Hey y'all, I feel like I should warn you this chapter is super friggin' long. Sooooo buckle up, we gettin' there
When Link wakes, it's courtesy of a golden glare spilling through the cavern's maw. Gently, his eyes creak open, vision a blur of red earth and gold-lit motes of sand. The air is warm and dry, parchingly so; groggy though he is he knows the worst is yet to come.
He sits upright, every muscle stiff and strained, heavy folds of crimson gliding off his sweat-slick frame. The leather pouches that had cushioned his head through the night did little to prevent the kink now in his neck. Rubbing gingerly at the knotted muscles, he peers around the cave.
Ghirahim is absent, mostly. His sword rests comfortably atop Link's other equipment, the green gemstone striking in the morning light. Its presence means the demon can't have wandered far…
The night is cold, yet he teems with heat, his clothing adhered to his skin. It feels somehow simultaneously suffocating and thin, perhaps because Ghirahim hovers not inches above. As his tongue withdraws, Link is left gasping for air he hadn't known he'd been deprived of. Is that why he feels so lightheaded?
Thick and breathy, the demon speaks into the crook of his neck, "How far do you want this to go?"
Link's face heats slightly as the memories flood him. At the time, he could think of nothing but the fluttering in his chest, the tingling on his skin, the heat in his loins. In light of such primal instincts, the concept of aftermath was nonexistent. Now, forced to confront the consequences of his choices, he's unsure what to expect.
Tugging self-consciously at his clothes, he makes his way through the cavern's mouth.
Immediately he raises a hand to his eyes, shielding them from the sun's vicious assault. Once they've adjusted, however, and he lowers his arm, the view that greets him is nothing short of stunning.
The Lanayru mountains, hazy and proud, stand shrouded in rose-gold mist, clouds tinted lavender meeting their base at the jagged horizon. In the pale morning light, the mesas comprise a palette of soft hues, mainly violets and mauves. The sky stretches in a mystical ombre, fading from liquid gold to sporadic patches of pinks and blues. It occurs to him that he's never before been this far east within the desert regions. Even so, the terrain is somewhat familiar, and he's certain the mines can't be more than a few hours' walk from here.
A silver gleam to his left grabs his attention. Though the figure is static, Link nearly jumps from his skin. Ghirahim sits casually upon the sand, his pale frame picturesque against the golden-reds, diamond earring glittering in the morning rays. One knee is bent to his chest, an arm resting against it, while the other is folded neatly in his lap. Tentatively, Link approaches, the soft crunch of sand beneath his boots deafening in the quiet. At the distance he deems appropriate (and hopes the sentiment is shared), he plops down, legs folded, by the other's side.
Thick and breathy, the demon speaks into the crook of his neck, "How far do you want this to go?"
The question catches the human off-guard. While no stranger to the concept, he's suddenly aware of how he's never really, er, fooled around like this before.
"I don't know," he rasps, chest heaving.
It's difficult, meeting Ghirahim's visible eye, and when he does, it doesn't return his gaze. No, Ghirahim's focus does not divert from the landscape, his chestnut-colored orb a sea of wonder. Link almost questions whether he's even conscious of the human's presence.
Until he speaks.
"You woke earlier than expected."
It's simply stated, incredibly straightforward, a mere observation. Link has to kick himself mentally to keep from reading into it.
"It's weird," he replies, clearing his throat, "sleeping away from my own bed."
Ghirahim hums, expressionless, eyes ever glued to the scenery. "Cavern floors are not particularly agreeable, ergonomically speaking, are they?"
But Link is barely listening. Inhaling deeply, he starts, "Hey, um-"
He's silenced with a look, not malicious or unkind, but still somehow fierce. The sun's rays cast a golden halo about Ghirahim's silver head, his thin curtain of hair rippling just enough to reveal the black diamond etched into his cheek. Link had felt it for himself the night before, running his thumb repeatedly over the debossed texture, positively fascinated. Even now he aches to know exactly what it is and what it means, but can't quite figure the right way to ask.
"There's no need to discuss it so soon, darling," the demon croons, his upper lip curled in a coy smile. "Besides, I didn't come out here just for the view. We've a flame to track down, no?"
Almost instantly a weight is lifted from Link's chest. Breathing easy once more, he responds with a nod. "Zelda will have others guarding both locations, I'm sure," he says with a sigh. "But now that we've figured a few things out, we can try talking to her again-"
"And if your attempt at persuasion doesn't go according to plan?"
He might have simply brushed it off – but for the unsettling glint in Ghirahim's eye. "You don't know her," Link says, straining to remain levelheaded. He's no desire to escalate, yet with his oldest friend's integrity in question, neither can he keep silent. "She'll listen to reason."
"And if she doesn't?"
The demon's volume rises subtly, ominously, the mere shadow of a threat. That glint darkens, a hardened edge flitting across his face only a fraction of a second. Link nearly shrinks from it, his determination waning; but when the other speaks again, that gentler demeanor returns.
"I don't doubt that you know your Zelda better than I," he sighs, a certain weariness lacing his chords, "but the divine entity within is another being entirely – one that once waged war unending, the likes of which you've never seen. Her Grace watered entire fields with the blood of my kin, and don't think she hasn't since been more than willing to throw me in with the rest. So, I will ask you again, Hero: should her resolve remain unwavering, what will you do?"
The knight lowers his head, staring at his fingers as they flex atop his lap. He's read plenty about the ancient war in his academy texts, about the atrocities committed, though one side had been painted without fail in a significantly less flattering light. Zelda herself once cringed at the very notion of battle. And yet, in spite of her divine origins, Link had never felt the need to reconcile the two.
'I'm still my father's daughter, and your friend. I'm still your Zelda.'
And not once did he doubt it. Until now, he'd had no reason to.
Ghirahim stares, unblinking, expecting an answer. Gaze averted, all the human can manage, is, "I don't know."
"Oh," a hint of mischief in that silver tone brings the other's fidgeting to a halt, "but I do."
Link cocks a brow. "What are you planning?"
"Relax." Ghirahim closes his eyes and tilts his head back, bare chest expanding as he drinks of the desert air. "Even if I thought you would be open to the idea, I'm no match for the Goddess in my current state."
Those brown orbs glow like pools of honey, once again scouring the eastern sky. His tongue flicks briefly through his teeth, as though to taste the air.
"Low pressure builds not far off, carried on the Northeastern wind. With a little coaxing, there will undoubtedly be a fierce downpour by evening – which will suffice to shield us from prying eyes, I should think."
Following the demon's gaze, Link can barely spot even a single cloud. "How can you be so sure?" he asks.
Sand shifts audibly as the demon stands, not a stain upon his pristine garments. With a quizzical look, Link meets the other's eyes, stomach fluttering at the grin that splits his ashen face. The crooked taint to those shadowy features, towering so far above him, is downright devious.
"Come now, Link," he chides, surprisingly amicable. One gloved hand extends invitingly towards the human, the other planted haughtily to the demon lord's hip. "Who do you think I am?"
In the early hours of the morning, scarcely past dawn, three knights scout the western boundary of the Sealed Grounds. Golden light peeks over the hilly terrain, casting striped shadows across the forest floor, blanketed in thick tangles of foliage that snag and trip all who dare travel on foot. Even knowing what to look for, the group's target is not easily identified.
Stiff, booming chords carry through the trees, Eagus and his men exchanging bleak updates every fifteen minutes or so. Zelda half listens, gaining little from the information, save for unneeded discouragement. It can't have been more than an hour since their search began, yet with the precise nature of the missing knight's situation remaining mostly unknown, time is beyond precious.
Jaw clenched, Zelda picks at the dirt caked beneath her nails, tears of frustration pricking her eyes. Ancient memory alone guides her now, divine recollections sifting hazily through her mind. Each second is a battle for her patience, yet she persists in feeling along every tree, every wall, every muddied elevation until her skin cracks and bleeds.
As she traces the shape of a particularly steep formation, an unseen thorn jabs beneath her nail. That's all it takes. Without wholly meaning, she releases a long-suppressed scream.
The other knights' shouting resumes, considerably more frantic, and within seconds Groose is rushing through the brambles, bounding into her field of vision, and skidding to a clumsy halt.
"Zelda! What happened? Are you okay?!"
Ignoring him, the girl slumps against the rocky hillside, clutching her throbbing middle finger to her chest and sobbing beyond all reason or control. The wound itself isn't evocative of concern – she could easily heal it with hardly a thought – but the dam has already burst.
"I can't do this," she chokes, face buried in her knees. "Whatever 'Hylia's plan' is supposed to be, this can't be it. We don't know where Link is, if he's at least somewhere safe – and even if he is, then Ghirahim-"
She has to stop herself from completing the thought, both verbally and inwardly. Whatever the demon may hope to gain from their partnership, be it temporary haven, rise to power, the trust of his enemies – or, the most likely possibility and by far the most fearful, revenge on the one who had struck down his master – she can't bear to dwell on it. Incessant worrying will do nothing to prevent such events from unfolding. No, her sole hope is to track the two down, and quickly.
It sounds so simple. By the gods, it should be simple.
The hand on her shoulder goes entirely unnoticed, until it gives her arm a gentle squeeze. The motion pulls her instantly from her destructive thought train, grounding her once more in the moment at hand.
She can scarcely believe it's Groose who speaks. His typical gruffness is all at once low, even calming.
"C'mon, Zel," he says. "This is Link we're talking about. If he could knock that ugly sac of grease down to size, some broken sword-man should be nothing at all."
With a sniffle, Zelda wipes her nose with the back of her hand, face hot with shame. A breakdown can prove cathartic, in the right place and at the right time – but this? In no realm could this ever be considered appropriate; not for a Goddess, and certainly not in front of any who have come to rely on her.
But what's losing her composure in this ever-growing sea of failures?
"Demise was strong," she says, throat rattling, "but Ghirahim is cunning. The gods themselves barely threw a wrench in his plans, the power of the Triforce rendered moot. What's to stop him from accomplishing whatever it is he's set on now?"
I should have killed him when I had the chance.
Inwardly, she startles, quick and sudden, stung by her own inner voice. The thought had entered unbidden. Who am I anymore, conjuring such a dark, swift sense of justice?
The answer is obvious; nonetheless, she dams it shut without hesitation.
Hugging her knees to her chest, Zelda peers almost bashfully at the redhead. Through her bleary eyes, she can just make out the dark rings beneath his. Link's predicament has taken a toll on all of Skyloft, for certain, but with Groose's being one of the few who can fully comprehend what the demon lord is capable of, he's doubtless been harboring greater concern than the rest.
"The creep may be clever," comes his strained, yet firm, reply, "but so is Hylia."
Again, her eyes begin to drift, when the hand on her shoulder gives another reassuring squeeze. It's with a strange sense of regret that she realizes, this may actually be the first time he's physically touched her.
"More importantly," he adds, intent clear to emphasize, "so are you."
At that her lungs expand and release, a relief she hadn't even known was needed.
In truth, since her awakening, Zelda has never felt especially fit for her role. Following the black storm that had started it all, memories of the divine would often plague her at night, Impa's steadying hand always there to soothe and encourage – and each time she would look into those bloodred eyes, Zelda only found herself immersed in fresh waves of inadequacy. Little by little, her powers had grown, until celestial light practically flowed through her veins, seeping through her mortal flesh.
Yet not once has she felt less human.
The respite will be temporary, of this there is no question; nevertheless, she allows herself to take solace in Groose's words. To be Zelda, not Hylia, just for a little while.
She's decidedly begun inching closer towards him, though to what end she hasn't fully considered, when her back scrapes just slightly against the hillside – and she freezes.
"The door," she gasps. Her chainmail clinks softly as she whirls to her feet. "This is it – the door!"
Steadily, Groose's massive bulk follows her example, and he stands in observation a few feet away. "Uhhhh," he starts, scratching carefully at the top of his head, "am I missing something?"
"Of course." Already her itching fingers are digging at the stone, clearing away as many stubborn ivy tendrils as her meager, human strength will permit. "We both missed it."
A few more tugs and at last, the gate is revealed: a solid block of rust-colored mortar, lacking so much as an inscription or even a symbol to denote its morbid purpose.
But Zelda knows. A chill runs through her spine, her limbs gripped with frost.
"This door goes one way," she states. Slowly she steps a few short paces back, eyes never leaving the aged monolith. "It opens only from the other side, when someone enters the antechamber where the Garo once… performed."
"The what-now?"
Skin crawling, she disregards his comment. "It then closes when – or, I suppose I ought to say if – the visitors exit. That means-," abruptly she cups her hands to her face, a laugh of reprieve bursting forth with such vivacity it feels akin to being stricken in the gut, "that means that, if they did end up taking this route, they made it out alive. Or at the very least, that Link did."
Her eyes glitter anew as Zelda turns to Groose, finding his face still a mask of confusion.
"Wait…," he drawls, squinting oddly at nothing, fingers planted to his chin, "how do you know it wasn't just Ghirahim?"
"Ghirahim needs Link, to recover his strength if for no other reason." Her words, she realizes, serve her own comfort as much as the other's edification. "He can't utilize the gods' power without the aid of a mortal, and not many of us are exactly willing at the moment. Ghirahim is a lot of things, but he's no fool."
Too eager to progress to await a response, Zelda starts in the general direction of Eagus's voice, still hollering the occasional "No tracks here!" and "Remember your markers!" some distance away.
"They'll be headed for the other two sacred flames," the woman muses aloud, "soon if not immediately. The closest one is in the desert; the other in the northern mountains."
Groose's significantly heavier steps follow not far behind, twigs and leaves crunching and snapping beneath his weight. The ambience of the forest grows suddenly pleasant.
Lanayru. Zelda breathes deep, savoring the fresh, earthy fragrances and subtle hints of flora whilst she can. You may never forgive me, she thinks, but one way or another, we're bringing you home, Link.
As for how, exactly, she and the others should ultimately achieve this goal…
Regardless, if they're ever to cross that bridge, they'll at least need to reach it first.
By the time they reach the Lanayru mines, it's practically midday, the sun beating down on Link's hatted head without mercy. His shield and academy-issued broadsword rest secure within Ghirahim's cloak of enchantment, their absence a massive relief – at least for the first hour. It isn't long after that the weight of the demon's blade becomes just as harrowing a burden on its own, the awkward angle at which it's secured causing his sword belt to dig angrily into his shoulder. Privately, he can't help but hope that Nayru's flame will in some way increase the sword's lightness.
They enter the mine through a northern tunnel, one previously unknown to the knight, leading through the sandy mesa into rockier terrain. It's at this point that the scenery again becomes familiar. Once they've shoved past the rubble and the dust subsides, he instantly recognizes the rusted carts with their triangular patterns, sandstone clutter strewn about their wheelless bases. A small, broken-down relic of the LD robot series sits in shambles behind the one nearest, connected to a bent-up track, dull with age. Across from these ancient mechanisms, a door with no handle blocks the way forward.
"Remind me again what we're doing here?" Link coughs, brushing the dirt from his tunic and gloves. It's almost irritating, how not a single speck ever seems to sully Ghirahim's attire. Magical nonsense, he silently concludes.
"Your powers of deduction never fail to impress, Link," comes the demon's snide remark. He begins nudging various rocks with his foot, gradually making his way through the tunnel. "We are in a mine, yes? It can only then be logical to infer that we've come to harvest the earth."
Link rolls his shoulders, joints popping, while suppressing the urge to roll his eyes just the same. "I don't see what that has to do with rain."
No one word could ever hope to describe the full extent of the exaggeration in Ghirahim's sigh. "You truly don't grasp even the simplest fundamentals of spellcasting, do you?"
"Just tell me what you need me to do."
Silver hair ripples as Ghirahim tilts his head, apparently satisfied with this response. "We'll begin by uncovering a timeshift stone, and then of course activating said stone. Surely, even you can handle that."
The fight not to roll his eyes is swiftly becoming a losing battle, Link's white flag at the ready. Wordlessly, he seeks out the most obvious pile of rubble in the area, arranged almost too perfectly towards the back of the cavern. Piece by piece, he removes sandstone from the top down, each rock arranged in a jigsaw-like manner that by now has grown much too easy to recognize.
His arms strain with the effort, eventually drawing the occasional grunt whenever he proceeds to lift. When the telltale sheen of deep violet at last graces their eyes, Ghirahim is there to collect. He doesn't bother to summon either sword or dagger, rather retracting one glove and, with an obsidian claw, tapping once at the stone's surface. A high note rings clear throughout the cavern, accompanied by the signature blue undulating in electrical currents from the now like-colored stone.
The timeshift follows instantaneously. Dirt floors are suddenly ripe with lush patches of grass, the earth beneath them red and fertile. The browned, rusted metal of the minecart boasts colorful reds and blues and greens, the track to which it's attached straightened and shined. The gateway across the tunnel is equally polished, igniting wireframe patterns of electric blue.
Furthermore, the LD robot once slumped upon the ground now serenades the pair with its tinny hum, earth crunching softly beneath mogma-like claws. Link follows the gentle sounds – and is quickly infatuated with what he sees.
The walls, which had previously been completely matte, are glittering. How could he have never noticed this before…?
The phenomenon doesn't seem to come as a surprise to Ghirahim, however, who approaches with overt nonchalance. Link watches with interest as the demon snaps his again-gloved fingers, summoning a dagger auraed in red, and begins casually chiseling away.
"Zzzzzrt," buzzes the robot, pausing its labor to face the lord. This disturbance earns it a considerable glare, but if it's at all phased, it certainly doesn't show. "Unless you've been cleared by the Thunder Dragon, vrmmmm, don't be messing around with these stones. They are extremely dangerous, bzzrt."
Half-amused, Link recalls having once received similar warnings from the odd little creatures, to which he'd responded simply by smiling and nodding along in agreement (then proceeding to do whatever he wanted). It's with only a smidge of anxiety that he wonders how Ghirahim will wind up handling this…
The corners of his white mouth tug downward, the demon casting a condescending glower down his nose – then flicks his slender fingers in the robot's direction. A dalliance of diamonds scatter in a brilliant flash of crimson and silver, all fluttering about the little creature until they seem to leak from its very seams. Its metal exterior sparks and sizzles, body spinning in place, whirring loudly, whilst its disconnected head remains perfectly still.
For a moment Link merely gawks. Only when the smoke reaches his nostrils does he snap from his trance, pinning the demon with an incredulous stare.
"Um," he starts, both hands on his hips, "first of all, what? And also, why?"
Lids drooped in apparent boredom, Ghirahim shrugs, returning to his mundane yet intriguing task. "It annoyed me," said simply, with a flourish of his cloak. "Or do you mean to tell me you've never felt the same about these irksome heaps of metal?"
Scrapper.
'Move aside, Master Shortpants! This is how a real hero does it, Master Shortpants! Come save me from the monsters because I'm too stubborn and stupid to wait while you clear the area first, Master Shortpants!'
… But that's a story for another time.
"You needn't worry your pretty head, Link," Ghirahim courteously adds. "The damage isn't permanent."
Well. Gods only know Scrapper always managed to recover from worse.
Shaking his head, Link opens the flap of his larger satchel, digging through its contents until he finds the empty of his three bottles. "Here," he says, uncorking it as he makes his way over, "you can store your… whatever… in here."
Ghirahim frowns, but obliges, funneling the crystalline particles through the narrow glass rim. "Salt," he says.
"… What?"
"It's salt, Link. Don't tell me humans have become so out of touch with the old ways that they no longer use even this?"
Link's brows furrow in confusion. "Of course we do, just… were you planning on cooking for me, or…?"
"In a manner of speaking." Ghirahim chuckles, chipping more of the white crystals into his palm. "Salt can be used to flavor many ritualistic practices. Several generations have passed, I'm sure, since last I walked amongst humans – but… do you really no longer utilize its properties?"
The knight chews on his lip, looking askance. "Now that I think about it, we do gift each other salt whenever someone moves into a new home. I never really thought to question it, though."
Ghirahim releases a soft laugh. "Of course you haven't. Allow me to educate you." His tone perks up, hands sweeping about in a series of elegant gestures as though to flaunt his arsenal of strange knowledge. "Salt is most often used in good-luck rituals – such as the home blessing you just described – but in all actuality, it's much more versatile. Not only can it be used to substitute nearly any herb," here he looks pointedly at the other, sharp canines gleaming in a wicked grin, "it can even be used to influence the gods themselves. Salt harnesses the glory of the earth, affecting plant life, animal instinct… weather."
Link's brows raise slightly, lips parted in a silent 'O.' "You can do that?" he stutters.
That grin somehow widens, pride beaming from one eye. "How do you think I plucked your dear Zelda from her lofty throne to begin with?"
Oh.
Ghirahim turns, his amusement suddenly receding, reformed into the same blank determination that it had been before. "Fortunately," he states plainly, "this spell will not require the same painstaking precision. You are in possession of a map of the Surface, are you not?"
Snapping his jaw shut (he hadn't noticed it had fallen slack), Link nods the affirmative.
"Good. We'll be needing it."
As they trek further west, a red sun in their eyes, the sky fails to acquire even a single cloud. Link knows he shouldn't doubt Ghirahim – after all the demon lord has accomplished, even in the relatively short time Link has known him, doubting him would be foolish, right? Yet as the heat continues to sap every ounce of strength from his limbs, the knight's spirit unwittingly sags.
They break within the mountain tunnels. Though his head still swims, canteen half-filled with cactus juice nearing empty, Link welcomes the cooled earth's interior. The crags overhead allow sunlight to spill through, painting sporadic beams along the hard, stony floors, but these are easily avoided.
Link sits back on his knees, Surface map lain flat before him, while Ghirahim rests directly across. Hard lines darken his sallow features, his figure bent slightly forward at the waist, visible eye black with unbroken concentration. Dutifully, Link holds his cupped hands outward, brimming with salt deposits and terrified at the prospect of spilling them.
The bottle that had contained them earlier, now not-quite-full with water from a nearby spring, isn't particularly large, but its base encompasses a sizable portion of the desert as depicted on the map, just the same. Ghirahim places it upon the far-western edge, the Sandship's general location dead center.
With haunting leisure, he extends a gloved palm. "Pour the salt into my hand," he instructs.
Link flinches, a subtle twitch in his neck, even as Ghirahim sustains his eerie calm.
"You won't spill," he soothes. "Just open your fingers and let it fall through."
Inhaling deeply, the knight does as he's told. The salt cascades, first in waterfalls, then in clumps, pooling into a vortex of smooth, glittering particles that hover just shy of Ghirahim's palm. As the demon's long, nimble fingers close, the crystals shower evenly through the bottle's rim.
"Speak with me, now, Link."
He hardly registers the command. The demon's voice is like music, a spell in and of itself.
"Tell me… shall you… be requiring my services again, any time soon?"
Link's heart skips a beat, his breath hitching.
The question catches the human off-guard. While no stranger to the concept, he's suddenly aware of how he's never really, er, fooled around like this before.
"I don't know," he rasps, chest heaving.
He feels the other grinning against his skin, warm breath raising the hairs on Link's neck. "Well then," sighs that deep, velvety voice, "simply tell me when you want me to stop."
Just like before, white leather dissipates into silver fractals, revealing the onyx claws beneath. The demon's index makes no contact as it strokes the air in clockwise circles, yet the saltwater below begins to mimic his motions.
"Your… services?" the human chokes.
He can easily guess the other's meaning. It's the phrasing that makes his stomach churn.
Dark eye softening, Ghirahim's aura turns… contented? Somehow Link is reminded of a remlit stretched out on a window sill, dozing dreamily to the pattering of summer rains. Humming gently to himself, the demon takes a pebble-sized timestone from within the folds of his cloak and drops it into the swirling concoction. As it sinks into the depths, the stone flickers and shifts, pulsating brilliant blue one second only to fade back to deep violet the next.
When the flickering ceases, it glows stark white, illuminating the contents of the bottle as a bolt of lightning would a dark sky.
"I'm certainly not complaining," the demon persists, index claw still stirring the bottle's inner storm. Their environment, Link notices, has been voided of direct sun, clouds blocking the light whilst gentle peels of thunder clap in the distance. The air, which not minutes ago had been bone-dry, smells of rain and sea salt. "You are… quite easy to look at. I only wish to know your expectations so as to better service you in the future."
Link feels as though he's been struck. "Ghirahim," he rasps, cheeks stinging for so many reasons. "You don't think- I wasn't using you last night. I… I wouldn't do what we did with just anyone."
Over the edge of his mantle, Ghirahim bares a palled smirk. "How flattering."
The thunder overhead grows louder, an audible pelting outside the mountain. The air subsequently dampens, to the point of adhering stray hairs to Link's forehead. Inhaling wistfully, he finds himself yearning for cloudy afternoons and silver windchimes and steeped chamomile. The humming, too, increases in volume: an aria of rain, a song of storms…
Still, the demon's insinuation gnaws at him, and he groans in wordless frustration. He's so new to this kind of thing – and with Ghirahim? Of all the individuals he could've experimented with for the first time in his life, a demon and sword? Even if Link knew all the right things to say, is there any hope that this surreal, beautiful, complex being could ever wholly understand?
"It felt right," he manages, unable to meet the other's gaze.
Not that Ghirahim is looking. The demon's focus is glued devoutly to his work, the churning within the glass a near-exact emulation of the ferocity building outside.
… Or is it the other way around?
Fumbling awkwardly with the hem of his tunic, Link persists, "I know it wasn't that long ago that you and I were trying to kill each other, but things are obviously different now. And yeah, it's hard to think clearly with all this running around and dodging spiders and-"
"Floormasters."
"Right, but… I-I like you, okay? That's why I- we… yeah."
While Link's shoulders slump in half-anticipated defeat, Ghirahim's shake in a quiet chortle. A melancholy gleam creeps into his eye, the smile beneath his mantle softening. Returning the glove to his clawed hand, he begins clearing the space of his various tools.
He rises to his feet without another word.
Link hesitates before following stiffly, snatching his map and folding it haggardly while the other corks and preserves the spell jar. Through the mountain's crags, rainwater drips in erratic patterns, the demon circumventing each with apparent ease as he strides gracefully towards the western tunnels.
"Ghirahim," says Link. His voice may be soft, but it carries well through the dank, hollow space.
Not looking back, the other halts.
An uneasy feeling falls over the knight. "Was that… was that conversation all part of the spell?"
When the demon half-turns, glancing over his shoulder, what shows of his face reveals disappointingly little. Something sorrowful swims in his flintlike eye.
A flash of lightning blinds them both, and when it vanishes a split-second later, that pang of sadness is gone.
Ghirahim now faces the other completely, a playful flip of his hair uncovering both eyes, whilst a peel of thunder cracks over their heads.
"Who wouldn't seize the opportunity to peek inside the mind of Hylia's favorite?" he chimes. His posture is proud, hands secured tantalizingly to his hips – the very image of power. "True, your inner conflict has further influenced the severity of this storm – but," he points a finger towards the ceiling and, winking, adds rather unironically, "why not kill two birds with one stone, hm?"
Clearly more than pleased with himself, he turns on his heel and pads down the cavernous road, crimson folds billowing behind. Link, though not entirely content with this guarded, maybe even feigned, response, follows after with heavier steps. This conversation isn't over, he thinks, but refrains from pursuing any further just yet. They are merely on the verge of retrieving Nayru's flame. Even if the storm should provide sufficient cover, as intended, their work is far from finished.
The cavern's westmost exit is barely in sight when one of the smaller, yellow Chu blobs oozes through a crack in the wall. Link's just begun to reach for his sword when Ghirahim plunges a knife into the creature's core. Buried past the hilt, the obsidian yet remains visible, disappearing only when the thickness splatters the earth with a fizzling zap.
To Link's surprise, Ghirahim doesn't immediately move forward, but rather approaches the yellowed mess and kneels to examine it. Expectantly, he holds a hand out towards the knight.
"Give me your canteen," he says.
Arching a brow, Link does as bidden, if only to see what the demon will do. Ghirahim takes the worn leather and, squeezing the remaining droplets to ensure it truly is empty, guides a modest amount of the crackling gel inside.
As he hands it back to the curious Hylian, the only explanation deigned to be given is an enigmatic, "Trust me, sky child. You'll be thanking me later."
CREEE-EE-EA-KK-
THUD.
A high-pitched yelp cuts through the heavy rains, light footsteps tapping haphazardly as their owner sloppily regains his balance.
"Sorry, Fledge!" cries Zelda.
Gazing sheepishly from the ship's bow, the knight-in-training forces as reassuring a smile as he can manage. "It's all right!" he shouts through funneled hands.
Zelda notes, as he retreats from the edge from where he'd nearly been thrown, how stark his typical orange gear stands against the azure blaze of Nayru's flame. Could this lack of camouflage, in the end, be what brings about their downfall?
When it comes to defending against Lord Ghirahim, not even the most seemingly insignificant of details can afford to be overlooked…
No. Should Link turn up with the demon's sword, Fledge need only warn the others – nothing more.
With the ship again falling stagnant, Zelda resecures her bow to her person, and shivers. She rubs as much friction as possible into her arms, desperate to stave off the nightly chill, breath fogging in the silver mist. Though the ocean-tossed waves return to stable pits of sand, the humidity of the sea had at least made for warmer nights.
But past or present, rainwater pours down her face, floods her eyes and nostrils, matts her rounded cap against her head. Having successfully (is that the right word?) confirmed her suspicions, she shoves back through the cabin doors, the wind slamming them shut behind her.
It might be the storm, or perhaps it's just her darkened mood, but the warm glow of the oil lanterns seems to flicker and dull.
"It does nothing," she states, wiping the water from her nose and mouth. "The timeshift does nothing. It's as I worried: this storm is not of natural origins."
For a solid minute the room is silent, with only the dreadful downpour without to roar in their ears. Eagus stands unmoving at the cabin's center, arms folded proudly over his armored chest, while the other two knights fidget accordingly. Pipit interrupts his anxious pacing only to pay Zelda the proper acknowledgment, his clothes still dripping silver puddles onto the floorboards. Albat, by contrast, leans almost casually against the stairway railing. It's strange, seeing her without the flight goggles she wears on patrol. Her dark eyes are beautiful, brought out by the red of her tunic.
"So," Eagus's deep gravel thrusts the group into alertness, "this… demon… you mentioned, it has the power to control the weather?"
"Not on a whim," Zelda replies, removing her hat and wringing it dry. (Well, dryer.) "Ghirahim possesses many unique abilities, but at this point, the one I fear most is teleportation."
Amongst others.
"Zelda," Pipit chimes in darkly, "if this, er, Ghirahim can appear with just a thought, what's to keep him from sneaking up on Fledge and throwing him overboard?"
Zelda frowns. Though she's played this out in her head over and again, each time reaching the same wretched conclusion, Pipit's questioning does little to assuage her guilt. It was never her desire to put so many others at risk, but were anything to happen to Link, no one in their right mind could forgive her.
Especially not herself.
Before she can muster a response, the yellow-clad knight speaks up once more.
"Let me take another shift guarding the flame," he says, opening his arms in persistence. "Fledge may be strong, but he's no knight – trust me on that one. Should this demon attack-"
"Fledge has been given specific instructions not to engage either Link or Ghirahim in any way," Zelda states, as firmly as she dare, "just like the rest of us."
As a result, she's duly rewarded with Pipit's mouth snapping shut.
Reiterating, perhaps for her own sake as well as for the others', she continues, "Just like Groose and the rest at the Eldin sanctuary, just like you, and yes, even just like me. I've told you this before, Pipit. Ghirahim, though far from helpless, is weak; and Link…"
She can't bring herself to voice what's been weighing on her so heavily. Instead, she jumps straight to the point, addressing the group as whole.
"Our best chance at preventing anyone from getting hurt is to outnumber and outmatch them both. No one single person, no matter how qualified," here she specifically shoots Pipit a glare, "should be confronting either of them."
Another moment of quiet, accentuated with bouts of thunder and, of course, constant rainfall. And again, it's Eagus who shatters the hefty permeation.
"You speak of Link as though he, too, may be a threat. Zelda…"
The girl in question frowns deeper still, her gaze dropping solemnly to her feet. It doesn't help in the slightest when finally Eagus moves, the occurrence comparable to a statue that's suddenly come to life. He approaches slowly, deliberately, until barely a foot is left between the two.
"… what else is this monster capable of?"
There is no answer, only for she has none she can give. The torrent outside is deafening, yet it doesn't compare to the thundering in her head – or the throbbing in her heart.
"If you tell us," comes Albat's gentle tone, "we may be able to help."
Pipit adds, not unkindly (though not quite as softly), "Or at least to prepare."
They're right. She knows it, they know it – and the sooner she just gets it out in the open, the better their chances at preventing this ship from becoming a battleground. Inhaling deeply of the damp, musky air, Zelda starts to open her mouth.
Her lips haven't time to fully part before the sky unleashes a mind-numbing roar, a clap of ferocity greater than any she's ever known – in memories divine or mortal. This is closer than thunder. Much closer. The boards above their heads creak terribly, each whine of protest followed by a vicious thud.
And each thud accentuated with a metallic clink.
Instantly, within her soul, Zelda recognizes an extrusion of Nayru's power.
When Link bursts through the cabin doors, fingers secured around both handles, he must be a sight indeed: soaked to the bone, bangs matted horribly to his forehead, his heaving figure framed by the dark flooding outside. From within the confines of his sword, Ghirahim can just make out the ill-lit interior, as well as the spirit maiden there waiting.
Three additional auras hover near, out of sight: one immediately through the back exit across the room, the other two crouched behind the barrels flanking Link's either side.
Really, Your Grace, the demon muses to himself, did you think you could hide your ambush from me? Then, audible only to Link's mind, She is not alone. Tread carefully, little master.
That spark of resentment flares briefly through the knight, still displeased from their earlier scuffle with the boy in orange. He'll eventually wake, albeit with a splitting headache. More importantly, having been struck unconscious with the hilt of a dagger, he proved no hindrance to the pair as they achieved their goal.
"Zelda," Link gasps, inviting himself in from the downpour.
She immediately recoils. Taken aback by this reaction, the other stops short.
Cautiously, he bends down to one knee, drawing the demon's sword from his back. It remains unchanged in shape and appearance, save for the gemstone now shining a glittering blue.
"A lot has happened," the knight persists. "Just please, hear me out."
"He's… in the sword, then?"
Her tone is docile, even fearful – but with the tension boiling in her hidden hounds, Ghirahim stands by in unease.
Unaware of the others poising to attack, Link offers a hurried nod. "He is. We made it through the tunnels beneath the ancient cistern-"
"He dragged you through there?!"
Her indignance is matched, in full, by Ghirahim's own. As though she gave us a choice, he spits. Perhaps in the future, Her Grace will refrain from laying us siege…
Link ignores the demon's remarks, holding the blade respectfully before him. "I was stung," he states. Though his coolheaded retention ultimately prevails, Ghirahim notes the obvious strain in his voice. "I was stung, and he saved me. He could have left me and been free, but he got me out alive."
Eyes squeezing shut, Zelda shakes her golden head, iridescent ribbons catching the meager light. "He had to, Link. Without someone to wield him, he's essentially a walking corpse. He has no choice but to preserve you."
"And if you help us," Link's tone is earnest, grip tightening on the leathered hilt, "then he'll have no choice but to obey me, either, remember? I can prevent him from hurting anyone or from causing any trouble."
There is an obvious reluctance in the knight's demeanor. Despite the biting chill seeping through the walls, his face feels hot.
Again, the Goddess shakes her head. "It isn't like that."
Her objection is met with a pang of confusion – and of intrigue, shared by sword and master alike. "What?"
Louder, "It isn't like that, Link. Demise was a wicked being, insatiable. His thirst for power knew no bounds. When he bound Ghirahim's soul to his blade, he hexed their connection with unquestioning submission. The Goddess Hylia – I… I cannot bind another with such a despicable curse."
Silence ensues, thicker than the mist hanging low over the cabin. Link is not the only one striving to process this revelation, for Ghirahim himself can't deny his own inner turmoil. Whilst his wielder unclenches in gradual relief, the demon in his steel, noncorporeal, has utterly frozen.
Can he truly be free…?
Or is this just another cruel trick of fate, destined to damn him once more?
"That isn't all." Zelda's tone acquires a dark, bitter edge. "Link, Ghirahim can… do things, to people's minds. He can make them turn on one another, driven by hatred, incapable of seeing anything but the worst."
Somehow, this only seems to amuse the little hero. "Zelda," he laughs strenuously, a smile tugging at his lips. "I promise, this is just the opposite of that. I've been seeing the best in him lately, and it makes me… happy."
Not entirely to the knight's surprise, the other appears hurt. "With him?" she says softly, voice breaking. Her eyes glisten as they avert. "Were you not happy before, with me?"
Link's shoulders fall. "Of course I was. It just…"
"It wasn't enough." Her voice is low and delicate, barely audible.
"You don't know what it was like out there, Zelda." He doesn't quite reciprocate the girl's sorrow, rather growing urgent. Again, his muscles stiffen. "You always had Impa to get you from place to place, to defend you in your time of need, while I was constantly getting left behind. Ghirahim… he understands. In a way that you… you just can't. I'm sorry."
The girl's head tilts thoughtfully, eyes fixed on nothing. Certainly, she knows that the lad isn't doing this to hurt her.
"He's still dangerous," she says at last. "Your spirit is strong, Link. You were chosen and tried for that very reason. I wouldn't expect Ghirahim to be able to alter your state of mind so easily, but…"
The knight's teeth grit. "Zelda…"
But the maiden's resolve is firm. "Until we can further assess what's going on with you. Link." She faces her subject. "Give me the sword."
He clenches, and stands, eyes blown wide. From varying angles, Ghirahim can sense the other humans as they stir. Link…
Finally, the futility of this endeavor seems to click. Determination cracked and splintered, Link bolts back through the front exit – only to crash against the taller bulk of the boy in orange. Ghirahim pulses in anger and fear as his sword is wrestled from his master's hands, all the while scolding himself for having allowed the boy's presence to escape his notice. The boy – Fledge, Link had called him – is shockingly robust considering his rather gangly appearance. Even if Link possessed the muscle mass to fend him off, the other three humans are already upon him.
"Let me go!" he shouts, thrashing fruitlessly in the hold of two other individuals.
"I'm sorry," squeaks Fledge. His shrill, timid chords alone suffice to induce a headache far worse than any Ghirahim could have hoped to give him, his feeble grip an insult to the demon's superlative form. Again, he curses himself. Had I not been so focused on the other three-
Link's struggling stills when the floorboards quake, groaning loud under the weight of the largest of the four dogs. Trembling, he allows himself to be moved, hands guided behind his back and bound with thick metal rings.
Not the second Link is restrained, Fledge hands his sword off to the spirit maiden – and judging by his hasty disposition, the boy feels rightly unable to part with it fast enough. Though he pulsates with displeasure, Ghirahim holds himself in place. There are simply too many hands on Link to be able to move him and him alone to a safe location, and with the Goddess in possession of his blade…
The hand he's been delt is far less than ideal. Should he proceed with care, though…
The voice of the larger man is booming, commanding, leaving room for neither questioning nor disobedience. "Take him to the brig," he says, addressing the two guards. Then, towering over the knight in green, "It pains me to do this, Link. But until this storm lets up, there's no way we're flying out of here."
Solemnly, the dogs nod in accord, starting warily towards the stairway. Link's breathing is frantic, but he makes no move to resist.
"Zelda," he calls, shakily, over his shoulder, as he's led away. "Please, don't hurt him…"
A black curtain seems to settle over the room. With trepidation, the demon wonders whether these pleas fall on deaf ears.
"Fledge," says Zelda once the rest are out of sight. "Are you all right?"
The boy nods, wincing as he rubs at his bruising flesh. "Is Link gonna be okay?"
How selflessly naïve.
The girl looks away. "I don't know," she answers quietly. It just might be the most truthful statement ever to leave her mouth. "Could the both of you step out? I appreciate all you've done, but… I need to speak with the demon alone."
The two men exchange uncomfortable glances, but are quick to oblige. Before following after the younger, the large man rests a heavy hand on Zelda's shoulder.
"Holler if you need us," he says. "We won't go far."
She nods in somber acknowledgement. With hardly a sound, the men disappear through the back doors, clicking the latches shut behind. All that is left is the pattering of the rain, and the rolling of distance thunder.
Ghirahim braces himself. The battle soon to detonate will require steel of a different sort. The black tip twists in Zelda's grasp, splintering into the floorboards, whilst an otherworldly hum wracks tremors through the blade.
"Ghirahim. You and I have much to discuss."
The buzz on his steel grows painful, and he finds himself chased unwillingly from its confines. Diamonds clink and reverberate against the cabin walls, showering his form as it takes shape before her.
Now standing, not coincidentally, where his dear little master was only just subdued, Ghirahim flashes his most dazzling grin.
"Well, doesn't this look familiar?" he purrs, arms spread wide. "I know what you must be thinking. One flame still left, yet here I stand before you, hardly the broken blade I once was."
Sardonic as ever, he punctuates the sentiment by sweeping into a low bow, motioning almost lewdly at the cracked flesh still webbing his left side.
The girl predictably brushes his comments aside.
"I don't recommend making any sudden moves," she snaps. Again, he feels that dreadful buzz coursing through his sword. "To seal away your master required my full strength. With you, on the other hand, the sacrifice is much smaller."
As if this entire charade doesn't depend on his knowledge of such. It's clear from her self-assured smirk that she knows this all too well. Nevertheless, he takes her words to his core. One wrong move, and all he's worked for comes crumbling to dust.
"That's right," croons the girl. "You don't fear pain, nor death, nor even defeat. No, this is what frightens you: A cage."
"Indeed," he sinks to both knees, hands raised, fighting to maintain his own sneer, "there are very few that can hold me. Rest assured, therefore, that you have my full and complete cooperation."
Though still appearing somewhat unnerved, and rightly so, Zelda deigns to accept this act of surrender. "I could not have predicted your craft would have such a bizarre effect on Link." She looks away, an obvious attempt to cover the shame inevitably eating away at her soul. "His hostility towards me is… understandable, all things considered. How you've managed to make him fond of you is another matter."
"An army divided is no army at all." His eyes never leave hers, no matter how often her gaze breaks away. "But you and yours could hardly be considered such to begin with. I have not enacted this curse in many, many centuries, Your Grace – not since long before you walked this earth."
Her features darken. "Do you forget to whom you speak? This body may be youthful, yet my memory far surpasses even that of your own. I recognize the wicked results of your work, demon. You cannot lie to a Goddess."
Through the increasing intensity of the heat on his blade, sustaining this levelheaded façade grows wearying. Every word from his mouth is articulated with care, lathered with venom, spat at her feet.
"You are not a Goddess, Zelda," he says, "any more than a child with a butterknife can be considered a soldier. You can stand there and cast your judgment, you can blather 'til your throat bleeds in a warped justification of your actions – but you will never be able to reclaim the emotional distance you once wielded as Hylia divine. As for your initial concern," a snide calm creeps into his tone, though his lips pull taut, "Shattered Sight would be wasted on you, given how determined you seem to be to chase the boy off all on your own."
The incredulity marring Zelda's sweet features is no throw from respite, swept from under his feet as again, her fury blazes through the demon's steel. It swells from his spine to his skull, rattles his teeth as he falls to all fours, failing to bite back a shuddering scream.
"Perhaps you'd prefer to join Demise in the afterlife?"
"Please, Your Grace." His chords are raspy, breathing coarse and strained, yet he latches onto his mocking tone as though for dear life. "That ship has long since sailed, if you gather my meaning."
His lips curl into a perfect snarl as he stares up at her scowling face, gleaning every possible molecule of pleasure from the look of defeat scarcely hiding behind. His bearings returning, Ghirahim quietly expands his senses in search of the ship's other occupants. Towards its lower levels, Link's movements have paused, though the others with him have yet to leave his side.
If he can keep the little goddess talking just a bit longer…
"What do you want with Link?"
The inquiry nearly catches him off guard. Before he can conjure a response,
"After everything you went through to reunite with your previous master, do you expect me to believe you'll simply let bygones be bygones? How can we know this isn't all some ploy for revenge?"
He sits back on his knees, the girl flinching in warning – and with a head bowed as humbly as he can manage, the demon raises his hands back to the level of his eyes.
"You would think me petty, wouldn't you?" He smiles sweetly, then proceeds with candor, "The little hero may be idealistic, and incredibly naïve, but lithe and powerful as," he chuckles, "well, as myself, I dare say. Demise certainly wasn't lacking in brute strength, as you well know, but rather in agility. Over the course of his continual interference with my plans, I've found that your Link and I are much more… compatible. Or wouldn't you agree?"
Having made no effort to conceal his suggestion, when that pretty mouth curls in disgust, Ghirahim wonders whether he wouldn't die happy right then. "If you want to convince me this is all about sex," seethes Zelda, "you're going to have to do better than that, my lord."
"Oh, but of course not." He cackles, almost even sincere. Below decks, Link still is not entirely alone – but the girl is getting restless. "You said it yourself. By Demise's design, I am nothing with no one to wield me: merely a rusted scrap of metal, doomed to rot slowly from this world. I've no desire for revenge, O Goddess. But if I may…"
He upturns his palms, watching the girl carefully. She may appear void of understanding, clothed in the flesh of this meek human vessel, yet Her Grace has deceived many a time before.
"… worry less about what I might want. Your Hero has refused you nothing, having given his all at your behest. For how long will you continue to punish him?"
As her brows furrow, lips beginning to part, Ghirahim points one finger in a silencing motion. Cocking his head admonishingly, he adds,
"Think about it."
He draws a breath, bracing himself – and snaps.
A dim pool of yellow light follows the trio as they march through the depths of the ship. While Pipit trails the other two, a firm grip kept at all times on Link's shoulder, Albat leads the way forward, lantern held high in her non-dominant hand. Link notes, at first, how the fingers of her dominant twitch, but then it isn't long before such details fall, along with everything else, into a shadow of despair.
They pause where a moat of quicksand blocks their path, and Albat reaches into her satchel to retrieve a small timestone. Green-blue patterns ignite the room; like lightning, they are short and fleeting, colorful boards and plush carpets quick to fade through the obscure window of his mind.
His heart is a silent battleground, a perpetual struggle not to drown in his predictions of what the future now holds – and worse, the one who is indisputably at fault. Their planning was careful, execution meticulous, success well within reach – until Link stubbornly insisted on reopening a dialogue he only now sees is hopeless, effectively leading them both into Zelda's unforgiving hands. He should have known she'd never listen. And to believe he might be under some sort of spell…?
There's no way the girl he grew up with could actually think him capable of hurting her or anyone else. Then again, Ghirahim's words echo hauntingly in his head: '… the divine entity within is another being entirely…'
She wouldn't lie to him, not blatantly, would she? This couldn't just be some ruse to try to get him to behave?
Whatever the case, perhaps if he does, Ghirahim's life will at least be spared. It's all the young knight has left, knowing he'll likely never see the demon again.
Their arrival at the brig jolts him from his meditations, Pipit's strained attempts at one-sided conversation at last reaching Link's ears, though the exact words are lost on him. All pointless chatter comes to an abrupt pause as he's guided through the cell door, dutifully pressing his back to the bars while Pipit undoes his restraints.
The whirring of electricity buzzes in his ears, and he looks to see the timestone placed in certain proximity to the gate. "Keep this within range of the door," Albat instructs, tone flat compared to her typical joviality, "but not close enough for him to reach."
Pipit responds with a silent salute.
His hands freed, Link turns to stare forlornly at his new surroundings. It seems a lifetime ago that a pleasant gold warmth had been seeping through these ancient boards, the obstacles before him merely a challenge to be tackled. The stakes were high, yes, but the future was bright.
He just catches Albat's glance of pity before she disappears into the adjacent hall. She keeps the lantern with her, and the world grows darker still as she leaves the other two with nothing but the luminescence of the timestone and occasional flash of lightning.
"We're giving you the benefit of the doubt, you know."
Of course Pipit wouldn't be content just to let the rain fill the silence. Still, gathered from the way he crosses his arms and shrugs informally, he at least has the decency to be uncomfortable.
"We could've taken your bow and quiver, or at least your arrows." He doesn't meet Link's eyes, forcing a crooked grin. "I mean, spell or no spell, you'd never shoot a fellow knight… w-would you?"
Frowning, Link leans against the bars, right hand reaching for his quiver. Pipit visibly stiffens, a not-so-subtle twitch in his jaw – then relaxes when Link tosses every one of his arrows at the older knight's feet. It's beyond insulting, but if it means Ghirahim will be spared, he'll do everything in his power to put his captors at ease.
"It's crazy."
A weight of sincerity enters the other's tone, a sort of exhaustion the depths of which Link has come to know much too well. It takes him by surprise, seizes his attention and retains it with a surprising amount of willingness.
Although he doesn't bother looking to the other for permission, Pipit continues, "Only a year ago, we were just patrolling the academy halls and snatching the occasional drunkard from the sky. Even when you and Zelda showed up after that whole scuffle on the Surface, settling the land became pretty routine after a while. And now…"
He chuckles. When finally he meets Link's stare, true understanding swims therein. His obstinance aside, Pipit has always been well-meaning through and through. For the first time since Ghirahim, Link feels as though someone isn't simply talking at him.
"Now," Link finishes, smiling ironically, "we have deserts and demons and magic swords."
Another chuckle, this one shared, turns to a tired sigh. What follows is sufficient to baffle, and Link wonders if it isn't simply the light. The gleam in Pipit's dark-blue eyes – is it really… guilt?
Pipit, with the unbreakable code of honor and irrefutable sense of righteousness? Pipit, whose commitment to greatness is so unyielding he'll often work eighteen-hour shifts just to scrap together enough savings to continue his education as a knight? Is this man even capable of guilt?
A low and familiar chime cuts his flabbergast short, followed instantly by a loud CLANG of metal on wood. Towards the back of the brig, the alternative gate barring the way to the engine room is lifted.
Clinging to the lever on the other side of the threshold, is Ghirahim.
The demon releases his hold the instant his eyes fall on Link, disintegrating into a cloud of diamonds before his body can hit the floor. They settle elegantly into the sword at his feet, azure gemstone glowing briefly in indication of the life within. Without thinking, Link sprints over the rise in the floor and snatches the hilt, having no regard for the tears delt to his tunic as he clutches the naked blade to his chest.
Ghirahim's voice whispers low in his head, barely audible, yet in this moment it may just be the sweetest sound ever to befall the human's ears.
Hurry, he says simply, then fades into silent rest.
His boots have nearly lifted from the floor when Pipit calls after him.
"Link, wait!" he cries.
It might be foolish, but nevertheless, Link pauses. Heart racing in sync with the beating of the rain, he stares deep into his fellow knight's eyes.
"Pipit," he rasps, striving to steady his own chords. "Remember when," he swallows, hard, "when Cawlin had sent that letter to Karane, and you abandoned your post right then and there? Do you remember what you said to me?"
Hard eyes steadily soften as his message is absorbed, though the older knight's face remains entirely unreadable. Silently, Link prays.
"I said," the man in yellow sighs, gaze falling to his feet, "that as knights of Skyloft, we ought to experience love that is unfettered and passionate."
Link purses his lips. "Please, Pipit," he whispers.
Above decks, frantic shouting pierces the muffled storm, with several footfalls soon to match. As the they start to close in, Link's heart pounds faster. Though he fears it may burst through his chest any moment, he doesn't dare remove his gaze from the other's severe features.
When at last Pipit speaks, he does not address Link.
Rather, he turns on his heel and jogs down the narrow hallway, cupping his hands to his mouth and shouting, "They're not in here! There were diamonds, and now they're gone!"
His further report – his false report – isn't something Link will linger long enough to learn. Heart hammering in his skull, he bounds through the engine room as quick as his clumsy feet will carry him, knuckles white around Ghirahim's hilt, and leaps through the nearest window into the world outside.
He lands in the wet sand with hardly a sound, grateful for the pouring rain even as it snags his breath. Were the others to flout their raid of the Sandship, they'd likely never spot him in this relentless downpour. Resecuring the black sword to his back, right hand never leaving the leathered hilt, Link showers Pipit's name with every blessing known to Skyloft, and disappears into the night.