Warmth breezes through honeyed strands, terribly unkempt in the absence of his cap. The wooden planks are rough on his back, but he disregards the ache. It's his head that yearns for relief.
Although the clouds no longer bar him from the land below, Link somehow feels trapped now more than ever, suffocating in a lifeless prison of the mundane and routine. He had thought that slipping away from the crowds, from the bustle of the waking town, would provide his mind some space for clarity. When that failed, he'd attempted to take on a new perspective, praying that the angle would bring to light some glimpse of renewal previously untouched.
So, here he is, the Goddess's chosen knight: no uniform, no weapons, hiding away beneath the island's sole waterfall. Lying the way he is, he can just make out the overgrown vines on the ledges directly above, green whisps silhouetted against an empty sky. He inhales deeply, nostrils flooding with the warm scent of earth. No matter how often he bathes it lingers heavy on his skin, to the point where he's simply come to accept it as a part of himself, a constant reminder of where he now belongs.
"What am I even doing here?"
'Knight of Skyloft.' Once, the title had held such prestige, bestowed only upon an elite group of the finest the world has to offer. Lately, though, the world's gotten bigger. Much, much bigger.
His role, his purpose, expanded so abruptly, only to be reduced in half the time. Even Zelda's efforts to settle the Surface, though an adequate rebound for the first few months, have all but lost their edge. Link will help clear trees, stock lumber, dig trenches, transport supplies, and so on, grasping vainly for some renewed sense of meaning – and all the while lapsing into patterns, scurrying about in circles until the motions cease to be anything more.
He is… stagnant.
"Hey, sleepyhead."
The young man nearly jumps out of his skin, bolting upright in the time it takes a silent giggle to shake Zelda's shoulders. He runs his eyes over the brilliant cerulean of her uniform. It's such a good color on her, the way it makes her eyes pop.
"I thought I might find you here. I mean, since you weren't in your room."
Drawing his knees up rather sheepishly, Link gives her a soft shrug. His eyes avert briefly, and when they've returned to the girl in front of him, he finds her gentle smile to have vanished altogether.
"I need you to get dressed." It's almost an order, a regretful authority laced into her tone. "We have a bit of a problem."
Tepid wind streaks through their hair, their colorful mounts circling the temple directly beneath. Eventually, Link settles enough to simply close his eyes, trusting his bird to follow independently the brilliant blue mass ahead of them. The warmth of the sun on his face fades almost instantly to cool shadow, slipping behind the patches of clouds blotting the late-morning sky. For a moment, Link likens the occurrence to his own inner lilt, sensations ever shifting, ever fleeting in a pattern so unpredictable.
From the duration of their flight to their idling at the Goddess statue's feet, Zelda reveals nothing of this said 'problem,' yet her hesitance manages to speak volumes – and though he doesn't press her, Link can't help the creeping suspicion of what it is, exactly, that lurks behind the temple doors.
"He's far from powerless," she states plainly, avoiding the knight's wary eyes. "But he is considerably weakened."
Before she continues, Zelda heaves through the doors, stumbling over the mossy threshold when at last the stone gives way. Behind her, Link's footsteps echo softly in procession.
"He was found in the woods not far from the Sky Keep. It seems his presence beneath the holy artifact was difficult to reconcile."
Link remains dutifully silent as Zelda leads her knight through the temple's aged expanse, guiding him deeper through chambers of broken glass and corroded earth. Beams of morning light retract and withdraw through the holes pocking the ceiling, synchronized with the flitting sun.
After what feels to be an eternity, they arrive outside the temple's innermost chamber. The reflective sheen of the Master Sword can just be made out through the lopsided entrance, cascades of dust framing her metal through the faded light. A mere number of steps, now, separates Link from the truth. Still, he says nothing.
Zelda eyes him with concern.
"Link?"
His gaze remains locked, fixated on everything and nothing at once.
"How long?" he breathes, hardly above a whisper.
Stifling a shiver, she places a hand to the cold entryway. "Since last night, just before sundown."
It's Link who pushes through, grunting in sync with the pitched scraping of the cinder. A century may as well pass as they walk side by side, the knight's footsteps overtaking those of his companion without his immediately realizing. Despite his suspicions already having been all but confirmed, for the scene laid out behind the blade that had once been his, nothing could have truly prepared him.
Link halts dead in his tracks the second it enters his vision, Zelda's frame proceeding to approach. Muscles tensing at its weight, she lifts it upright, tip scraping shrill against the ground: an obsidian blade, edges as jagged as the cross guard is winged; hilt wrapped in thick leather; embellished with a bloodred gemstone. When held straight as it is now, the sword stands taller than either of the humans in its presence.
All at once the world appears as though it were wreathed in shadow, a cloud settling over the Goddess and her faithful, even as light spills in golden tendrils from her porcelain fingertips. It rolls off the dark steel in sheets, billows in gusts before fragmenting into diamonds, gold and glittering and unnumbered, dancing to a silent rhythm before morphing, at last, into the shape of the blade's spirit.
Rich crimson folds splay about the slender figure, the height of his mantle masking his face. Inky black webs twist along pale grey limbs, comparable to the form he'd once boasted not long before – except now, it's… different, somehow.
Like his body had been dropped from a cliffside and left to splinter at its foot.
How, while lying prostrate at the young woman's feet, can this creature still seem so thoroughly to dwarf all in his presence?
A long pause drags on, the demon lying there motionless, not a breath to emit. It's with a stab of concern that Link begins to wonder whether Zelda was partly mistaken, if possibly he had succumbed to his injuries whilst trapped within his sword – when a deep, shaky inhale shatters the silence.
Dark eyes crack into narrow slits, glistening just beyond the edge of their owner's mantle. His voice, a silvery chime that Link could only have dreamed of ever hearing again, sends shivers through the younger man's spine.
"Your Grace," coos Ghirahim, his greeting soft but surprisingly steady. "Well, isn't this my lucky day? There I had expected to be left another thousand years, at the very least. Have you really come crawling back so soon?"
Already a pit lodges itself in Link's stomach. While Zelda's 'discovery' had ever loomed at the front of his mind, not once did he think to inquire as to what, exactly, she intends to do. Surely, she couldn't mean for him to… and when Ghirahim has been so clearly… reduced…?
The thought appears to cross the demon's mind as well. He glances at the notably more distant figure in green, recognition flashing through darkened eyes.
"Sky child. You are looking… well, no worse than usual." Ghirahim props his chin, feet elevated, swaying far too casually. "I confess, our last encounter was rather anticlimactic, don't you agree? Is this why you've dragged him along, Your Grace?" Silver strands glimmer in the soft light as the demon shifts his gaze, a subtle grin ghosting white lips. "To have him play the role of executioner for a day, soil his hands once more where yours are unwilling to do their own bidding? Tell me, did you promise to, at long last, grant him his freedom following the act, or is he merely too eager to remain on your leash?"
"That's enough, Ghirahim." Zelda snaps as Link looks askance, fingers itching, though not for the broadsword strapped to his back. Something apparently registers in the demon's mind.
"Ah," he sings, inflection rising to levels of bemusement. "He himself doesn't even know his reason for being here." A chuckle. "Is this then typical for you, Link: following your beloved spirit maiden to the ends of the earth and back, blind and obedient as any old lapdog?"
Heat rising to the tips of his ears, Link struggles to sidestep the demon's taunts. It's never been uncharacteristic for Ghirahim to try to wriggle beneath an opponent's skin. This last insinuation, however, strikes a nerve too deep to ignore.
"You're one to talk," Zelda seethes, knuckles white on Ghirahim's hilt. Her words aren't entirely successful in taking the heat off her knight, caught so helplessly between the two. "As if you didn't follow me to all the same lengths and more, albeit in service of another entity – one known for his violence and cruelty. How are you any different?"
"It's quite simple, really." Ghirahim rolls his eyes to the ceiling, resting his head on his forearms as though utterly bored. "I am a sword. As such, I desire a wielder, a powerful individual to put my superlative form to befitting use. Not once has my role been hidden from me, nor have my motives ever been manipulated in effort to secure my loyalty. Though I suppose that was always the difference between you and Demise, wasn't it, Your Grace?" His eyes snarl, yet his mouth smiles sweetly. "Oh, but please, continue your fruitless endeavor to convince yourself that a somewhat lesser amount of bloodshed has earned you the moral high ground."
Zelda looks as though she wants to respond, brows furrowed as she scrambles for some sort of comeback, reply, anything that could justify the strategies of Hylia if not at least disprove those of the Demon King. Before another word can roll from her tongue, however, Ghirahim has lifted himself to his knees, pale lips curling in silent revulsion.
"To get to the point," he growls with a glower as sultry as it is snide, "if you mean for this reunion to stand as some sort of trial, allow me to save you and your hound the trouble. I am guilty, remorseless, and irredeemable. Now, if you don't mind, sentence me to a quick death and carry it out quickly, that I may be spared further torment from your shrill chords and narrowminded sentimentality."
While Zelda's glare narrows, the pit in Link's center continues to gnaw. Desperate for answers to a question he can't seem to put words to, he searches the fallen lord's unblinking eyes. Had therein once existed any fear for life or freedom, all traces have since vanished, leaving in its wake a certain…
… emptiness.
All at once, the waves come crashing down, snatching his thoughts and ripping them from his soul in an unrelenting torrent of recognition. Perhaps Ghirahim's words ring true. Maybe he was never left in the dark, at a loss as to who he is; and maybe Link can't claim such truth as his own, having once been ignorant in terms of identity and calling. But no matter his state in the past, and no matter how he came to possess the knowledge, the fact remains that he knows now.
And now, it's over – for both of them.
The dark gleam in those tortured orbs is that of a fallen soldier; for though his lungs still draw breath, his fire has since been quelled. It is a gleam of acceptance. There is nothing left for Ghirahim, except to receive his fate with dignity and respect. As for his opponent, the enemy who had felled him and his mission on the battlefield…
No. It isn't fair.
The silence is palpable, hanging thick over the heads of those present, yet Link may as well have drifted out to sea. It's the voice of his oldest friend, one from which he's drawn comfort so often for so long, that acts as the lifeline that draws him back – and for the first time in his memory, he barely can recognize it.
"If that's what you truly want," she says coldly.
Light, dainty fingers begin to shift around the leathered hilt, the mouth of Goddess incarnate pressed into an ominously thin line. Link empties his mind, every fraction of every second a threat to his resolve.
Before he can think twice, or even once, he acts.
He slams gracelessly into Zelda, the both of them tumbling in a tangled heap of green and blue, as the demon sword clambers raucously onto the brittle stone. Sharp gasps rasp from Zelda's mouth, the wind knocked from her lungs, while black specks gather before Link's eyes. Between the ringing in his ears and the spinning of the room, he barely glimpses the demon's flabbergast as he stumbles weakly to his feet.
A white glove grasps a black hilt. Low, distorted clinking echoes off the chamber walls. And when the Hylian pair recovers enough to absorb their surroundings once more, both demon and blade are gone.
He stops, breathless, not a mile out. The distance covered is nothing to boast of, yet how many centuries have passed since his – how to put this diplomatically? – dismissal from the Demon King's service? Bludgeoned, malnourished, thirsting for blood with no master to see to his needs? That he'd been able to teleport through the temple walls is astonishing an achievement as is.
Utterly spent, Ghirahim stumbles to a halt, collapsing against the nearest trunk. His limbs tremble while he leans on his blade, nerves inflamed with exertion, core nearly drained. With a shudder, he realizes that should the Goddess or her subordinates happen upon him now, he'll be powerless to resist them.
And to add insult to injury, this bit of freedom's lasting as long as it has can only be credited to the little Hero's sudden stroke of…
Of what? Pity? Spare me, sky child.
Or perhaps he'd struck a chord with the Goddess-pawn.
It wouldn't be too surprising; after all, the demon has only ever prided himself on his unparalleled eloquence. Sometimes, he dare venture so far as to say his words have carried a weight heavier even than his blade. Oh, the sweet, subtle nothings he would once whisper in his master's ear, be it on the battlefield or in the demons' courts, carried one way or another to fruition at his well-versed insistence…
An abrupt rustling in the nearby brambles reminds him, starkly, just how far from grace he's fallen.
The dark steel, as tall as himself, remains propped as flat as he dare against his resting (now hiding) place while Ghirahim steals a glimpse from behind the massive oak's roots. His eyes squint in the growing dusk, his rambunctious visitor drawing steadily nearer…
Until the little knight has wandered so close that, even now, Ghirahim's weakened senses can translate his aura.
Instinctively, his hands ball in and out of fists, fingers itching terribly beneath the white leather. Through his empty yearning for the saber in his keep, he allows himself to listen for other sets of footsteps – and emits a shaky exhale when none fall upon his ears. Suppressing the tempting call of hope, he expands his senses but a stone's throw further, assessing the state of the young Hero's weaponry.
He is sufficiently pleased by what he finds. Wherever the stinging light of Link's blade has gone off to, it certainly isn't on his person.
Damming the urge to think on it further, Ghirahim makes himself known.
"I see our binding thread is, yet again, pulled taut," he calls, sauntering wearily into view, "and oh, how it coils so ruthlessly around our necks. How neither of us has yet suffocated within its grasp is one of the gods' greater mysteries."
Link at once freezes at the other's two-edged greeting, ocean eyes wide. Therein dances starlight, gleaming silver through thinly scattered treetops. While he drops almost instantly into a defensive stance, Ghirahim notes how he doesn't reach for his weapon. Flashing a sultry grin, one that he hopes will mask the minor lull tainting his motions, the demon allows a brief pause – and when Link remains predictably silent, poised more to flee than to fight, the other continues.
"A bit late to be hiking beneath the clouds, is it not? Can the clock be running out for both of us? Or should I be expecting a gaggle of your fellow sky-geese to emerge shortly from the brush?"
He asks, maybe, for Link as much as for himself. Whatever the young man's motives, such blatant defiance of his Goddess can't have earned him anything resembling a blessing.
"Tick-tock, Hero," he taunts, feigning confidence even whilst he sways.
Blue eyes avert as Link straightens, head bowed in a hopeless endeavor to conceal the myriad of emotions plastered across his face. Softly, so much that his voice is nearly lost on a gentle breeze, he answers.
"I don't know."
Plain, simple, straightforward. There is no questioning the honesty in his tone.
Now thoroughly intrigued, Ghirahim chances a few steps forward, encouraged by the persisting serenity of this disgraced knight.
"I…," want to thank you…?, "can't deny, you've triggered my curiosity, Link. If I may be so bold as to inquire of your line of reasoning…?"
Typically, in the gaping pockets of Link's frequent silent spells, Ghirahim is all too content to compensate with his own musings. However, there's something… different… about him now, something uncharacteristically dark flitting behind the conflict brazen across those youthful features. Once so driven and sure, the young man appears at a loss for what to do next.
A feeling with which Ghirahim has recently become well acquainted.
He narrows the gap between them, peering over the edge of his mantle, until mere inches separate the two.
"Link?"
The demon realizes perhaps too late that he's dropped his guard, that in one fluid motion this servant of the Goddess could stab him full-force in his raw, crippled center. The panic is short-lived, though, as the Hylian's arms, once limp at his sides, reach leisurely, tenderly around Ghirahim's waist. At first his breath catches, mind blanking; then his fatigue crashes upon him, a wave against the sand, and he finds himself leaning almost needily into the younger man's embrace.
Bashfulness swallowed whole, Link nuzzles rather boldly into the fallen lord's chest.
"What's the point anymore?" he sighs. "First the gods' stupid war, and now this bleak interim. I can't take any more, Ghirahim. No more violence, no more death – not while either of us has a choice."
He raises his head, eyes glistening beneath thick, damp lashes.
"Promise me that?"
Resting his chin atop Link's head, Ghirahim draws a deep, thoughtful breath. His eyes wander along the darkened treeline as he considers this- this- proposition, this temporary truce. All personal animosity aside – and indeed, very little could have ever been categorized as personal – he's ultimately in no position to negotiate. Surely, this fact can't be lost on a warrior as seasoned as Link, yet the young man pleads rather than threatens.
"Oh, sky child. You are an enigma." He discards the knight's cap gently, slender fingers carding almost absently through tangled strands. "Yet I suppose, for the time being, I can consent to your proposed ceasefire."
His hands sink smoothly to caress Link's shoulders, allowing the human to feel as though he may breathe easy once more.
Until those same digits dig mercilessly into his skin, leaving him wincing horribly.
"But remember," Ghirahim's tone darkens in warning, silver to obsidian in a matter of seconds, "for a true ceasefire to be maintained, terms must be upheld by both parties."