Half a day's journey is taken on foot, with not an insignificant detour to throw any possible pursuers off track. Whatever may be waiting for them in Eldin, no additional impediments could possibly mitigate.
Adrenaline alone keeps the Hylian on his feet, and he doesn't truly realize until it starts to run dry. He sees sunlight stretching over his right shoulder, feels the hard earth beneath his boots. Gradually his vision blurs, until it can no longer be dismissed as merely an effect of the surrounding darkness.
At one point, he feels as though he were floating, carried in the arms of another. Perhaps he is. The sword is still warm on his back, of that he's careful to make sure; it's when the metal abruptly cools that the world altogether becomes surreal. Soft chords attempt to reach him, but his ears may as well be filled with honey.
"Let go, little master," the voice seems to be saying. "You haven't slept more than a few hours in as many days. Rest now, and recover your strength."
The words are poetic, their intonation musical, the gentle cacophony a lullaby in its own right. Even before their meaning has lilted its way through his head, his body obeys.
"You're sure to need it," the voice blearily adds, "and soon."
Link is granted but a moment to wonder whether or not he'd only dreamt it, before all fades to black.
When he wakes, the first thing he notices is the soft, fibrous texture beneath him. The air is warm and heavy, and rich with mineral essence. With every inhale his body relaxes further, leaving him drowsy, maybe even almost uncomfortably so. Instinctively he reaches up to pull off his tunic and mail, only to find they've already been removed, his fingers brushing the thin fabric of his undershirt.
Link groans softly as he sits upright, the fog steadily lifting from his vision. It's quiet, he notes, with only a methodical drip gracing his ears, echoing faintly as the droplets pad onto whatever surface they happen to meet. Water, earth…
The sleep clears from his eyes to reveal a modest-sized cave. Before him lies a relatively small spring, which he gathers to be the source of the immense warmth, steam rolling in waves off its still surface. Silky blades of grass tickle his fingers, a cool, luminous green that spreads from one stony wall outward. Like-colored foliage spirals over rocks and stalactites, woody vines coating the walls above the pool and strikingly red berries sprouting from underneath an arrangement of large, jagged formations. It's on one of these that his weapons, pouches, and the rest of his uniform lay.
Thus far, Ghirahim is not to be seen.
Towards the opposite end of the wide space, the plant life splotches and fades into frosty earth, whilst a much cooler mist drifts in from what appears to be a tunnel laden with ice. Groggily, Link inches towards it, and hears what must be the gentle roar of a distant waterfall. Frost decorates the preceding cavern in intricate patterns, bearing an overt resemblance to the vines and leaves that emerge from the spring.
An especially loud drip snaps him from his stupor, and he clamps his mouth shut, having not even realized his wonderment. The further he crawls from the spring, he chillier the air becomes. A shiver wracks his loosely clad form, gooseflesh blooming across his limbs. Pensive, he looks back to where he woke. The atmosphere near the water is contrastingly inviting…
He inches his way back towards the pool, warily, though he doesn't fully grasp why. Ghirahim's blade lies comfortably atop his neatly folded tunic, a sure sign that the demon himself can't be far – scouting the area, perhaps, and fully capable of returning at any moment. Could that be why Link finds himself hesitating? It isn't as though Ghirahim hasn't, well, seen everything already.
Huffing chidingly at himself, the human wills his hands to peel off his boots. It can't hurt to at least dip his feet for a little while. As it meets open air, his skin sings with instant relief, the water immeasurably soothing to his tired muscles. The 'bath' in the academy's restroom sink, rushed as it was, hadn't been a fraction as refreshing as this. Pantlegs rolled up to his knees, he drapes his feet further over the ledge, and releases a contented sigh.
The atmosphere shifts, a brisk draft cutting through the pleasant humidity, and he knows he's no longer alone.
"Making yourself at home, I see?"
Link doesn't startle at the demon's voice, in spite of how it seems to carry from all directions at once. A side effect of their cavernous surroundings, he's sure. Smiling softly, the knight nods his head, not bothering to try to pinpoint the other's location.
Not that it matters. Ghirahim is prompt to cross the grassy expanse, uncloaked: even in Link's peripheral, a stark, pristine figure practically aglow in the pale-blue light. His lithe form kneels to retrieve his sword, then turns to join the other by the pool.
"Has anyone ever told you that you sleep like a corpse?" he says, folding his legs beneath him.
A chortle escapes Link's mouth, accompanied by short pangs of nostalgia. "On Skyloft, my name might as well have been 'sleepyhead.'"
"Fitting." A white curtain of hair veils the demon's face. He doesn't look at Link, yet no venom laces his chords.
"How long was I out?"
"Two days, nearly. The sun is beginning to set."
Link inhales sharply. Considering how eventful the past week or so has been, it shouldn't come as such a shock – but two days?
So much for fresh pumpkin soup.
"You look surprised."
The observation is made with a hint of disbelief, though Ghirahim's ungloved ministrations don't deign to match his docility. Powerful hands sweep gracefully along his blade, clear water rolling off the black steel in sheets. Those obsidian fingers, so long and slender, so capable of snatching, even crushing, the life from another – to see them rhythmically engaged in so mundane a task is just… hypnotic.
When he notices how the other stares, the demon's chest rumbles in a silent laugh.
"Come now, sky child. You've bathed in front of me. Now, you may consider us even."
There's a beat before the comment registers. Once it does, the knight's face grows hot.
Ghirahim is cleaning his sword. Ghirahim is his sword.
Suddenly bashful, the knight turns away, fixing his gaze to his lap. "I-I'm sorry," he stammers. "I didn't realize…"
Boisterous, melodious laughter echoes throughout the space, amplified by the polygonal stone. While it does little to alleviate the burning in Link's cheeks, he breathes easier knowing he at least hasn't upset the other.
"You're much too considerate," Ghirahim grins, his shoulders still shaking. "Be honest, Link. Do I really strike you as the modest type?"
Encouraged by the inquiry, rhetorical though it may be, Link glances back to the other. His eyes fall to the diamond cutouts running up his legs. The silhouettes grow larger, more revealing, the higher they go, until landing on the window that may as well leave his chest bare. Steam beads on the exposed skin, his torso glittering.
"I guess not," Link says, returning the smile.
He raises his eyes higher still, intoxicated by the sight. The humidity curls those silver strands into gentle waves, through which even his typically hidden eye peeks. Past this snowy curtain, beneath the black webbing, a darker shade of grey dusts the demon's cheeks. It's almost like he's… flushed.
For the first time since their meeting, Ghirahim is the first to break their gaze. Features sobering, he returns to his project with increased vigor.
Link, however, can't bring himself look away.
A heavy pause is woven between them, which neither seems willing to encroach. Rather, he finds himself overcome with the urge to run his fingers through that hair. In the dry chill of a desert night, it had felt impossibly soft. He wonders, would it feel the same like this…?
Emboldened by the demon's blush, he reaches a hand, brushes away the stray strands…
And tucks it behind a torn stump where there should be an ear.
Link's breath hitches, while Ghirahim tenses. His ministrations freeze with his sword partially immersed.
"I never noticed this before," says the former, even as he withdraws.
The second he does, Ghirahim's own hand flies to restore his cover.
"Inconsequential."
That singular word is spoken simply, hastily – far from a threat, yet an unmistakable warning to leave the subject be. Surprised to have so easily disrupted their peace, Link wracks his brain for some mode of recovery.
"Where, um," he tries, staring once more into his lap, "where are we?"
"The mountains north of Eldin."
Ghirahim's voice is strained, as though he were forcing it not to tremble. Link struggles not to think on it, the unpleasant memories he may have awoken with that one humble, well-meaning gesture.
"The volcano is several miles from here, far enough to be spared any lava flow. Although it did run considerably close proceeding last year's eruption."
So they won't be bothered by stuffy magma pits and irksome spumes. That's at least good news. "I'm surprised all this foliage survived," he muses aloud.
"Actually," Ghirahim's tone recovers an air of bemusement, "the flora here thrive because of the volcano, not in spite of it."
Link meets the other's eyes, spirit lifting at the restoration of that worldly pride. Ghirahim positively preens under his inquisitive glances.
"Fire may be destructive," he continues, bringing his sword up to rest in his lap, "but it is also cleansing. Soot and ash overtake molten earth, making for extremely fertile soil."
He pauses briefly to survey the cavern's expanse, the look in his eye that of a sculptor admiring a particularly masterful creation.
"Wondrous, isn't it?"
But Link's focus remains glued to that palled figure, to damp skin gleaming like polished stone after a warm summer rain; to every minute detail, pale shadows cast along the chiseled edges of lean muscle. He can't quite manage to nod in accord, convinced that no scenery could ever compare to the creature before him.
"If I didn't know better," breathes the knight, determined to humor his companion's interest, "I'd guess you built this garden yourself."
Now Ghirahim pins him with a sultry smile. "You didn't think I'd merely stumbled upon so serendipitous a discovery?"
Link senses a sudden tremor creeping up through his core, from the base of his hips to the tips of his ears. His face warms considerably, the corners of his mouth twitching, and he finds himself scrubbing at his face in attempt to cool down.
"You did this in a year, with just volcanic ash?"
"Ash," the demon confirms, "and a touch of elemental magic."
His mind conjures memories of Jaskamar from back home, following the completion of his family's hand-built cottage. How the man's shadowed cheeks and robust jaw had beamed with pride. "Did you… did you live here?"
A pause. Ghirahim's features don't shift his expression, though Link swears a glint of sadness flickers through those dark eyes.
"I lived everywhere."
Before the human can muster a suitable response, Ghirahim abruptly rises, his sword placed picturesquely in the grass. Gently he pads towards the boulder where Link's various items are stored, kneeling to rummage through his pouches. He turns back again with Link's sailcloth in one hand, a pumpkin-shaped bottle in the other.
"I hope you don't mind," he sighs rather smugly, handing the bottle off. Even as he accepts the knight watches, curious to see what he means to do with the cloth. His eyebrows rise when the other begins wiping down his blade. "It isn't like you bothered to pack proper towels."
"Indeed not, my liege." Link rolls his eyes, lifting his feet from the water and folding them in front of him. His toes, he notes as they wriggle in the grass, are horrendously pruned. "Next time I decide to become a fugitive, I'll be sure to plan ahead."
Ghirahim looks up momentarily, glaring at the other through suggestively narrowed eyes. His tongue flicks through flawless white lips, and when it returns to the cave of his mouth, a taunting smirk is left behind. It remains perfectly intact as he taps one razorlike claw against the bottle still held loosely in Link's hands.
"You've not had any nourishment for days now," he says. "Eat."
He then returns immediately to the task of drying his steel, leaving the other no room to argue. Fighting back a smirk of his own, Link holds the bottle beneath the water's steaming surface, praying that after a few minutes its contents will have warmed enough not to make him gag.
Piper's recipe for cheesy pumpkin soup consists of goat cheese, lightened cream, white wine, butter, and a variety of spices and vegetables, all simmered inside a baked pumpkin and dished into individual bottles – on paper, exactly the same as Pumm's, yet somehow it just doesn't save as well. When the knight had stopped by Piper's café, bent strictly on restocking on ale, she'd insisted he carry something heartier as well; and seeing he'd been short a container at the time, was kind enough to lend him one of her own.
Guilt rattles him the more he dwells on it, hating to seem ungrateful. But two days.
"You're going to pay for that comment, by the way."
It doesn't immediately jostle him – so unexpected, so matter-of-fact, that he hardly believes he's even heard it. Still bent over his reheating soup bottle, Link casts a curious peek over his shoulder. Ghirahim looks him down through heavy lashes, not a smudge marring his flawless kohl despite the constant roll of steam. His wintry lips curve ever so subtly.
"Are you threatening me?" the knight teases.
"Oh, dear boy." The way in which the demon licks his lips sends shivers up Link's spine. "I don't make threats, but promises."
A thrilling idea occurs to him. "Is that what that Chu gel is for?"
Chestnut eyes narrow in lascivious mischief, the twist of his mouth quick to lose its obscurity. "But of course."
Link can all but hear his blood in his ears. He swallows carefully, but before a fitting retort can piece itself together, Ghirahim's expression has altered yet again.
"Truly though," he says, the glazed velvet of his voice reverting to silver, "you need sustenance, and soon. I'm honestly baffled you've managed to remain upright this long."
"I've been through worse." Link shrugs off the change in tempo, returning his attention to his soon-to-be meal. Slowly he lifts the glass from the water, relieved to find the thick, separated liquids melting back into their original creaminess.
Interestingly, Ghirahim allows a prevailing quiet, stroking contentedly at his polished steel whilst the other gives his soup bottle one last swirl. At first, the human is almost thankful for the break in their exchange. The bout of silence enables his mind to rest, to wander, to think. He uncorks the container feebly, apparently hungrier than he'd initially thought, having gulped down maybe two small sips when the danger of such a quiet confronts him.
He's been sheltered. Fed. Protected. Cared for.
Pleasured.
And by the very same being who had once given all to oppose him.
He doesn't fully understand why he says it. Maybe he simply doesn't want to. Nevertheless, when the words come out, he can't imagine what he wouldn't give to be able to walk them back.
"This must be quite a leap from working with your last master."
It's at this exact moment that Ghirahim seems to conclude that his sword is sufficiently tended to.
"You might say that."
With no elaboration, the demon stands. Link just glimpses from his peripheral as he props the blade against a nearby rock. He knows he likely ought to relent, to stop himself before spilling some remark he might truly regret. Unbidden imagery of Ghirahim with Demise, the latter receiving similar acts of service and care and affection sprint through his head, eat away at his peace. It floods his senses, infecting him like a virus, its spread a tragedy he cannot bear to allow.
"Did you mourn him?" he whispers.
A tinge of weariness taints the other's sigh, and Link almost wishes he hadn't been heard.
"I did."
Brows furrowed, the human forces himself to meet the demon's eyes. Ghirahim's tone is neither curt nor melancholy. In fact, his disposition is overall… casual. Arms folded loosely over his chest, he leans against the formation adjacent his sword, dark gaze floating aimlessly over the grass.
"Only the victorious traveled back through the Gate that day, Link. While the rest of you returned to your rightful time, I was left to rot in my steel prison. The centuries left me plenty of time to reflect on my shortcomings… or rather, on his."
It may be wrong, and Link certainly doesn't feel good about himself for it, but to the insecurities he's scarcely kept buried 'til now, Ghirahim's anguish towards his former wielder is a soothing balm. "Do you resent him, then?"
The human's stare dips briefly, rising only to be locked into a grip like iron.
"He's dead, Link." That silver trill could pierce. "Has been for centuries now. What felt like moments to you was infinitely longer for me. I am long past the point of resentment."
At once, the knight is left to color with shame, for his brief pangs of jealousy, or perhaps something more profound that he can't quite place. Demise is dead, he's compelled to remind himself. What the future may hold is open for dispute, but at this very moment in history, Demise is dead.
And as Ghirahim himself had once so irrefutably insisted, there is nothing left for them now but to live from each moment onward.
Thus, he gulps down the remainder of his lukewarm meal, inhaling as quickly as possible so as to avoid the cold, gummy texture of broken cheese lumps. After rinsing out the leftover particles, and taking a scalding swig from the spring, he shifts to better face his companion.
"We should talk about that third flame," he says plainly. "And what to do after."
One steep, browless ridge arches. "That we should," Ghirahim concurs.
And without another word, he launches gently from his rocky perch, saunters across the grass onto the pale stone, and disappears into the icy tunnel.
The soft echo of his footsteps has just begun to fade when Link finally snaps from his dumbfounded stare.
"Wait-" he starts, rushing to pull on his boots, "where are you going?!"
The knight's own footfall is significantly more raucous as he sprints in the demon's direction, those painfully long strides having already taken him from sight. Brisk drafts bite into his arms and ears, the hot spring's tepid aura soon completely left behind. Not far through the cavernous hall, beaded with frozen droplets from an outside body of water, canters the light distortion of Ghirahim's shadow. Link follows steadfast, often coming dangerously close to slipping on sporadic ice patches, as the roar of the impending waterfall grows ever louder.
He's nearly lost sight of the demon's shape, panting and sweating despite the chill, when the ice seems to catch fire.
He skids to a graceless halt the second it does, nearly losing his footing in the process. The cave's slender mouth gapes several paces ahead, artfully framing the clear stream cascading over the cliffside. Through its jagged maw, a westward sun ignites the clouds like living flame, scarlet tendrils weaving into orange-pink pillows, stark against a blanket of deep violet-blues.
If the sky alone weren't mesmerizing enough, the glittering landscape beneath could take the breath from a stone. Glacial islands shimmer and reflect like quartz held to firelight – and Ghirahim…
Silhouetted against so surreal a backdrop, his snowy figure is haloed by the brilliant array of colors. That same, unexplained heat from before slithers up Link's spine. Heart pounding in his head, stomach at his feet, he narrows the distance between them.
Even so close, the waterfall doesn't overwhelm. If anything, it's more of a trickle, the frozen state of the stream damming its full potential. Stray droplets intermittently reach him, dampening his hair and shirt – neither of which, he's compelled to notice, do much to stave off the cold. A violent shiver wracks him from head to toe, fingers swiftly numbing even as he rubs friction into his arms.
Ghirahim, by contrast, never seems to have any trouble keeping warm. Chuckling lowly, he snakes an obsidian arm around his shorter companion, his powerful embrace much too firm – and alluring – to resist.
"Needy little thing," he chides affectionately.
But as the warmth seeps wonderfully back into his limbs, the knight can't be bothered to blush. He glances up at the other, then follows his gaze towards the horizon.
Eldin Volcano looms miles away, its numerous rivers of fire hardly a spectacle. He thinks of the immaculate structure housed within the summit, and his heart beats faster.
"The next time you become a fugitive," Ghirahim's voice carries akin to a gentle breeze, "may be sooner than you think."
Pressed tight into the demon's chest, Link rests his head on his shoulder. "They'll accept you eventually," he says softly. The chill stings his lungs as he speaks. "They'll have to."
"Will they, though?"
It isn't snapped, or sighed. Ghirahim whispers, not provocative or threatening, but wistful and low. So helplessly burdened is he that Link almost wonders whether he wouldn't prefer the former.
He continues, "The man hidden away beneath your hometown – I've deduced from your conversation that he once held a demonic form, converted to humanity via some manifestation of purity."
'I'm sure someone with a heart as pure and genuine as yours will be able to see them.'
"Gratitude crystals. I never completely understood it, but… I might know what you're thinking."
The demon scoffs, claws digging into the other's arm just short of pain. "You dare suggest that I alter myself, change who I am, strictly to appease a group of narrow-minded mortals?"
Link casts him a sympathetic glance. "You were someone else before, weren't you?"
Lids hooded, Ghirahim exhales. "In appearance only."
"That's all that Batreaux changed. I know it's not exactly fair, but considering… everything, it seems like such a small price to pay-"
"No."
Though lacking any true anger, his tone offers no tolerance for challenge. Nor can Link entirely blame him for his reluctance. In truth, he doesn't want Ghirahim to change, either. His own lids grow heavy as he leans in further.
"I just…," he speaks slowly, "I just wish there was an easier way. To bind your sword, and to keep you safe."
A light chortle shakes Ghirahim's chest. Interwoven with the crisp, wintry air, his smoky scent is delightful. "I could live another thousand years," he muses, "and never thought a human like yourself, and a personification of purity at that, could harbor such concern for my safety."
Link brushes his lips against that solid shoulder, savoring the smoothness. It's all he can do to keep at bay the countless worries harping at his mind. He strives to follow his companion's advice, to put one foot in front of the other, so to speak; but the closer that leads them to the third sacred flame, the harder it becomes not to look farther ahead.
"I was thinking…"
Ghirahim pauses mid-thought, and clicks his tongue. It isn't his voice that catches the knight off guard, but more the unusual intonation. Link's heart thuds mercilessly in anticipation, though for what he isn't sure he understands.
Had… had Batreaux's suggestions not been as ludicrous as they may have thought?
But his true intentions are not to be divulged, as a sudden quake rattles their bones. The deep-rooted sound embeds itself within Link's skull, forcing his jaw to lock lest his teeth clatter and break.
The short-lived, savage, familiar rumbling is their only warning, before the painted sky above the mountain's crater is blanketed with rolling pitch.
When first Link had experienced the eruption of Eldin Volcano, the force of it had rendered him senseless. Ash had filled his lungs and stolen his breath, an unbearable heat that scorched his nerves raw. Witnessing the same phenomenon from miles away, lava running down the mountain face like a million scarlet lanterns bursting into flames, is in a completely different world. Part of him screams for his feet to move, to run; but caught so wholly in Ghirahim's arms, he can only gape in silent wonder.
Until the tremors racing through the earth subside – and Ghirahim laughs.
It's low, and devious, a harsh reminder of the demon who had once so often endangered the lives of so many. With a sense of foreboding nestled into his bones, Link turns deliberately towards him.
That pale smirk radiates satisfaction.
"What fortune," he coos. "This will force your little friends to evacuate the area, at least until the lava flow returns to normal. Why," he chuckles, maybe a bit too darkly, "I couldn't have timed it better myself."
Realization dawns on him in mixed shades, and as it does, Link pales. "They could be killed," he whispers. The words taste like bile, his stomach in knots.
A shadow swoops in as the mountain's fury spreads, snuffing out the light of the setting sun. Without its brilliance reflected from the ice, the world all at once becomes a bland, dreary scape. The wintry cleanliness deflates, a stench of brimstone soon taking its place.
Before the first particles of soot can reach his nostrils, Ghirahim turns the knight by the shoulders, forcefully walking him back through the crystalline corridors.
"You can do nothing for them," the demon states, plain, though gentle. The thicker the earth's fiery odor becomes, the more willingly Link allows himself to be led from it. "There's simply no sensible way to brave the gaseous clouds at this point. Not to worry, though. The worst of it is sure to have settled by morning."
Once or twice throughout his ventures to Eldin, Link had carelessly burned himself on the molten rocks. He thinks of Groose and Karane and whomever else might be caught in this storm of fire, their skin sizzling and boiling as his own once had. Zelda and Eagus wouldn't let them go without having first stocked up on potions, he thinks. They're fine… they have to be.
Ghirahim echoes his assurances. "Fret not, my dear," he says. "I'm certain that if you could have survived such an ordeal, all on your own, without even that stiff block of steel for guidance, a gaggle of like-trained sky-brats will do just fine."
By now they've reached the grass-covered cavern, spring water hissing as the earth continues to heat.
"You don't understand," Link rasps. "My earrings – they were a gift from the Goddess. They're the main reason I didn't burn up when the volcano erupted the first time."
Eye suddenly glittering, Ghirahim raises one hand to the human's ear. Link doesn't recoil when he begins fondling the jewelry, examining it with heightened interest.
"Fire-shield jasper," he observes, "mined from the depths of Eldin itself and blessed with numerous layers of enchantment. I confess, I had wondered where a creature like yourself-," he stumbles, as though correcting himself, "by which I mean someone of relatively humble origins, could have possibly come upon such a gem. Many constituents of the northern temple were constructed from this same material.
"Well." His mood acquires an edge of smugness. "All the more reason the others will be obliged to take shelter in a less conspicuous corner of the province. That flame is as good as unguarded."
The knight unwittingly cocks his head. "The sanctuary won't shelter them from the magma?"
"Do your earrings repel fire entirely," Ghirahim inquires, overly rhetorical, "or do they merely lessen the extremity of its effects?"
The concept isn't exactly comforting, and Link's continued unease is apparently evident in his face. Determined to quiet these lingering doubts, Ghirahim takes Link's shaking hands into his own.
"Look at me."
He does as bidden. Those sallow features all but glow against the cave's hushed tones.
First drawing deeply of the smoke-tainted air, Link doesn't allow him to finish. "I won't be able to sleep," he says, eyes flitting aimlessly about. "Even despite everything else, I slept for days. No way can I just sit in a cave until-"
He's cut off, for the demon practically strikes, breath forsaking him as that kiss claims his thoughts now for the second time. Their lips hardly touch before Ghirahim takes him in deeper, the grip on his hands his sole support, his lower lip drawn between perfect fangs.
Once he's pulled away, a deadly gleam sparkles in that visible orb. This, and the smile curving up his ashen cheeks, exude an eagerness so staunch that Link nearly jolts.
"After nearly two full days left to fend for myself," sardonic, the demon croons, "while you lay there like a corpse?" His voice drops, oozing honey. "And don't think I've forgotten that sarcastic tone you so impudently took with me earlier. Do you really believe I'll allow you to doze through the next several hours, having shown such blatant disrespect?"
Link stares with wide eyes, breath hitching in welcome anticipation. He has to bite his lip to keep his voice from trembling, the demon's taste still fresh on his tongue. "What else did you have in mind?"
That vicious smirk broadens, one razor-sharp canine peeking through parted lips. Nimble claws release his fingers to trail delicately up the front of his shirt, slowing to a halt once they've reached the point of the V. Expertly, they undo first the top, then the second button, carefully making their way down – and an eruption of a different nature seems to overtake the human's senses.
"Did I not promise to demonstrate the different uses for Chu gel?"
Lost for words and scarcely able to breathe, Link can only nod.
Soft orange beams from a thinly overcast sky, the scattered moss of the Sealed Temple bathed in the shadow of twilight. The evening is warm, yet the stone emanates an ethereal chill, seeping through Zelda's many-layered uniform.
Three days.
Three days since Ghirahim had slipped in and out of their home, whispering spells unimagined in Link's willing ear.
Three days since Pipit bore the first flogging Skyloft has seen in decades.
Three days.
Zelda shudders. Even though their last two conventions had gone by without incident, it still seems unwise to gather on the Surface past sundown. After what happened at the academy, however, fragments of cursed hatred so unexpectedly stinging the eyes of those she holds dear, she cannot afford to take any chances – not with the other residents of Skyloft so dangerously near.
The holy aura of the temple remains their safest possible haven.
She had scarcely felt the darkness as it infected Fledge and Eagus, crawling through their minds and distorting their perceptions, magnifying even the smallest resentments. Additionally, by all rights, Shattered Sight in its true form would not have been so easily countered – the fact of which only amplifies her apprehensions. In his weakened state, the demon lord should not have been able to cast even that watered-down variation. He couldn't. Not unless… but…
"Zelda."
Eagus's commanding voice pulls her from her ruminations. Briefly, their eyes meet, a silent understanding of gratitude passed between.
Grounded again in reality so suddenly, Zelda finds herself overtaken by a spiel of dizziness. Lightly she groans, rubbing tenderly at her temples until the lightheadedness passes. Once it does, she finds Eagus standing at the ready, having not moved an inch since their arrival, whilst Fledge has seated himself cross-legged on the ancient tiles.
They wait only for Karane.
Karane, who's worn the same stoic expression ever since… it. Karane, who hardly says two words at a time, even when spoken to. Karane, whose fiery spark has all but died completely, her motions carried out with begrudging obligation. This would be her first time joining in on their nightly conferences, now that Pipit's healed enough to resume his patrol of the academy grounds. His involvement in Link's case has been suspended indefinitely – but Karane…
When she shoves through the massive double doors, sauntering stiff and proud towards the chamber's central dais, it's clear that nothing has changed.
The redhead's boots tap lightly on the tile, ball-then-heel, a picture of professionalism. And yet, her footsteps are deafening. She halts before Eagus, silently reporting for duty, then turns to offer Zelda the same courtesy.
"Karane," the other girl tries to smile. "How is…," she hesitates, "how is Pipit?"
Muscles tense and twitch beneath that sun-kissed jaw, dark rings sagging beneath sharp-blue eyes. Still, the knight exudes naught but propriety. "He's doing well," she answers simply. Then, only slightly lower, "All things considered."
Zelda's heart sinks, unable to hold the other's terrible gaze. For all the wisdom revealed unto her by the divine, not one of Hylia's memories seems to offer the means to make this right.
To make anything right.
And before she can even try, Karane has spun on her heel, descending the platform to fall in line next to Fledge. As she does, the latter scampers to his feet. His eyes flutter nervously, a stark contrast to the hardened figure beside him, blankly staring straight ahead. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Zelda looks to Eagus, and gives him an approving nod.
Returning it, the commander begins his report.
"We've received no further news from Eldin," he says. "Not since yesterday. We know only that Cawlin returned safely to the northern temple, and that nothing out of the ordinary has occurred."
Zelda thinks of that old saying, 'No news is good news,' and how her family and friends had once laughed at its innocence. Now, it no longer seems appropriate. "This worries me," she responds. "What if they've been trying to send other messages, but were intercepted along the way?"
"Their Loftwings know not to fly low," says Karane, still gazing at nothing in particular. "We discussed it before I left. Groose was actually pretty receptive to my ideas, so naturally Cawlin and Strich didn't argue."
Of course he was. It truly is a marvel how greatly the man has matured, and in so short a timespan. If this is to be the outcome, perhaps she and Link should get kidnapped by demons more often.
But back to the matter at hand. "That is encouraging," Zelda replies, "though I wonder if it's really enough. I thought I knew what all the demon is capable of, but he keeps throwing surprises our way. And Link…"
She doesn't dare finish the thought.
"Link would never allow anyone to get hurt," Fledge offers meekly, "including the Loftwings."
Eagus adds, deep and grave, "I wish I could believe that that were true, son. By now, though, I think we ought to be prepared for anything."
The younger man doesn't argue, gaze falling to his feet. Since the other night, their interactions have been notably, and understandably, strained.
"Then," Eagus continues, looking directly at Zelda, "there's the issue of what to do should we encounter Link and his demon again."
Here, she squeezes her eyes shut. It's true that she had wanted to call everything off; to leave Link and his new companion be, to trust her Hero's judgment even with the chance of its being impaired. Then right in her very presence, shards of malice had blinded her people's eyes, and she'd been forced to reconsider. Had Ghirahim enacted the curse in a panic, believing himself and his wielder to be in danger? Would the rest of them be safe if she only assured him that he and Link would be left alone?
Is it even worth the risk?
"Even with all three sacred flames, they'll require their divine threads be tied in order to seal a true bond. Maybe… maybe if we try to negotiate-…"
She's hardly any time to gather a sensible solution, or even a coherent thought, before the thunder begins. Only it isn't thunder. That tremor within the earth – she knows it. All eyes seem to scatter, wide with fear and confusion, but Zelda has already leapt from the dais and through the side doors.
Warm wind floods her senses as the coolness of the temple is left behind, her entire being accosted with the fragrance of the earth. Above the lush treetops, hundreds of miles north, the volcano's summit can barely be spotted against a darkening sky. She considers climbing the rocky ledges overgrown with vines in effort to get a better look; but it soon proves unnecessary, dreadful billows of smoke and ash flooding the distant horizon.
From afar, they don't hear the residual rumbling. Yet the silence is just as deadly. Zelda but glimpses the others as they rush to her side, and finding her in one piece, follow her gaze to the foreboding scene.
"Zelda…," Fledge stammers, shaking terribly. "That isn't… they aren't-?"
"They're okay." It's Karane who answers, and confidently. "We were all briefed on how to identify the warning signs long before an eruption. Groose would've gotten them out by now."
Fledge's relaxation is palpable. If only Zelda could share in it. A deep disquiet wells within, lodging itself in the pit of her stomach. What if…?
When she feels Eagus's eyes on her, they're met perhaps too pleadingly. "It appears," he states aloud, "that you and I hold a mutual concern."
"Link used that rainstorm for cover," she iterates, "and had he not chosen to confront us afterwards, who knows how successful the endeavor might have been."
Brows furrowed, Karane's head snaps back and forth, attention darting between the two. "Are you suggesting that Link would try to scale an exploding volcano? Do you really think he's stupid, or desperate, enough to go that far?"
Even in Zelda's most recent memories, those flaming-red hoops shine bright in Link's ears. "He has the means to survive it," she whispers, almost more to herself. "They both do."
Her stare returns to the rolling clouds, where it remains locked even as Eagus's heavy hand weighs on her shoulder.
"We should head back inside," he announces to all. "I might have an idea."