Clouds roll out from curtains to patches, allowing white rays of light to filter through a desert sky. The precipitation may have subsided, but the air swelters thick with its remains. Stray hairs adhere to the back of Pipit's neck, moisture weighing on his many layers – by Hylia (Zelda?), even the air in his lungs feels heavy. Wiping the mugginess from his forehead with the back of his gloved hand, the knight can barely hold back his huffs of dissatisfaction. The rains in Skyloft would leave a cool fog in their wake, accompanied pleasantly by the fresh scent of grass – nothing like this absolute mess of a biome.

But the weather isn't all that's been souring his mood.

The truth is that something else has been eating at him since the night before. In the heat of the moment, with harsh dregs of adrenaline coursing through him, he'd acted on little more than instinct. That look in Link's eyes, the likes of which he's only ever seen when Groose would steal the occasional glance at Zelda while she wasn't looking – it had to have been genuine. And when the younger knight had to go and bring Karane into it…

Never has Pipit flinched from a gut feeling, and never has he been misled. So why did his stomach start to knot the minute they confirmed the demon sword's escape?

"This is my fault."

Zelda's somber chords echo his thoughts, chanted like a mantra for hours on end. He can't fault her for it. His own head won't shut up either way, and she at least has the courage to admit that mistakes were made.

One of which she doesn't realize isn't even her own.

Features falling into a delicate frown, the Goddess incarnate places a pale hand upon the mast. The ship doesn't swerve, planted firmly in the sand, but between the slick sheen coating the deck and her own self-imposed malnourishment, there's no doubting her need for stability.

"I underestimated his strength. I should have known Nayru's flame would supply him with such power. To think he could move not only himself from my grasp, but Link as well?" She lowers her head, cerulean eyes glistening. "I should have known."

Overhead circle four Loftwings, their vibrant plumes the only real splash of color in all this wetness and brown. The desert is an ugly place, Pipit decides. Ugly, and hostile, stupid hot and-

"No one could have predicted this." Eagus's voice commands undivided attention – a trait that undoubtedly played a deciding role in his promotion to such a station as his. His tone carries unquestionable authority, though his gaze doesn't waver from the group's descending mounts. "Memories of a Goddess or no, this is far beyond what any one of us could have been prepared to deal with. The odds were stacked against us from the start. All that matters now," he pauses, head at last lowering to meet every one of the other's eyes in turn, "is that we learn from this error, and take whatever precautions are necessary to avoid repeating it."

Maintaining the commander's stare is nothing short of a challenge. Gut feelings aside, Pipit cannot shake the fact that had falsified a report. Whatever mischief this demon may proceed to instigate, whatever misfortune should reign down upon the heads of those he as a knight is sworn to protect, will forever bleed into Pipit's conscience.

And here before him, Zelda openly laments what she believes to be her own shortcomings.

He hardly notices the planks trembling as each Loftwing finds a perch – nor his own feet as they lead him not towards his own bird, but towards Eagus. The older man pauses mid-mount, turning his attention to the other with an inquisitive arch of his brow.

"Pipit?"

Jaw set, the knight in question musters what remains of his strength.

"Commander." His resolve is firm, yet he struggles to push the tremor from his voice. "There's something you should know."

The air is musk beneath a grey dawn, where a like figure cloaked in red stands before the rapids of Faron Woods. Stray droplets dampen his shins as he uncorks a clear bottle, and plucking the timestone from inside, empties the residual contents into the waters raging at his feet. Only when the crystal's violet hue is restored, and the saltwater washed away, having served its purpose, does Ghirahim return to his young master's side.

He hadn't been awake for most of their journey. Truthfully, at the start, he had ached in his core at the less-than-favorable odds of his efforts even paying off. The little knight had come through, however, and is now reaping the rewards: cushioned on a bed of dirt and grass, nestled up against the narrow trunk of a branchless pine. Between the muddied green of his uniform and the patches of sprigs and fronds sprouting from the uneven terrain, he's sure to be shielded from prying eyes. Still, Ghirahim had maintained careful watch until morning light.

When he returns from the riverbank, he finds Link slouched in the very same bed of earth, whittling away at some twig, a fierce look of determination in his ocean eyes. The ruts beneath are colored more deeply than usual, a slight dimple peeking where he chews absently at the inside of his lower lip. In his fascinated observation of the human's hard, yet youthful features, Ghirahim but vaguely considers how best to approach without breaching his focus.

Until Link's carving hand slips, shaving a clean slice off his non-dominant thumb. His nose crinkles, a hiss of pain spilling through bared teeth before he sticks the wounded digit in his mouth. Well, thinks Ghirahim, nostrils all at once flooding with the pungent fragrance, I suppose that's my opening.

"You know," he chides, coming forward down the slope, "it really is a wonder you haven't already tripped and impaled yourself upon your own sword."

Link can hardly be bothered to startle, popping the thumb out of his mouth with a tired eyeroll.

Leaning forward in mock admonishment, Ghirahim adds, "Really, I wouldn't be surprised if one day I returned to your side only to find my blade wearing you as a scabbard."

"Is that it?" His inflection is flat, rising but subtly towards the end. "You're not gonna gloat?"

A reference to the tiff from the previous night, the demon gathers. "Would you like me to?"

When Link doesn't deign to respond, the demon gives his lips a provocative lick. The human stifles a shudder, scowling sidelong, but as his tongue travels, Ghirahim tastes… peat moss?

It's then that he notices the light rustling in the nearby brush. It circles from behind the tree trunk, waddling on plush, shaky legs. Link has just begun to reach for his pouches when it wanders into his peripheral, and instantly Ghirahim recognizes that look.

In a second he's vanished, reappearing in a flurry of diamonds just as the other's hand begins to fly. Now crouching to his left, Ghirahim catches Link's wrist in a bruising grip, the motion swift and sure. Thankfully, in spite of this series of sudden movements, the little kikwi doesn't appear to be perturbed in the slightest.

Link's incredulous glare is sharp, but short-lived, fading quickly to excitement once he follows the demon's gesticulation. Gaping at the odd pair with shiny, beadlike eyes, the tiny plant-creature stands smaller than a Lynel's clenched fist. Its beak twitches, absorbing each man's individual scent, before decidedly climbing into the human's lap.

Slowly, Ghirahim extends a hand, retracting his glove so as to feel the light tickle of the baby kikwi's nose. It hobbles a step closer and, after a moment of sniffing each clawed finger, rubs its soft head into his palm. Satisfied that he's been deemed safe, Ghirahim scoops the little one up and places it on his shoulder, grinning as it nuzzles into the crook of his neck.

Though the groggy astonishment plastered across Link's face just might double the satisfaction.

"I-," the knight clears his throat, "I wouldn't have taken you for an animal lover."

Ghirahim suppresses his chuckle, reluctant to disturb the little kikwi. "Technically, they're plants."

"Close enough."

He can hardly believe his own contented hum as he shifts into a sitting position. "You are fortunate, sky child, that at times like these, your ignorance can actually be quite endearing."

"I am known for my charisma." Despite the sardonic note to his tone, Link wears a small smile of his own. He sucks again at the blood gushing from his thumb, free hand reaching around to fumble through one of his pouches until he's successfully located the heart salve. As he works to apply it, Ghirahim turns his attention to the carved-up stick discarded by his side.

"And what," he motions with his eyes, "might you have been up to this morning?"

Just like that, Link's mood has once again been sullied. "Trying to make a few arrows," he sighs, returning the half-empty bottle to its former place. "The ones I had were… not exactly confiscated, but they might as well have been."

"Hmph. How unfortunate."

A comfortable silence stretches out for a time, filled only by the distant rumbling of the rapids. Steadily, Ghirahim allows his lids to droop, breathing deeply of earthen aromas and running his knuckles over their kikwi visitor's mossy coat. It stands to reason that he would be content simply to enjoy this intermittence, however brief, between evading featherbrained soldiers and chasing magic fire, yet his young companion has other ideas.

"We should plan our next steps."

Those gentle chords resonate with a certain weariness, drawing Ghirahim's gaze to the knight once more. He pauses his ministrations, disregarding the kikwi's petulant shuffling. As far as the specific nature of what may be weighing on Link's soul, the possibilities near on endless.

"Clearly, you are troubled, Link." The other doesn't so much as flinch. "Perhaps there's something you first ought to unburden yourself of?"

He doesn't meet the demon's eyes, but rather sneaks his freshly-healed hand back into the larger of his satchels. From it, he retrieves a third bottle, this one filled almost to the brim with a transparent, orange-colored liquid. The substance is apparently carbonated, and miraculously cold. Thin drops of condensation roll down the bottle's exterior, painting clean streaks through the misted glass – the result of a minor enchantment extracted from magically oriented ingredients, Ghirahim has no doubt.

Link uncorks it without a word, and immediately Ghirahim's senses flail. It smells of crisp autumn afternoons, of rustic cabins and harvest fields.

"Ale, seasoned with allspice," he muses aloud while the human takes a swig, "and… what is that sweet, earthy taste?"

His inquiry is met with twice the confusion. "Pumpkin… Your sense of smell is out of control."

Ghirahim can't conjure an appropriately mocking response, distracted by the discontented kikwi now crawling down the front of his cloak. "The perks of being a demon," he manages, gingerly dislodging the frail creature and setting it again in Link's lap. Eager to occupy his own hands with impossibly soft, mossy fur, Link offers to pass the bottle.

And Ghirahim is perhaps a bit too eager to accept. He first swirls the liquid inside, savoring the sweet perfume, before placing the rim to his lips and delicately tilting back. It doesn't burn his throat the way it does his olfactory nerves, but then, he couldn't reasonably expect a clan of humans to produce an ale powerful enough to sway a demon.

That being said, the taste is exquisite.

"Pumpkin is a rarity here on the Surface," he observes, reveling in the warmth in his veins, "yet you've just been carrying it on you this whole time?"

The knight snorts, rubbing both thumbs over the head of a now-snoring kikwi. "In the sky, we grow so many pumpkins, we don't know what to do with them." That smile widens, eyes lighting just slightly. "I honestly don't think I've ever ingested anything that didn't have pumpkin in it. We grow other crops, don't get me wrong, but pumpkins? They're practically invasive. Why," he releases a short laugh, "when we were mapping possible layouts for a settlement, Zelda even suggested we not include-"

He stops abruptly, that light yet again extinguished. So that's it. You're still thinking of the girl.

Ghirahim allows a beat before taking the young man's hand in his own, watching carefully the gentle rise and fall of his chest. The demon's touch lingers but a moment longer than necessary, broken only as he places the bottle of ale into Link's warm, calloused fingers.

Link takes another swig, then continues.

"It's close, you know. Just downstream from the rapids. I didn't realize last night, I was just so tired, I guess I saw the familiar terrain and subconsciously stuck to it."

A beat, and he passes the bottle again. Ghirahim obliges, sipping prettily at the succulent array of spices as if it could actually affect him.

"It's not like anyone's there. It's a long way from being inhabitable – we've only just finished laying the foundation, and forget about planting. It's too late in the year, what with the changing seasons. Groose and a small team would work on erecting a barricade – the Groosicade, he calls it – but with most everyone preoccupied with, well, you know. We haven't even decided how we'll irrigate the fields yet."

This time, Link actively reaches, throwing his head back with a strange thirst. By Demise, he isn't really becoming intoxicated, is he?

Oh, but how the little hero sways. He may as well have forgotten the baby kikwi, still snoozing away in his lap.

Link's fingers offer little resistance as Ghirahim gently pries the bottle from their grasp. "Adaptable, dependable – and yet your tolerance is nothing to write home about."

A predictable eyeroll. "I haven't eaten in a while."

"Then I suggest you take it slow. To address the issue of irrigation," a sobering topic, yes? "you and your people may find a water meadow would best serve your interests. Digging the proper canals can be a challenge, but they're far more reliable than creaky, hulking waterwheels that rot with age. When the time comes, I could even sketch the general concept, if you'd like."

Those blue eyes meet the other's, so big and bright Ghirahim can distinguish his own reflection therein. The type of longing shining through is one he struggles to read – but with the right amount of prodding, any code can be deciphered.

And Link's state of inebriation only eases the process.

"You know so much about the Surface and how to thrive here." His tone is wistful, gaze falling away. Gathering the kikwi into his palms, Link hugs his knees to his chest. "If they could just look past their prejudice, they'd see how much easier you could make our whole transition."

Now it's Ghirahim's turn to chortle – a harsh, mirthless scoff overflowing with irony. Help humans settle the Surface, after all he'd once done to subjugate their kind? Fate is indeed a cruel god, his sense of humor incalculable – a sadistic satire not lost on Hylia's favorite.

"Although I guess," he sighs low, "that might be a step down for you… demon lord."

"What I was in the hand of the Demon King is no longer relevant, Link. I am yours now. What you desire, I desire; what you abhor, I shall abhor as well."

Link's head whips fast as an ocean breeze, a tempest churning in his eyes. "You're not an object to me, Ghirahim," he all but snaps, "and you're not just a servant, either. I want you. So can you please just…"

Ghirahim freezes. He looks upon the other with… cluelessness. Genuine, unfeigned cluelessness.

"… just be you?"

Their eyes lock, each searching the other's face, unable to give an answer for questions unperceived.

"You can be free." Link's voice is but a whisper, just audible. "Strong, and alive, and free."

Free. The word has ever been nestled in his vocabulary, like a book long neglected, left upon the shelf to collect dust for all time. To hear it now, from his wielder's own mouth – accompanied by thrill, by passion, by hope…

It's more than the demon can bear.

"And if I can't?" he seethes. His breathing comes in ragged bouts, the muscles in his jaw stiff. A phantom tingling stings the tip of his non-existent left ear. "Do you have any idea what it's like to have no will of your own? To wield such power and prestige as I have toiled for so long to accumulate, only for a simple string of words to bring me to my knees?"

There's a visible flicker in Link's eyes, his mouth pressed into a tight line – but it's far too late to stop now.

"Place yourself, just for a moment, in my skin, Hero. No force, no threat, no coercion – only a body, and that your very own, acting with no regard for your will. So no, Master, I cannot just be me – not until I know beyond a shadow of doubt that the seeds of hope planted by your Goddess aren't as sterile as the countless other empty promises she's made over the course of my wretchedly long life."

Only when the glass shatters within his fist, ale sloshing and fizzling, soaking his cloak and staining his thighs, does his anger begin to wane. Above the treetops sunlight breaks through the clouds, a few meager rays making all the difference – and a high-pitched 'koo-weee!' brings him down from his high.

If Link had been focused on the demon lord, his gaze has since shifted, soft shushes spilling from his lips as he strokes the kikwi curling frantically into his chest. Steadying himself, Ghirahim fixes his bleary eyes to his own twitching fingers.

"Forgive me," he rasps. "I… I don't know what came over me."

Another moment, and the kikwi's panic subsides to a shivering quake, its tiny nose buried in the folds of Link's tunic. His own bearings returning, the demon turns to the spilt ale tarnishing his once-spotless clothing, a surreal heat pulsing from his core to his fingertips as he works to remove the stains.

"There's nothing to forgive." Link's voice is gentle and meek, a deep tenor comparable to the natural melody of still waters. "You're well within your rights not to want to give your hopes up. It's not a small matter – no one should be able to wield that kind of power over anyone else. Not even over you, and no matter what you've done."

What I've done. Can this idealistic youth even imagine?

Link shudders, then proceeds,

"I couldn't enslave you and live with myself. If Zelda does turn out to be mistaken, I'll…" He draws a deep breath before completing the thought, "I'll cut out my own tongue."

Ghirahim's own breath hitches, and he pauses to examine the young knight's face. The sobriety is plain, the beating of his heart audible – unmistakable candor.

"You-," How does one respond to- to such a determined offer to self-mutilate? "you… will do no such thing."

To live out the remainder of his life without the unhindered ability to communicate with his wielder? To never hear the soothing timbre of Link's chords again?

Is that really freedom?

But Link deviates once more. "Was Demise not your first master?" he asks softly.

A weightier inquiry than he might think.

"No." The demon sighs. "In a way, I was. Before I was bound."

Sun-kissed features twist in curiosity, begging for clarification. Humorlessly, Ghirahim chuckles.

"He may have regarded himself as such, but Demise was no true god. Without power to create life, he instead took mine. He forged my sword from within my own soul, binding it with dark rituals and bloodied curses until I had no choice but to submit to his will."

Content that his garments are once again presentable, Ghirahim moves on to collect the glass shards scattered in the dirt. It won't do to have a baby kikwi wander and cut itself – or to leave trail for their pursuers, no matter how miniscule.

"You didn't choose this life."

It isn't a question.

"Did you choose yours?" Ghirahim responds with unironic informality, the kind encasing a topic that's been picked apart and tousled many a time before. "Shall we weep and wallow, or shall we straighten and make the best of the hand dealt us?"

Link's indignation is stark. "But if you could choose another path," his voice rises but a hair, "wouldn't you?"

"I did."

The wide-eyed silence that follows is palpable, cut notably by the handful of dirt-speckled fractals clinking in the demon's gloved palm. Having no use for them, he buries the mess within a cavity beneath the tree's roots, shielded by a pile of needles and sprigs and leaves. Under so deep a shadow, he is confident the sun will never reach.

"I would say it's none of your business," he persists, "but I can't deny the overt relevance. In short, I once fought amidst Her Grace's ranks, a young lord-to-be with much promise. But my ambitions were met with hostility, and I was… dismissed from her service, sent away to think on my crimes."

Here he laughs almost sincerely, eyes clouded with nostalgic regret.

"Isn't it gloriously poignant – that I would be fed to the wolves, only to return leading the pack?"

Though Link listens in silent reverence, Ghirahim can feel his muscles stiffen.

"And that within the same lifetime that I had escaped the caldron's oppressive heat, I would be thrust into the very flames that caressed it?"

He looks his young wielder full-face now. The understanding between them lacks the satisfaction he might have hoped to glean.

"Don't you see?" the demon muses rhetorically. "Whatever power we think we might have, Fate will always carry the upper hand. He makes a mockery of all of us, little master. You and I are no exception."

Believing the young knight to have ingested all he can handle for a time, Ghirahim stands. The hand he extends is more symbolic than functional, knowing well that Link will need to gather his belongings before they can further progress.

"All that remains for us," his tone is gentle, a lifeline to which both sword and master may cling, "is to live from moment to moment. To follow our goddesses-given instincts, and to accept our lot with dignity."

Though Link's expression lacks enthusiasm, a determination sets within. Lips pursed, he looks up at the other with a deciding nod.

"One flame left," says Ghirahim, "and I will not be taken from you so easily."

"One flame left," Link echoes in accord. "But first," he breaks eye contact, casting a dry glare towards his attempt at a handmade arrow, "we need provisions. And more ale."

"We'll need to stop by the Item Check to replace that other bottle." Dirt crunches beneath the Hylian's boots, drowning the soft strides of his closely-following companion. "Do you still need the one you used for the rain spell?"

He's answered with Ghirahim's reaching into the folds of his cloak, then producing the item in question. It's empty, Link notes, its neck held between the other's thumb and index finger. Wrapping a calloused hand around the base, Link returns the corked glass to the lighter of his pouches.

The mid-morning sun has since chased away the clouds, unveiling an unsullied expanse of blue. Crickets chirp from beneath the brush, and everywhere the air is filled with birdsong. Earthen walls and grassy hills frame the crude pathway, marked only by flattened patches of grass and heavily-trodden gravel.

It's risky, lurking so near to the Sealed Grounds, but he's been unable to sense his Loftwing's connection since their venture beneath the cistern. Thus, with the lot of Eagus's knights stationed in Eldin, they'll simply have to chance it.

Trekking through the lush grounds, Link can at last pick out the coarse edges and mottled coloring of their target peeking around the bend.

"Might I reiterate," Ghirahim starts, for the third time now at least, "how much I do not like this?"

Eyes forward, Link doesn't slow. "I need arrows. Goddess knows what we would've done beneath Floria if I hadn't had any then, and even if I could carve their likeness well enough, there's still the issue of feathers and heads. Besides," the trees begin to clear away, the temple itself appearing just to the west, "I think we both agree I could use a change of clothes."

Ghirahim gags, though whether his disgust is aimed more towards the state of Link's uniform or simply towards the knight's being right about something, there's no real way of knowing.

Of course, if Link is being completely honest with himself, he's not entirely pleased with the demon, either. To imply that Link had had no say in his own destiny – even if he had been perfectly placed and unknowingly groomed for it, it doesn't change the fact that he hadn't been forced into anything. But then that fire in Ghirahim's eyes, smoldering to embers as he divulged cryptic glimpses into a checkered past. How Link had yearned to press him for more, to challenge him further; but to strike another nerve so soon may damage what little trust he's managed to gain throughout their companionship thus far.

And when a familiar face is spotted but a few paces from the Loftwing statue, he fears they may have bigger problems.

Olive skin tattooed with pale tribal patterns, hair like straw sticking from his head and brows and chin. Even whilst jolting so fitfully, Gorko's stocky form stands a full head and shoulders taller than Link – but it isn't he that poses the greatest concern. No less than a half a dozen Bokoblins pester the frazzled Goron, rusted machetes raised high above their heads, though they can hardly so much as scratch his rocklike hide. All in all, the scene shouldn't look much different from his first encounter with the Goron, and yet…

Link hastens his stride into a hurried jog, reaching with both hands for the dark sword while Ghirahim follows, he assumes, not far behind. With every tromp of Link's boots against the dry earth Gorko's bellowing shouts of "Shoo!" and "Scram!" become increasingly louder.

That's when he notices.

The howling of the beasts differs from the shrill cries to which the knight has grown accustomed. These trill deep and low, buzzing at the back of his teeth, jittering down his spine and into the soles of his feet. Skidding to a halt at the clearing's edge, he can easily discern the deranged glint in their yellow eyes.

Their dreadful, flaming yellow eyes. Whatever ungodly essence is possessing these creatures, it cannot possibly be of this world.

Ghirahim's steel pulses in Link's grasp, his knuckles gone numb. A cloud of red gemstones chimes on the wind, bouncing from the sword to a nearby wall crawling with ivy where he takes corporeal form.

"Gorko!" cries the demon. "Stop squirming, you great oaf!"

Link arches a brow, but isn't granted the time to dwell on it, instead fixing his glare to the fiendish brutes ahead. Ghirahim's two-handed blade doesn't move with the same effortlessness as Fi's, stirring pangs of doubt within. It's with caution that he edges closer towards the fray.

Allowing the weapon to double as a shield, Link holds the blade high, guarding against any rusted steel should it come raining down on him. As he draws closer still, one russet-colored Boko whirls around, arm notched back in preparation to strike.

Link cleaves the beast in half with one swing.

The next kill prompts a strained grunt, his muscles already starting to burn. Positioned at an almost-square angle, Ghirahim has summoned a vortex of blades, red-lit obsidian bobbing murderously in the knight's peripheral. Boko after Boko drops by the second, felled either in the forefront of Link's vision or cut down by the other's flying projectiles. Occasionally the demon will alter his stance, appearing nowhere and everywhere at once, his deadly streams never missing their mark.

By the time the war cries dissipate completely, only two green-skinned foes remain upright. Low growling rumbles from deep within their throats, drool flying from their slackened jowls. The closer they loom, the more luminescent the fluid appears.

Link's chest heaves, the sword's tip planted in the dirt. The mere thought of lifting it again has his nerves screaming in protest, lungs threatening to collapse. Din, with your powerful arms, please, either lend me your strength or let this next sacred flame decrease my weapon's weight.

The Boko approach according to two linear paths, bound to intersect prior to reaching the knight. To their rear Gorko gapes wide-eyed, while in the corner of his vision, Ghirahim's initial supply of knives has run out. It couldn't take much to conjure more, and yet… he hesitates.

Testing my skill with his blade?

Then the beasts stumble into one another.

It's graceless, unintentional. Link can only stare in morbid astonishment as they proceed to tear each other limb from limb, gnawing and gnashing and biting, hacking aimlessly at one another with their dull-edged blades. Granted, Bokokind have never been the most agile opponents the human has ever come across; even so, they had always employed strategized formations, surrounding their enemies and attacking from numerous angles. But this- this turning on one another, slobbering like mindless, wild animals…

After several, painful moments of the macabre display, the beasts' spasming recedes to an eerie peace. Each body wilts, frothing briefly in the dirt before vanishing into a thin violet mist.

As the robins' sweet music fills the ears of those still living, Link wonders whether true, unadulterated silence wouldn't better be better suited.

"M-m'lord Ghirahim!" Gorko's voice instantly clears the human's head of all else, the Goron's booming chords as burly as his figure. "Fancy meeting you here! How long has it been now?"

Padding softly towards the Goron, Ghirahim utters not a word at first, his stunning hair masking his features. Now mere feet apart, the two stand roughly at the same height. Link manages to straighten, observing both carefully; for although no animosity appears to exist between either, the incident with the LD robot looms fresh in his memory.

"How much," the demon asks, voice low, "did you see at the Temple of Time?"

One thick, rounded finger scratches curiously at the Goron's tilting head. "Very little." All in all, he seems unperturbed. "I cleared out of the area pretty quick after your warning, and did not stop rolling until I reached the desert's western edge. Though I did head back once all the tumult died down."

Ghirahim shoots him a prodding glower. "And?"

Gorko lowers his great chin, goatee brushing his sternum, both fists now resting on his sides. "As I feared, there was not much left. I worry that, had anything of interest once existed in the ruins, it did not survive the explosion. But if I may ask," he perks up, "would you happen to have seen who or what was responsible for-?"

"Never mind that." Suddenly tired, the demon holds up a silencing hand. He shifts slightly, as though turning away from some less-than-pleasant scene invisible to all others.

But the one thus mentioned is one Link easily recalls.

The rising in his spirit is quenched, triumph cut short as a thunderous clamor splits his ears. Dust fogs the air, dark clouds gathering in the blink of an eye – and a white figure descends from the falling debris. Crimson velvet with three sharp points, rippling like streams of blood against a shadowy sky – and that laugh.

He'd recognize it anywhere.

Gorko stammers, one arm falling to his side, a gesture of vague understanding. "Yes. Of course. Moving on…"

Near-enough convinced that no danger entails, the knight lifts his sword over his shoulder, returning it to the makeshift securements on his back. It's then that the Goron seems to remember he's there.

"You have found your friend!" he exclaims, gesticulating with excitement. Bulbous lips purse into a tight grin, and he finally addresses Link. "How splendid to see the two of you at last reunited!"

Link snaps his head towards Ghirahim just as the demon emits a light chortle. "Indeed," he muses, "our dear friend Gorko was kind enough to help me keep tabs on you a short while ago."

The human cocks a brow, mouth twitching in a half-bemused smile. "Did he now?"

Oblivious to this silent conversation shared by the other two, Gorko persists. "You will get a load out of my latest findings, bud – as will you, m'lord! I owe you both my deepest thanks for disposing of those unpleasant creatures. Sharing is the least I can do."

He reaches into the bundle rolled atop his massive shoulders, procuring an unusual-looking shard of some sort. At first glance it appears to be made of metal, blotched hues of teal and gold weaving intricately into one another. When held higher, however, the sun's rays pass through, casting strange distortions upon the ground.

What sorcery have you uncovered this time, Gorko?

"These 'magic' mirrors are said to have once belonged to an ancient civilization, their functionality a mystery lost to time – yet here I hold one in my very own hands! Is it not incredible?"

The longer Link gazes into the blazing patterns, the more he feels as though he were staring into the sun. A dull ache spreads behind his eyes, burning his brain like a leaf caught under spyglass, yet he can't seem to tear himself from it. The patterns appear to be constantly shifting, calling…

In an instant it's gone, Gorko's deep cry of surprise snuffing out the whine in Link's ears.

"The Bokoblins." Ghirahim's tone reverts from amicable to brusque, the mirror shard disappearing beneath the folds of his cloak. "Had you encountered any prior to this discovery?"

Gorko shrinks from the demon's advance, those dreadful dark eyes piercing the Goron deeper than any blade could ever hope to.

"N-no," he stutters, raising his meaty hands placatingly. "This was the first instance, I swear."

Ghirahim's shoulders visibly drop. His relief is felt by all.

"M'lord… do you mean to imply that the mirror-"

"It is of my world." Ghirahim straightens, his steely disposition restored. "I should thank you, friend. The gods only know what misfortune may have sprung from its falling into the wrong hands."

Though he doesn't hide his disappointed frown, Gorko offers no protest. Seizing at this pause in their tenuous exchange, Link decides to interject.

"We should go," he says hastily, addressing the demon lord. "It's already nearing noon. The sooner we get to Skyloft and get what we need, the sooner we can leave."

"Oh!" Just like that, Gorko's disheartened droop rebounds into his typical enthusiasm. "That reminds me! Someone the other day came looking for you, bud." Again, he reaches into his pack, fetching a few crumpled sheets of parchment. "He gave me these, saying something about your being in danger."

Both human and demon float closer, peering over the Goron's arms as he unfolds the paper. The image sketched thereon sends a chill through Link's veins.

His hair is parted with only a slight difference, allowing the viewer a better look at the diamond on his cheek, but the demon's likeness is unmistakable. Then, in case the parchment's intended purpose hadn't already been clear, the caption below reads in boldened, refined letters:

WANTED

Demon Lord

Ghirahim

For the crimes of murder, treason, assault, kidnapping, and unlawful practice of the forbidden arts.

Extremely dangerous, DO NOT ENGAGE.

Before either can react, Gorko slides another destressed sheet atop the first. Immediately Link recognizes Groose's crude, careless handwriting (though most of the vulgarities have been scribbled out), as well as the goofy illustration scribbled above. Leaning over beside him, Ghirahim groans.

"Now that's just unnecessary."

In spite of the overall seriousness of the situation, Link can't stop a crooked grin from creeping up his face. He can practically hear Eagus's lengthy sigh, can almost see the commander rubbing at the bridge of his nose: "Very good effort on both, but I think we're gonna go with Zelda's sketch" – inevitablyfollowed by Groose's mutters of "still think mine is better..."

"I thought it a tad strange myself," muses Gorko, mistaking the knight's nostalgia for irony. "I tried to tell the young man that this demon lord is no threat, that you would be perfectly safe in the company of one so knowledgeable and fair, yet he insisted I report the details of either of your locations to any other Hylian knight I may come across."

Link looks over the posters to Ghirahim, who arches a ridged brow as soon as he catches the other's stare. 'Knowledgeable and fair?' the human mouths, still smirking.

Ghirahim merely rolls his eyes. "Still committed to revisiting your hometown?"

By this point, Gorko may as well be invisible. "Don't worry about it," says Link. "I have a plan."

"A plan," Ghirahim grows more sour by the syllable, "or an impulse?"

The two mirror one another, Gorko's curious round head whipping from one to the other as they exchange an impish series of glares and grins.

"A plan," Link insists. "A real one, that can't possibly backfire."

"Karane!"

Even standing so close, Piper's gentle tone hardly carries over the bazaar's noonday bustle. Karane can practically hear her heart beat, the poor thing, startled white by the knight's gracelessly storming up to the counter and slamming down a satchel of rupees. Torn so rudely from her ongoing tasks, the older woman clutches absently at her aproned chest.

"Croo had mentioned you and a few others had scampered off to the Surface on some manhunt. Hylia only knows the old man to be an incurable gossip, but," she swallows, "I can honestly say I wasn't expecting you back so soon."

"I need ingredients."

Dear old Piper, struggling to maintain agreeable conversation, yet Karane simply cannot bring herself to swap pleasantries. Perhaps another time. For now, however, it saps the greater half of her resolve not to spew profanities at everyone she comes across.

"Absinthe, if you have it; if not, vodka will have to do." Thankfully, Piper doesn't question her further. "Also olive oil, flour – and do you have any extract of myrrh?"

Only then does Piper's fitful gathering fizzle to a halt. Slowly, she turns to face the young redhead.

"Honey."

Karane fights an eyeroll, determined to emulate a respectful attitude despite her growing agitation. I know that tone.

"You know that Bertie and Luv mash some of the best heart poultices known to Skyloft. Unless-"

"Unless it's a special occasion, and I'm making this for an idiot? Yeah, I know what I'm after."

Maybe three minutes later, Karane's shoulder aches with the weight of her purchases, mood curdling even worse at the look of pity Piper had the gall to give her. Another two minutes after that, and the redhead is all but flying through the northern exit, skipping steps as she bounds up the stairs. Cawlin had been waiting right outside per her instructions, their stubby footsteps now nipping at her heels.

"Karane," they call, "slow down!"

"Either keep up or catch up, Cawlin!"

They don't make a sound after that, save for their labored huffing as they effectively fall behind. Left alone with her anger, Karane can't help the tinge of guilt knotting in her gut. She only hopes they realize this isn't personal, that it isn't some petty attempt to punish them for their, erm, misunderstanding with the letter.

Then Hauk's helmeted head appears over the top of the stairway, and that guilt converts to all-out nervousness.

In truth, it isn't he, but the sight of the whipping post outside that robs Karane of breath. Many years have passed since the dreadful thing has been seen on academy grounds. To think it would be erected during her lifetime…

Deserts and demons and mountains that spit fire – and now this. No question, these are strange times indeed.

Hauk's standing guard is more or less a formality: he's not positioned directly before the tent's entrance, nor does he say a word when Karane rather audaciously ducks through the flaps without a word of explanation. Not a soul in Skyloft could doubt the integrity of the man inside.

Inside and out, the canvas consists of a reddish color, painting the meager space a stuffy, warmish tint. A small cot had been set near the back wall; towards the center, a short wooden stool. On it sits Pipit, stripped down to his trousers and boots and given an off-white shirt. His elbows rest on his knees, head held forlornly in his hands.

He snaps to attention when the tarp rustles, eyes wide with trepidation; then seeing it's only Karane, he relaxes somewhat.

Neither bothers greeting the other properly. In fact, Karane can't even bring herself to be the first to speak, even to move. The weight on her shoulder grows heavier by the second, but she holds his stare steadfast.

Naturally, it isn't long before he cracks. It never is where she's involved.

"How many are out there?"

Her pack lands on the ground with a soft thud, the girl's shoulder sighing in instant relief. "None yet," she answers dryly. "Except for Cawlin."

Gaze falling, Pipit nods his acknowledgment. "Have you all returned then?"

She sighs. "No. Just us two, for food. Groose eats at least half his weight every morning, and those lizard-things taste like ass."

He gives a heartless chuckle. "You don't know what ass tastes like."

"No." Despite her efforts, Karane's tone softens somewhat. "But I don't imagine it tastes good."

The moment passes as quick as it came, and Pipit draws an understandably deep breath, running a hand through his hair as he exhales. "Of all the people he could've sent…"

"It wouldn't have mattered," she snaps, arms crossing as her scowl returns, "if you'd just taken the suspension. But no, classic Pipit had to be all noble."

"You know it isn't just that." His voice is soft, his aura radiating patience and grace – and it's infuriating. "Suspension doesn't just mean no pay for two weeks; it means a permanent mark on my record."

"Is that really worse than the scars you'll be wearing for the rest of your life? Pipit, every time you wash after a sparring match, the whole class will see – every time you turn in for the night or take a proper bath, you'll see! And don't forget-," she covers her mouth when her voice begins to break, moisture welling behind her eyes, "all the times that I'll see them, and feel them, and…"

She has to stop, to tilt her head back and hope against hope that it will hide the tears.

"Karane…"

He stands now, rough, calloused hands ghosting over her arms. Gently, he coddles her into his embrace, smelling of fresh cotton and campfire and… saltwater?

His demeanor emanates calm, but the pounding beneath his shirt betrays him.

"I broke the law. I falsified a report and let a wanted man escape justice. That was my choice. Maybe it was the right thing to do, and maybe it wasn't; either way now, I get to choose how I'll face it."

The urge to bury her face in his shoulder is fierce, but she resists. When minutes from now, the man walks proudly through these tent flaps and confronts his sentence head-on, the first thing the whole town sees will not be her tears soaking his shirt.

Sensing as much, he pulls back, brushing her wet cheeks with the back of his knuckles. Outside the canvas walls, the whispers of a small crowd stir in their ears.

"Karane. Pipit." Hauk pulls back one flap, his voice grave. "It's time."

Karane's chest heaves as she swallows her sobs, running her hands down Pipit's front. Tenderly in contrast to the anticipation in his heart, he plants a soft kiss to her forehead.

"This isn't right," she tries to laugh. "I should be comforting you right now."

Sincerity rings from his own chortle. "But you have." He pecks her nose, then her lips. "Hey. It's only twenty lashes. And it'll be over before either of us knows it."

Squaring his shoulders, Pipit exits in silence, Hauk leading him from behind with a guiding hand on his shoulder. Not far from the whipping post stands Eagus, a simple instrument in hand. Karane notes, as she takes her place amongst the crowd, eyes that are empty and a face like stone. She intentionally avoids Cawlin's own gaze, instead fixing hers tenaciously to Pipit. Although her nerve is almost lost while Hauk helps pull the shirt over his head, she knows that this will be the last time she ever sees the skin on his back so smooth.

When the younger knight's hands are bound above his head, her breath hitches. When Eagus opens his mouth to voice the crimes leading up to this, his words blur into nonsense.

And when his hand lurches back, she can no longer bear to look.

CRACK.