A/N: T_T I'm so sorry. This would have been out sooner, but I had trouble accessing this website. And for some reason you now have to "opt-in" on your profile to recieve e-mail alerts. Strange.

Thank you Lady Mokki, JustBecause170, Guest, cheesepotassium, Othaeryn, kidd-jones, Alter Ego Bob, Noble Toes, Guest, thenumbertwentyseven, and PleaforInsanity for reviewing last chapter. Your words kept me coming back to this.

Chapter 35

"Don't end up like me," you told me on that day, so long ago, in a world far away, with your bruised face that I sometimes see in my nightmares. "Don't end up like me."

I don't want to.

I don't want to end up like you.

I won't stay.

I'll leave this place and never return.

…Come, my Lord, no longer tarry…

…take my ransomed soul away…

…send Thine angels now to carry…

…carry me to realms of endless days…

I can't clearly picture it. I know I watched the body fall, saw the blood gush onto the floor. But it's fuzzy—just a blur of color. It seems my mind has a tendency of blocking out or forgetting traumatic events: I can't remember how I died; I can no longer see with any vividness that blue Bokoblin I was forced to slay; and now I can't recall exactly what happened after Ghirahim took Bob the Bokoblin's head.

Did I scream? Or did I stand silent and stunned? Did I faint? Or did I walk to Essil and tell her in a dead voice to take me away?

I don't know.

All I know is I somehow ended up back in my room. My bed is where I lie now, head resting on a tear-soaked pillow. It's dark, the candles burning low.

Essil stands by the door, claws in her mouth, nibbling on them anxiously. Her wide, watery eyes catch a glint from the dim flames. "I—" she starts. "I'm s-so sorry. I—I shouldn't have taken you down there. I should have resisted and told you no. I—" her voice breaks and her head hangs. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," I whisper wearily. "It's okay, Essil. It's not your fault. None of it. Not what happened…" I breathe deep, exhale in a slow sigh. "…or what's going to happen."

Essil brushes stray tears from her face. "Wh-what's going to happen?"

"Lock the doors before you go. Please."

The anxious Lizalfos holds herself, rubbing her arms as if she feels a sudden chill, and her purple scales seem colder too, darker in this dreadful night. She looks between the two doors—one leading to the main chamber, the other to the servant's tunnel…and Ghirahim's room. Her stare lands back on me. An edge of steel creeps into her eyes and voice when she says, "I won't leave you. I won't."

My vision blurs and wavers, clearing again as the tears slip free. "That's fine," I croak, secretly thankful. "But lock the doors, Essil. Lock them. Both of them."

She does so, and then comes to sit on the foot of my bed. She places a gentle hand on my ankle—a form of comfort, of connection, that I didn't realize I needed until it was given. More tears fall, and I shake and sob quietly until I can't anymore. Essil stays by me through it all. Together we listen. Together we wait. But the demon does not come; there is no rattling of the doorknobs, no knocks on the wood. Maybe he's realized he's done wrong. Or maybe I'm just a hopeless fool. More than likely his anger keeps him away.

For a moment I think I hear piano music come from somewhere beyond the stone walls, its tempo fast and maddened. It fades, and I dismiss ever having heard it.

"What's going to happen?" Essil asks into the dark. "What did you mean, Kya?"

I don't answer her.

She presses one or two more times, relenting when I stay silent.

Morning is slow approaching. I wait for it, because there is no sleeping as I am now: shaking and rigid and weeping. Finally, when its soft light sets the stained glass aglow because the sun has found a break between the perpetual clouds, I let my tears dry.

I wish they would never wet my face again.

I wish with such desperateness that I lose myself.

The sun has risen, and my spinning mind detaches itself. I am not me anymore. I am not anyone, or anything.

My spirit, broken by so much more than what the demon has done, shatters.

A dream delivers me backward to a time in my old life.

There was barely any light out on that very misty, very early morning. I was sitting on a park bench with a bag of bread next to me. The pond in front of me lapped gently at its bank, the water gentle and the ripples subtle, like a sheet of textured glass. A couple ducks glided across its surface to discover the crumbs I'd thrown. I watched them, pleased they'd come to keep me company, but couldn't bring myself to smile.

Yesterday had been my twenty-fifth birthday.

The last one I'd ever have in that world, though at the time I didn't know it. My mood was downtrodden all the same. No presents. No cards. Not even a word of acknowledgement from my mother, father, or little brother.

I pulled out my phone, hoping to see any texts from them, apologizing for forgetting my birthday. No such luck, so I comforted myself by rereading the texts sent by those who did care: Aunt Pitty, telling me she loves me and wishing me a happy day; Lezzie, saying much the same and hoping she'll get a break from the deaf college so she can come visit; Nikki, who moved from the city, politely demanding we get together soon.

Putting my phone away, I contemplated love and time and the relationship between the two. To me, time was love's currency. Pay me with your time to show me you love me. I guess I could've been considered poor in that sense as well, if not for Aunt Pitty, Nikki, and Lezzie. They gave me their time whenever they could…even though distance made that difficult.

And yet my immediate family, with me in the city, couldn't set aside one minute.

I grabbed another piece of bread, tore off a few bits and threw them to the chuckling ducks. I let their quiet quacking and delicate splashing calm me, along with the breeze rustling the trees' full boughs, cooling with the promise of fall.

I looked at the glimmering city, just visible through the haze, small on the horizon. I could move, I had thought. Move somewhere closer to those who'd give me their time. Why did I stay, hoping things would change? There I was, planning to stay all day at that park, hoping they'd notice I was gone, hoping they would worry. It was both a punishment and a test. And it would fail on both accounts.

They didn't notice I was gone.

They wouldn't until it was too late.

"Please," Essil begs at the end of the day, "please, please eat anddrink something."

I lay there in bed, unresponsive, as I have from sunup to sundown, sliding in and out of consciousness. Silver trays sit on my bedside table and have even overflowed to the vanity I never use, filled with different foods like cold cut meats and bowls of sliced fruit, and crystal glasses and ceramic cups containing various liquids. Water. Teas. Fruit juices.

I don't raise my head to look at them, let alone sit up to consume them.

And it's left poor Essil in tears.

I don't mean to hurt you, says my foggy mind from a place so far away it barely registers. It's as if I'm looking through a tunnel, going deeper and deeper into the dark, the entrance becoming nothing but a pinprick of light. I don't fight it. I don't try to run back to awareness. I stand in the dark of my headspace, sound and sight dulled and distant.

If I was back in the Knowing Realm, they'd call the psyche ward on me, have me hauled away by people in white coats to be sedated and given fluids intravenously.

But this is not the Knowing Realm.

I am the girl-woman who stood on the edge of Skyloft and thought of jumping without a sailcloth, knowing that I had already died. And I can't help but wonder if I ever lived.

I lay here, time slipping away and losing all meaning. Nothing moves me except the painful stab of my bladder, and I get up and stumble to the bathroom, the instances of which grow further apart, my urine getting darker with each trip. Eventually I stop having to go at all, and I no longer move.

My mind has removed itself from the situation, and it feels like I am looking out through eyes that are not mine. These hands are not mine. Neither are these arms or legs or this tangled hair or the heart beating in this chest. I am a passenger, waiting for the airplane to take off, to carry me to a place where it doesn't hurt anymore.

Don't leave me here, I pray to my God. Don't leave me here.

Hissing pulls me from sleep's hold, if barely. It is quiet hissing, but vicious all the same, and the sound is followed by the scent of silver and snow and the sweep of cool fingers against my heated face.

"See to her," says a soft but firm voice, its cadence bringing forth an image of blade through silk in my mind's eye, flashing and dispersing as quickly as it came. "Her aura is nonexistent once again, like the last time, but she is not dead. See to her recovery."

"I am, my lord," Essil bites out in a tone I've never heard from her before.

The door clicks shut; the only sound given to the blade's departure.

My body releases a breath I didn't know it had been holding, and my glazed eyes open to stare off listlessly at nothing.

He was wrong about me not being dead.

Essil had tried to nurse me through a whole night and day. I pass in and out of sleep, and always find her near.

I don't know how much time passes—light and dark come and go—before Essil leans her head against my chest to hear my heartbeat, racing though I am motionless, and lifts a hand to feel my fevered brow. She pulls away with fear in her eyes.

"Please," she starts before realizing it will do no good. No doubt she can see by my expression that I have already left this place.

She runs from the room.

Sometime later she returns with Shii, the green Lizalfos entering at Essil's side, face set grimly. "How long has it been?" Shii asks.

Essil answers on a whisper. "She hasn't had food or water since…it happened."

Shii nods sharply and then marches to my bedside. "Human," she says.

I don't look at her. I don't look at anyone, or anything.

"Kya, you must, at the very least, have water."

I do not respond.

Shii picks up a glass from one of the silver trays before palming the back of my head, lifting me, tilting the glass against my lips. Water, sweet, cool water, tantalizes me with its soft touch and clear smell. My body wants it. My dry mouth and burning throat ache for it. But I don't partake; my lips stay shut and my wall of teeth remain unmoved. Shii angles the glass farther, water spilling over the rim in little rivulets on either side of my mouth, dribbling off my chin and into the pillow and bedsheets below.

Shii tries again and again. The results are the same, no matter what she does. She pinches me, pricks me with her claw, shakes me, and eventually slaps me.

"Do not hurt her!" Essil cries.

"What else am I supposed to do?" Shii grumbles, letting my head drop after one more attempt with the glass.

"I don't know." Essil wrings her hands. "I don't know what to do!"

Shii stands with fists at her sides, half-raised as if she's thinking of beating me. Slowly she lowers them, unfurls her fingers. "It's no use," she says gravely. "We have no choice. We must inform Lord Ghirahim."

"Must we?" Essil hisses. "He has done enough."

"Look at her, Essil. She acts as if she is already dead. And if nothing is done, she will indeed die."

I don't hear them leave, or know if they left at all, or when they'll be back, or if they'll be back—I can't think. My body shudders though it burns. There is sand in my eyes, so I close them.

The darkness of sleep pulls me under, and I drift down.

The tunnels carved deep in my heart are where my dreams take me to roam. I walk into chambers filled with visions of people and places. They play from the walls, like silver screens, all around me, in a display so dizzying I can't get a hold on any particular thing. The visions spin and spin until they are blurs of color and light. When it stops, I'm suddenly in an all-too-familiar room.

My room. In the Knowing Realm. My lonely little room with the big window giving view to the lights of the city, not yet at its full splendor because the warm sunset has yet to yield to night.

I'm not alone.

There, on the bed, beneath a quilt and a comforter, lies…me.

But I'm mistaken.

I'm not there. Not anymore, and my former body's deathly pale complexion attests to my soul's departure. That body is not breathing, and its heart is no longer beating. By the looks of it, hasn't been for a while, though I don't notice a smell.

I stare at her and wonder: What happened? She was healthy. Even if she was a little overweight, she still exercised and made healthy choices. No drugs. Definitely no alcohol; didn't want to end up like Uncle Lewis. So what did her in?

A knock comes from the closed door. "Hello?"

My heart stops at my little brother's voice.

"Are you in there?" he asks before turning the knob and shoving the door open. He strides in, looking more than a little annoyed. "Hello! Do you know how to answer your phone?"

I stand unseen in the corner. My former body lies quiet.

"Sis? Are you sleeping?"

No, I think. I'm not sleeping.

"Hey!" My little brother comes around the side of the bed, grabs a stiff leg and shakes it. "Wake up!"

It is then he really looks at the shell I left behind. It is then he lifts his hand, and slowly backs away until his back hits the wall, his shoulder hitting a stack of games from the TV stand, sending them tumbling to the floor. He stares and stares, his mouth working but nothing coming out.

It is then he screams my name. My original name. He screams it so loud I'm surprised the window doesn't break.

With shaking hands, he takes out his phone, fumbles with it, drops it, picks it up, and finally grips it just enough to unsteadily dial three digits. His breaths come fast. "It's—it's my sister. She won't wake up. She—she won't wake up!" He gives the emergency services our address, and distractedly answers questions he can't keep track of, because his eyes stay glued to the body, wide and fearful.

"Markus," I whisper sadly, but am unheard.

The vision cracks into tiny little pieces, and as the images shatter and vaporize into light and color, the last thing I hear is my little brother screaming.

Light and color swirl around me like I'm in the center of a tornado. When everything settles and falls into its place, piece by little piece, I am standing in the church my family used to go to so long ago. The warm wooden pews are filled with extended family, many I haven't seen in forever, and friends. My immediate family sits in front, with my Aunt Pitty sitting to my mother's left, and my father to her right, and my little brother to his right. They are all wearing dark colors.

I'm standing in front of a closed-lid coffin. I stare at it from over my shoulder. It is topped with a spray of flowers. The large wooden cross, affixed high on the wall behind the coffin and alter, is the one I always pictured when I prayed.

Ave Maria is playing on the piano. My mother's favorite song. I wonder why my favorite hymn isn't being played; probably because my mother didn't know it.

I turn my stare back to my family.

Their faces show the kind of exhaustion only grief can give. My little brother curls in on himself, his expression hidden; my usually straight-backed father slumps, staring at the floor, with a half-attempt of comfort given by placing a hand on my brother's back; my mother sits primly and properly, in contrast to her gaze which is lost and confused, Aunt Pitty holding her hand. As a woman starts singing the words to Ave Maria, my mother finally, maybe for the first time in her adult life, cracks. Tears well in her eyes and spill down her cheeks, taking some of her mascara with the flow.

"They loved you."

I tear my open-mouthed stare away from my family, and look at the girl in white who approaches me. "How are you here?" I whisper in a weak, reedy voice.

"You're sleeping," Zelda replies softly, as if that is answer enough. "I've tried stealing into your visions before, but…you couldn't hear me in my other form, as Hylia." She smiles sadly, tapping a pointed ear sticking out from golden hair. "You don't have the ears needed to hear Hylia."

I squint at her, my sluggish mind trying to understand. "I…really have visions, then."

"Yes, to an extent. Your memories could never be as clear as they are without your connection to the Realm of Knowledge. You summon visions to your mind's eye, or call them to your dreams, though doing so at will is difficult."

"Oh…" I say, not really caring in the moment. I tear my eyes away from her, fix them again on my mother's tears. "This isn't how I wanted to find out she actually cared."

Ave Maria crescendos as we talk, echoing in the vaulted ceilings of the sanctuary.

"I know." Zelda lowers her blue eyes to the floor. "I'm sorry."

"…Not your fault," I hear myself say, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Zelda flinch. "Not going to matter soon anyway," I continue in a hollow tone. "It's time to go."

Zelda shakes herself from whatever conflict was bothering her. "No. That's why I'm here. You can't—you can't give up. We need you. I need you. Link needs you."

I don't answer her for a while, lost in more than just the solemn melody ringing out. "Why was I brought to your world? How did it happen? What killed me?"

She is silent.

I turn to gaze at the heavy wooden cross, squinting against the light coming in from a stained-glass window. "I died, lost everything…all without the benefit and peace of reuniting with my God."

Zelda lowers her head and clasps her hands to her chest, as if she were holding them in prayer, and I am reminded with a fresh wave of pain one of the latest reasons why I've been broken. "I need you to hold on," she says softly, then raises her head and says with more conviction, "I need to you hold on for us. For me. For Link. For everyone."

I stop myself from scoffing. "You win, you know that, right? In the end you win. Demise is defeated, Ghirahim is shattered, and Link stands victorious. So why do you need me again?"

"When you peered into our world from the Realm of Knowledge, was there only one outcome?" she asks. "Or were there outcomes where Link perished?"

I think about it, about all the times Link fell in battle while I was at the controls. But where I could try again and again, in this realm they cannot. Death is…not something that can be undone. Not by this goddess. Nor her older goddesses, it seems.

She takes my silence as acquiescence. "Then you understand why we need you. Why Link needs you. He cannot defeat Ghirahim until the Master Sword is complete. Even then, there is so much room for error. I need you to live, to make Ghirahim stumble with every step he takes. And then," her voice wavers, "and then I will do everything I can to make sure you have a long and happy life."

I don't answer her. I trace every detail of that cross, every grain in the wood, every jagged end, and the wrap of a crown of thorns at its center.

The music stops.

A figure rises from the pews, her heels clicking on the floor as she makes her way to the front, before the coffin. Zelda and I are invisible to her, and she phases through us as if we were not there. And in truth, we never were. She stands before the congregation, tall and strong, her mahogany hair and dark skin gleaming in the light. Nikki. She waves up another, who hurries to stand beside her. Lezzie. My two very best friends.

Nikki speaks to the gathered, saying she will sing my favorite hymns, and Lezzie will sign them alongside her.

I watch them, watch Lezzie sign as Nikki's sweet voice rises up.

Tears spear into my eyes. "I can't…do this…" They cut watery lines down my cheeks. "I'm not your hero…I don't have an unbreakable spirit. And I…I have been broken for a long, long time."

Zelda's lips tremble slightly before she gains ahold of herself. "You must push on. This isn't just about you, Kya. It's about everyone. Link. Every single one of our people back home on Skyloft."

"Not my people," I say. "Not my home."

"It was your home while you were there. They may not be your original people but they took care of you. Don't forget that."

I grit my teeth. "I'm just another piece on the board to you, aren't I," I say bitterly.

Zelda lowers her head. "This is war, and I must use every advantage I have. I'm sorry."

"I want my life back."

"You can't go back," she says. "There's no going back. You have to live now. In the world that you are currently in. You must live."

"I can't," I say, voice thin and warbled. "I've already died."

"Stay alive," she says, as the world around us starts to crack and shatter.

"I can't."

The vision scatters, light and color drown out all sight, all sound. The last thing I hear is the voice of my friend, singing my favorite hymn.

And, smaller, is a voice at the back of my mind: Stay alive.

…Stay…alive…

When I come to again, my face is held in cool hands, dark eyes peering deeply into my own. But I do not see him, really. It's as if I watch through a silver screen, somewhere far away.

"How long can humans go without water?" Ghirahim demands, turning my head slightly as if a new angle will give him more clues on my condition. I do not try to pull away. I am limp and lifeless, letting him do as he likes.

"Not long, my lord," Shii says. "She is nearing the end."

Ghirahim scowls at her words, and turns a black glare onto the two Lizalfos. "I told you to see to her."

Strangely enough, Essil glares back. "I've tried."

"Well, not hard enough, obviously." Ghirahim grabs a glass in one hand and twists the other in my hair, pulling me up. The glass is forced between my lips, clacks against my teeth. "Drink. Drink. I said drink, damn you!"

While some water leaks through to moisten my sandpaper tongue, the majority dribbles down my chin, wetting the front of my already damp nightdress.

"Open your mouth," the demon says through clenched teeth. When I do not comply, he shouts it: "Open your mouth!"

No response from me, neither sound or flicker of movement.

He slams the glass on the bedside table, cracking the fine crystal, before fisting the front of my nightdress and shaking me with great shoves and pulls.

Essil lets out a cry that goes ignored.

"Pathetic," seethes Ghirahim, ceasing to shake me as he speaks. "How pathetic you look. How pathetic you are! And for what? A stupid, insignificant little Bokoblin not worth his own weight in dung?" With a final shove he flings me against the headboard. "Ridiculous. They are as cheap as they are plentiful. I have hordes among hordes. Do you want another to teach your hand signs to? Will that make you happy? Ask, then. Ask, and I shall give one to you, so long as you give your word you will not follow the stupid thing to your doom. Well?"

I lay lifeless, glazed eyes staring up at the navy canopy of the bedframe.

"Kya," he says warningly. "Look at me. Look at me when I'm talking to you!" He grabs my jaw and forces me to face him, but my eyes do not focus.

I guess something about my vacant stare made Ghirahim snap, because the next thing I'm dimly aware of is his dagger hovering between us with its red glow of magic before he snatches it out of the air and points its tip at me.

"This is your last chance. Drink." He waits. And waits. "So be it." He pushes the dagger between my lips, cutting the lower one in the process, attempting to pry my mouth open while his other hand grips my jaw. The metallic taste of blood and pain fill my senses.

Fear echoes in the tunnels of my heart. Fear, and pain, and a screaming desire for escape. A surge I cannot name builds in me, and suddenly a blinding light makes everything go white.

…He to rescue…

…me from danger…

…interposed His precious blood…

The light fades almost as quickly as it came, narrowing from a lake, to a river, and then to a stream, the flow surging directly into Ghirahim, blasting him against the far wall. When it is done it lingers for but a moment as a string of light disappearing into Ghirahim's chest. Said demon pushes from the stone wall, regaining his footing, rubbing at his chest where the largest diamond cut-out of his suit is. Uncertainty flickers behind his gaze, but the blackfire glare returns to smother it. He stalks towards me.

But he doesn't make it to the bedside, not before Essil does.

She is like a leaping shadow to come stand between us, her jagged teeth—so different from Shii's needlelike ones—are bared, her claws raised and crooked, her orange quill flared, hissing like a cobra, and tendrils of purplish smoke slither from between her fangs. "No more," she hisses venomously, "I will stand no more for it. You did this! She is in this state because of you. You—you malicious beast! You think nothing of our lives—but she did, she does. And you took one she valued and you took his head—killed him right in front of her. You have broken her—you have killed her, too! Beast! Your cruelty has consequences." Essil snarls and snaps, the growl coming from deep in her throat Jurassic in nature.

Ghirahim stood stoically at first, letting her go on, but as he did so his expression darkened and darkened, and now his eyes are like two black pits in his head. He raises his hand, gives a single clicking snap, and then holds his sabre, the dark metal gleaming ominously, ready to be used.

And Shii, strong, stalwart Shii, stands back against the wall, her feathery quill flattened, her yellow eyes round, green scales drained of color, shaking, breathing in short pants of panic. "My l-lord, please, p-please for-forgive her…!"

"The only one in need of forgiveness is his lordship," snarls Essil. "You want to kill me, too? Go ahead." She flings an arm in my direction. "Break her some more, if possible. Maybe she will die instantly. In fact, shall I lie beside her so you can take both our heads in one sweep?"

I watch everything, slumped against headboard and rumpled pillows, with clouded eyes. Yet somewhere deep inside the caverns of my heart where I have retreated, I writhe. He is going to kill Essil, my broken spirit calls, trying in vain to reassemble itself so I might fight. Still, I cannot move myself. My body is weak, mind scattered. Parts of me cry in the dark, calling to the other pieces—but the black river has run dry, and the green valley has withered.

Maybe that's what saves Essil.

Ghirahim's black glare flits between me and the purple Lizalfos before coming to rest solely on me. I know what he sees. He sees a ruined girl-woman. Spiritless. Pathetic. Dying. For the briefest of moments his sharp face softens, fear shooting through his eyes like a streaking meteorite across a dark sky, here and gone. With it goes the black blade, dissipating from his grasp.

The slightest bit of tension leaves Essil's shoulders. "You broke her," she says, "so you must fix her. And if you do not know how to fix her, then find someone who does!" She continues, staring forlornly at me, "And you better hurry because she…she doesn't have much longer."

Ghirahim regards no one but me in the moments after Essil's outburst. He stands like a statue, expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he disappears in a flash of diamond fractals.

While he is gone the shadows grow long and wide, cutting the room in sharp patterns that shiver with candlelight. Thunder rolls outside, and soon rain taps the window as if it also is beseeching me to come alive and drink.

I vaguely regain some semblance of consciousness, enough to know that Essil is blotting my face with a cool wetted cloth, enough to know that Ghirahim stands at my bedside with another demon next to him. Ghirahim's blood red mantle is a little askew, his hair a few strands loose from being its usual perfect curtain. He has traveled somewhere, far and fast.

The newcomer is strange, with brown robes covered in what seems like hanging moss. His hood is up, shadowing a face lined with heavy wrinkles and brown skin cracked like the bark of a tree. His eyes are deep-set and small and seem unassuming at first…but there is something lurking in them that, if I were alive, would make me squirm.

"I've told you what has happened," says Ghirahim from beside the tree demon, the dawn light coming from the window catching in his blue diamond earring. "This is what her condition has come to."

The wrinkled demon scrutinizes me from head to foot, then shrugs his shoulders.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Ghirahim snaps, brow furrowing.

The tree demon reaches out and pinches the skin of my arm, studying it as it sluggishly sets back into place. He smiles, his wrinkles deepening, and I imagine I hear a sound like creaking wood. "She will die soon if she does not drink water."

"Well that much is obvious! Tell me how she can be brought back!"

"I'd say let her go."

"That is not an option," Ghirahim says vehemently. "Be serious! I did not go through the trouble of seeking you out and bringing you here just for you to tell me to let her die. You know human minds better than any demon I know; you were the one capturing and studying them during the Great War. How can her mind be brought back? You had best have an answer for me, Hidayati."

"Always so temperamental," the tree demon, Hidayati, says languidly. Then he sighs. "Very well. So, you say you killed her favorite Bokoblin. I presume she named it?"

Ghirahim hesitates.

"She did," Essil supplies, pressing the cool cloth again to my cheek.

"Ah, I see…" Hidayati nods, neck creaking.

Ghirahim folds his arms across his chest. "How is this pertinent?"

"How is it not? Humans are social creatures, and once they name something, they bond with it. They bond very easily, you see. I once had a human locked in a dungeon all by himself for quite some time. He went mad without companionship—used his blood to paint a face on a rock and named it, had conversations with it. When I took it from him, he went into a frenzy, crying and begging for his 'friend' to be returned to him." The tree demon gestures to me, robes and moss whispering with the movement. "She named it. She bonded, then."

"It was just a Bokoblin," Ghirahim argues. "The least of the lesser demons."

Hidayati raises crinkled brows. "Need I repeat myself about the painted rock? It does not matter what it was."

A tense silence descends during which the demon lord seems to be thinking deeply, his brow creased, jaw clenched. "I cannot make her eat or drink. She will not speak. She does not even seem to see anymore. What must be done, Hidayati? Help me make her well again."

At this the tree demon steps back, small eyes a little wider. "Do my ears deceive me? The great and terrible Lord Ghirahim asking for my help? For centuries I advised our great king pertaining to the goddess and her precious humans, yet not once in all those years did you ever seek my counsel."

Ghirahim wrinkles his nose in disgust. "My master called on you a few times only to sate his curiosity. Do not make out like you were more important than you really were. Now answer my question."

"Permit me to savor this moment."

"You may savor the pain of a slow, torturous end if you keep pushing me."

"I do believe killing is what got you in this mess to begin with." Hidayati barks a laugh. "My, my, if looks could kill, my lord, I would surely be dead. To think you are getting so worked up over a human. Very well." The tree demon sighs. "Since you cannot go back in time and undo what's been done, you must undo it another way."

"Which is?"

Hidayati leans over the shell of me, pressing rough fingertips to my temples. "You can use the magic veins running through her mind to…" He trails off. "…Lord Ghirahim. This human…" His lined face is astonished, and as he hovers a hand across the length of my body his astonishment grows. "This human has no magic veins. None at all."

"She does not," confirms Ghirahim.

"This world is permeated with magic; it is in the very air. Even the basest of creatures, like humans, have a shred of magic in them, though they cannot typically use it, not unless blessed by their goddess like those troublesome Sheikah, and yet…this girl has not a drop. Did she lose it somehow?"

"No, she has always been so."

"Where did this human come from?"

Ghirahim waves away the inquiry. "That doesn't matter now. What were you saying before?"

"I was going to say the magic veins running through her mind could be used to trace the offending memory that has traumatized her—and humans are so easy to traumatize—and smother it, so to speak. But without them…there is nothing to be done."

"There must be another way."

"There is not."

Ghirahim lowers his arms to his sides, fingers curling in and out of fists. He breathes deeply, as if he is trying to calm himself.

Hidayati tsks. "A demon could have taken the punishment you gave her. Humans are so fragile; they all have a breaking point. A pity."

Ghirahim says nothing.

"Since she cannot be made to forget, you must forget her instead. Let her go."

"Never," Ghirahim seethes. Then, his eyes widen. After snapping his fingers, a familiar white crystal appears in his grasp. "Can this be used instead," he demands.

Hidayati's brows pop up. "A dream crystal? I didn't think there were any of those left."

"Answer the question!"

The tree demon rubs his chin thoughtfully. "It is not meant to work that way, but…mayhap. Dream crystals do not depend on magic veins to work; its magic penetrates directly into the brain. And memories influence dreams." He shrugs languidly. "We can make the attempt. I cannot guarantee it will work, and if we somehow manage to 'patch' the memory it may not hold. It could be tenuous at best."

"There is no other way, you said."

Hidayati smiles. "No, there isn't. The dream crystal requires sleep. Judging by the state she's in, it won't be long. Then we shall begin."

I dream of black blades and desperate pleas, of blood and falling bodies. It wakes me for a moment, eyes opening only a sliver.

"You should accept help more often, my lord. There are greater demons like myself still loyal to the king."

Ghirahim scoffs. "Loyal, you say? If I could trust them not to make a bid for my master's throne, I might be more open to their assistance. Now focus."

Silence, punctuated by a strange humming and a soft white glow coming from something pressed against my forehead. My head hurts.

"When this is done," Ghirahim says, "you will tell me what kills humans—"

Hidayati gives a short laugh. "You know very well how to kill them!"

"—and what keeps them alive." He pulls a white crystal away from me. "She's awake. This won't work if she doesn't stay asleep."

"I have something," Essil pipes in. "It's a paste. She need only breathe it in and it should put her right out."

"Fetch it," says Ghirahim. "And while you're at it, fix a red potion. Make it as strong as you can."

When Essil returns she sets down multiple bottles, then opens a small canister and holds it under my nose.

The silver screen fades to black, sleep taking me under its dark wing.

A pounding headache is the first thing I'm aware of. My eyes snap open, and I take heaving gasps.

"She's awake! She's awake!" Essil comes from the foot of the bed.

"Did it work?" asks Shii, standing by the armoire, looking like she's been through a fright.

"Be quiet, both of you." Ghirahim sits beside me on the bed. He reaches out and brushes my cheek with his knuckles, his touch cool against my hot face. "Little bird, look at me." He seems relieved when I do.

"What the f—" I start, but cough and choke on my own words, mouth and throat burning like I've swallowed scalding sand.

Essil plucks a bottle of red potion from the bedside table, uncorks it, and passes it to Ghirahim. I flounder trying to sit up, dizziness like I can't describe making my world whirl, and he helps me, bringing the glass rim to my lips. The taste is strong and bitter, but it washes down my throat like a cold stream over hot coals.

"Slowly," commands Ghirahim gently.

I listen, not so much out of obedience, but because I'm too weak to argue. It seems like it takes forever for me to drain the bottle. When I do, I speak in a thin voice. "What…what's going on? What happened?"

Ghirahim and Essil share a look I don't like.

"You were sick," Essil replies. "Very, very sick." Before I can ask any more questions, she grabs another glass bottle from the table. "I infused this water with herbs that should help your body absorb the water faster."

I'm allowed no chance to protest—it's shoved in my face and I'm instantly reminded of how incredibly thirsty I am. This time I hold the bottle myself. All the while Ghirahim watches me with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable.

"What!" I snap. "What the f—what kind of sickness—what am I missing?!"

"Nothing," Ghirahim says quickly. "Don't dwell on it. It's over."

I try to think of something to say, but nothing comes. For some reason I feel like crying, feel like tears should be gathering right now, but they don't. Or can't.

It takes me two days to recover. Most of my questions are hushed away and I am given liquid after liquid and then more in the form of broths and soups. Essil tells me I had a severe fever, that it came out of nowhere, and they were so worried for me. But I get a sense there's something she's not telling me. And Ghirahim is acting strangely. He stays close, but interacts with me like I'm made of glass. He's so careful when he lifts me from the bed and carries me to the bath. He steps into the pool of water with me, clothes and all. He lets me stand when I want to, and the deepest part of the water helps me walk despite my vertigo. My muddled mind throws caution to the wind, and I peel out of my nightdress, not caring that he can see me.

When finished, I'm given a fresh dress. Returning to my room, I find Essil fluffing the pillows on my freshly made bed. Once again, I tell her she doesn't need to fuss over me. I could've done it.

"You were lying there the longest time," she says, voice quivering. "They needed changed. I wanted to do it. Please, rest more. I'll get you some more tea."

After she scurries out, I sit on the bed.

Ghirahim is in the doorway, watching me.

Suddenly tears spring into my eyes and my lips tremble, and I set my jaw, trying to stay firm, wondering why in the heck…

"Balak," I say slowly, "tried to… I broke his leg… Came back here…"

"Stop," says the demon lord, eyes flaring with alarm.

"Came back here…" I pause. "Where's…Bob?"

Ghirahim shifts uneasily. "He's been sent away. He is no longer required to serve me. He went back to his clan within the Demon Tribe."

The ensuing silence is broken when Essil returns with a silver tray, places it near me. She looks between us fretfully. "Is everything okay?"

"No," I gasp, wondering why my head suddenly hurts so. I put my palm to my temple, squeeze my eyes shut. "There's something, something wrong… Something happened…"

Ghirahim is in front of me in an instant, cupping my face, rubbing away errant tears with his thumbs. "Think no more of it, darling. Leave it be."

"Where's Bob?" I ask again like a broken record.

"He's dead."

Ghirahim throws a look of murder over his shoulder.

Essil doesn't seem affected by it. She glares right back and says something I don't understand: "It was the who and how of the situation, my lord." She straightens, setting her shoulders, and I can't help but think I've seen this latent strength before. "He fell in battle against Balak," she says without a single stutter. "He did his duty and did it well, for a Bokoblin. Cry for him if you must…but please don't sicken yourself. He wouldn't have wanted that. He wanted you to live. That's why he fought for you."

I stare at her aghast. My mouth hangs open, but no words come. Then, "He…he's dead. A-and it's my fault. I—I shouldn't have left the castle, it—it's my fault!" I all but scream. I scramble over the bed, away from them, as if that would put distance between me and what they're telling me. I don't stop backing away from them until my back hits the stained-glass window, light setting the depiction of flowers in a breeze aglow.

Ghirahim follows with hand held out, approaching me as if I were a wounded animal. "Little bird…"

I stare at the demon lord with an overwhelming feeling of wrongness, like I am being left in the dark with only lies to guide me out, and I don't understand why. Panic climbs as he comes closer and closer, fear I haven't felt so keenly since I first laid eyes on him that fateful day in Faron Woods. He is the same outwardly, nothing changed.

And it seems I have not changed either; my heart shivers in my chest. Suddenly, dreams return to me—visions of my family, of Zelda speaking and, further back, of my battle with Balak. But I cannot remember Bob the Bokoblin fighting beside me, can't remember him dying, but somehow, I know he did.

Something inside me is screaming at me, urging me to follow through on Zelda's words. Make him stumble. Lead him to his end. He deserves it. Yet there is another voice softly telling me no, that I don't want to.

But he's done horrible things. Unspeakable things.

You said we need only the faith of a mustard seed to move mountains. I stare at the demon in front of me. What do I do when mountains are left unmovable?

He's close enough to brush my wild hair from my face. "…The fault was mine. I should have never…let it happen." His tone becomes rough. "Forgive me. Forgive me, Kya, and I assure you it will never happen again."

Shock suffuses me. The demon is repentant? It repeats in my head, spinning and spinning. The demon is repentant. Who says he hasn't changed? A tear slips from my eye, born from hope and despair intertwining, from frustration and fear at what has been and what's yet to come.

He wipes it away. Then he puts his arms around me and draws me close, my head resting on his chest.

It is then I hear it, so soft, but unmistakable:

A heartbeat.

A/N: Did anyone foresee Essil being the one to take a stand?

Good news: I have the rest of the outlines written. Also, next chapter is halfway written, so hopefully you won't have to wait too long. ^_^'

Thank you for reading.