On the first day Link only sits there, knees pulled to his chest, his temple pressed to the cool iron bars. He'd woken on a dusty old cot made of tightly bound straw, brittle bits of twine poking through the thin linen sheet and jabbing into his skin. The sudden chill was what brought him to his senses. The first thing he noticed was the absence of his uniform, replaced while he slept with a pair of navy green trousers and a plain white cotton shirt. A pair of his old boots had been left for him in the corner. He never touched them, nor the tray of cold pumpkin soup, nor the tin of lukewarm water, nor the stale half-loaf of bread.
He doesn't remember much. After Ghirahim's… withdrawal, Link hadn't bothered putting up much of a fight. He'd gone limp in Groose and Strich's hold, allowing the both of them to guide him onto Strich's Loftwing (Groose's being less likely to support two riders) without protest. Had he struggled enough, perhaps he could have dislodged himself from the creature's back midflight. At the time, though, the effort seemed pointless.
Lately, everything has begun to feel pointless.
A cool breeze brushes his cheek, slipping gently through the concave structure of his cell. How he got here is lost in a haze, the lingering touch of Luv and Bertie's sedatives still shadowing his mind even now. But then again, his malnourishment could easily share the blame. The days blur into one long, misty stretch, time a construct suddenly void of meaning. Numerous times the sun has set since Zelda had come to visit him here, none of which he's bothered to track. She only came once. He'd had nothing to say to her.
Eagus was different.
Stripped of knighthood, at least for the time being. His incarceration indefinite. His contact with others limited. Spurred by the pity underlying the commander's tone, Link had requested to be allowed use of some of his former tools – a woodblock and carving knife; a harp or a lyre, even an ocarina. He doesn't know how to play the last one, but had always wanted to learn. Anything to keep his hands busy and his mind occupied. With a steep frown and a sternness that vanquished any hope of argument, his appeal was 'regretfully' denied. He asked which cell cluster he'd been assigned to. Eagus left without giving an answer.
Wings beat heavily a ways off, either Hauk or Albat circling the perimeter. If at any point he'd been keeping track of their respective shifts, he's long since stopped caring. Sometimes their presence will sound more like the rustling of leaves, and for a brief period he'll forget where he is; then he looks to the vines creeping down through the overhead crags, expecting to see a blade of pitch steel perched just underneath, the tinkling of gemstones dancing in his ears. And each time, his gaze falls on empty corners, with no other sound but the wind whistling through the grass.
His eyes fall shut. Is he tired? Bored?
… Heartbroken?
Does it even matter anymore?
The beating seems to amplify, until it's no longer only heard, but also felt, thin whisps of his hair whisked by rhythmic drafts. When it stops, emitting one final, extended gust, a splash of yellow catches his eye.
"Pipit?"
The name, soft and hoarse, hardly makes it past his lips, obstructed by the dryness of his throat. (How long, he wonders, has it been since he drank anything?) Whether the knight heard him at all is irrelevant, though, as it's made immediately clear that Link is his reason for being here. To what end has yet to come to light.
Still, as Pipit approaches, the sympathetic smile tugging at his mouth at least is a small comfort.
"Link," he greets softly, accentuating with a cautious wave. Do they all find me suddenly threatening?
It's a dire thought, even broaching on maddening. These people have known him all his life, having regarded him as reckless at worst. To see Pipit look him over like this, his gait stiff, the light all but faded from his deep-blue eyes…
Keys rattle as he procures a metal ring from his satchel, gaze distant while he sifts through to find a specific one. The lock clicks, door groaning on its hinges as it swings open, Link not cast so much as a cautionary glance. It's no matter of trust. Even if he were to deck the older knight right now and launch himself from the grassy ledge into the ether beyond, it would only be moments before he was recaptured. Wherever his own Loftwing is being kept, it's much too far to sense their connection.
Before he sinks to the ground, Pipit grasps a bar for support, grunting softly as he lowers himself. Peculiar, Link observes. Swallowing dryly, he straightens his posture, wondering whether his mind isn't merely playing tricks – then Pipit grunts again when his legs fold beneath him, his tight smile a feeble effort to mask his discomfort. Link tries to humor him by mimicking the gesture, but his lips barely twitch.
"Pipit," he begins again, voice burning in his throat. "I'm-… Did… they… send you?"
"Technically," Pipit chimes, a poor attempt at good humor, but appreciated just the same. He didn't bother relocking, or even simply closing, the door behind him, Link notes. "It was Zelda's idea, believe it or not." His eyes widen a hair, realization dawning on his face. "Though maybe you don't wanna talk to me now that you know that."
Link's gaze plummets. Zelda. Of course. Not that he'd felt much like talking – or listening – anyway. Still, after that absolute nightmare of a reunion at the boundary of Eldin, he couldn't help but wonder why Pipit of all people would have been absent. At the time, although there'd been other matters preoccupying his thoughts, he'd briefly entertained the idea that Pipit's treachery belowdecks had been found out. If he's here…
"So they still don't know about what happened on the Sandship."
It isn't phrased as a question, but Pipit scoffs. Now it's Link whose face twists with dreaded understanding.
"Twenty lashes," the older knight says tonelessly, features like stone.
Suddenly Pipit may as well be several decades older. Link shrinks back into himself, his chest throbbing with equal parts guilt and shame. The stiffness with which the older moves, the uncharacteristic vacancy in his once-lively gaze – just like that, it all makes sense.
Pipit, prided publicly for his model behavior since the two of them were small children – stripped and struck for insolence, the whole town there to witness. Because of Link.
No longer can he hold the older knight's gaze. "How did they find out?"
The other sports a crooked grin, somehow genuine, a single canine flashing behind his lips. "I told them."
Link's speechless gaping apparently lifts the other's spirits, satisfaction flickering shortly across freckled features. He shrugs, only for his bemusement to contort into a wince, the movement tugging at welts that must still be healing.
That's right. No heart salves or elixirs are permitted to those who'd been given over to the whipping post. To think that he'd have a reason to remember that.
"Wh-," Link starts to ask, only for a fit of coughing to constrict his throat. With a roll of his eyes, Pipit produces a small vial from the pouch at his belt.
"Drink this, you petulant idiot."
His dry heaving brings tears to his eyes, and Link struggles to discern the contents of the glass – then gasps when he recognizes the signature red of concentrated heart fruit juice.
"They actually let you carry that?" he rasps, taking the vial between shaky fingers.
Again, Pipit shrugs. "I told Eagus it wasn't for me," he says simply. "And he trusts me."
Link uncorks the vial, a frown tugging at his mouth. "Must be nice."
A silent beat settles over them both, its weight nearly tangible. Before he even knows why, Link shivers. Still, he throws back the bitter liquid, so overpowering it first has him missing the coppery taste that was trickling down his dry throat. Once the elixir's soothing effects enter his bloodstream, however, he can't deny his relief.
And still, he frowns, his initial inquiry coming round.
"Why did you turn yourself in?" he all but demands, offering the vial back.
Pipit takes the proffered container, an odd expression on his face as he stores it. He hesitates before answering.
"Karane asked me that, too," he says. Something unidentifiable is wound into his chords. "It was her second question."
After a hard moment, he meets Link's inquisitive stare. A faint blush creeps up the younger knight's neck as he suddenly realizes how eager he must look, leaned slightly forward, brows raised and knitted. With little hope for recovery, he forces himself to relax.
Fortunately, Pipit doesn't mention it. "You wanna know what she asked first?"
Swallowing hard, Link nods his assent.
Dark eyes narrow, and the younger hardly recognizes the man who had once been his colleague. "She asked why I did anything worth turning in in the first place."
Just as quickly Link's mind takes him to a dark and stormy desert, the hum of electricity low in his ears, his heart pounding ruthlessly in tandem with the rainfall battering the ship's splintered hull.
His chest aches. Again, his gaze falls.
"I was so stupid," he mutters.
Pipit's startled spasm snatches Link back. Once again in a cell, half-curled against the bars, he strives to read the blatant shock – indignance? – on the other's face. The atmosphere seems somehow… fragile. As though with a single pebble, something precious could shatter.
Unable to process, Link rather slumps into a new position, his joints creaking from so many hours (days?) of disuse.
"I feel like I owe you an explanation," he starts, stretching his stiff knees out in front of him. "It might not make a lot of sense, but… I'll try. I don't know how much Zelda's ever told you about what went down on the Surface last year. It was a whole ordeal, and apparently none of it was coincidental."
Pipit is silent. Link continues, meticulously working the knots from his muscles.
"Given the choice, I would've done all the same things." Unwitting, he wheezes out a humorless chortle. "I thought that's exactly why she chose me, you know? Because she knew I would. Then…"
He pauses, swallowing past a lump that hadn't existed until now.
"Then Ghirahim." He has to force the name off his tongue. "He said all these things when we found him. About following blindly, not having a will of my own. It made me wonder…"
Again, he pauses. It isn't that he's been unaware of all these feelings, festering inside for weeks, even months. Just the opposite, he's tried venting his frustrations numerous times – to Zelda, to Gaepora, even to his lifeless wood carvings when the first two had left his heart feeling no less blocked up. Each time, he'd left worse off than before, completely lost for words.
Now, they spill unrelentingly, as if he'd taken some sort of spiritual emetic.
"It made me wonder if I ever really did have any say. In anything." He sighs defeatedly, eyes falling shut. "And now I'm wondering if that's just it. If that 'unfettered, passionate love' was just me trying to reclaim some sort of power that I felt I never really had."
Something shifts inexplicably, and his eyes flutter open. Already, the cloud blanketing his mind begins to lift, though whether for better or for worse isn't yet clear. The ground is treacherous, still he flashes an ironic smile in the other knight's direction.
Pipit hasn't moved so much as an inch, lips pursed into a thin line. Behind eyes like starless night, befuddled incredulity simmers.
"I'm sorry," Link concludes ruefully, "for having put you through what I did, only for it all to be for nothing in the end."
Silence. Cold, strenuous silence.
"Nothing?"
That single echo is uttered so faintly, Link wonders whether it wasn't imagined. Blinking once, Pipit looks askance, his fingers coming up to rub at his bowed chin. Link watches him carefully, hoping, though not fully expecting, for at least a hint of absolution, even if it is inevitably accompanied by some long-winded admonishment.
Seconds tick into minutes. Then finally, Pipit pulls himself to his feet.
"All right," he grunts, hands drifting from his knees to his hips. "Get up."
Link can only glance up in confusion. "Um," he clears his throat, "what for?"
"I can't properly do this with you sitting down."
Arching a brow, Link pulls himself up by one of the bars, apprehension thudding his racing heart. Pipit only tilts his head back in exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose as he turns to pace the expanse of the cell. When he swivels to face the younger once more, Link is certain he's about to get an earful. Drawing an especially deep breath, he braces himself for the worst.
Or… so he thought.
He's hardly a second to blink before Pipit's fist collides with the side of his face.
Stars dance before his eyes, the ground disappearing until his shoulder slams into it – but wait, no, that's a wall. To a degree it supports his weight, easing him steadily back to the firmament. At least he thought it was steady. His knees meet the grassy earth much too abruptly, the impact rattling his bones, teeth, jaw.
Absently, his fingers brush the offended spot, despite his head still spinning in frenzied circles. No tenderness greets the self-examination, though. Even so, a shrill whining rings in his ears, and the ground seems again to tilt beneath him.
Movement flickers in his peripheral, and he angles his head to find Pipit standing over him, hip cocked in a cross between impatience and annoyance.
"You okay?" the older knight asks. His voice is tight, the inquiry a mere obligation.
Wiping the bit of drool that had leaked down his chin, Link offers a feeble nod. "Yeah," he grunts, still clinging to the wall. He doesn't trust his feet just yet. "I guess I deserved that."
Pipit barks out a sharp laugh. "There's an understatement."
Link's just begun to test his balance again when two strong hands grab him by the shoulders, shoving him none too gently against the bars. His breath catches, heart skipping a beat as he discerns the raw fury in his old friend's eyes.
"Pip-"
"Are you stupid?"
Even if he could think of a reply, Link is sure he'd only choke on it. It's unlike Pipit to hold a grudge, no matter the severity of the offense.
But then, this one had been quite severe, comparatively speaking.
"Or do you just think I'm stupid? No." Pipit releases him, grimacing terribly, and Link realizes with sympathy that a good portion of his 'rage' had in fact been pain. "I was right the first time. You're the stupid one." His back is to Link now, the distinct rise and fall of his shoulders indicative of his labored breathing. "Do you think that kind of devotion is easily faked? Or that it just wears off all of a sudden? I don't know what's going on with you, Link, but you care about that- that guy, more than anything or anyone I've ever seen in my life. And dammit, if that isn't something worth being publicly disgraced."
A fresh wave of nausea washes over the other, his knees threatening to buckle. Were it not for the bars at his back, he'd surely faint.
"Y-you don't understand," he chokes. Tears well in his eyes, but he blinks them back. "He left me, Pipit. I… I lied to him."
The older sways as he faces his former peer, his face wrought with disbelief. "You… you what? You told him something that flat-out wasn't true?"
"Well," Link stutters, thumbing awkwardly at the hem of his shirt, "no. I just…"
His eyes fall to his feet, deep pangs of regret shackling them in place. He hadn't planned on reliving it all so soon.
"I withheld something from him. Something big, and personal, and… and he had a right to know."
Mentally, something clicks into place, as though speaking the words aloud somehow registered their truth. I broke his trust. In the heat of their venture, he hadn't thought to uncover the details of Demise's promised return. Sure, he would have been completely honest with Ghirahim eventually, after…
After their bond was sealed, the demon's final tie to his former master severed once and for all.
Shame colors him every shade of hypocrisy, his own words accusing him. "I took away his choice."
Pipit's scoff startles him from his harrowed trance.
"You lied," he remarks dryly, "by omission, about a sensitive topic, while you were under a lot of stress."
Link nearly scoffs himself at such blunted phrasing. When worded like that, it almost…
It almost doesn't sound so unforgivable.
"You think Jaskamar has never done anything like that with Wryna? Or Bertie with Luv? Or my dad, before he died, with my mom? You think I've never done anything like that?"
Remorseful rumination dares to mimic a shadow of hope. It's only a spark, easily snuffed, quite possibly – and more than likely – fated to cold ash. An instant, and he'll be plunged into dreary bitterness once more. Still, Link allows it to smolder, willing the ache in his chest into a bed of embers.
Meanwhile Pipit, determined that nothing should obstruct him from driving home his point, continues to rave, arms flailing where his excitement simply cannot be contained.
"You think I've never made a mistake like that with Karane? That she's never stormed away and refused to even look at me until she had a chance to calm down – and until I could find a way to make it right?"
A low oath filters under his breath, but its exact phrasing is lost to Link. Ashen features flicker in his mind's eye, and with them the warmth of a desert sunrise, the contented purrs of a trusting kikwi, the chemical scent of crisp mountain air. The longer Pipit continues to drill him, the faster Link's heart races, thrumming in his chest. Longing blooms from the internal heat, fiery tendrils lapping hungrily at his mind, consuming his disorientation like dry tinder. From this fire he's cleansed of all doubt, of all guilt, of everything hindrance – everything but Ghirahim.
Now truly panting, Pipit plants a hand to his forehead, his other braced on his thigh whilst he hunches forward. The air is relatively cool, yet sweat begins to darken the yellow threads of his tunic.
Struck nearly dumb, Link springs forward to where Pipit has already sunken to one knee.
"Hey," the younger starts, retracting the hand he'd begun to extend. "Pipit, are you-?"
"I'll be fine." His head is bowed, arms still shaking. "I just… need a minute."
Far from assured, Link makes to retrieve the tin of water stashed in the corner of the cell. And as he circles back, he notes with rising horror the crimson streaks seeping through the other's shirt.
"Here." He kneels to meet Pipit's eyeline, shoving the tin into the knight's hand, only to have it pushed gently back. "Pipit," his volume rises automatically, "you need-"
"You'll need it." A weary softness overtakes the man's tone. Link doesn't recall ever having witnessed him this tired. "Because you," he jabs a harmless, yet accusing finger into Link's chest, "are not going to let my- my- incident be for nothing. You are not going to insult me like that, you hear?"
Link's mouth opens, then closes, gaze traveling from knight to tin and coming to rest on the water's reflective surface. His silhouette therein is only vaguely perceptible, all but a few scattered distortions hidden within the dark confines. Gently, it dissolves the scaffolding holding his mind, thoughts churning in the murky depths.
Pipit is trying to be threatening, Link would gladly wager. And yet the older knight's consignment hardly registers as more than a plea.
One Link would like nothing more than to oblige.
Absently, he worries his lip. In his heart he knows the other is right – that everything he and Ghirahim have experienced to this point, even in such a short amount of time, their shields ever lowering in acts of intimate embrace – it's not worth giving up on so easily. And whatever state, physical or mental, that the demon may be in right now, their best chance, regardless, is together.
Yet that lingering doubt remains.
"What am I supposed to do?" he asks, voice a mere hair from cracking. "Without my Loftwing, I can't even make it off this island – and I won't strand you here without yours. Not like this."
Before he can so much as finish the thought, Pipit is reaching into his pouch. Gloved fingers curl around something small, not releasing until he's pressed it into Link's open palm. When Link looks to the soft, bumpy, crescent-shaped item he's mysteriously procured, he's finds a smooth green pod, the bumps he'd felt colorful seeds peeking out from inside their leafy cocoon.
"Wha-?"
"Bury it in soft soil," Pipit instructs, "and then water it. It'll help you out of a tight spot, but just one, so make sure you plant it somewhere that counts. Use it to get to your Loftwing."
Link looks to the older knight with pleading eyes, his mind still racing with unanswered questions. It's clear, however, that Pipit has said all he means to.
"Don't worry about me," he tacks on for good measure. "I'll be fine. Just get out of here."
Reluctantly Link stands, the blood in his ears near deafening. He's barely pocketed the unusual legume when the temperature around them drops – and with it, the light shifts. Pipit notices the stark change as well, his own face softening from pain to confusion. With his heart at his feet, Link veers to face the open sky.
The sight that greets him sends ice through his veins.
The ether beyond is tinged with a golden-orange glow, rolling clouds blotting out what had remained of daylight. Even the grass has lost its natural green, smothered beneath a blanket of surreal shadows. Dusks like this, he's seen before, and yet…
The longer he stares, the more Link is assailed with a feeling of sheer wrongness. An all-encompassing presence whispers that something, somehow, does not belong.
When he looks again to Pipit, the older knight returns his gaze with poorly concealed fear. "You'd better go," he says. The words catch in his throat, barely audible.
Link nods in his direction. With one hand he still holds the tin of water, knuckles white against the cool metal. The other creeps instinctively into his pocket, gripping the hidden legume.
The first whispers of nightly chill have just begun to rove the earth as Zelda makes her way through Faron Woods. Clenching her teeth to still their rattling, she desperately rubs friction into her arms, gooseflesh prickling over again with every attempt. Inwardly she knows it's her own fault for not having brought a cloak. Some Goddess I am, forgetting to measure the changing seasons.
Of course, the whole thing could have been avoided had she just taken the main road, as she has been for the past almost-week now. But it's Eagus who guards the temple's front entrance, and each time she relays her failures to his face and the light in his eyes dims further, the more she feels her own resolve splinter.
She watches her steps, one foot in front of the other, the scent of earth rising at each crunch beneath her boots. Evening air bites through her layers, numbs the tip of her nose, stiffens her fingers, but she pushes through. By the time the Sealed Temple enters her bleary sight, even her toes have lost feeling.
Groose is stationed at the smaller side doors, his bare arms crossed over his chest in boredom. The internal heat necessary to maintain warmth in this prewinter chill isn't something Zelda wishes to think about. He wears a dull expression, weight shifting intermittently from one foot to the other, only to straighten abruptly when the other enters his view.
"Zelda!" he heralds her with a start, hands raising habitually to his hair. "Wasn't expecting you… or anyone, really."
Spirit genuinely lifted at his sheepishness, she offers him a small smile. "Not a very heavily trafficked part of the woods, is it?" she concedes, voice shaking through rampant shivers. So freezing is she that she hardly feels herself blush.
Fortunately, Groose seems to dismiss it as merely a trick of the cold. Still, his features twist with concern, and unable to wear his thoughts anywhere but on his (nonexistent) sleeve, he unclasps his cowl and throws it over the other's shoulders. On his massive frame, it had hardly reached his biceps; on Zelda, it covers her down to the elbow.
She starts to protest, only for her breath to catch in her throat.
"Don't worry about it," he says shyly, mirroring her growing flush as he returns to his post. "I mean, it's nice out. I was gonna take it off anyway."
She could just about smack him. "It'll only get colder," she tries amicably. Caught off guard or not, the additional warmth is welcome, and she'd hate to seem ungrateful.
But Groose only shrugs. Looking askance, he gestures vaguely towards the chambers beyond the door – and both their expressions instantly fall.
"Any luck with the bastard yet?"
It comes across not pryingly, but solemnly. Zelda shakes her head softly, not daring to trust her voice. Before she can even hope to gauge his reaction, the tears have sprung to her already stinging eyes, and she tilts her head back in a futile attempt to prevent their spilling.
Through silver haze she beholds the sky, the faded blue expanse withering into the lilac of twilight. If there are any stars, her frustrated eyes obscure them; yet the moon ever glares down upon her, almost contemptuous in its own right. It's full tonight. On this prelude to winter, with the thinning of the veil, perhaps Ghirahim will at last be willing to speak.
"Maybe tonight," Zelda chokes, wiping the cold pearls from her cheeks.
When she lowers her chin, she finds Groose staring off towards the ground, a pensive look on his face. "Yeah. Maybe tonight," he echoes.
The wind picks up, and Zelda pulls his cowl tighter around her trembling form. With a half-dry sniffle, she squares her shoulders and stares ahead, steeling herself for whatever torment is to come. Much as she would love to put it off forever, there's simply no eluding the inevitable.
"Hey." Groose's gentle, yet carrying chords tear her back, and she finds him looking at her with the same effortless self-assuredness she's always known him for. He gives a sharp nod, fist grinding into his open palm. "Yell if you need me, all right?"
She'd be lying if she said she hadn't considered giving Groose a go at the obstinate demon lord, to see if he'd remain as stiff with those meaty hands wrapped around his slender neck. Allowing herself a smile at the thought, Zelda nods her appreciation, then pushes through the doors.
The stone is cold and rough beneath her fingers – none of which prepares her for the forlorn exhibit beyond. The temple's interior, though sheltered from the wind, is somehow colder. Once she's crossed the threshold and the door has slid shut behind her, emitting a terrible creak, her breath begins to fog. The Gate of Time has long since stopped ticking, leaving a frostbitten chill to permeate the air.
The chamber's dusky gloom weighs on her very soul. Were it not for the crags overhead allowing the scarce light to reflect off its sleek craftsmanship, her lethal target would be lost in the darkness. As it is, violet diamonds gleam from the patterned blade, guiding the girl's way forward.
Her footsteps echo softly through the empty room, absent feet carrying her tense form to the central dais. She feels disconnected, like she were merely watching herself from the sidelines, helpless to influence all about to unfold. When at last she's climbed the pedestal where the wicked sword rests and closed her fist around the hilt, the leather is eerily hot on her skin.
She knows it won't last.
The heat surges first through her, like liquid fire in her veins, before flitting from the dark blade in a series of geometric patterns. Diamonds flicker from gold to red to blinding silver, dancing ethereal against a dusky backdrop. After a moment of eerie stillness, they multiply and converge, the prostrate form of the spirit within constructed before her very eyes.
"Ghirahim."
He lies on his side, draped like a regal corpse over the top few steps, crimson folds splayed about him like blood. His dark eyes are open, but distant, white lips set in a perfect frown.
He says nothing.
"… Lord Ghirahim?" Zelda tries after a moment. Use of his full title hasn't made any difference thus far, but she figures it's worth trying anyway. The first time, stifled amusement had flickered across his gaze. Now, even that has stilled.
"I know you're angry with Link," she continues, prepared to recite the same list of queries she's been asking since one week before. "Does this mean your loyalty is still with Demise?"
Again, no answer. Not that she expects he would confess to such a thing anyhow.
After a strained silence and no difference in Ghirahim's countenance, Zelda reluctantly continues.
"You know that without a master, there's a chance you'll have rotted away before the Demon King reincarnates. Would you really rather die than be bound to anyone else, even temporarily?"
Silence. If anything, the mention of death only appears to bore the demon.
With mounting frustration, Zelda strives to infer even from this as much as she can. Is he not catatonic? Is he just ignoring her? Is this petulance, or is something more sinister afoot? The demon has always been quick to make his every thought and feeling known, beyond pleased with how it tends to make others' skin crawl – but now, now that she truly not only wants, but needs to know what roils beneath that palled surface, he draws the shutters taut.
"Do you fear retribution? Is that what this is really about – that you're afraid Demise will hurt you for bonding with Link, even if it's just for survival?"
For the first time in days, she receives a response.
That being the subtle curl of the demon's upper lip.
Inhaling deeply, Zelda releases a heavy sigh. How much has changed since her first attempt at holding this trial – leastwise, on her end. Her stiff, rigid demeanor has declined slowly over the week's course, chafed away until little was left behind but the raw nerves of an exasperated human being.
Some goddess, she self-mocks. Ghirahim must think much the same.
Again she sighs, this time softly. "Or do you just not know anymore."
Head bowed, she lowers herself into a sitting position, the earth's chill quick to seep through her clothes. It's hardly a question, directed more towards herself, and rhetorical – yet a scoff huffs through the palled figure's nostrils.
Zelda freezes. A frail spark of an idea dawns, and her spirits deftly rise. Could that perhaps be the key to goading him into a reaction?
Brows knitted, she allows his blade to rest across her lap. (Disrespecting his weapon yields no results, she's since found. On the third day, her tapping it against the corroded stone formations had only succeeded in lulling the creature into a pained sort of doze.)
"Magic always seemed so otherworldly to me," she muses aloud, too shy to hold his gaze even if it doesn't return hers. "I remember when I was thirteen, sitting through Instructor Owlan's lectures about photosynthesis and the inner workings of different types of plants. It was all so complex, and yet, it made sense. Magic…"
"Is no less sensical."
Her eyes perk up, spine rigid as she sits suddenly straight. Despite the sultry lilt to the demon's voice, his figure appears just as meek. In a languid display of petulance, he turns on his side, facing away with a roll of dark eyes.
"Wretched child," he murmurs, almost more to himself. "I've truly no idea what your divine soul was thinking when it chose to incarnate like this. It's no mystery why your blessed scheming ultimately failed. Carried on the shoulders of a brash young knight, no less."
Somewhere during all this testy mumbling, Zelda finds herself bent slightly over his sword, leaning forward in subconscious interest. Even as a young half-Sheikah lord, Ghirahim always had quite the pension for spellcasting, as far as her divine memories could deduce. Between goading him at her own expense and appealing to his ego, she may extract a few answers after all.
"The moon is full tonight," she tries, "although… I guess you can probably tell. I hoped it might reveal a little more about, well… about what's been going on lately."
Palled shoulders shake in humorless mockery. "'What's going on,' stupid girl," he calls drearily, "is not the work of magic and monsters, but of a self-absorbed brat with an inflated sense of importance."
Zelda recoils as if she'd been struck, what little pride she's clung to stinging at the admonishment. Numerous counterarguments race through her mind, bubbling to the tip of her tongue – but she wills them to fall silent, pouring her energy instead into maintaining her composure. I've gotten him to speak, at least. That's progress.
"It really isn't that complicated, Your Grace," Ghirahim sighs. "Our dearly beloved grew accustomed to a certain adventurous lifestyle whilst fulfilling your many requirements, thus acquiring a thirst for newfound discovery and a taste for excitement that properly utilize the skills so honed at your behest. Nor was he alone. And now that he's chosen a suitable companion to replace the one he lost, you," he casts an irritable glower over his shoulder, "have done nothing but strive to yank that finely woven rug out from under him – and rather maliciously, at that."
As if to signal the conclusion of his tirade, Ghirahim lowers his head and curls into himself, seemingly in preparation to sleep. Before returning to outright ignoring her, however, he throws one final, condescending jab in her direction.
"It requires neither magic nor moonlight to see that, Zelda. All you really need to decipher the root cause…"
He trails off, words stolen as by sudden realization. Gently, the demon shifts first to sit on his knees, then gingerly, still facing away, climbs to his feet. Around them the world has gone deathly still, even the dust motes hanging in harrowed suspense as slowly, he turns towards her.
"… is a mirror."
The look in his near-black eyes defies readability, yet never has he appeared to her more… human. Somehow, it only worsens the sense of foreboding lodged in her gut.
He reaches beneath the folds of his cloak, and Zelda's grip on his hilt instinctively tightens.
"I'm surprised you haven't inferred already." His shell of boredom cracks as anticipation heightens. "You've clearly not forgotten the Curse of Shattered Sight, or the pieces necessary for its casting…"
Slivers of moonlight spill through the overhead crags. Ghirahim's sallow frame practically glows in their embrace, the crimson of his mantle turning black as night. A sudden chill runs through Zelda's body, and she bolts to her feet, golden warmth coursing through her jostling nerves – but her power is cut short.
She cannot seal him. For whatever horrifying reason, she cannot seal him.
Intricate patterns dance across the walls and floor, scattered by the jagged shard produced from those inky folds. Exposed to the moon's unfiltered light, it boasts a luminescence entirely its own.
Zelda blanches in recognition.
Behind the darkening figure of the demon lord, where the Gate of Time had once stood proud, stark tendrils wind and unwind into a ghostly latticework. It spreads like a virus, a sort of geometric spiderweb, accelerating alarmingly – until it hangs like a curtain, suspended somewhere between this plane and the next.
Ghirahim, the moon's rays shimmering off his silver crescent of hair, shifts to face her fully, entirely unphased. Stars swim in the blackened pools of his eyes, but Zelda's wide-eyed stare never leaves the cursed shard in his gloved palm.
"You-," she starts, the frigid air like fire in her lungs, "you carried a piece of that mirror… on Skyloft…"
The demon only clicks his tongue. "Poor Zelda," he coos, though his weary demeanor contradicts the effort. "All the power and knowledge of a goddess; and yet, when burdened with all the fallacy of a fumbling child, what good does it do?"
A shiver wracks the girl's spine. With her free hand, she pulls the cowl around her shoulders tighter still. The black curtain silhouetting Ghirahim's frame flickers and ticks with odd, linear pulses. She can't quite explain it, but it seems to beckon her somehow, as with its own gravitational aura…
"Kill me," Ghirahim continues darkly, facing the warped tear in space, "and your dearest will never forgive you. Seal me away and you'll only have handed me off to another generation's whims. Release me, and who knows what manner of havoc I'll create upon this world so entrusted to your capable hands."
With a leisure entirely uncalled for, he saunters full circle once more. His left hand curls around the mirror piece hauntingly aglow in the dusk; his right extends in invitation. Perhaps, the gesture might even be sincere.
Eyes narrow, Zelda cants away slightly. She may be unable to seal him now, but he still can't hurt her. Not so long as she maintain her hold on his sword.
"What if," his voice drips liquid honey, carrying with it an aftertaste of poison, "there were another option?"
Link's heart skips a beat as he spots the first sentries scouring the distant sky. Fortunately, they present mere specks against the orange ether – at least for the time being. Through the maelstrom that is his pulse, he reminds himself to thank Pipit for the head start he's been bought.
I'll make this up to you, Pipit. I promise.
The vines are rough in his calloused hands where he clings to the edge of a small isle, a rolled up leaf roughly the width of his sailcloth tucked into his belt. Despite how smooth its texture, the material proved remarkably sturdy when it carried him to the rock-chain that led to his Loftwing's cage. Even now, a strange sentience seems to radiate from the leafy cluster nestled in its nearby patch of soil, the sail in his keeping feeling somehow alive.
With the breeze in Link's hair comes the pull of his Loftwing, concern blooming sharply in their passing connection. Though it pains him deeply, the knight gently nudges his mount away. No good can come of drawing the others' attention, so long as it can be avoided.
Link peeks stiffly over the isle's grassy ledge. From here, the beating of a patrol bird's wings echoes starkly from that of his own Loftwing, silhouetted feathers circling steadily closer. The leafy platform that brought him this far breathes only a few yards away.
Calculating the needed swing, Link reaches for the tin still hooked to his waistband. Unlatching it, he takes aim. He only gets the one, critical shot…
The tin lands upon the leaves before tumbling into the grass, the impact, though brief, enough to trigger the plant's ascent once more. As hoped, it follows the same path that had brought Link here, lively greens humming softly to themselves as the enchanted foliage returns to its base of origin.
Ducking again beneath the isle's rocky ledge, the knight listens carefully for any change in the patrol bird's course. Only when the bean plant's whirring fades to silence, the dark wings smaller on the glowing sky, does he release the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.
Jaw set, hands shaking, Link launches himself from the earthen wall and into the open sky.
Several equally small islands dot the expanse below, varying shapes and structures hardly catching the young knight's eye. Retrieving his makeshift sailcloth, he tilts his weight to hover towards a landing with a concave structure, the many walls sure to hide him from unsympathetic eyes. The familiar jolt in his shoulders breaks his fall as the leaf deploys, its slightly narrower size bringing him down more swiftly than he's grown accustomed.
He's hardly blinked before solid earth rests beneath his boots, barren walls blocking the vicious glow of twilight.
A chill seems to permeate from the earthy cavern, seeping from the very walls through Link's clothes and embedding deep within his bones. The sweat on his brow grows cold, and with a sudden gasp, he shudders.
"Oh, Ghirahim," he mutters, aloud, in hopes the use of his voice will somehow chase the chill from his blood. "What have you done…?"
Vainly rubbing friction into his arms, Link pads softly towards the mouth of the cave, peering cautiously at the earth far below. Without the cloud barrier to obstruct his view, the Faron Woods are easily spotted, the towering mass of the Great Tree close enough that he can even make out the leaves still clinging stubbornly to its proud boughs. Even in the eerie, molten gloom of twilight, the woods boast a tapestry of rich reds and yellows, autumn's final offering of life before winter claims its worn soul.
The crisp aroma wafting around him tells him that he's close.
Almost directly beneath his island shelter, a grey heap of what once stood a proud, reverent shrine, the Sealed Temple looms forlornly. Dried tendrils like skeletal claws creep up the sides of the hallowed ruins. At first he dismisses it as merely an effect of the changing seasons.
Then, squinting against the stinging wind, Link wonders whether the circle of death isn't expanding before his very eyes.
Sniffling lightly in the cold of the shadows, he takes a minute to regather his thoughts. Zelda likely wouldn't leave the temple unguarded, nor is it a risk he'll willingly take. At the very least, she's sure to have someone posted at both the main entryways. Link blinks the water from his eyes as he again scours the landscape, his gaze ever lured back to the imposing branches of the Great Tree.
Surely, they would hide him from the temple's sightline before his falling frame could be identified.
An especially sharp breeze carries his breath on the wind, his lungs aching at the loss. He knows he's running short on time. Each second wasted brings Zelda closer to a verdict – and Ghirahim…
Whatever fate awaits him, or Link, whether together or apart – no torment could be greater than never knowing.
Leafy sailcloth at the ready, Link leaps from the cavernous isle's ledge and plunges towards a shadowy earth.
Violet clouds billow across a molten sky, orange slivers flitting through the crags in the stone – and a black hilt comes dangerously close to passing from a pale, trembling hand.
Lost, wrought, and desperate, Zelda senses the tinges of doubt lapping at the corners of her mind, but she is determined to hold them at bay. Should the demon turn on her now, then what? Will she be cursed forever to wander the earth, bearing witness to the wreckage her own recklessness has caused? Oh, but if Ghirahim stays true to his word – if he vanishes evermore behind the curtain of twilight…
Eyes like the void bore into her being, the demon's outstretched hand aglow in the darkness. No malintent seeps from his dark gaze; no fire, no fury, as he's so often been prone. Nothing but a frigid emptiness stares back at her now, a weak desire to do little more than exist.
Perhaps, after all these years, the realm beyond has finally begun to suit him.
Perhaps this is mercy.
Zelda's arm, once held protectively against her body, reluctantly unfolds. Long, slender fingers have just begun to graze the dark leather, her own knuckles as white as the other's gloves, when a muffled shout carries from just outside the crooked doors.
Both heads snap in the commotion's direction, where Groose's arms can be seen flailing before his meaty hands reach up to tug at the leafy cowl pulled over his head – a split second before Link – how? – shoves gracelessly past the chiseled stone.
His eyes, oceanic pools, land first on Zelda – but pass through her in an instant, locking onto the demon who beholds him with…
Not with the cold fury he'd exuded days before; nor with indifference, contempt, or loathing – though all flicker past his face, the concoction so fleeting it may not have even truly been there at all. What contorts Ghirahim's severe, sallow features now…
Is longing.
It's only a moment, and Zelda watches the events unfurl, slowly; yet her body feels to be frozen, as though to intervene here and now would be to challenge the will of the gods themselves.
When the sword is torn from her grip, she doesn't cling to it. When Link sprints into Ghirahim's welcoming embrace, she offers no protest.
Only when both men disappear into the realm beyond does she realize what it is she's allowed.