Link thrashes and flails, desperate to dislodge the creature from to his back. Its grip seems feeble enough, brittle claws only vaguely registered; one swift motion would have surely succeeded were it not for the needle latched inches deep. Already he's begun to lose feeling, a slow cold creeping steadily down his neck.
My blade! cries the demon, trapped within his sword. Use my blade!
But his voice is an ocean away.
A well-timed stagger slams Link against the wall, the disembodied talon caught in between. With a sickening squelch, its stinger reflexively retracts into itself.
Stumbling from his one modem of support, Link swings his weapon on instinct alone, all remaining strength poured behind the dark steel. It finds its target without fail, cutting through the creature's leathery hide as though it were paper.
The knight almost begins to relax, but Ghirahim knows better than to cheer so soon. No fewer than a dozen of its skulking kin drop from the hovering darkness, drawn towards the copper scent now soaking through the knight's collar.
Do not drop me, as Link falls to one knee, no matter what happens, you mustn't drop me! The flesh of their first kill bleeds into Ghirahim's soul, its effects jarring, but miniscule. I need more, Link. You must slaughter them – quickly!
Another set of claws grabs at the knight from behind, and he throws it off with a strained cry. His grip on the hilt grows flimsy, yet Floormasters are frail foes indeed, and before the blade falls limp to his side, several bloodied 'fingers' are skidding across the floor.
The black steel shudders in his grasp. Grime spatters the walls and floor, painting the corridor a sick shade of green.
To your front!
Link can barely lift the blade. Chest tight, limbs heavy, he heaves the two-handed beast as high as it will go…
… and catches a charging fiend on the deadly point.
A burst of crimson light shimmers atmospheric. Diamonds beyond count echo and flutter, spectacular against the dull of the cinderblock, coalescing in patterns of gold and red and silver as they settle into humanoid form. Shrieking with laughter, trembling with thrill, the demon lord thrusts his saber forward.
Every Floormaster still living scurries from the sight, fleeing hurriedly towards the shadows. Deprived too long of the high of such violence, intoxicated with the blood of even such foul creatures as these, Ghirahim harbors no intention of permitting their escape. His fangs gleam behind stunning white lips, and he fells two foes in as many motions. Waves of sheer darkness trail his movements, humming a deadly baritone through the corridor. He turns just as another makes to exit, its talons half-embracing Link's neutral form, only to find itself lodged upon the demon's weapon.
It isn't until he disposes of its carcass that he glimpses the young man's face.
If anything could stop a beating heart.
Link's eyes are wide and glassy, spittle leaking from his twitching mouth. Hardly a tinge of color is left in his skin.
The slightest sound emanates to his rear, and with a snarl Ghirahim whirls. His sword slashes almost at random, cleaving one last monstrosity in two whilst the remainder vanish overhead.
A deathly hush falls over the corridor.
Saber fracturing and fading from his grasp, Ghirahim kneels by his young wielder's side.
"Link," he rasps, throat constricting inexplicably. His jaw tightens when he receives no response.
He presses two shaking fingers to the knight's neck, leaning in to better interpret his scent. Even through his gloves he can feel the cold. Though faint, the heart continues to beat – and he releases a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.
His relief is short-lived, however. He's hardly time to blink before that horrid chittering buzzes again in his ears. He approximates their distance and velocity – and seethes, forced to conclude that their time grows more precious by the second.
Teeth gritting, he secures his sword to Link's front, lifting the knight gingerly into his arms.
"Be strong, little hero," he whispers, half-sprinting past the corners of the blighted maze. "After all you've been put through, at my hands as much as at anyone else's, this will not be the misfortune that claims you."
Shadows darken as the venom spreads, scent thick, predator bent on retrieving its prey. Link's breathing is shallow, but his eyes remain alert, tenaciously fixed to the demon lord's face. A sea of blue riddles shines within those glossy orbs. Almost intuitively, Ghirahim recognizes the look of a man contemplating his final words.
He doesn't allow himself to wonder what they might be.
The Poes' trail leads them swiftly to the distorted hallway connecting labyrinth to main chamber, stray bunches of mangled carpet threatening to throw the demon from his feet. All the while Link's hand curls into Ghirahim's chest, clinging to the rich fabric as though it were his final line to this world. Perhaps it's foolish, knowing the futility of the gesture, to glean from it any comfort. Yet until he can carry the little human where his wounds can be properly tended to, a placebo is as good an antidote as any.
When the last of the infernal curvatures fall away, Ghirahim all but leaps. The door flies from its hinges in a shower of splinters, the remnants altogether consumed – for what lies beyond the boundary is awash with darkness.
No. Not awash. Flooded.
It's… palpable. Sensational. Black as ink, pressing in from all sides. The doorway itself seems to vanish behind, devoured in its entirety not the moment they cross. Even the ringing in the demon's ears is brought to heel, lost in the boundless hollow.
This dark is not merely the absence of light, any more than this silence the mere absence of sound. It is emptiness.
Or it would be, but for the saturated figure standing at its center, a mournful chant emanating from the head.
It bears the appearance of skin chafed raw, of flesh flayed, exposing tendon and nerve; of eyes without lids boring bloody circles, forever orbiting the onlooker's naked soul. Its song is that of one grieving the loss of a child; of notes lost to an echo, clanging brasslike in intermittence; of fingers half-mutilated strumming broken strings. Within seconds the macabre display is seared into the demon's mind, scarred upon the backs of his lids, a vision not unlikely to haunt. Link lies cold in his arms, fingers still curling and uncurling in the velvet of his cloak, yet Ghirahim cannot bring himself to act.
They stand, for it can be nothing less, in the presence of a god.
When the being speaks, its voice carries the weight of deep waters.
"They were my children," it says.
Only now does Ghirahim recognize the faint globes, four in all, each hovering over its respective sconce.
"Sold me their souls in exchange for vengeance. Torn from our land, made to gladiate until their carrion churned in the belly of this earth – a blatant disgrace. To die without leaving a corpse – this is the way of the Garo."
The Garo. Ghirahim swallows, opening his mouth, though it may as well be filled with cotton.
"Shells of malice," he rasps, "dishonored, in death as in life, for the warped entertainment of the Sheikah."
The god growls, for lack of a better description, its voice now an icy trill.
"But you are not amongst these offenders, Lord Ghirahim."
His knees nearly give. Tendons writhing in its skinless neck, the god looks to the children it had nurtured in blood.
"I see now that this domain is fruitless, purged of its impurity by the armies of Demise." Again, its voice becomes altered, tenuous and acidic. "You and the human are guiltless, my child."
Guiltless. The concept is comprehensible, yet he's far from breathing easy. With every word from the being's gaping mouth, the globes shine brighter, their once-soft halos continuously expanding. It's torturously slow, how they advance towards the center of the cruel gravesite. The walls themselves come alive with color.
Chords become dry, stone ricocheting off stone. "I shall take these souls to another dimension, and we will feast upon the inhabitants therein."
A haze seems to coat the demon lord's eyes, piercing light sparking a flame inside his skull.
"Remain here, and perish how best you see fit. Follow us, and be devoured."
Instantaneously his vision is submerged in white, forcing his eyes shut. When again they open, the arena reverts to a state of forlornness, lanterns like moonlight illuminating the concrete. His knees scrape against the cold stone, Link's still form draped gracefully across his lap.
Several moments pass, demon and knight seemingly frozen in time, until at last the former seizes his wits. Link's bloody fragrance drifts further and further, skin pale and clammy, drenched in cold sweat. Breathing erratic, the demon moves him gently onto his stomach. After resecuring the sword to his back, he folds the hem of Link's collar to better inspect the Floormaster's mark.
The odor thus unleashed takes the wind from his lungs.
Shielding his nose with a groan, Ghirahim reluctantly examines the puncture wound, peering through his curtain of hair. By now the bleeding has long since stopped, the flesh swollen and oozing clear fluids. The stinger had lodged directly into Link's spine, towards the vertebrae closest his neck, but had fortunately avoided any major arteries. A mere speck of crimson marks the broken skin; however, it's the bruising and swelling surrounding it that heightens Ghirahim's anxiety.
He removes one glove and, with the razored tip of his index claw, tests the injury's depth. When the skin twitches and flutters, despite the subtlety of his touch, he knows that the venom runs deep.
"Consider us even," he whispers, not truly expecting to be heard. In fact, should the gods have any mercy, the young knight will remember none of this.
His tongue flicks briefly through his lips, Ghirahim lowering his mouth to the human's neck. Not intending to breathe for several seconds at least, the demon draws a hefty inhale, then he sinks his fangs into the soft, tender mound.
The taste is as rancid as the scent, a bitter caldron of copper, iron, and various particles whose exact nature he'd rather not consider. Behind the bitter layers dance traces of cedar and violet, the human's natural flavors delicately rising from thin to overt the longer Ghirahim drinks from his veins. More and more, the ratio of venom to blood grow increasingly more agreeable…
Until it almost becomes a challenge to pull himself away.
This is your master now, he reminds himself, throat beginning to burn as though with alcohol. The sensation warms him, and not unpleasantly. Destroy him now, and you will shrivel and fade like the corpse that you are.
He withdraws, dizzy, sucking in the dank air. It takes a moment for his head to clear; only once the fog recedes does he realize how his claws dig into the little hero's arms. Had he been at full strength, the knight surely would have suffered a few crushed bones, at the least.
Shoving back against his own bleariness, Ghirahim manages to confirm the knight's improvement, a small trickle of blood now running red from the perforation. The bruising is as vicious as before, but the swelling has lessened considerably.
Content with these results, he sits back on his knees, heaving a lengthy sigh of reprieve. Without full awareness his lids begin to droop, the atmosphere all at once sodden.
He lifts his gaze to an eerie mist. It swirls in patterns like scales, in colors like soot and flame, in shapes and silhouettes like hulking mass.
His blood runs cold, nerves frayed at the edge. Serrated teeth snarl below leathery lips, curled upward in disgust; a mane of scarlet fire writhes atop a massive skull.
"Master…?"
"How far, my sword, have you fallen from grace."
It's an illusion – Ghirahim knows this. It isn't really him. And yet that voice, like the rise and fall of nomadic thunder…
"Would you truly align yourself with the likes of this child?"
He follows the talon as it points to the sleeping hero, pulse faint from blood loss, breathing spaced and shallow – and the demon's fire rekindles.
"What would you have me do, Master?" he spits, heat pooling in his chest. "It was your forgery that made me as I am, eternally reliant on whoever should wield me! Or did you forget that it was no less than a death sentence when you so thoughtlessly cast me from your side?"
"Do you think me so weak, lord?"
His inner ears shake, Ghirahim instinctively shrinking. The roar of the Demon King leaves no room for contradiction.
"You damned yourself the day you allowed this pawn to walk away hardly scathed. It was not I that chased you to the dog's bed, nor I who laid you down."
Though he yearns to resist, to argue these accusations, the demon yet bows his head in shame. 'I let you run with your life – twice, even. Such a guilty pleasure…'
"Then again," the abrupt softening of Demise's tone could dowse any flame, "you may yet be redeemed. Both the Hero and I are bound by this curse. Centuries may pass whilst my strength is rebuilt, but I shall rise again, and claim you. Unless…"
The blaze in his eyes could rival that of the sun.
"… your allegiance has already deviated?"
Subtle stirring from the young knight reclaims Ghirahim's notice, and he shifts his gaze for no more than an instant. When it returns, it's as though the Demon King had never been.
And it's likely he hasn't.
We cannot remain here, Ghirahim thinks, not so much as a moment longer. In one quick motion he's taken Link back into his arms, slipping hurriedly through the opened gateway, eager to put this wretched place behind them.
The hall that greets them is broader than the last, but no less twisted.
"Stay with me, Link," he breathes, coarse and uneven. His innards lurch, reeling in layers like molten glass. Whatever hexing craft has been hewn into this structure, it differs exponentially from any he's ever known.
Nuzzling tiredly into his chest, the human gradually recovers consciousness.
"Ghirahim…?"
"Yes, Link." This corridor, like the first, entraps the duo in a harrowing limbo, dragging on further the faster he runs. "I'm with you. You're fine, and I'm with you."
"I thought," a hand jolts to cradle his head, the other tight around Ghirahim's shoulders. Link's face contorts with pain, an ache splitting him from within. "I thought I saw Demise…?"
"It was nothing. Just another of the Poes' deceitful pranks."
As it was, had to be – could be nothing else. To dwell on it even now is to grant the wicked creatures' wishes. His sole priority at this time is to keep his little master awake. There can be no other.
In a stroke of epiphany, his mind jumps to their venture through the labyrinth before. "Have I ever told you of the demon realm?" he inquires. The topic is broad enough, and certainly innocuous. "It isn't the dour hellscape your Goddess may have you believe."
He feels Link chuckle against him. "We never talked about it," he musters.
"Splendid. It's difficult to fill a cup already full, yes? But I digress. Our home is actually quite serene, a landscape bathed in perpetual twilight. Not quite like the dusk you know here, though. More… ethereal."
Glancing down, he finds Link's eyes following his lips closely, and he gives the little hero a smile.
"The sky is orange, like liquid fire; the clouds a deep violet. Where they gather most densely, they even appear black – yet it rarely rains. The air is always temperate, the land itself elevated above immeasurable space. Now that I look back, it actually bears a striking resemblance to your lovely world above the clouds." Here he chuckles, a sudden hypothesis dawning. "Why, I wouldn't be surprised if Her Grace took inspiration from us when she created your lofty haven. Wouldn't that be ironic?"
Again, he looks over the human's face – and again, finds Link striving visibly to retain focus. "Yeah," coughs the knight, forcing a stiff grin. "I'll have to ask Zel-"
A fit of coughing cuts him short – but the exit is mere feet away. Sunlight beams through a canopy of leaves, their shapes blurred, but visible, through a rectangular frame. Ghirahim wills himself to slacken his pace, and with no absence of effort, his every instinct shrieking for him to move. They're so close…
"Stay with me, Link. Stay…"
A gust billows the points of his cloak as a great stone slab drops into the dirt, sealing the cursed tunnels behind them.
Link's consciousness fades in and out. One second, he hears nothing but the silver of Ghirahim's voice, volume constantly and inexplicably fluctuating. Their surroundings flicker and shift, a hazy type of fringe eating into his vision.
The next, he wakes to the bubbling of what must be a brook, to the scent of earth and life and trees, to golden-white light spilt over his face. His body feels weightless, like he's drifting through clouds, his Loftwing's downy feathers running smooth through his fingers. The night from which they emerged had felt eternal, and to see the sun now…
The warmth abruptly cools, a blazing itch at the base of his skull flaring, extinguishing all else with its agonizing flame. Then the familiar sensation of a heart salve being applied, mending the burning flesh, and Link truly comes to. Slowly, he begins to piece together the events that led them here.
When the healing effects spread through his limbs, a burst of energy wracks his form. The blood he'd lost is replaced within moments, and he bolts upright with a sharp inhale. His vision is still fuzzy, yet he's certain that can only be attributed to the sudden brightness – after all, what can one expect, waking in a pool of sunlight after spending hours below the earth? To his left he glimpses the striking red of Ghirahim's cloak, the demon crouched in the soft earth.
It's flawless, the way his hair catches the light, rippling across silver strands like moonlight reflected in peaceful waters. By contrast, once Link's gaze drifts to those dark eyes, a storm appears to be brewing.
It's in meeting that stare that Link snaps from his trance.
"Feeling better, I see?"
Not trusting his voice, the knight offers a nod, adjusting to the odd stretch where his skin freshly healed. Only then does he notice how much lighter he is, and looks to see the bulk of his equipment – swords, shield, quiver and bow – arranged neatly behind the demon lord.
"Good," he chimes in reply.
And lunges.
The shock alone throws Link into chaos, both bodies tumbling gracelessly through the uneven terrain. Even as his head spins, he strives to come out on top – but the demon's weight and brawn overpower his efforts. A tree breaks their violent plunge, and it isn't long before he's pinned by the wrists.
"Reckless, arrogant brat!" Ghirahim snarls, seething through bared fangs. "Do you know what your carelessness nearly cost us both?!"
Dumbfounded, Link scarcely has the chance to become defensive. Reversing the grip on his arms, he wraps his thighs around the demon's waist, shoving upwards until their positions invert. He brings his forearm to lie flat against the other's throat, the two now so close he can feel the demon's breath on his cheek.
"It's not like I did it on purpose," he growls. "And don't act like you're not at least partly to blame."
"Perhaps."
The clarity in his voice would have one believe nothing is blocking his airway in the slightest. His feet come up beneath the human's ribs, planting, then pushing, hurling Link into the air. He dives instinctively into a shoulder roll, stabilizing himself with a low crouch.
Not a second and Ghirahim is upon him again, grabbing him by the back of his tunic and ramming him, face-first, against another tree.
"But who was it that wound up dragging your frothing, twitching hide to safety in the end?"
The bark is rough, and brutal on his skin. It's all Link can do to groan in protest. Taking note of this stumbling block, Ghirahim turns him none too gently, and the two face one another with eyes ablaze.
Never before has the Hero felt so dwarfed.
"Well?"
The silence between them, on its own, is brief. It's the birds chirping overhead, the squirrels pecking at their spoils, the chitter of the gatherers of various species that seems to stretch on and on. The gentle ebb and flow of the stream grows deafening, the sticky fragrance of sap inebriating. From all angles, the pair is surrounded by life.
That's when it hits him.
… And he laughs.
It's light, at first, yet the demon lord's eyes widen with incredulity. How exactly his expression proceeds to shift is a mystery Link may never know; for as his laughter builds, tears blur that silver head beyond recognition.
"You saved me," he chokes when Ghirahim scoffs. "I needed you and- and," he clutches his stomach, only needing to stifle his merriment enough to speak, "and you came through for me."
The truth of it hits harder when spoken aloud. Now he sniffs, wiping the moisture from his eyes with the back of his hand. He's sure he looks ridiculous, his face pink, mouth twisted up in a stupid grin, but it can't be helped. When his vision clears, he's rewarded with Ghirahim's stunned, disheveled gaping.
Also, he notes, the demon has taken no less than a few steps back. Giddy beyond reason and perhaps even a little delirious, Link manages to breathe out one last sentiment.
"Thank you," he says.
The demon's hair haphazardly frames his ashen face, a side effect of their brawl, leaving very few strands to veil the subtle twitch in his left eye. The ridge of his brow is cocked, and it's clear that it isn't posed. The demon's speechlessness persisting, the knight moves forward, angling towards the crystalline lure of the stream, already pulling at his clothes.
As he unbuckles his belts, allowing them to fall carelessly at his feet, something inside the other finally snaps.
"What," demands Ghirahim, growing shrill, "in the name of Din, Nayru, and Farore above do you think you are doing?!"
By the time the last syllable rolls off his lengthy tongue, Link's boots, hat, tunic and chainmail are already strewn about the riverbank.
"Cleaning up," he calls, simple and straightforward, over his shoulder. "I feel like I've got spider guts all over me."
"It- they-," Ghirahim stammers, at a loss for how to arrange his admonishments. What comes out is, "They weren't spiders, you cretin!"
"Whatever." Link smirks while he tugs his undershirt over his head, only slightly aware of the other's eyes on him. "They were gross."
Discarding his trousers leaves him only in his small clothes, and for a moment, he considers removing even those. It's not as if he hasn't bathed in front of his peers on a regular basis, the whole class wiping the grime from their bodies after every spar. Something about it being Ghirahim, though…
He doesn't think about it. Besides, when his toes meet the water, his mind is instantly cleared of all else. The cool mud beneath his bare feet should have been indication enough, but the brook itself is freezing, running continuous under steady shade, nipping fiercely at every inch of skin lowered into its biting embrace.
It is relatively shallow, at least. A shelf of stony slates juts from the mud close by, and when content with his loose scrubbing, Link ends up resting against it. Feeling all at once refreshed, he rests his head upon his arms, gazing through damp bangs at the indignant demon lord. It's endearing, almost, how he rearranges his untamed strands, picking meticulously until they fall into the same smooth curtain as before.
"Do you want me to turn away while you take a turn?" the human asks, trying to be considerate. It only just occurred to him that he doesn't know what is and isn't considered polite according to demonic customs.
Ghirahim glowers, arms folding over his chest. "I'm afraid I will not be joining you."
"Why not?"
He's genuinely curious. Why one as fanciful and pristine as Lord Ghirahim wouldn't want to cleanse… unless…
Oh no.
The knight perks upright. "You don't-," now he's the one stammering, "you don't… rust… do you?"
He isn't sure what he'd been expecting. Ghirahim's arms fall weightless to his sides, face a mask of obsidian-webbed stone. Then, his eyes narrow just slightly.
"I beg your- do I…"
Again, there is nothing but the ambience of the forest, scampering animals and forces inane moving forward as though nothing were out of the ordinary.
Then Ghirahim throws his head back, and laughs.
Link stares, more in awe than in shock. It isn't like his usual cackling, sonorous and cold. No, this is much higher in pitch, bubbling through the demon's torso, almost funny in and of itself.
Without immediately realizing, Link is smiling back.
"What?" he asks innocently while Ghirahim pants for air. "You're a sword, so I figured you might- I dunno-"
"No, sky child," Ghirahim gasps, palm lain flat against his chest. "I do not rust."
Even the chill of the stream can't prevent Link's blush, lips still frozen in a pathetic grin. "Good to know," he squeaks, rubbing at his still-tender neck.
The afternoon sun is quickly dipping lower, the human's shivering soon escalating from subtle to violent. The motion is… familiar, rather, or it reminds him of a bothersome something that's been lingering stubbornly at the back of his head.
"Hey, um…"
He realizes too late that he isn't entirely sure how to phrase this. However, Ghirahim's expectant look spurs him on.
"That wasn't really Demise back there, was it?"
Steadily, even smoothly, Ghirahim wilts. Link watches intently as those sallow features fall, a shadow of melancholy sweeping over his own spirit as well. Yes, the demon had fought fang and claw to reunite with his abomination of a master, yet until now, it had never dawned on him that Ghirahim might actually miss the brute.
Could such a thing even be possible?
"No," comes Ghirahim's reply. His voice is stiff in an endeavor to remain neutral, but there's no fully masking the sobriety behind it. "As I mentioned before, Poes possess the ability to wreak havoc upon one's mental state, and by using our own inner turmoil against us, no less. Seeing as you were out of commission, they were forced to switch targets."
Of course. Link vaguely recalls the demon saying as much, though he can't really be blamed for Ghirahim's tendency to wax on and on. Even so, his relief is somehow mingled with… guilt. The final words of the Demon King ring voluptuously within the Hero's memory: 'An incarnation of my hatred shall ever follow your kind.'
But Ghirahim couldn't possibly know this. As far as the fallen lord is concerned, his old master is dead, leaving him with little more than a fleeting chance to devote himself to a new wielder for however long.
Is it wrong to want things to stay that way? The exhilaration of their shared travels, even only thus far, of terror and mortal peril and relying on one another not just for survival, but in every possible way – he can't deny that it's…
It's exactly what he's been missing.
"Link." Those honeyed chords pull him back once again. He looks to their owner, finding Ghirahim's demeanor returned to its full, sultry glory. "Your lips are turning blue, child. I suggest you get out and get dressed. So long as we neither dawdle nor stray, we can reach the desert from here by nightfall."
If the earth and the heavens share one consistency, it's the limitless expanse of a desert night sky. The sun seems to linger maybe a hair longer, yet save for this nuance, the milky way shines just the same as it does above the clouds. Stars hang in a tapestry woven by gods, simple and surreal, threading a tale with unhindered eloquence.
Through the mouth of their eolian cavern, dyed red from centuries of sandblasting and silt, the dunes look almost like gold. The very winds that had scorched the land not hours before now blow cold as a winter storm, and whenever Link releases a heavier exhale, the moisture clouds beneath his nose. Clad only in trousers, boots, and undershirt, he hugs himself and shivers.
It had been a goddess-send at first, relieving himself of the burden of his many layers, now stored in whatever pocket of space Ghirahim hoards his seemingly unending supply of knives. But once the sun had sunken past the horizon, Link found himself singing to a different tune.
Staring into the flames of their campfire, scarlet tendrils ever climbing towards heights they can never hope to reach, he wonders anxiously if this meager source of warmth will last them the night.
He's only half-surprised when Ghirahim drapes heavy velvet folds over his trembling shoulders.
Gooseflesh pricks the human's skin, yet he feels himself warming from the inside. Intrigued by this… unusual… occurrence, he tilts his head towards the demon lord. Gaze averted, Ghirahim's eyelids hang heavy, yet his elegant features display no true weariness.
An idea floats into Link's mind. Maybe it was the moment of vulnerability from before, when he had stripped and bathed in front of the other; or the lightheartedness of their short exchange – or, more likely, a combination thereof. Whatever the case, he absolves to test the demon's patience. It's a risk, and he fully expects to be shoved away or, at the very least, chastised with some admonishing insult, but he inches deliberately closer.
Ghirahim… reciprocates.
He embraces the young knight's shoulders, his hold grounding without being overbearing, stroking gentle patterns into the human's arm. Link feels sparks flare from every point of contact, until the golden-red flicker and crisp scent of smoke fade hazily into the background.
He rests his head against Ghirahim's shoulder, sinking deeper and deeper into the solidity of the demon's body. For the first time in months, perhaps even in the span of his life, he feels… safe.
"Are humans really so needy?" sighs the lord. His words are sardonic, yet his voice is gentle, melodious. "If tending to you is to forever be my purpose, I've my work cut out for me indeed."
Link continues to stare ahead, eyes painfully dry in the fire's heat. His limbs are heavy, his thoughts frazzled – so how can sleep seem so unattainable?
"Talk to me?" he mutters.
Ghirahim twitches curiously. "You ought to rest, little master."
"That's just it, though. I'm… restless. I think my brain needs a distraction, if that makes sense."
The demon hums. "Very well, then. You appeared to be having some sort of triumphant resolution back beneath the earth. Tell me," Oh dear, "have you, at long last, summarized the grounds for your delectably treasonous behavior?"
That one was my fault.
"I…" He shrugs. "I guess I was bored."
The demon guffaws, but Link means it – really, truly means it. Unexpectedly, he finds himself on the giving end of an outpour.
"After the whole ordeal, my mission, my destiny," the word is spat, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue, "I knew that going back to normal would be impossible. Then Zelda – not Hylia, Zelda – told me her plans to settle the Surface, to start a whole new life. I thought it would be exciting, that it would renew my sense of purpose without chaining me up to some divine scheme, but, well… it didn't. Not after a while, anyway."
Ghirahim listens without interruption, leaving the human feeling not judged, but free. Maybe even understood.
He continues, "I wanted to talk to Zelda about it, gods only know we've always told each other everything, but after the whole Goddess thing, I just worry it'll sound…," again, he exhales heavily, "ungrateful."
Now the demon pulls back, invoking pangs of displeasure – but he only makes room to observe Link's face. For a moment there is only the two of them, their shared gaze a silent melody, cavernous shelter a harmony of crackling, burning twigs.
The way those pale lips part, framing the faint gleam of enamel and tongue…
"You… intrigue me, Link," he breathes, voice hardly above a whisper. The sincerity in his tone leaves far greater an imprint than that of his usual sultry barriers. "You are clearly more than capable of intelligent speech. I am utterly perplexed as to why you would often be so stingy with your gift."
"Well." Link chuckles quietly. In wake of these long-suppressed secrets, lifted abruptly from his wearied heart, he feels wonderfully light. "Most of the people in my life seem either too shallow or too stupid to carry out a real conversation."
Mouth curving into a snickering grin, Ghirahim diminishes the distance between them once more. "That, darling, I can understand."
Though his lids relax, Link's chest persistently flutters. "Your turn," he tries, hoping the demon's velvety chords will quell his restless heart.
"My turn?"
"Tell me… I don't know. Something."
"The Hero of Legend, the Godslayer, a paragon of humanity and the warrior who struck down Demise – asking for a bedtime story?"
Link snorts, nodding enthusiastically.
With leisure, Ghirahim's chest rises, then falls. Not entirely exasperated, he humors his companion's modest request.
"Do you know why desert temperatures fluctuate so severely? In short, the sand is much to blame. Although an excellent distributor of heat, it retains the sun's warmth rather poorly-"
"Okay, now you're boring me."
A scoff. "Isn't that the point, dear?"
Is it?
Head swimming, Link shuffles closer still. "Tell me more about the demon realm. You said it was a lot like Skyloft? Are there Loftwings?"
Ghirahim sighs, perhaps a bit dramatically. "There are Kargaroks, the legendary Loftwing's dark cousin, but they are by nature too hostile to tame. With our magical inclinations, demons have found other ways to adapt – mainly, if a distance is too great to teleport across without becoming exhaustive, we will use handmade modes of transportation."
"Handmade?"
It's half genuine, his interest in these tales. The other half is more…
Maybe it's slightly more than half…
Ashen cheekbones dimple stunningly in the firelight, the demon's teeth bared in a smile of pride. "Did you think the Sheikah were the most advanced of the gods' creations? We demonkind have construed many intricate mechanisms to satisfy our various needs. Why-"
Calloused fingers cup his neck, desert-chapped lips crashing unceremoniously against the other's. Link pulls away almost the very same second, heart pounding wildly, face flushed with regret. It had felt so right, but it was stupid, and forward – too forward. Huddling for warmth amidst a deadly chill is one thing, but that?
"I'm sorry," he sputters, hasty and shrill. "I- that-"
He stops himself when Ghirahim's gloved hand, in turn, cups his face. Powerful fingers direct his jaw firmly, though gently, until he's forced to meet the demon's gaze. Between the shadows dancing across his sharp features, otherwise stoic and still, what swims within those chestnut-colored eyes is impossible to decipher.
Then, something changes. His steel relaxes, he leans forward – and Link is all too willing to meet him. When their lips brush, another series of sparks rattles the human's form, not unlike the jittering effects of the weapons of the Bokoblins that patrol in timeshift. Only this pain is… different, somehow. Rather than reeling away, he finds himself craving it, surrendering willingly to its uncanny lure, even frantic for more.
And so he slips both arms around the demon's neck, determined to pull him closer. Ghirahim's lips part ever so slightly, Link's own swift to follow, their connection deepening. The strange buzzing glides down to his waist, and he realizes shortly that the other's arms have snaked around his middle, guiding him down until his back meets the stone.
His head never fully finds the ground, slender fingers tangling into coarse, honeyed strands. A teasing tongue traces the seam of his mouth; when it dips inside, he gasps. The body pressed against his warms him far beyond any bed of embers. Every pulse from Ghirahim's core quickens Link's own, every ripple of lean muscle eliciting an excited moan.
Somewhere past the maw of their cave, an entire world may as well vanish. When the dawn illuminates the sands and their passion subsides, Nayru's flame will be out there waiting – and likely, Zelda, too.
Yet Link rests easy that night, knowing that when again his Goddess confronts him, he'll at least have an answer to give for his crimes.