8: Poe
Perhaps the saddest spirits of all were those living to collect them.
The small and sparse chamber that was once a well stocked armoury seemed as bleak as the skies outside, a strange stink upon the stale air like sulphur and limestone, though the ashes of Death Mountain had not reached so far.
The door was a quiet creak behind as Sheik slipped in, a red eyed glance about the place curious though subdued as the cold of night was shrugged aside. It was an idle thought, but the warrior was thankful of the mask over his face, spreading warm breath about his neck and cheeks and belaying the fog that might've given him away in stealthy situations. There was no greeting to be made or any herald of his arrival, as Sheik watched the odd proprietor with something of a reluctant reticence, bandaged fingers twitching upon the glass of a miasma-filled bottle.
The strange man the Shiekah sought sat as ever on the stained sheets of a small bed, as unmoving from it as the iron lattice between the bedposts, as pasty limbs dangled over the side with an odd sway. A large hood obscured the Collector's face, morbid wonder that it must have been underneath, to allow only the dim crimson glow of an eye, modelled on forgotten Kakariko lore and twisted into being through dark ritual.
Sheik was always silent as he felt the shivers up his spine, one for every visit to this spiritual menagerie, and already habit had set in as routinely as it could in this tumultuous world. The warrior would step forward with near undetectable footfalls, whispering closer, unable to know whether the Collector had noticed him as yet; hood down turned to watch the odd bug scuttle about a green mat. A moment taken to count the empty bottles by the bedside resulted in six this night over the usual three or four, and with a twitch of hidden ears, the warrior wondered of what sorrows were drowned. The Collector claimed so often to be a creature of chaos, one of few supporters to the anarchy under Ganondorf's twisted designs, but when so many in Hyrule drank to make peace with their lot it seemed a mystery as to what could drive the Poe Collector to do the same, fond of trouble as he was.
Like clockwork, too, as the Sheikah drew near, the captured spirits would wander from the cages above on their shelf, as if gleeful of the living energy he brought. A sharp whack would strike the a cage, wood hitting wood as the collector's cane sent the poes retreating back quickly, fearful of their master's ire. Only then, as the warrior stopped before him, would the odd pair acknowledge one another; Sheik with a silent nod, and the Collector with a hollow and cynical laugh.
"Back again so soon, little lady?" he spoke mischievously, voice scratching like a parched wanderer in the desert. "...And you've brought a gift with you, how thoughtful... Heh he heh..."
The scowl that came was obscured some by blonde hair as crimson eyes sharpened dangerously, a twitch running through Sheik's lithe frame. "This is the last time I will tell you not to call me that." he hissed, voice lower than usual as if asserting masculinity. "And you know well enough by now I will give you nothing without payment."
Cheekily, the cane was lowered to tap the bottle Sheik held, and the warrior withdrew with a hidden snarl, red eyes flashing with warning as the prize was held high. A tense pause settled between them as the spirits above licked at the bars with hunger, and the warrior spared a distasteful glance to the tattered fabric about the Collector's torso, likely stolen from a lost guard's corpse long ago—Zelda within him knew better of it, though. The twisted creature before them was a reminder of how desperate even her own kind could become in darkness.
A pitying hum echoed forth from beneath the hood, and though the Collector's gaze could not be seen, Sheik could feel it upon him. "...Still chasing that handsome young man, I see." another scratchy chuckle as the wooden cane met the stone floor. "Such a shame you're hell bent on being one yourself."
"Don't speak of things you don't understand." Sheik sighed, allowing his stance to lose its belligerence as his voice came slightly muffled through the mask. "I need only know of his movements with discretion, as per our deal."
The hauntingly singular glow of the Collector's visage fixed upon him then, a sharp and sober scrutiny piercing his very bones as if he were no more than another poe to be appraised. Zelda recoiled within him, a strange sense of panic running through their veins as the Princess hid away, though the both of them in such mental scramble felt easily able to be spotted, in that moment.
"...Do you truly believe, little lady, that false eyes cannot see truth?"
The question rang out to echo lightly off of stone, the chamber still against the tone of it as suddenly his pets found nervous pause. Bandaged fingers tightened upon glass only slightly, hesitant, before the captured prize was thrust forward with haste to be taken. When no answer was received, the Collector made no move to take the bottle, his usual greed for such a thing subdued with an eerie and foreboding sorrow. Unable to do more, Sheik fell desperate, dropping the imprisoned poe into the tattered fabric of the Collector's lap.
"Please, just tell me how he is... I am a stranger to him; he is only a Hero when we meet... You are the only one who can see past it and into his soul..." the warrior breathed, no more than a whisper, inflection feminine and small as the facade began to crack. "Does he still smile when he comes here? Does his fairy still sparkle, chiming like a bell to the wind?" Behind a fringe of blonde, the red eyes flickered blue with glossed sadness. "Is there still a happy boy inside of him, or have I crushed it already as he searches for Zelda? Please, I beg you, please just tell me..."
The Collector seemed to look upward, tracing the wisps of faces above as they stared down at the pair with lingering despair, and slowly he whispered as the cane was set aside to lean against stone brick. "I've studied ghosts all my life, little lady, and this world that the Great Ganondorf has provided me is the only one in which I can flourish. That young man of yours is as energetic and lively as ever... So much so, it seems almost as if he shouldn't be a part of it."
Sheik's breath hitched within his chest to hold back a feminine sob as the Collector continued ruefully, holding the bottle up with a knowing eye. "He brings me these wandering spirits with the naïve hope that I can alleviate their pain. He sees only the people they once were, and though he's never mentioned it, I can tell he looks at me as if I were still the man he met here as a child. There is no bitterness in him for the fact that I have... sold my soul to collect others. Not like you, little lady."
Inside a divided mind, Zelda recoiled in pain, forced back as she threatened to spill from her keeper's mouth. Sheik found his gazed glued to the bottle as well, watching the ghost writhe within, begging to be free. "I sold myself to survive as you did. My bitterness is a personal one. My existence to hide hers is one of suffering, it is a curse." Red eyes narrowed dangerously as his gaze lifted to the Collector. "You welcomed yours as a blessing, and what he sees you for is a lie."
Though it could not be seen, the Collector smiled with a bleak and honest way, wiry fingers taking to the cork. "Perhaps... But that young man still wants to save me, just as he does the estranged Princess." he could only chuckle as the poe was loosed with a violent flare, floating up to join the others of its kind as a strange joy overtook them. "We'll never tell him of what he must destroy to do so, will we? You and I, little lad, will be as the ghosts he brings me. We were born of this world of darkness, and we hold no place in the light he threatens to bring... Do we?"
With a dismissive grunt the warrior turned, bandaged fingers clenching tightly into fists as he made for the door, squashing the protests echoing out in his head. As it opened with that awful creak, the scratched voice of the Collector followed him, the hint of laughter behind it.
"I imagine he thinks her a spirit, and the Sheikah guiding him to be real... Perhaps, if I give him this very bottle, he may catch me another with the vague hope that it is her."
Again, the shiver crawled up the warrior's spine, cold as it left flesh numb in its wake, and it was only then Sheik realised what it meant. It was death, friend to this place, sweeping him with a friendly and knowing caress. The mournful Princess he hid within had shed many tears for that, but the stoic Sheikah knew nothing of them—he ignored them, swallowed them down, like a child denying their mother's sadness. Sheik hated these meetings with the Collector, only stomaching them for Zelda's sake, and it was all too clear to him why.
When he stepped across the threshold to feel that chilling sense of displacement, he was reminded, every time, of the fact he was nothing more than a ghost.