A late-noon sun shines over Skyloft, where a crimson Loftwing circles from below. Its rider makes a discreet entry, then jogs nervously into the quieting bazaar.
Link instantly is accosted with every manner of smells, from the fruity aromas of Luv's potion vats to the thick smoke wafting from Gondo's forge. As soon as he crosses the threshold, every head beneath the garishly purple roof seems to turn, a myriad of bewildered looks coloring their faces. He tries not to overthink it, imagining the odor he himself is likely producing.
As usual, nothing escapes the scrutiny of the demon on his back. Would it not have been more prudent to bathe first? he scolds, an understandable stiffness to his silvery chimes.
Link doesn't dare answer aloud. Priorities are a must, and his first stop was always bound to be the least comfortable. Might as well get it out of the way.
A stark-blue lantern glares through an old wooden frame, tinting the ancient rug plush beneath his boots. At the edge of his vision, Peatrice's elbows rest easy on a green countertop. If she raises her head, it's too subtle to notice; if she lifts her eyes, there's no way to tell. At first he'd been ashamed to admit it, that he hasn't quite been able to look her in the face since their little miscommunication, but at this point, he's past the ability to care.
"Back for more, I see," comes her toneless greeting. "Just can't stay away, can you? Well, I suppose you have items for me…"
Indeed, he's already started unpacking.
"I need this changed out," he says hastily, placing his canteen and empty bottle atop her counter. "It's yellow Chu gel," her slender fingers enter his visual field, uncapping both items, "and it's from the desert, so be careful-"
"Ack!"
Those fingers dip curiously into the mixture which, within the second, emits a minor surge. Anxiously, Link rubs at the back of his neck.
"… because it's electric." His punctuating chuckle feels anything but appropriate.
Very suave, purrs Ghirahim.
Oh, shut it, thinks the other, knowing well that he can't be heard.
Reflexively he chances a look at Peatrice, the corners of her narrow mouth pulled but a touch lower than usual. Her complexion is warm despite the horrid blue light, yet it only exacerbates the kohl caking her lids.
His own skin itching, Link begins fumbling with his sword belts, unburdening himself of the academy blade and the shield he hasn't been using. "I also need to store these. I, um, I got a new sword."
"I can see that." It's snapped, not sighed. Not a good sign. "Zelda said something about a demon living in that thing. I thought it sounded a little farfetched, even for her."
A silver laugh reverberates through his skull. Oh, child. How little you know…
Mischief rings loud in that tone. "Don't even think about it, Ghirahim," the knight growls at the hilt sticking over his right shoulder.
Peatrice startles, which in her case means raising one bone-straight eyebrow just slightly. "Hm?"
"Nothing, just…" He swallows. What would make this girl tick? "… agreeing with you. I mean, I don't see any demons around here, unless," he jabs a thumb over his shoulder, lowering his voice and forcing a crooked smile, "you count Sparrot back there."
She rolls her eyes heavily in perhaps the most expressive gesture of her life, but otherwise moves on. Once she's returned to her task of funneling Chu gel, Link breathes somewhat easier.
Then that internal laugh grows louder. Oh, but can't you just picture it? A brilliant flash, gemstones abound, and my sublime form graces the eyes of all present! How they all would marvel…
"Don't you dare."
Both bottle and canteen clink, set forcefully upon the countertop. "Dare what?" Peatrice demands, straightening in her seat.
Every muscle in Link's body clenches. "Y'know what," he blurts, "let me handle these. You just, erm, take care of the sword and shield, and – oh! Could I also get my other bottle?"
Rupin's reserve is far more advanced, and well-organized, than Peatrice's alcove with its stuffed lockers and crammed chests. Here at this penned-off corner of the bazaar, handsewn embroidery hangs stylishly from the ceiling, kitchenware decorates freshly-painted shelves, and warmly-colored lanterns bring a comfortable balance to the azure wash assigned to every shop. When Link approaches, he finds the shopkeeper wiping down the countertops, placing various batches of merchandise atop a small trolley as he goes.
This utilization of space is impressive, observes Ghirahim.
Link doesn't pay it much heed, his sights set firmly on those arrows.
As always, Rupin hails his customer with unrequited enthusiasm, cheeks red and puffy from the clownish grin he forces daylong. Not so typical, however, is the absence of tears threatening to leak through his squinted eyes. No, these are beady, even shrewd, not unlike the persona he acquires by night when…
Oh, goddesses, not now.
"Ah, Link!" The older man spreads his arms wide, a stark contrast to the wordless groveling he's become so well-known for. "So good to see that you're still in one piece! Your associates have been making quite a fuss about your absence."
Stomach knotting, Link reaches gingerly into his wallet, procuring a pair of red rupees. "Two bundles of arrows, please."
"Oh dear."
Rupin clicks his tongue with a shake of his head, yet that obnoxious grin only seems to widen. Here it comes.
"You see, your commanding officer has given me explicit instructions not to supply you with weapons or ammunition of any kind. How unfortunate…"
"I thought the customer was always right?" He knows it's futile, that there's only one way to reason with the man, but still.
"Yes, this is true. And yet, with the amount of stock purchased by your commander and comrades, there's no denying whose right outweighs the other, eh?"
Rupin crosses his arms, tilting his head as though in invitation. Link's remain flat at his sides.
This man, the demon's voice snarls in his head, secure me to his back, and see if I can't be more persuasive.
The knight ignores him, though the appeal is certainly there. Folding his own arms, Link nods towards the bomb flowers arranged neatly on the shopkeeper's trolley. "Those look ripe," he observes, treading lightly. "Seems like it wasn't long ago that I stuck my neck out and brought you the seeds from Eldin, huh?"
Really, sky child. Why barter when you can threaten?
He has to stop himself from swatting at the sword's hilt, though the distraction is brief. When that ghoulish smile turns sour, it's only for a second.
"Why, yes." The grin returns, although it reaches neither his tone nor his eyes. "I suppose you think I owe you…"
Now sporting a smirk of his own, Link hums in agreement.
"Well then." A shrug. "I suppose I could look the other way…"
He holds his breath, lest it kindle his hopes too high.
"… for an increased rate."
And there it is. "Mhm. How much?"
"What's say…," he leans forward, bent at the waist, "one hundred rupees for two bundles?"
One hundred?! Ghirahim's outburst rattles Link's brain, to the point where he almost worries it will be heard even outside his head. Does this fool truly mean to charge you more than double the standard price?!
He wants to soothe the demon, to assure him that whatever Rupin's greed may cost at the moment, they can always make more, as the knight himself knows. Really though, it's the principle that turns his blood hot.
"Don't look so down." That mocking admonishment is nearly insufferable. "Consider it a security fee! After all, I am risking quite a lot by doing this."
Making no effort to conceal his distaste, Link dives deliberately into his wallet. Glowering haughtily down his nose, he sets no less than two silver rupees on the counter.
The way the shopkeeper's eyes sparkle is enough to make him want to gouge them out.
"Two hundred," says the knight, his tone overly sweet, "and thank you, for your discretion."
By the time Link leaves the bazaar, a red sun sinks low on the horizon. Already his ears ring with the shrill cries of the native Keese, brought forth from the darkness by Ghirahim's demonic presence.
He's halted in weary pause, looking off towards the crude ledges and ivy-strung walls along whence Fi had led him from his academy dorm not two full years ago. Beneath the earthen isles the winged creatures hang, fleshy wings stretching in preparation to take flight, red eyes aglow as they adjust to the dimness.
The knight is staring in tired fascination, when an idea drifts into his mind.
Well, Hero? prods the demon in his sword. We mustn't idle.
His haste is wholly justified, Link knows. With the bazaar soon closing for the night, its occupants forced to return to their homelives, it's only a matter of time before word of the duo's visit reaches unsympathetic ears. Even so…
"Hang on. There's one more person who I think might be able to help us."
"Master Link! Please, come right in!"
Since Batreaux's transition altered his form, his home was clearly quick to follow suit. The tall, bronze candelabras once decorating the floor now illuminate the living space from atop an eight-drawer chest. The daunting self-portraits that had adorned the walls have been replaced by little Kukiel's numerous drawings, depicting Loftwings and bugs and, to the warming of Link's heart, the girl herself holding hands with dear old Uncle Bats. No longer does a garland made of skulls and claws hang from the ceiling, and when Link steps in further over the creaking floorboards, he finds the former demon's pair of scythes has also been moved to a more discreet location.
A gossan curtain veils what can only be a sleeping cot from the rest of the room. It's positioned next to the adjacent kitchen area, where their gracious host begins making himself busy.
"Won't you sit down?" Batreaux implores kindly (though besides the bed, there's really no place to sit besides the floor). "I will put on some tea."
"Oh," Link fidgets, automatically reaching for the back of his head, "that's really all right. We can't stay long."
"Nonsense! I insist." He fills a small ceramic kettle with water from a natural spout, dark robes rustling elegantly as he kneels by the hearth. "Would you prefer green tea, or perhaps oolong- wait…"
He's hardly retrieved his flint when that head of scarce red hair perks up.
"You say 'we,' yet there is only one of you?"
Whoops. "Yeah." A nervous chuckle. "That's… why I'm here, actually."
Thick brows furrow deeper and deeper while Link removes the sword and holds it horizontal. The blue gemstone catches the candlelight just so, scarlet beams rippling sleek over black steel.
"This blade," continues the knight, "you might not recognize it, but-"
"The Demon Lord Ghirahim."
Link starts, gazing up at the former demon in surprise. Batreaux's own eyes remain locked onto the sword. The diamond embellishment pulses with a faint light, but otherwise, Ghirahim himself remains strangely quiet.
Batreaux proceeds. "The sword of the Demon King. Only on the rarest of occasions would his presence be made known to the likes of me and my own, but when it was, it was truly unforgettable. His form has shifted; his aura has not."
"His alignment has," Link swallows, exhausted and desperate and on edge all at once, "or at least I think. Zelda mentioned that he has… power, to affect people's minds. To make them turn on one another."
At last, Batreaux's gaze diverts, drifting along with a solemn nod. "The Curse of Shattered Sight," he says darkly. "A trick cruel and wicked, and horrifically effective in times of war. You… you fear that you may be under his influence?"
Not for the first time in as many days, Link finds himself struggling to breathe. In truth, it isn't himself that he worries for. The drooling, quivering jowls of the turncoat Bokoblins linger ghostlike in his mind.
"If I were," he can only manage to whisper, bent on getting answers one way or another, "could it be undone?"
A firm hand travels to stroke a broad chin, Batreaux's head tilting in contemplation. "You must excuse my limited knowledge, for magic was never my strongest suit. I have only ever known Shattered Sight to have one method of reversal: tears of a loved one, applied directly to the cursed one's eyes."
Tears. Unwittingly, Link releases a short sigh. Tears can't be so hard to come by, can they?
"That said," Batreaux looks over the sword once more, an uneasy glint in his eyes, "one trapped within the hold of Shattered Sight is not likely to accept such a gift willingly. Her Grace the Goddess would most assuredly be a better consult."
For the time being, the knight will not allow either observation to deter him, reminding himself inwardly that he's overcome worse odds before. Instead, he determines to push forward with this unstudious interview. Zelda may be unwilling to bless, and therefore solidify, their union, but there must be other ways.
"What about," how should he phrase this? "um, binding? Say, if I wanted to bind an object or a soul to my own – do you know of a way?"
Here, Batreaux looks down upon him, a soft frown marring his gentle features. "I fear," he speaks slowly, as though some invisible thread of sanity might break at any word, "that I may infer your intentions, Link. You wish to bind this spirit to yourself, to become his Master, as the king himself once had?"
Link's stomach curdles, the demon's voice echoing through his memory. 'No force, no threat, no coercion – only a body, and that your very own, acting with no regard for your will.'
He suppresses a shudder. "Something like that."
Batreaux's frown deepens. "I am afraid I cannot be of much help."
Heart sinking, the knight looks away. It had been a longshot, he knew, and yet-
"Though there are," the other starts again, hand returning to his chin, "certain… other… ways to bind two souls. To fast the hand of one to the other with the threads of fate. However," a rather cheeky smile breaks out across his face, "the nature of such might not be precisely what you are looking for."
Handfasting. Link knows the ceremonials all too well, having attended a few of the events himself – and Batreaux is right: it most definitely isn't what he's looking for.
Then again, demons and humans are not quite the same. Applying a magical element may prove to be exactly what they need.
His face goes hot just thinking about it.
Outside the thin walls, a shriek pierces the night, the screeching of the Keese no longer willing to be ignored. Torn so suddenly from his ruminations, Link secures the sword to his back once more, footsteps carrying him speedily towards the doorway.
"Thanks, Batreaux," he calls over his shoulder, not glancing back nearly long enough to glean the other man's expression. "You've given us a lot to think about!"
As he half-sprints up the rudimentary boardwalk, ladder in sight, Ghirahim at last makes his thoughts known.
Propose to me, he states, cutting through Link's mind so suddenly the knight almost trips over his feet, and I will throw you over the nearest ledge.
A warm glow encompasses the Headmaster's study, though its true comfort is lacking in the absence of its primary occupant. Aside from the sconces protruding from the window frames, a single oil lantern set atop the central table is all that illuminates the room. Really, it isn't even necessary. Colorful prisms bounce from the stained glass, casting ominous shadows across the faces of the young knight and knight-to-be.
That golden-haired knight sits across from Eagus, chin resting upon her interlaced fingers. Her gaze is pensive, and distant. Fledge sits between the two, his chair pushed away at an awkward distance – an obvious expression of his discomfort. White knuckles grip the edges of his seat, his booted foot tapping nervously against its leg. It's not so much minor fidgets like these, but the way they pile up, that cripples Eagus's confidence in the young man's potential.
"I passed by Luv and Bertie as they were on their way home," he says. "When they stopped to say hello, they mentioned Link had been through the bazaar earlier today. Well, Luv mentioned. Bertie was busy keeping their toddler from running off."
"And?"
Leaning back in his own chair, Eagus doesn't intend for his prodding to come across so curt. As it is, though, he can scarcely maintain even this meager imitation of calm. Over the course of his many years of service, he's encountered no shortage of things that go 'bump' in the night – yet nothing comparable to demons and curses and rebellious knights running amuck. Hauk and Albat cover the nightly rounds; Cawlin returns to Eldin with food, medicine, and various other necessities; and Karane tends to Pipit, in desperate need of time to heal despite his insistence to the contrary. Not unlike the commander's patience, the lot of them have been spread concerningly thin.
Naturally, Fledge recoils from the other's stern tone, more skittish even than usual. After the events of that same afternoon, who could blame him. The whole of Skyloft feels to be wilting beneath their weight. Eagus himself fears he'll never be the same, the song of the whip forever whistling past his ears.
"Th-they didn't have much information." The younger man gulps, throat bobbing. "Said he looked like he was haggling with Rupin, but that it was too quiet to hear exactly what they were saying. Link did walk away with arrows, though."
The chair creaks as Eagus leans forward, slowly wiping a hand over his face. Of course that money-grubbing twig would flout all warnings given the right price. Well then, if rupees are forever to be his top priority, perhaps a hefty enough fine will sway his indiscretion in the future.
Eagus isn't given much time to consider it, though. Until this point, from the very start of their convention, Zelda has remained silent, motionless. Only now does she use her voice, interrupting the commander mid-sigh.
"We should call it off," she says.
The room goes quiet, eerily so. Even Fledge's irksome shuffling freezes. Dumbfounded, Eagus scrutinizes the young Goddess's steely features, unblinking, uttering not a word as he expectantly awaits her explanation.
She doesn't bother looking at either of the others while giving it. There's a solid chance that she simply can't.
"Link isn't getting hurt, or hurting anyone else – obviously, seeing as he just passed by goddesses-know how many others without incident. The only time people have gotten hurt is when we've interfered with their goals."
When at last she meets Eagus's eyes, her own exude a certain strength. It's firm, deciding, possessing a kind of authority that is borne and not earned: a divine right that he himself has never known.
"Just look," she emphasizes coldly, "at what happened with Pipit."
The room grows suddenly hot, a flash like fire running through the commander's veins. Her comment was personal.
"You know perfectly well," he speaks with deliberation, spurred further by Zelda's refusal to flinch, "that Pipit had a choice, whereas I had none. He could have kept his deception to himself and been let be, but he didn't. He confessed. What kind of example would I be setting were I to allow his offense to go unpunished?"
To Eagus's astonishment, Fledge interjects.
"You could've gone easier on him."
The words are mumbled, yet it's clear he fully intended their discernment.
Without pause, Eagus whips his attention to the other. Fledge stiffens, but does not shrink.
"Do you think I enjoyed it, carrying out my grisly obligation?" Eagus seethes, voice lowering into a warning growl. "Do you think I didn't practically beg the lad to choose the alternative sentence?"
The muscles in Fledge's neck bulge, breath hitching. Still, he doesn't back down. Where did this courage come from?
"You know Pipit's financial situation. You had to have known what he'd end up doing, and that it was never much of a choice to begin with."
"Our laws have been written with no room for misinterpretation, boy." The older man's lips yearn to curl into a snarl. "You would do well not to question it."
"Gentlemen," Zelda tries. Her powerful chords do not waver, yet her collected aura is slipping. "We can discuss this later. The issue at hand is not Skyloftian law, not while a war criminal and demon may be threatening our way of life."
Something inside the commander snaps.
"Our way of life?" he repeats. With the way his lungs constrict, it hardly comes out above a whisper. "And who, Your Grace, are you to speak when it comes to such a matter as ruining our way of life?"
The girl's features fade from thoughtful to blank, though her eyes betray confusion and fear.
"And who," his voice rises to an all-out roar, and he bolts upright with such force that his chair is sent clattering, "are you to decide what the issue at hand is to be?"
His hands slam flat onto the tabletop, the oil lantern wobbling dangerously. He knows the futility of his rage, and yet, he cannot bring himself to stop.
"I have known you, Zelda, since you were a little girl – and believe you me, you are not much less little now. You take one dip beneath the clouds, and suddenly you've returned to us a goddess? Oh, but not just a goddess – the Goddess, the one who has protected us and our kind since the beginning. Yet what a pitiful job you've done since."
Whilst the girl's eyes widen, soulless windows to a fluctuation of shock and hurt, Fledge's daring disposition seems to worsen. "Don't talk to her like that!" he cries, rising somewhat shakily from his own seat. His breathing may tremble, but his skin has gone as red as his ever-ruddy cheeks.
A pathetic sight if ever there was one.
Eagus does not shout, does not curse, does not lunge as indeed he might like. Instead, he laughs. He laughs right in the miserable little thot's face: a low, mocking cackle designed to humiliate – and oh, how it hits its target dead on.
"What do you know of it, kid?" he spits. "Since our divine protector began the move to the Surface, you've done little more than chop and haul lumber, and frankly, it's all you've ever been good for. I'd hoped that, in spite of the pointless danger of this whole fool's errand, the transition would at least turn your sorry existence from that of a boy to a man. Clearly, I was mistaken."
With every venomous word dripping from Eagus's mouth, the younger man's fuming increases. His frame is wracked by violent tremors, narrowed eyes filling with tears that refuse to fall. Silently the commander wonders to himself, How much more would it take to coax them down the young man's cheeks – and wouldn't that be a pretty picture?
First, however, there are many other personal matters boiling within his chest, spilling through his lips like a pot filled too full and left to simmer unattended.
"Were it not for Her Grace's reckless ambitions, this demon would not have gained the opportunity to compromise our home in the first place. So yes: between the stupidity of this child – of this arrogant brat – and the overall incompetence of weaklings like you, I dare say a few harsh words are damn well warranted."
The ensuing pause is thick, strained, and egregiously short. Fledge's trembling turns to a deathly stillness, though his breathing is no less erratic.
"I'm not weak," he rasps. "Have you ever thought that maybe, Commander, just maybe, you're just a lousy teacher?"
Eagus opens his mouth, a spiteful retort hovering on his tongue, but is cut off by the other's high-strung roar.
"You preach nobility and fairness, but you're no different from Groose and the rest." Teeth gritting, he shoves one smooth, uncalloused finger much too close to the commander's face. "You're a bully and a hypocrite, Eagus, and I am sick of-!"
A shift in the air, in the foundation, in existence sweeps his words into silence. Something like bells ring melodiously in the older man's ears, accompanied by a sensation akin to a freefall – like he's waiting a moment longer than necessary to call for his mount, or drifting through deep waters. The impact is apparently shared by the two, sending Fledge swooning into his chair whilst Eagus is brought crumbling to his knees. He catches the table's edge, holding it in a death grip as he strives to regain his balance.
Before him, the Goddess incarnate has hardly moved an inch. Her eyes are closed, face a mask of pure serenity. Rings of golden light flow rhythmically from her still form, immersing those present in a warm embrace, gentle and soothing, sifting over skin and through hair like a warm summer breeze. Once they've faded gently to black, a surreal sort of calm is left in their wake.
Fledge, rubbing gingerly at his temples, emits a soft groan. "Commander," he squeaks. "I… I didn't mean any of it."
In all honesty, Eagus can hardly recall the source of their quarrel. All in an instant the fury of before feels like nothing but a distant memory. Were he not still so strangely entranced, he knows he'd likely be ashamed.
Thoroughly shaken by an influx of clarity, both men exchange careful glances. A silent understanding passes between. Humbled to his core, Eagus allows his gaze to fall.
"Zelda," he breathes. "I…"
He trails off, nursing a vain hope that an appropriate sentiment will somehow word itself. Zelda says nothing, not at first. When she does speak, her tone carries the hollow weight of exhaustion.
"You are not at fault, Commander," she states, "any more than a natural source could have caused that desert storm. Link still has Ghirahim here on Skyloft."
She casts a worried glance towards the study door, as though the pair in question might be standing just outside.
"And I think I know exactly where."
Copper moonlight accents a black sky, pouring gently through the restroom window. Filtered through the blue glass, it paints the walls and floor a dull purple tint. Cicadas harmonize a raucous tune just past the horribly thin wood, though their song is perhaps more comparable to screeching. At least, with so significant a percentage of the academy's usual population being occupied elsewhere, the place is relatively clean.
Link is slumped against the wall by the faucet, Ghirahim still secured to his back. It isn't the most dignified place to spend the night, but with Pheoni's ghostly cooing carried throughout the academy halls, it's the surest way to be left alone.
"Paper…," she chants, over and over and over again. "Please… paper…"
Had the knight not been in such a hurry before, he might have thought to tear a page from one of his notebooks. Does it make sense to feel guilty for neglecting a ghost?
Meanwhile, the demon in his sword continues to sulk.
When first I agreed to be your blade, he says, it was with the understanding that I would be wielded, not holed away in some dingy corner of a public restroom.
Footsteps strain the floorboards outside – likely only Henya, Link tells himself, laying her nightly preparations in the nearby cafeteria. Even so, he keeps his voice low.
"It's only for tonight," he whispers towards the hilt, trusting their proximity to carry his words. "Then one flame left, remember?"
You could have at least informed me that we'd be sharing quarters with a toilet spirit.
"It didn't seem relevant at the time."
The blue diamond flashes faintly in disgruntlement, but Ghirahim otherwise retires. Pheoni's chanting, however, grows increasingly more morose.
"Paper… red… paper…"
Link's breath hitches at the slight change in mantra, but he dismisses the shiver running up his spine. His eyes should have adjusted by now, yet the room appears somewhat darker. The moon ducking behind a stray cloud, perhaps…
"… or blue… paper…"
Another pulse emanates from the sword, a stripe of fire blooming across his back. This is precisely why I ask you to keep me informed, Link.
"She's harmless." His words are unconvincing, even to himself. "But… you're an expert on this kind of thing. Should I maybe… apologize, or-?"
"Red paper or blue paper?"
Her once-trembling chords tighten, morphing into a raspy growl. A chill washes over the knight, cold sweat heated only by Ghirahim's steel. Say nothing, he warns.
But when Pheoni again presents the question – no, the demand – it becomes harder still to ignore.
"RED paper or BLUE paper?!"
A knock at the door nearly jostles him from his skin. Zelda's voice rings from the other side.
"Link?" she chimes meekly. Her tone spills over not with hostility, but with deep concern. "Link, are you in there?"
The knight struggles to swallow past the knot in his throat. This was a mistake.
When he turns to look straight ahead once more, not one, but two pale hands hover before him. The right holds a half-spun roll of blue tissue; in the left, the same, but drenched crimson.
"RED PAPER OR BLUE PAPER?"
Another knock, much sharper, threatens to tear the door from its hinges.
"Link!" cry Commander Eagus's bellowing chords. "We know you're there! Open up, before somebody gets seriously hurt!"
A flash of crimson catches the dim light, and for a split second, Link wonders whether Ghirahim hasn't materialized. Scarcely able to breathe, he snaps his gaze towards the bloodlike color.
How wrong his initial assumption had been.
Nothing but shadow gapes from beneath the red hood, staring up into its depths like gazing into the abyss. The hem levitates several inches from the floor, thick folds billowing in a nonexistent breeze. The hands are much the same: ghostly, pale – but for the paper…
"RED PAPER," she gurgles, "or BLUE PAPER?"
A bang on the door, the sound of wood splintering.
"Link!" It's Zelda who hollers, now further than before. "Please, we're not here to stop you – you have to believe me. Both of you are in grave danger!"
He's no time to consider anything – not her words, not their sincerity, not their options regardless – before a metallic chime accompanies a flash of silver, then red, then gold. Ghirahim slams both hands against the doorframe, a gate of shifting colors and geometric patterns taking form within their boundary.
"Say nothing!" he shouts.
"Link!" howls Eagus. "As your immediate superior, I am commanding you: Open this door!"
An eerie pause hangs but temporarily, followed by a deafening CRUNCH as the commander charges. Finally, Link startles to his feet.
"We have to get out of here," he says, already climbing on top of the sink. "How long will that barrier hold?"
Another CRUNCH punctuates the inquiry.
"Long enough," the demon replies over his shoulder. Compared to Pheoni's, the rich color of his cloak is blunted.
"Red paper…," her incantations grow soft, distant, "or blue…?"
"Do not answer her, Link!"
But the knight is busy with the screws securing the vent shut. One by one, he twists with fumbling digits, until the screen gate blocking entry nearly crashes onto his face. He catches it not a second too soon, leaning it gently below the mirror, lest the wrong noise signal their means of escape.
By the third CRUNCH, he wonders how Eagus's shoulder isn't broken. Zelda – she must be healing him.
Diamonds twirl and clink as they bounce across the floor, Ghirahim's breathing now visibly labored. With each ensuing clash of armor against wood, the barrier flickers.
"Link…"
Hardly a thought crosses as Link pulls himself through and begins crawling his way towards the rooftop. Echoes of "red paper or blue…" tingle his ears, numb his mind, chill his blood.
Down below, the spirit herself starts to fade, the brilliance of her cloak blending into frail moonbeams – but Ghirahim isn't done with her yet.
His muscles burn as though trapped in a furnace; still, he procures the mirror shard from within his own crimson pockets. Every pounding against the magical barrier shoots pain through to his core, and yet he faces the bathroom mirror patiently.
And when the spirit lilts closer, becoming caught between the two, the reward is instantaneous.
"No one wants your paper," he sneers.
A shrill cry splits the air, arms once pale and docile webbing with pitch until fully blackened. The cloak itself burns away, bloodred fractals vaporizing like smoke; naught but the hands remain.
They harden into what appears to be stone, igneous marked with jagged lines that form geometric patterns. The fingers, once dainty, fatten and swell, hardening around the edges. All the while, Pheoni's piercing shriek drowns all other sounds, the Goddess and her lackeys almost forgotten.
Almost.
The wretched spirit and her insidious wailing have scarcely faded from this world, lost in the realm behind the mirror, when the door at last caves. With it, the barrier is crushed – and a dark flash in the looking glass's reflection is his only warning before Ghirahim finds himself spun by the shoulders, pinned against the wall, the commander's forearm pressed to his throat.
"What is this?" he human snarls, mere inches from the other's face. "What have you done to him – to us?"
The assault on his windpipe has his chords rattling, yet Ghirahim forces a throaty laugh. "Were I responsible for this," he rasps through a painfully-maintained smirk, "you would not have so easily overcome it."
Save for the flicker of indignance dancing into the man's eyes, he isn't given time to respond. As Link flees further with his blade, the invisible leash binding them is pulled taut, and with a shower of silver, Ghirahim melts from beneath the commander's hold.
Atop the academy roof, the green rider mounts his feathered beast.
"Fly fast, buddy," he whispers into its neck. And confirming Ghirahim's wellbeing, the trio take flight.
The cool night air provides little respite, for as they soar northward through a starless sky, careful not to stray far above the earth's foundation, a strenuous silence permeates. The shouts of the nightly patrols have long since receded, and before dawn peeks over the eastern horizon, even the beating of the great bird's wings fades into the background.
Until at last, Link speaks his mind.
"Ghirahim." He swallows dryly, then clears his throat. "What would have happened had I… had I answered Pheoni?"
The landscape below shifts almost abruptly, from forests and woodlands to rocky crags – an indicator of their nearing the volcanic regions. Steadily, the knight guides his Loftwing downward, steering towards a narrow ravine.
Were he corporeal, the demon would wet his lips. Trust me, little master. It's better you don't know.