Yooo, congrats on getting to ch03. If this concept seems familiar, it's likely bc of a-perplexing-puzzle's Blind, But Now. Idk if hers was the first fanfic to use this general outline, but it is the first I ever read for it, so credit where due.
Silver streams thread the wooded hills, green and yellow leaves blanketing the world as far as the eye can see. The human eye, anyway. Who knows what a Loftwing can perceive with just a glance?
Several times now, Link's crimson beast has been spotted circling overhead, prohibited by its master from drawing too near. Nearly every few minutes, it will cast pleading signals, deep pangs of longing jabbing at his psyche through their shared bond – and each time he's forced to send his dear companion away, Link's heart aches a little more. Against the pale-blue sky, the creature's brilliant feathers shine like living flame, a beacon that the two travelers simply cannot afford to indulge.
It's not until the azure plumes of Zelda's own Loftwing appear, soaring alongside Link's riderless mount, that the knight experiences truly gouging concern. Nor is either phenomenon lost on Ghirahim.
"She is absent," says he. He cranes towards the sky, chin peeking shyly from the edge of his mantle.
Although the demon sounds plenty sure of himself, Link isn't immediately convinced. "How do you know?"
"The cloud barrier, though of Her Grace's own making, could not conceal her from my sight, and much less still prevented me from tracking her aura through mountains and more. A better question would be, dear: How could I not?"
Memories of Fi's dowsing flash through Link's mind, as well as bits and pieces of his past dealings with the dark sword spirit. He hadn't given it much thought before, although now that he does, it makes perfect sense. To think that during the full course of their parallel pursuit, both Ghirahim and Link had been using the same method to seek the same person. It's rather ironic.
Surely, Zelda already knows this. Is that why she's absent? For years now, the two of them would often use their Loftwings to relay messages to one another. Could she be doing just that, trusting Link to feel more at ease without her present?
In either case, it doesn't exactly make him feel any better.
The soft crunching beneath his boots grows unbearably loud, inexplicably managing to amplify the raucous drumming of his thoughts. Even the slightest noises pound against his skull. He hears the blue-shelled Deku Baba twitching in its grassy cot even before it slithers from the ground, red tongue writhing over acrid fangs. With a well-timed slash across its jaw the carnivorous plant is brought down in a shower of mucous, releasing a chemical scent that burns in his nostrils.
Link kneels in the grass to wipe his blade clean, grateful for the temporary respite from his bleak meditations.
A few feet ahead, Ghirahim stands and observes, until the other bristles under his gaze. When he raises his head to meet those dark eyes, he finds them glistening with amusement.
"How many years have passed," says the demon, "since I first caught sight of you in Faron Woods, falling over and again to those spineless brutes?"
It takes a moment for the sentiment to register, and once it does, Link feels his face slowly growing hot. He'd nearly forgotten how none of Skyloft's Chu Blobs or Keese had truly prepared him for his first few encounters on the Surface.
He returns to his task with haste, ears twitching as the demon emits a short, silver laugh.
"Oh, yes, I remember it well! That flimsy old shield of yours struck to splinters, that hideous frog's tunic coated in slime!" From his peripheral Link glimpses Ghirahim wiping a fake tear. "But then, I suppose we all have to start somewhere, now, don't we?"
"Oh, shut up," the knight mutters; then, louder, "I thought it was rude to stare?"
"Can it be helped? You are rather cute."
Beyond a doubt, Link is now red to the tips of his ears. Ghirahim's sonorous mirth echoes through the treetops, but rather unlike his usual mockery. The sound is smooth, yet more rhapsodical than Link remembers it ever having been. It may actually even be sincere.
"Come along then, little hero," says the demon, still chortling, returning to his unseen path. "Should your spirit maiden deduce our destination, she'll likely intercept; and I, for one, would prefer not to spend another millennium within the confines of my sword – or whatever other grisly fate Her Grace may have in mind."
Spirit maiden.
Zelda.
Despondency infecting him like a blight, Link sheathes his sword with a leaden arm, the dark musings of before rushing to the forefront of his mind. He knows, at heart, that Zelda's Loftwing isn't likely out for a simple joyride, and that the minute they enter a decent clearing, the bird will be swift to greet the two. Part of him, eager to hear from his doubtlessly worried-sick best friend, prays that his initial suspicions are true.
Another part of him, though he's ashamed to admit it, worries that this may be a trap.
"Will you stop that?!"
Stiffening visibly, the human freezes, his stare of confusion palpable. Just the way he startles suffices to lift Ghirahim's spirits; and better yet, the parchment between his fingers stills.
'Can we please talk? I just need to know that you're safe.'
Link had read the words of his Goddess aloud, features twisting with no small measure of guilt. Ghirahim himself was permitted to skim over the letter's brief contents, careful to maintain an air unimpressed and unconcerned.
Then the crumpling, uncrumpling, crumpling, uncrumpling, CRUMPLING, UNCRUMPLING-
"Believe me, sky child, I am no more a stranger to anxiety than you – after all, it is my skin on the line here – but must you assail my ears with your wretched, ongoing fidgeting?"
"… Sorry."
Eyelids sagging, Ghirahim strives to hold his agitation close, willing it to simmer and spill like a caldron left too long upon the hearth. Yet despite his struggle, the innocent timbre of Link's deep, docile chords worms unknowingly through to his core, soothing his sparks before a flame can truly be kindled.
Honestly, it's infuriating.
And so he points his attentions elsewhere. Even from afar, the roar of Floria Falls can be heard thundering over the cliffside. Fatigue tugs at his every ligament, the weight of his sword likening his limbs to stone, but he remains tenacious, allowing the steady increase of volume to guide him.
Before long, the hazy greenery gives way to natural limestone. Carved from the briny formations with immaculate intricacy, a gaping anglerfish frames the entrance to the ancient cistern.
The terracotta pathway is firm beneath his soles, the alteration of terrain bringing to light his state of equilibrium. When their road is cut off by a bridge broken and submerged, Ghirahim is forced to pause in his tracks, leaning now almost wholly on his sword. Behind him, the rhythmic tapping of his companion's boots slows to a halt.
'Can we please talk? I just need to know that you're safe.'
The message runs continuous through his mind. Within lies a warning – of this he is certain – rolling tantalizingly at the front of his brain, just waiting to be shaken loose; but the constant cloud of weariness flouts his attempts to discern it.
"Can you make it?" says Link, pulling the demon from his futile rumination. He glimpses movement from the corner of his eye, and turns his head just in time to see Link's cautious hand withdraw.
Bleary as his mind's eye has become, Ghirahim remains alert to the Water Dragon's looming aura. Should they linger too long, she will surely catch their (rather distinct) scent.
"I haven't much choice," he breathes, pressing his forehead to his hilt. "Her Excellence is close, and the two of us didn't exactly part on the best of terms."
Link frowns. "Will you let me carry you then? You look exhausted."
Another spark, drowned before given the chance to ignite. Must the boy be so unconditionally considerate?
"Don't patronize me, child," Ghirahim sighs, too meek to qualify as a snap.
His feet drag when he moves, barely able to maintain noncorporeal form long enough to traverse the gap between patches of dry ground. With every step, Link's offer becomes progressively more tempting, until the demon's pride is outweighed only by the fear that should he return to his sword now, he'll forever be unable to reemerge.
He appears before the entrance at the verge of collapse. To his rear resounds a crisp splash.
Blessed with a scale of Faron herself, Link swims like a parella, following Ghirahim's transport with uncanny grace. He leaps from the water in a serpentine fashion, diving into a shoulder roll, water running from his lithe figure in sheets until he is dry as mere moments before. The demon speculates, with just a hint of morbid satisfaction: would the little hero ever have guessed he'd one day wind up like this, using the gifts of his Goddess so blatantly to defy her wishes?
'Can we please talk? I just need…'
He freezes. The traces of the spirit maiden's aura, still lingering on her letter – they mask her scent. Could the demon kick himself, he most certainly would.
He's hardly opened his mouth in warning when a roar like the Falls cascades tenfold. From the cavernous shadows opposite the anglerfish's maw, crystalline blues snake with the speed of a river following heavy rains.
Once they've stilled, the behemoth form of the Warden of the Woods snarls down upon him, her fangs like mother of pearl, her eyes like the deep. Looking into them, there's no denying how she hungers to swallow him whole.
Sweat beads the demon's forehead, his skin gone clammy, his breath beginning to shake. Ever by his side, Link promptly springs to action. Though his weapon remains sheathed, he takes a defensive stance between the two – as though either course could effectively bar this beast from her vengeance.
Scales rippling in the noonday light, Faron speaks.
"You were a fool to return to me, particularly in such a state as this." The descent of her voice is akin to that of a raging monsoon, fierce and heavy on his ears.
"Faron," cries Link, and Ghirahim knows that he alone is the sole reason she hasn't consumed the demon this instant, "Your Excellence, this isn't what it looks like-"
"Stand aside, Hero."
"Just let me explain-"
"Stand aside-"
"Link," with his free hand, Ghirahim clutches Link's shoulder, "the girl-"
But the spirit maiden has already sprung from the dragon's cave, her glaring white dress billowing at the sleeves. In tow jogs the hulking mass of her faithful redheaded hound.
What a way to die. Perhaps the cistern's alternative entrance would have been the wiser choice, after all…
No, he corrects. Not even this mess is worth risking… that.
By now the demon is practically draped over Link's back, the bulk of his shield prodding Ghirahim's tender chest. He can do nothing but watch the deadly trio close in…
But the girl unexpectedly turns, skidding to halt before the great serpent in a radiant shower of silver droplets.
"Your Grace-!"
"Faron, I implore you," Zelda's chords ring clear through the gully, "allow me to handle this. There is no immediate threat here."
Did he hear her right?
Ghirahim scarcely has a chance to fully question his lucidity, for Link's hands hold his arms to the knight's chest. It feels as though they were retreating, one pair of feet stumbling behind the other's, but even that may be imagined.
"I trust," seethes the Water Dragon, "that you have good reason for obstructing justice this day." His vision fades in and out, his form becoming weightless. "What I cannot fathom is why your hero appears to have thrown in his lot with this monster."
"It's- it's complicated- Groose, wait!"
Ghirahim lurches – or rather, is lurched, the ground moving beneath his feet. It isn't until they drag across the stone, separate from any willpower of his own, that he realizes that his sword is no longer in his grasp. Its steel tip scrapes shrill alongside him, both weapon and spirit held firm by the heavy-laden knight in green.
"Link!" cries the haggard gravel of his overgrown peer, echoing through the vastness of the cistern's main floor. "Link, what are you doing?!"
Gravity forsakes them, then slams with a drifting sensation. Why, he muses, the little polliwog is playing leapfrog. They stumble as their lily pad base starts to sink, whether from the combined weight or from his blade's naked edges tearing through the paper-like leaf, it matters not. Water sloshes up to Link's waist, drenching Ghirahim's garments from soles to calves, but he manages to land the both of them upon solid earth once more.
Their route slants upward, then curves, shared gait more rough and uneven than before. Indubitably, adrenaline alone fuels Link's labored sprinting now.
"Don't you know who that is?!"
As the redhead hollers again, his voice carries high, leaving Ghirahim to infer their location within the spiral of the central tower.
And the voice is growing closer.
A sharp tug jerks at Ghirahim's cloak, nearly tearing it straight from his person. The metal chain coils around his throat, cutting off his airways, black specks dancing before his eyes. In an instant, he finds himself tumbling down the stairway, torn from his escort like a doll with loose stitches.
The suffocating grip relaxes, and air fills his lungs – only for a meaty fist to tangle into his hair. Mercilessly, he is slammed face first against the limestone, colliding against the wall with a sickening crunch.
"What have you done to him?!" the voice roars, mere inches from his ear.
"Groose," Link's own softer vocals crack without a beat, desperate and harsh, "stop it – you're hurting him!"
Groose ignores him, grinding the demon's face further into the stone. Ashen flesh scrapes and tears, the bitter reek of smoke rising from where his blackened gashes worsen. Nerves ablaze, Ghirahim releases a sharp cry of pain.
A flinch in the brute's movements grants him temporary respite, Link leaping upon the other's back, only to be thrown off with little effort.
"Groose, please!"
Link grasps the hilt of his broadsword, Ghirahim's own blade lying somewhere out of sight. Helplessness glistens in his huge, pleading eyes, reluctant to draw upon his fellow man, no matter how low the beast's behavior.
"Is this some sort of trick?" growls Groose, addressing the demon; then, to Link, "C'mon, man – can't you see he's playing you somehow? Don't you know what he's capable of?"
Palms flat against the wall, Ghirahim attempts to shove himself free, earning him tightened pressure at the base of his skull. His eyes sting, teeth clenched, as he fails to bite back a strained grunt.
It's then that a fire lights within him. Call it rage, call it adrenaline, but when he curls his fist to his chest, a dagger manifests, its smooth surface cool against his palm.
"Oh, you're not going anywhere, bud-"
Groose is cut off by his own deafening scream, obsidian buried to the hilt in his thigh. Immediately the pressure dissipates, and Ghirahim staggers to his feet, lunging for his sword the second it enters his vision. He doesn't look to see if Link follows.
Somewhere beyond the gilded ruins of Koloktos, past the rancid remains of fallen undead, burns a flame that may very well put an end to his existence. Better it than some meddlesome teenager.
"I'm sorry, Groose!" Link shouts from behind. "You'll be okay!"
Although he doesn't sound like he fully believes it.
By now, Ghirahim has reached the top of the stairway, stumbling over the threshold and into the dark chamber. The door once guarding Farore's flame has long since been cast aside, framing the green light flickering beyond its boundary. Link's footsteps are soon to follow alongside, helping the demon back to his feet where he trips over stray pieces of debris.
Inside, the red flames atop their miniscule sconces pale before the fires of the Goddess of Courage.
"Ghirahim," heaves Link, gasping for breath, "he will be okay… right?"
Part of him wants to scoff at the youth, harboring such genuine concern for the oaf. But then, there's likely much he doesn't know of the humans' personal history.
"He will," answers Ghirahim, not intending his tone to admonish, "so long as he doesn't remove the projectile without properly staunching the flow of blood."
When he extends his weapon towards the knight, he's met with an incredulous stare.
"I won't lie to you, Link." Silently, he wonders whether the knight's fear isn't indicative of the redhead's being as stupid as he looks. "And the sooner we test this experiment of yours, the sooner we – or you – can tend to your Goddess and her pet."
Green flecks shimmer and dance in ocean eyes, the light of the fire casting somber shadows across Link's face. His expression turns sour, yet he takes the sword handed him.
"Would it kill you not to talk about my friends like that?"
"No," Ghirahim offers the hint of a smile, "but this venture might."
His quip doing nothing to lighten the mood, the demon continues.
"Now." He adjusts his cloak, horridly disheveled after the previous scuffle. "How does this venture work?"
Worry plasters the young man's face, twisting his features into a maze of brazen dread. "If it works," he says, hardly above a whisper. "If it doesn't take you from me."
Perhaps it's simply borne of his own paranoia, but Ghirahim swears he can make out the faint echo of footsteps. Gingerly, he places a hand on Link's shoulder – for his own reassurance as much as for the other's.
"It might not," he answers softly. "But one way or another, your people most certainly will."
The tendons in Link's neck pulse and twitch, mouth pressed into a hard line. He brushes Ghirahim's gloved fingers briefly, giving them a gentle squeeze, before holding the massive blade towards the ethereal roar.
Ghirahim can feel the heat upon his steel.
"When I came here with Fi," says Link, "she would stand before the flames, almost like she was… calling to them, I guess."
Warily, Ghirahim saunters towards the fiery caldron, not stopping until the warm caress grows unbearably hot. Summoning what power he still possesses, the demon engulfs himself in a mass of black energy, its thundering howl rivaling even that of the green goddess.
The sudden rush of magic catches Link off guard, and when the cloud recedes, Ghirahim finds the human has stumbled back considerably. Once he's lowered the arm shielding his eyes, all darkness, all dread is wholly transformed, Hylia's precious hero staring up at him in wonder.
Between this unabashed admiration and the stimulating glow on his metal skin, Ghirahim basks, his spirit renewed. Without even a glance downward, he can make out the iridescence of his own white markings, bleeding green into matted atmosphere. Doubtless, he is a striking sight to behold.
"Well then, little master," he chimes, approaching the fire once more, "let's see if the gods will answer the call of a demon lord."
Indeed, he isn't compelled to go far. The lapping tendrils are drawn to his core, running him through the second his feet touch the caldron's cusp. All at once, the emerald sheen extending to every corner of the room grows somehow more vivid, the steel of his nerves alight with- with-
Energy. Pure, unadulterated energy.
It seeps through his core, the thin silver coating shattering upon impact; it bubbles in his chest; then before he can recognize the sensation for what it is, his laughter overflows, spilling through his lips in a vivacious echo that bounces from wall to wall.
He turns to the stunned figure of what he now knows to be his future master. Link, so enthralled by the glorious display, barely raises his weapon in time. When the power shooting forth is absorbed by his blade, the effect is instantaneous. Steel morphs as though it were molten, taking new shape in a matter of seconds.
As Ghirahim takes his leave from the blessed caldron, returning to his organic form as soon as he exits the flames, Link straightens to his full height. The sword, from tip to pommel, stands only to the height of the human's collarbone. Maybe it's only the light, but the gemstone embellishing the cross guard appears to have shifted to a vibrant, forest green. What's more, the inverted Triforce is gone. Save for these minor details and the slight smoothing of its edges, the weapon appears much the same – only better suited to its new wielder.
But Link isn't looking at the sword. His eyes are locked onto the demon lord.
"It worked," he gasps. "I- it- it worked! And look at you!"
He gestures towards the other as a whole, laughing excitedly, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Growing almost concerned, Ghirahim follows the Hylian's gaze, not entirely surprised at the partial recession of the cracked webs tarnishing his skin.
"How-," Link's voice lowers as he chokes (sobs?), approaching the demon with forced caution, "how do you feel?"
Revitalized. Powerful. Unstoppable.
The full extent of his vocabulary races through Ghirahim's mind, yet the sole word comprising his response is,
"Alive."
But their victory is short. Behind the softly grinning knight, two disproportionate figures stand silhouetted against the cistern's natural light.
"My condolences, Your Grace," the demon calls over Link's oblivious head. "I know the alternative would have resolved a major dilemma – though you must admit, this is far more interesting."
Link whirls around to face the two, the demon's sword clutched protectively to his chest.
"Zelda," he breathes, "Groose. You're okay."
Truly, the brute doesn't even limp, sword drawn and held at the ready as he follows faithfully at his Goddess's side.
"No thanks to your new best friend," growls he. "If Zelda hadn't gotten to me quick as she did, I would've bled out for sure."
"You attacked him first, Groose. I told you – begged you – to leave us alone." Expectantly, Link turns his attention to Zelda, softening somewhat at the girl's less severe demeanor. "Zelda. I got your note. I'm safe, have been this whole time."
From the look of her, the spirit maiden will require further persuasion.
"Are you sure about that, Link?" She hugs her arms to her chest, casting a wary glance over his shoulder towards the demon. "Intentional or not, he almost killed Groose just now. We were lucky this time, but we can't afford to have accidents like this – especially not with Skyloft's transition to the Surface."
For a pause, Link is silent. Frustration darkens his face. How can he convince them that the danger is gone, that should he and his sword have only peace and acceptance, they will gladly reciprocate?
"You stopped Faron from attacking," states he, "so clearly some part of you believes there's hope for him."
"That was before-"
"It was hardly an 'attack,' Link," Groose interjects. "So I grabbed him off of you! Big deal!"
"Guys, please? Can you just- I don't know? Let us try the other flames?"
Groose, again, "So that he can get stronger and finish the job? Buddy, did you hit your head recently?!"
"He's right, Link. This demon is cunning. You know better than anyone what lengths he's already gone to in order to secure Demise's power. The Triforce didn't stop him; you didn't even really stop him, his ritual complete before you could cut him down. How can you think anything's changed? That it's even worth the risk to our home, our people?"
"Demise is dead, Zelda."
The demon's chest grows lighter, granted reprieve as the knight gives voice to what surely they all ought to be thinking.
Until the spirit maiden rectifies, "Dead for now."
There's little room to question her meaning. Groaning low, Link clutches at his own hair, honeyed strands tearing almost audibly. "You don't understand-"
"Then tell us. Tell me."
Zelda's tone may plead with him, but her eyes don't share in it.
"Link…"
"You're not listening," he rasps. His features despair, harsh with exasperation.
But with the girl, or with himself?
"He… we-"
Too long a moment consists of this aimless stammering, Ghirahim beginning to wonder whether Link truly has an explanation for his own compulsions – or if words simply aren't his strong suit. Tentatively, he rests a hand on the human's shoulder, prepared to move them as far as Farore's gift will allow.
"Perhaps I'm mistaken," he offers, feigning far less interest than is truly warranted, "as I am unfamiliar with your people's customs, but is he not worthy of making his own decisions?"
Link glances over his shoulder, their eyes meeting briefly. Ghirahim can't quite identify the strange gleam therein.
"Of course he is!" Zelda snaps. "It's you we're not so sure about. Link."
She extends a hand, but not before casting her redheaded hound a mysterious look. Slowly, they begin to move forward, Groose's longer strides shortly overtaking her own.
Eyes flitting, likely in search of escape, Link does not back down. "Don't do this."
His voice is deep, low in warning, yet the sword remains pointed stubbornly at the floor. With growing resentment, Ghirahim accepts that this man will not so easily turn on his own kind – not even for his own sake.
"You would be wise to heed your Hero's advice," he gives in one final attempt. "He himself wishes no ill will upon you, leastwise not yet. I, on the other hand, have no such qualms with safeguarding my freedom at your expense."
Again, that desperate look of horror swims in Link's gaze, surely questioning to what lengths the demon will – or even can – go. Still, he says nothing; not to Ghirahim, not to his kin.
"Buddy, are you even hearing this?" cries Groose, gesticulating accusatorily.
"So convinced that I can be naught but a monster, yet so surprised at my willingness to play the part."
His hand remains firm on Link's shoulder. Panic rising, the human tries to break loose, but the demon's nails only dig deeper the more he struggles. He raises his free hand, the redhead lunges-
An earsplitting SNAP echoes through the chamber, and the world flashes crimson.
Once, some four or five years ago, when Link had first aged into manhood, he had found himself overcome with vertigo and, subsequently, had fainted in his dorm room. He'd seen the phenomenon occur with others before, foolishly overworking themselves, swaying with dehydration or sometimes even heat stroke. Experiencing it for himself, however, was a vastly different sensation. One moment he was on his feet, pacing the length of the carpet whilst reading some cruelly boring academic text minutes prior to Owlan's deadline; the next he was on the floor, his head planted by a bedpost, crimson droplets trickling down his temple.
Just now, he realizes, to be teleported with neither warning nor say, is to relive that experience.
One moment he'd been upright, head spinning, hunting desperately for a method of escape that wouldn't inevitably result in bloodshed. Now, with a slight shift of his weight, he realizes that he's crouching, that nothing but a wooden beam elevates him from the depths below. Solid arms envelop him, warmth crashing in waves across his front.
When his vision clears, he finds himself looking at the diamond lining of Ghirahim's mantle.
The demon's head is pressed to Link's shoulder, chest heaving silently. Afraid he may have lost consciousness entirely, Link pulls the other back, gently, by the shoulders. Carefully, he examines Ghirahim's grey, wearied face.
Chestnut eyes crack open, and before Link can suck in a gasp, Ghirahim raises one finger to his lips.
Zelda's frantic voice carries from down below.
"He's still weak," she says. "He'd have fought us if he wasn't – he was bluffing. That means he couldn't have taken Link far."
Link attempts to chance a look downward, but in so cramped a position, the view remains obstructed. Leisurely, Ghirahim lowers his silencing pose.
When his grip on Link's arm loosens, eyes falling shut, the Hylian jolts to prevent their falling. In his haste in so doing, his hands secure, at first absently, to the demon's waist.
Beneath the heavy drapes of his cloak, Ghirahim boasts a surprisingly slender figure, almost contradictory to his sturdy build. Vaguely Link recalls it from one of their more recent conversations, where in a moment of utter exhaustion, the two had shared a gentle embrace. Reenacting the scene with his own senses alert – and the constant, simmering threat of Ghirahim's underlying strength now so thoroughly drained – sends butterflies swarming through Link's stomach. The closeness alone, he can see growing accustomed to. It's the vulnerability, the sheer amount of trust that this being has put in him that feels…
Before he can put a name to it, two distinct footfalls tap across the cobblestone floors.
"The cistern is huge," Zelda persists, "but there's only one way in or out. Can you guard the exit while I send for more help?"
She's answered by a sickening series of pops – Groose cracking his knuckles, a disgusting habit that always had Link cringing.
"It would be my pleasure."
"Don't hurt them, you meathead. Just… don't let them leave."
"I won't hurt anyone," comes the redhead's placating reply. "Not Link, anyway."
"Or Ghirahim, if it can be helped. You don't kick an enemy when he's down, Groose. Do you ever pay attention to anything Eagus says during rounds?"
"What can I say? I'm usually busy planning my technique."
Further discourse passes between them, but their words are lost in the distance.
While Groose's compliance with Zelda's wishes is predictable enough, Link draws little comfort from it. He may act accordingly with her around, but the minute Zelda turns her back, the older boy is sure to revert straight back to his typical rash, aggressive behavior.
One fact holds true, and that's that they have to get out of here – and soon. How, exactly, is another matter, though Link supposes the first step would be to get down from this awkward perch.
Almost reluctantly, he jostles Ghirahim as gently as he dare. He receives a low hum in response.
"Can you hold onto me?" he whispers, lest the other two still be close enough to hear.
Two arms wrap snugly around his waist, which Link accepts as answer enough. Metal scrapes lightly behind him, the shrunken blade of the demon's sword pressed flat against the shield strapped to Link's back.
Retrieving the sailcloth from his leather pouches, Link guides them both to solid ground.
No later than his feet touch the floor does the demon collapse, the clattering of his blade ringing fiercely through the chamber. Link, falling to his knees, scarcely catches the former in time, Ghirahim's deadening weight heavy in his arms, whilst the sword bounces helplessly against the cobblestone. Both men may as well have turned to ice, the booming, dominating echo thundering in their ears.
When at last it fades, the ensuing silence feels somehow louder, muscles clenched tighter in numbing trepidation. "We can't stay here," breathes Link. "Even if no one heard that, it won't be long before half the knights of Skyloft are patrolling this place."
As though partially awakened by this truth, Ghirahim stammers to his feet. Link follows his rising form, providing support should it be needed.
"Can you teleport us past the exit?"
"Not-," Ghirahim coughs, "not without being seen. Do you think you can outrun your hulking friend with both me and my blade clinging limply to your person?"
He chuckles dimly at the question, fully aware of the answer before he even asked.
"There is, however, another way out." The demon's tone darkens, even as Link's eyes start to glimmer with newfound hope. "A passage beneath the cistern."
"Through the lower levels?"
"Lower, still, than that."
The knight's features harden, mild indignation mingling with genuine curiosity. By this point, the adrenaline has begun to forsake him, the weight of their earlier confrontation leaving his emotions wrought.
"Why didn't you mention this before we came here in the first place?" he demands, still stabilizing the demon in his arms. "We could've avoided the Water Dragon, maybe even Zelda and…"
A sob tears from his throat, cutting his attempt at reprimand infuriatingly short. He doesn't dare hold Ghirahim's gaze, eyes cast to the side. No matter the nature of the demon's reaction, Link is certain it will trigger the dam within to burst.
"Don't worry yourself about why I kept this from you, Link."
His voice is low, tone soft and even… warm. Certainly not expected. From its comforting lilt the human is supplied with a much needed bout of courage, and, willing his breathing to slow, lifts his gaze until it meets that of the fallen lord.
Dark eyes narrow visibly, white lips curled into a snarling frown. The room itself seems to shift in warning. A cloud settles over them, poisoning the air they breathe, choking all willpower from Link's constricting lungs. For the first time since the Lynel, Ghirahim's regal features contort with fear.
"I assure you," he concludes, "you will find out soon enough."
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