of a home. Even back during Groose's first excursion, he had been evicted from his own town, his own life, and by his own people. Link forced his legs to carry him forward, inching up the rocky path to the cottage.

The hard rock ground slowly turned to soft dirt path. The roaring winds began to fade away, leaving the tranquil sound of peace ringing in Link's ears. The darkness of the night gave way to the rays of light that the fire inside brought out. Though Link couldn't see the fire itself from outside, he could feel its intensity. It brought a glowing warmth to it, bathing him in its contrast to the harsh, bitter temperatures below him. The fire's embers danced about in the night sky, darting back and forth like the playful fairies in Faron Woods.

Link looked down one last time. The spire was wide, very much so, but it stood a long way up. Far past the Lanayru Mines and the (now defunct) Gate of Time, the spire itself looked to be a thin mountain, nestled in place among the larger, wider mountains that set the backdrop of Lanayru's landscape. The passage there was dry and empty, crossing the large desert of Lanayru before finally arriving at the mountains' edges. But the travel had quickly gone from forward to up, scaling mountainsides and cliffs, until he reached a small clearing. The mountains seemed to part, and in the center sat the spire. It took a sharp and keen eye to notice it, and a stronger motivation to reach it. Few had ever climbed to the top.

Link took another step forward, then another. He reached the door. The large wooden slab had no knocker or knob, not even a window to see out of. Link's legs grew weak, and he lifted his arm to knock on the door. His fist fell against the door, a faint bump echoing into the cottage's interior. Satisfied, Link's body collapsed from exhaustion, Ghirahim falling in a bloody heap on top of it. They both slumped against the stone doorway, fallen, but alive.

A small creaking entered Link's ear, but it went through unaware to the hero. He was out cold. A hand reached down, and softly laid its warm fingers on the boy's head. The figure standing in the doorway stopped whistling. A smile crossed his chapped lips for ever so brief a moment before falling from his aged face and presumably into the night below him. He reached into his pocket and rummaged through various odds and ends, before removing a small vial and a tattered cloth. Pouring the vial's contents into the cloth, he thought to himself of the journey this boy must have made. The miles he must have traveled. The sands his feet had taken him across.

It was far, to say the least. Laying the cloth on Link's head, he slowly dragged Ghirahim's body inside, then returned to do the same for Link. The door creaked before setting shut, leaving the troubles of the world outside once more.

"So… how's it been?"

A long silence followed.

Groose sat on top of a shipping crate, huddled around a small fire. He had propped up the Master Sword against another metal container, in hopes of speaking to Fi. He had no such luck.

"Are you in there?"

Nothing.

"Are you mad at me?"

Still no response.

Groose looked down into the fire, and back up into the night sky. It was a cloudy night, so he couldn't see very clearly. In the distance, he could make out the mountainline Link had headed off for. He would catch up with him in the morning.

Refocusing his attention on the sword, he folded his hands in his lap.

"Are… are you mad at me?"

Groose was met yet again with a dead silence.

"I'm sorry. I really am. I shouldn't have let those bastards do that to you. Please don't feel bad, you didn't do anything. Nobody could've predicted it. You had nothing to do with it. Please come out. I'm cold. Alone. And maybe… maybe I'm a little bit sca-"

"Master?"

Groose whirled around on the crate to see Fi standing behind him.

"Master, I left the sword to retrieve some edibles from the establishment known as 'Wendy's'. Were you talking to yourself again?"

Groose had no response. He simply lunged forward, arms extended.

He fell through Fi's semitangible body and into the soft sand.

"Mmmmmphmphmpmhhhhfffff."

"Master, I cannot understand you. Please lift your head before speaking, as it would help me to understand your communication when your mouth is not full of sand."

Groose's head jerked up, as he spat out a mouthful of sand. A large grin crossed his face as he began to get up. "Fi, I missed you so much! This adventure has sucked without you, it's way too serious, we're getting entire paragraphs of Link complaining like a little weenie, and Potato never updates anymore, it's atrocious! But now that you're here, it's going to be great again, right?"

"Master, there's a 17.683% chance that I'll only impede the author's progress by simply existing as another character he has to write. The author is notorious for losing track of smaller details and overall plot arcs. For instance, did you know that there's a glove on one of your hands right now that the author forgot about for an extended period of time, equivalent to several months in his time span?"

Groose wasn't paying close attention, which Fi probably knew at this point. He simply continued on his prior tangent. "Oh, and Ghirahim's on the verge of death, but that's Link's problem."

Caught off guard, Fi responded, "That does not sound optimal."

"Who cares, what did you get me from Wendy's?" Groose asked excitedly. He was not at all concerned with the fact that a Wendy's existed in this universe, much less with the idea that one was able to sustain itself economically, especially when faced with the possibility of world domination and also complete and total annihilation.

"No wait go back to that last bit about Ghirahim." Fi said.

"Oh, yeah those bad guys stabbed him, blah blah blah, Link climbed a mountain, yada yada yada, gonna go see old dude, long story, who cares, Wendy's."

"I can confirm the presence of several consumables within the bag. First and foremost, I have obtained some hot drinks."

"Yes!" Groose gleefully exclaimed. "Hot drinks really get me going! They warm me up when I feel I'm slowing."

"Indeed, Master. At Wendy's, the hot drinks are always served right away. They generally proceed to add a smile and wish you to 'have a nice day', as you would say."

Groose grabbed the bag out of Fi's… oh great it's this again. Groose grabbed the bag from Fi and her non-descript appendages of unknown physical status, and hastily dug out his hot drink.

"Master Groose, I have also purchased Chili. For your convenience, I will inform you there is a likelihood of 86% that it can be served with cheese. In addition to the two prior items, within the contents of the bag is also a Baconator. This sandwich is a customary delica-"

"Wait, did you say 'Baconator'?" Groose said, cutting her off mid sentence.

"Yes."

"What? That's so stupid! Who would waste their time coming up with such a genius idea, only to name it after a basic component with the suffix "-ator" thrown after it?"

Off in the distance, a faint but clearly audible laugh track could be heard.

Demise sat in his office, staring off into space. He was in deep thought. Groose and his pitiful gang of "heroes" had come a decent way. They had obtained three pieces of the Triforce, with another one also in their clutches, albeit sealed in that beast's arm band. Things weren't going as immediately planned. That spirit had rebelled and taken the cyborg with him. Basically, Demise was left with nothing but chance.

He had, at the very least, Zelda. She was still within his clutches, and in the event that Groose somehow did succeed, he would always have her life as a trump card. Beyond that, it all boiled down to how shit panned out outside of his little world. It was a bit of a mess, sure, but getting involved would only lead to eventual defeat in some capacity. It would simply be better to wait the problem out. Especially with those other hooligans out and about, doing… whatever they were doing.

All Demise had to do was sit back, relax, and strap it down. He broke his focus to adjust his swivel chair as he leaned back. Propping his feet up on the desk, Demise noticed just how informal he actually looked in his office.

He thought aloud to himself, "I have a sophisticated office along with detailed plans and dark magic, the likes of which are completely unknown to mortal man, and yet… I'm still sitting here naked."