Link watches with morbid fascination as Ghirahim staggers – staggers, seemingly headed towards the base of a nearby oak. Despite the poor light, he vaguely recognizes the direction from which the demon had emerged.
When he fumbles at the roots, Link instinctively lurches; then a gloved hand shoots outward, bracing against the wood, the white of Ghirahim's garments stark against the nightly gloom.
"It's rude to stare," he rasps over his shoulder. His voice has darkened beyond its usual glaze, and Link swears he can even make out one arm clutching at the core beneath his cloak.
Though few words had truly passed between them, the knight had been certain that all that needed to be said was effectively brought into the open. Witnessing this quivering figure once more, not minutes later, even the gist of their exchange has all but slipped away. Answers evade the human, leaving his mind unbearably numb – and what's worse, he can hardly recall the questions he was supposed to be asking to begin with.
He blinks, lips parting, one sole inquiry presenting itself.
"What will you do?"
Had Ghirahim been still before, he's now gone completely stiff. The stars themselves seem to pause their lilting dance.
"Well." His tone is curt, to-the-point. "Since my master has seemingly handed in his permanent resignation, I suppose I've defaulted to neutrality."
"But," Link reaches forward, then thinks better of it and, withdrawing, "where will you go?"
A mirthless cackle rises from the demon's throat, clawing through the atmosphere with desperate hostility. "I am a fugitive now, Hero." The venom lathering that title carries the sting of a thousand needles. "My options having been so drastically reduced, can you really believe I'll tell you?"
"You know I'll just follow you. You might as well stop making this so difficult."
At last Ghirahim turns his head, starlight reflecting ominously off one flintlike eye. He delivers a sneering glare, and though the mantle conceals everything beneath, there's no doubting that he smirks.
"Eager little thing, aren't you?" he chides.
The moment he moves, again facing the knight, is the moment an eastern wind blows hot. A sweat breaks out beneath Link's mail, growing heavier by the second.
"And what," as Ghirahim approaches, tediously, that sweat runs cold, "is to stop me from throttling your sorry neck the instant you rest your head?"
Eyes narrowing, neck craned, Link stands his ground on trembling legs. Yes, this demon has agreed to a truce; and yes, he's far more frail than he hopes is obvious – yet in truth, the young man is terrified.
"You won't," he spits, voice low and steady.
At this, Ghirahim cocks a brow. "Oh?" Mild amusement colors his inflection. "And how can you be so sure?"
"Because an entire town now knows you're alive, knows that you're weak, and knows what you've done – and because that entire town wants you dead." Link can hardly believe his own outpour, much less the striking truth of the words spilling from his mouth. "I'm the only one who doesn't, Ghirahim, and therefore I'm your best chance at staying alive until we can figure out this- this- whatever it is, and what to do about it!"
If Link had been taken aback, the demon is… stunned. His blackened eyes, though fixed unblinkingly to the other's, harbor no malice, searching in earnest for something Link doubts even he himself truly knows.
Finally, after an agonizing pause,
"Well, then, my dear."
All at once, his senses come alive, as the forest is suddenly teeming with life. A warm, gentle breeze rustles the leaves overhead; insects chime their jumbled symphony; flowers abloom in the tepid shade release their sickly-sweet fragrance. The barriers have been shed, and Ghirahim's tone, though still somewhat wary, has taken to revealing the true pain and exhaustion lurking behind that mask of composure.
"What," continues he, "do you propose?"
Link casts a knowing glance behind the cloaked figure, to the oaken trunk that had seemed so important. "Your sword," he says.
Razor-thin brows furrow, shadowing the eyes beneath.
"Give me your sword to keep with me, at least for tonight. That way you won't be able to wander off while I sleep."
"Afraid I'll terrorize as many unsuspecting villagers as I can manage before inevitably going down in flames?" Ghirahim taunts, accentuating with a half-hearted flip of his hair, "Or can you simply not bear the thought of spending another second without me?"
Before the sentence is fully completed, Link is rolling his eyes, trudging towards the oak in hopes of recovering the dark blade. As sure of its placement as he had been, he can't help the twinge of relief at actually finding it there: even propped against the massive trunk it stands taller than himself, black steel gleaming wickedly in the starlight. Tenderly he reaches, wrapping careful fingers around the thick leathered hilt.
He shudders upon contact. Why does it feel so… intimate?
Or is invasive the better term?
Ghirahim makes no further comment, only watches intently as Link places his blade beneath an arching root. It's large, awkwardly so, and as deathly sharp as the day it had clashed against Fi's holy make, yet he's determined to secure it under his person – to the point where he'll be certain to wake should the demon make an effort to retrieve it. A few cuts, the youth tells himself, are hardly penance for the crimes he now willingly commits.
As he scuffles uncomfortably, grimacing upon his bed of metal, from the corner of his eye he catches Ghirahim's shaking head.
"Here," he snaps, removing his cloak with a graceful flourish, "you foolish brat."
Shooing the human to the side rather forcefully, he drapes the thick velvet over his own jagged steel, then gesticulates for Link to lie down once again.
"In my life, I was not expecting you of all people to be such high maintenance."
Link had been unprepared, to say the least, to receive any such semblance of kindness – especially from Ghirahim. The duration of their rivalry, looking back upon it, had been riddled with mixed emotions – the demon's constantly referring to Link as some sort of punching bag, always making overtly casual efforts to wriggle beneath his skin, then seething when the knight had proven a greater challenge than the demon had anticipated. Although at first he'd been angered and terrified by the enemy's presence – moody, unpredictable creature that he both was and still is – Link had eventually come to appreciate, even enjoy the thrill of their encounters. Never had he felt so alive.
Now, with that very same opponent mere feet away, he finds himself lying down to rest – comfortably. The sensations racing through him at the prospect are a far cry from pleasant. More accurately, he feels almost…
Guilty.
"… Thanks," he mutters, avoiding the other man's eyes.
"Don't mention it."
Sleep is no longer quick to find him, and tonight proves no exception. When at last Link drifts off, his rest is fitful, his dreams plagued by the pained, contorted face of his oldest friend.
Her world is cold, her form immobile. By now, she doubts she could stand if she tried.
It's not that Zelda can't heal any injury made to her own person, and Link hadn't done any real damage anyhow. In the most literal sense, the shock of his impact had been short-lived, the wind in Zelda's lungs swiftly restored.
No, her lengthy stagnation is grounded elsewhere, the world a motionless blur before her eyes. Hours are sure to have passed by now, her limbs stiff with disuse. Even with the dark of night closing in, she simply cannot bring herself to move.
The growing chill seeps through her many-layered uniform, brittle stone frigid against her back. Worlds away, stars are strewn across a deep blue expanse, beaming pale through the age-worn ceiling of Hylia's long-forsaken temple. Zelda had hoped that, since the descent of the Goddess's chiseled likeness, the appeal of building a nearby settlement would have increased considerably. Yet, as the weeks fade steadily into months, the makings of any such lodgings remain staunchly premature. As far as the efforts towards reclaiming the Surface go, Skyloft's pious elders are sorely outnumbered by their junior peers, most of whom appear to be motivated more by curiosity and ambition than by any sort of faith.
But then, perhaps blind faith is a bit much to ask of anyone. Even for a Goddess. Even of her anointed.
Holding all the answers is not something of which Zelda can rightfully boast – and if any turn of events could solidify that fact, it had unfolded in full this very day. Over and over, she finds herself asking: Had she been wrong to withhold so many details from Link? Or when she'd so abrasively decided the demon lord's fate? Initially, she'd hoped to spare Link any additional, unnecessary emotional turmoil; now, of course, she wonders if such an approach hasn't only made things worse.
Could her judgment have been so far removed from reality? For months, Ghirahim had haunted both the flesh of the Goddess and the resolve of her knight, determined to drain the former of life whilst tormenting, even patronizing, the latter. Every twist, every turn, every harrowing step of their paralleled journey had depicted the demon in so unflattering a light.
So… why?
Why spare him? Why secure his escape? For all the divine memories bestowed upon her, for all the supreme wisdom she'd been chosen to bear, Zelda simply cannot fathom the motives of this- here- of her oldest, closest, dearest friend. From whatever angle she tries to observe – and by the gods, does she grapple with as many as can be conjured – it simply does not make sense.
The wind picks up, and with it the nearby rustling of leaves.
Link had always been a mystery to the greater half of Skyloft: borderline neurotic, entirely reserved, ever a man of very few words. Over the years, Zelda had come to conclude that only one tactic could ever really coax open that deep, sheltered soul. Though her problems of late seem to multiply by the minute, she begins to wonder whether the solution hasn't been right in front of her this entire time.
Drinking deeply of the stale, musty air, Zelda allows her lids to slowly drift shut. Calling on what little divinity has been left her, she whispers one soft, desperate prayer into the summer night sky.
"Goddess Nayru," she breathes, "grant me but a shred of your wisdom. Allow me discretion, to know when to listen and when to take action. Only bring him back to me. Bring him home."
Her words, though whispered, carry an eerie lilt whilst they echo through the vast chamber. A subtle warmth pricks her skin, the presence of a lifelong companion embracing her spirit in whole. Within moments, she's engulfed, the blue feathers of her regal mount a growing speck on the horizon.
Dark or not, she's lingered here long enough. Ghirahim has vanished, Link along with him, and should the two cross paths, she's certain it will take more than a handful of prayers to mend the inevitable havoc.
Though encased in darkness, the world shimmers and bobs, stray flecks of light dancing haggardly across a surface of imperceptible depth. He can't breathe, but he doesn't need to.
"Link!"
Zelda's voice, shrill with panic, penetrates from within the confines of his skull. Frantic, he tosses his head in every possible direction – or tries to. Strives to. But he cannot move any more than he can breathe.
From the gloom there lurks a growing evil, a thirst for blood that he knows not how he identifies. Cold terror grips his chest, clamping his frozen limbs in a bone-chilling vice, while numerous figures emerge from behind. They crawl on all fours, snarling faces draped with ghostly white coats, stalking from his peripheral before vanishing into oblivion. Even when hidden from sight, the low rumbling of their presence rings hauntingly in his ears.
"Link, wait!"
That voice, again: light, airy, crystal clear yet shadowed with concern. This time, however, it lands before him, spiraling into the point at which the beastlike nightmares converge.
He looks.
Through the watery depths of the foreign atmosphere, Zelda materializes in a flourish of white diamonds, panic sewn into her pale, hardened face.
"Link…"
A metallic echo distorts her chords, her mouth unmoving – then she morphs into a towering wolf, jowls aquiver, eyes like fire. With one snap of her white fangs, she consumes him whole.
Link wakes with a start, the warmth and moisture of the wolf's maw still encapsulating his trembling body. He nearly cries out, but for the powerful force clamped against his mouth, rendering his jaw immobile. A moment longer, and he realizes the dampness is but his own sweat, the muscular form holding him tight none other than Ghirahim's unyielding embrace.
Then at last his heart begins to simmer down, and he manages to allow himself to more thoroughly absorb his surroundings. They haven't strayed from their initial campsite, the roots of their oak spread to either side. Pale, mottled yellows speckle the shady forest floor, flecks of morning light stark against deep, mossy greens. Save for the light caress of a warm breeze, the woods are deathly still. Were it not for the rush of blood in his ears, he'd think he's gone deaf.
Ghirahim's gloved hand remains pressed to Link's jaw, despite how he's calmed since his rough awakening, refusing to release his iron grip. Dregs of panic reignite, and Link struggles in his hold, scarcely able to twist himself enough to stare up at the demon's unshrouded face.
When he does, he finds the demon's eyes fixated elsewhere, chestnut orbs wide with fear.
A soft tremor wracks the ground, shooting up Link's spine, rattling his teeth. Slowly, the pieces fall into place – the lifelessness of the forest; the silencing grip on his body; the absence of crimson folds and black steel as the two men huddle, stiff and desperate, against the base of their oaken shelter.
Link freezes, mimicking the demon's stasis as best his racing heart will allow.
A pause. Then clopping. Strident, spaced-out clopping, like a remlit whose claws have gone untrimmed for weeks too long – only heavier. So, very much heavier.
And now it's getting louder.
Every impending, gut-wrenching tap, tap, tap of cloven hooves against the dirt sets Link's nerves aflame. His heart drops to his stomach, his eyes drying out painfully as he dares not even blink. Though his bones threaten to give, he finds himself grateful for the pressure of Ghirahim's vice-like grip; without it, the human's rampant shaking would surely give them both away.
Something like a snort, thick and hefty, exhumes from the creature's nostrils, revealing just how dangerously close the being has come to their meager refuge. Only the hand on his mouth muffles Link's whimpering cry.
Then a chance beam of sunlight sifts through the trees, and the creature's shadow takes form.
It boasts the torso of man, one far larger than any Link has ever laid eyes on: its silhouette alone displays its bulk, a muscular figure that would put Groose to shame. A pair of twisted horns sprout from its skull, accented with a thick, billowing mane. Its lower half is more obscure, leaving too much to the human's rapidly firing imagination. He looks to the trees beyond the oak, wondering if fleeing would be their best chance at survival, when beneath him, Ghirahim shifts just slightly.
Link's eyes meet those of the demon lord, and he can scarcely believe how anxiously they plea with him to remain motionless.
From the corner of his vision, he glimpses movement – and though with all his heart he regrets looking, he cannot tear his gaze away. A humanoid face, skin dark as night, drifts warily past the oak's too-narrow base, eyes like blood sunken deep within its massive skull. One flicker of movement, one turn of its head, and it will surely spot the pair-
A twig snaps from behind, and with inhuman speed, the creature has whirled around. The lighter gait of a retreat, perhaps of a boar or a stag, fades all too quickly, drowned in the quaking, thunderous gallop of the monstrous hunter, hot in pursuit of its newfound prey.
Even as the bluster recedes, neither human nor demon dares stir, each listening intently should the beast return. Whole minutes pass this way, two once-formidable swordsmen, so unequivocally paralyzed that neither can be bothered to color with shame.
Until the demon's hold abruptly relaxes, and both men slump, stiff and sore, into a tangled mess of dirt and roots and limbs.
Just like that, Link is aware of how close he and Ghirahim had been; moreover, that the demon's cloak is still missing, likely never reclaimed since he'd lent it the night before. Suddenly he can feel the give of Ghirahim's skin, hardly concealed beneath that thin layer of white cloth, as well as the obsidian webs twisting from his fractured core. The heat of a furnace emanates from therein, spreading outward towards the fleshy, supple grey overlay like blood through a vein.
Scuffling what he hopes is an appropriate distance away, Link plants his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands behind his neck in effort to quench his growing flush.
"What was that thing?" he inquires, voice quivering lightly.
Ghirahim doesn't look at him. "A Lynel," he answers softly, still gazing into the treeline where the beast had disappeared. "A proud beast of the fields. It's rare to encounter one so deep within the woods – and yet…"
Link's eyes avert. "Well, if that isn't just my luck."
"So it would seem," comes the sardonic reply, the demon's tone at once recovering its typically sultry chime, "you are a magnet for misfortune."
Rather than conjure a retort, Link's mind races for a more tangible defense. Though Ghirahim may seem unencumbered by the possibility of their beastly foe – of the Lynel – circling back to their makeshift camp, the knight isn't so sure.
"Where's your sword?" he asks, shuffling to his feet. He almost inquires after the cloak as well, then decides it isn't worth whatever insinuation the other is sure to contort in response.
"It's where you left it, you dim-witted trite."
Link casts the other a scathing glare. Perhaps he should have come to expect this kind of thing, yet he can't help finding this bout of attitude unfair. "You mean where you left it?" he shoots back.
Running a hand through his snowy strands, Ghirahim willfully suppresses an eyeroll. "That Lynel approached rather unexpectedly, my dear. I hadn't the time to retrieve both you and my blade without drawing its attention."
Now that piques the human's interest. He places his hands on his hips, head tilting inquisitively.
"You chose me over your blade?"
The demon's eyes widen rewardingly, if only for a fraction of a second, before falling back to their signature lack of interest. "It's as you've said. An entire population, present company excluded, would see me hang. My odds are thus better with you than without."
The logic is sound, yet there's no dismissing how with each word, Ghirahim turns further and further from the other man, until he's all but facing the opposite direction. Link couldn't help the grin creeping up his face if he wanted to.
"Isn't your blade a part of yourself, though?"
Without his mantle for concealment, Ghirahim's neck and shoulder muscles visibly twitch.
"So then, it's kind of like you chose to protect me over y-?"
He chokes down the last part when that glower descends upon him in full, kohl-lined eyes narrowing into dark slits. "I suggest you drop the matter while you still can, Link."
From this use of his name ring countless warning bells. Hands raised placatingly, Link can only manage to do as he's bidden; though still, the ghost of a smile persists. "Fine, fine," he squeaks, already moving towards the shady alcove where he'd left the demon's sword.
He doesn't look to see if Ghirahim follows, but notes the absence of footsteps.
As expected, the black steel is just as he'd left it, swaddled from hilt hallway down the blade in diamond-accented folds. For the second time now, he wraps shaky fingers around that black hilt – and once again, an unusual rush of adrenaline courses through him. He wonders, briefly, if Ghirahim can feel the flesh handling this extension of himself, almost like a phantom limb.
He's just begun carding through his head, searching for a tactful way to phrase such a question, when a shimmer of silver catches his eye. Glancing upward, he finds a somber-looking Ghirahim seated upon one high-arched root, one knee bent to his chest, head slightly bowed.
"I should've been yours," he mumbles.
While his voice is low, it's the message behind it that throws Link's mind amuck. Unsure if he's understood, or even heard, the man properly, the young knight opens his mouth in preparation – but is stopped short.
The demon continues, volume rising, barely, intentionally sufficing to allow the other to hear only when straining to do so.
"When our bond was forged, my master intended that I serve him until the end of his days, should such an occurrence ever come to pass. Only death, his or mine, could truly break us apart; and in the event it was his, the one mighty enough to fell him would duly collect his prize."
A tense silence passes between them, Link considering the meaning behind the spirit's words. As the implications fall into place, his hand falls solemnly from the great weapon's hilt.
"Spiteful being that he was," says Ghirahim, "Demise cast me from the Nether Realm before his flame was fully snuffed, severing our connection long enough to ensure that…"
Light ripples through that silvery curtain as he jerks his head to the side. Somehow, the shadow across his face grows darker, a deep-set frown marring elegant, ashen features. He doesn't complete the thought. Really, there's no need.
"You would have been mine to wield," says Link.
Finally, the demon lord meets the other's gaze. Within burns a fire – not of resentment or disdain, leastwise not for the knight himself, but rather of…
Regret.
"A finer swordsman than you there never was." Stars glisten in those large, violet-brown eyes, never blinking, boring into the Hero's very soul. "I meant every word I spoke in the presence of your Goddess. A weapon desires to be wielded."
In truth, Link doesn't care to recall the events that had unraveled in the Temple of Hylia. He stares absently at the organic debris littering the ground, the demon's seething testimony pounding at his skull.
'I am guilty, remorseless, and irredeemable.'
"You'd really let yourself die, then?"
Again, that gaping emptiness clutches at Link's chest, consuming his thoughts within its numbing maw. Towards the upward slope of the oak's mammoth base, shadows flicker as sunlight shifts, and without a sound, Ghirahim has crouched by the young knight's side.
"Is there an alternative," he whispers, "that you would prefer?"
His breath, though hot on the human's ear, sends shivers up Link's spine. Not a drop of venom taints the demon's tone. Rather, he sounds weary, and almost… pleading. As if perhaps, beneath that cold, diamond exterior, a part of him may actually want to be saved.
A switch flips inside him, and with ravenous tenacity, Link tears into every nook, every crevice of his mind, scrambling for some way to resolve this shared conundrum. Vision blurring as his head swims, treks, and flounders, he thinks mainly of Fi: from the commencement of their journey to its end, and most importantly, of the strengthening factors uncovered along the way.
The two spirits are innately different, of that there's no question. Fi could make no direct contact with the physical world, not even to carry her own blade, whilst Ghirahim has never seemed able to keep his hands to himself. Fi's emotional capacity had been equally stunted. Having been forged for the sole purpose of serving as her wielder's guide, the sword spirit could only ever maintain a solid air of objectivity. Altogether, the only element shared between the two is the steel to which they're bound.
And steel can be tempered.
"Do you know of the sacred flames?"
When he lifts his gaze, he finds Ghirahim squinting down at him in suspicion.
"I can't say I ever knew exactly what your Goddess had you running about the Surface for," he answers. "But I gather this relates to your former weapon's transformations?"
Link nods. "At first, it was just meant to increase the blade's physical and spiritual strength. Then after we used all three, with Zelda's blessing, the sword was bound permanently to my soul."
A twitch tugs at white lips, so subtle that were the two not so close, Link surely would have missed it. Ghirahim's eyes drift in apparent contemplation. Taking advantage of the other's silence, Link scrambles to work in as much convincing as possible.
"I know Zelda might not be open to the idea at first," he says hastily, "but think about it. If we go to all the effort of cleansing and repairing you, and no one gets hurt along the way – well, she'll have to come around eventually."
"There's no guarantee that either endeavor will be met with success," is the other's soft reply.
Despite his attempts to remain upbeat, Link deflates. Deep inside, he knows the flames are as likely to kill this being as they are to cleanse him. He searches the far reaches of his mind for a way to tilt the scales, for even a sliver of optimism, his gaze falling absently to the demon's shattered core.
Fragmented light reflects in golden shards off his faceted arm bracelet, bouncing aimlessly into the shade. For a moment, then, Link pictures the demon in nothing else-
And chokes back a gasp. Where did that come from?
Still seemingly preoccupied, Ghirahim flicks his lengthy tongue from between his lips. Link somehow reddens further, but strangely enough, the other doesn't seem to notice, or else makes no remark. He gesticulates vaguely with his head, guiding Link's attention to the base of a nearby maple.
"I doubt your human eyes can see it from here," says Ghirahim, "so come."
Rising gingerly, he leads a path to the maple's knotted trunk, then lowers himself before a bed of scattered twigs. Link follows, curious, kneeling to find the drying mud and brown grass indicative of a former nest.
Beneath the miniature rubble, barely visible, heaves the feathered chest of a grey robin.
"Deprived," muses Ghirahim darkly, "of the ability to fly, thrust from the heavens by forces greater than itself. In its less-than-ideal state, this creature has been left for dead, forsaken by its own kind. Whether it lives long enough to become food for snakes, or succumbs to its injuries and nourishes a brood of maggots, this being's fate is much the same."
Link raises his head, unable to behold the little bird any longer. Instead, he looks to Ghirahim, whose ridged brows furrow as he maintains his solemn gaze.
"Such is, doubtless, how you view me now, dear hero. To you, I am little more than a wounded animal, one you lack the gall to put out of its misery."
"Ghirahim-"
"And to your people, a rabid dog, sick and foaming at the mouth. Your unwillingness to carry out my sentence is seen more as a testament to your naivety than as a token of kindness."
Link swallows, hard, stomach churning while he digests the demon's words. A bitter taste coats his tongue.
Then, Ghirahim's eyes sparkle.
"There is a solid chance that these flames will consume my very soul – and what death could be more fitting? Oh, but should your plan work – should all your hopes and dreams come true…"
Tenderly yet excitedly, he takes Link's hands in his own, pulling the Hylian gently to his feet.
"Once," Link's knuckles receive a light squeeze, "you wield my blade in its full, untamed glory," pride beams from Ghirahim's sallow face, "no beast of the earth or sky – not even the ferocious Lynel – will be able to stand before you."
From the tips of his fingers to his swirling core, electricity buzzes through Link's veins, a thrill he hasn't known in months. The thought alone of bearing the demon's blade – not as the great, hulking monstrosity that it had been within Demise's hand, but as a weapon of light and truth, fitted specifically to the knight's embrace – sparks inside him a passion he had long thought dead.
Chewing his bottom lip lest his eagerness become too overt, Link reciprocates the grip on his hands. "Floria's cistern can't be far from here," he says. "Do you know the way?"
Not inches from the other's face, Ghirahim flashes a wicked grin. He releases his grounding hold, and with a snap, his cloak is draped once again over his shoulders, assembled in a wave of crimson gemstones.
"Don't insult me."
The corners of Link's mouth twist downward, which he prays will be dismissed as reactive to the demon's mocking tone. The truth is, he's disappointed at the reinstatement of that thick, mantled garment. It's blocking the view.
Arms returning to his sides, Ghirahim makes to initiate their trek – then his face contorts, as though he's suddenly remembered something important. Link surveys the area briefly, having already laid eyes on the demon's sword, but it quickly becomes clear that this isn't what holds the other man captive.
Again, he snaps his slender fingers, and an obsidian dagger flutters into existence, streaking brilliant trails of red where it bobs through the air. With a flick of his wrist, he sends it flying into the fallen bird's nest, where it lands with a thud. A nauseating gurgle tickles Link's ears as the pitiful creature breathes its last.
That same bitter taste rises from his tightening stomach. Lips pursed, Link hurriedly retrieves the dark blade. He follows Ghirahim's lengthy strides in silence, pondering the day's numerous events. So many have transpired, and at so early an hour, a number of which he hopes to put behind him for good.
The demon's display of mercy, especially, is one Link is eager to forget.