Chapter 2

The mammoth trees, with their twisting bark and thick trunks and fanning canopies, speckle the forest floor with shade. All save for one spotlight opening. Snapped branches point down into the circle of light like accusing fingers of disgraced judges, their leafy robes torn to shreds.

Turk lies in the center of the carnage, his wings bent in odd, sharp angles. He lies very still, like a picture frozen in time. The image of him gets wavy, blurs, and then hot tears streak down my cheeks.

When he takes in a breath I cry for a whole other reason.

"Turk, Turk!" I lunge to him. "It's okay. It's okay—I'll fix it! Just hang on."

There is blood coming from the nasal passages in his beak, blood coloring his tongue as he gasps.

I don't have much time. He doesn't have much time.

Trees speed by as twigs and thorns swipe at my face and arms. I bulldoze through, completely ignorant of the popping branches or the burning scratches being left in my skin.

I know there are mushrooms down here—I saw them in the game: giant ones, spotted ones, glowing ones. I need the spores, the spores of…which one?

I skid to a stop, boots digging into the dirt. The path and clearing I'm in is all too familiar, but…it's different somehow too. Too large, too real. My hearts pounds in urgency, and I blindly rush from one mushroom to the next. Fumbling, I claw at the regenerating spongy flesh of a spotted mushroom, dash towards and claw at a blue one. The dust of their spores gathers and coats my hands, my forearms. Hurry, a voice screams at me.

I spin in circles. Panic stabs me when I can't find— No, no it was this way. No—this way! I see the branches I broke through and I follow the damaged foliage back to my bird.

His gasps are slowing, his eyes dimming.

I stand in front of him, shaking in bewildered terror. How am I supposed to administer this? How am I—? A frustrated cry tears out of me, and I'm down on my knees, shoving my spore-coated hands in his mouth, pushing down his throat until all the spore dust is cleared off me. He gurgles and chokes, cawing weakly when I retract saliva and blood covered arms.

I run, run, run. I repeat the cycle of tearing at the mushrooms, garnering spores, returning to my bird. Over and over.

By the time the sun sets I am covered in sweat and blood.

Relief overwhelms me and tears leak down my face as I listen to Turk's even breathing.

He's okay now—for now. I had to make sure of that before wandering from his side.

Now I'm walking down paths I, back in another life, never dreamed of seeing in person. I'm familiarizing myself with these woods. I know Faron from the game but in the here and now everything seems so much larger. Titan trees loom high, shadow and light dance with the leaves, making the ground itself seem alive, and mushrooms twice my height and three times my width make it feel like I'm in a world of giants.

The biggest tree of them all looms in the distance: The Great Tree. I dare not attempt the trek; it's too far from Turk.

I spend my time gathering spores, and picking the fleshy petals of the red heart-shaped flowers, and knocking down those strange gourd-like fruits that hang in trees.

Everything goes to my bird. The rumbling and painful clinch of my stomach goes unaddressed.

I've set his wings with sticks and vines. The kitchen knife made it with me, and it's been indispensable, from slicing vines, to cutting up the fruit, to swiping at the Keese that dared to bother us.

The sun goes up, light bathes us. The sun goes down, darkness blankets us, hides us. I count the days with the knife too, drawing tallies through a tree's bark. They build up, one, two, three, four, five…

I wonder if anyone's looking for us.

Finding a small spring dribbling from an outcropping of mossy rocks was a huge relief, and from it I gather water in hollowed scoops of bark. I tried collecting the drips with the gourd-fruit, but the skin goes bad and sours it.

Dirt clings to me, twigs stick in my hair. Wishing for some cleanliness, I scrub my face with the miniscule trickle. I find myself wishing for more water. I know where it is, but I can't go for a dip in the waters at the base of the Great Tree. No, I won't go that far from my bird. I'm busy trying to cover up the evidence of our being here anyway. I sweep away footprints and erect barriers with leafy branches. It takes so long to saw through the thicker branches, and my heart keeps jumping, screaming, hurry, hurry, with each beat. My frame bends under the weight of carrying too much, my back stings. But I don't care.

I know what's down here.

I have to hide my bird.

I have to hide me.

I try to take only fallen branches, but when those are unavailable I try to make cuts in inconspicuous places. I doubt any Bokoblin will notice a fresh and cleanly sawed stump on the trees, but…

It's not the Bokoblins I'm scared of.

This isn't how it was supposed to be. I was supposed to be with Link when this happened. I was supposed to…

I don't even have a proper weapon.

I can't seem to stop shaking, I can't seem to catch my breath no matter how long I sit idle. So I don't.

Day six, day seven. Is no one looking for us?! The anger builds, the resentment festers. When Zelda disappears, they'll be sending Link down here in a day. Everyone will worry, everyone will hope, everyone will pray.

For me? Nothing.

Okay, fine if no one cares for me. I wasn't exactly the best person I could be, but Turk… What about my Loftwing?

I do my best to get him better, but it's taking so long. The red flowers help, the spores do too. But their effects don't work instantly like in the game. Am I doing something wrong? Should I be administering them differently? It's now I start wishing I paid more attention to Owlan's teachings, but my stupid self was too busy comparing the fair-haired elf man to freakin' Legolas. I even called him that, and he looked at me like I was special in the head. He was right. I am. And if I'd paid attention to Horwell's classes, too, then I might've learned another way to administer medicine to a Loftwing. Unfortunately, I was also too busy comparing him to Aragorn.

Hunger claws at my gut like a rabid beast. I eat some of the fruit, but not a lot. I leave most for Turk. The fruit isn't as abundant as the game shows. Big surprise. Maybe I should get it through my head this isn't a game. Starvation and my wounds make it clear.

Foraging for food, I make the mistake of stepping on an unknown plant.

"Kweeoo!"

"Oh God no!" A scream tears out of my throat, and I fall back on my butt as a Kikwi shambles away into the brush. My hand clutches the fabric over my heart. That little…! Stupid thing! I wouldn't have even known it was there if it hadn't popped up like that! Standing up, I shout after the Kikwi, "You idiot! Hide somewhere out of the way next time!"

Upon hearing my voice echo, I slap a hand over my mouth, looking around to see if anyone heard, and quickly run for my own hiding spot.

Come day ten, Turk is able to lift his head. It's then I feel safe enough leaving him to go bathe in a spring near the Great Tree. The smell of a dead rat follows wherever I go, and I desperately need to get rid of it. Not even the earthy smells of the forest and the clean, fresh scent of the misty spring cover the stench emitting from me. Kneeling at the edge of the water, I shed my clothes, wash them first. The tunic, though faded, is a dark enough blue the dirt and grass stains don't show too badly. The blood stains, however, dot both tunic and gray pants. They won't come out.

I leave my clothes to sun on a rock, but take my knife with me. The knife is always with me. No exceptions.

It's a hazy early morning and the water is freezing. Goosebumps break out all over my skin. I grit my teeth and trudge on, the promise of cleanliness pushing me. Sand is used as a scrub to get all the dirt and particles off. I do my best to clean my teeth. Then I go to the small waterfall and stand under it, my breath threatening to expel at the frigid strikes, my body shaking uncontrollably. But it's when I step out from under the flow that my heart stops.

Over at the rock, examining my clothes, is a red creature.

A Bokoblin.

The fog shrouding the area saves me from exposure, but it's drifting away. The sun shines through in wavy increments.

My teeth are bared, my brow comes down sharply. A rage squeezes my heart, expands my lungs with hot air. There is a she-wolf in me and she bears down on the intruder, and says: Those are my things. This is my area. And you are far too close to my bird's hiding spot.

Granted my bird is actually quite a ways away, but in the moment, it feels like that monster being anywhere in Faron is too close to Turk.

And I won't stand for it.

I wade quietly, feel the wet sand squelch between my toes, anger building because of the forced slowness. Building, building, until it explodes when I reach the water's edge. My bare feet are silent, my knife is poised. I slash down the Bokoblin's back and it lets out a crying shriek. I slash and slash and slash. The monster turns and brings up its cleaver to block, but I already know the drill. I swipe low when it guards high, I swipe high when it guards low, and when it guards to the side, I stab, stab, stab.

Blood splatters everywhere, and there's a side of me that seizes in horror.

The Bokoblin falls to its back, cleaver clattering to the side, little clawed hands raised, shaking, in front of its face.

The dripping red blade I hold before it is quivering, too. I stare at the creature, eyes wide, my taut lips falling slowly back to sheath my teeth.

It must have been the pray-like gestures it was making with its hands, it must have been the way it was shaking, the pained little moans it was making.

I do nothing but watch as it gets up and hobbles away.

I've hurt things. I've cut things. I've thrown rocks and fists at people. But never have I killed. Not even an ant, if I could help it.

Fear at what I could've done, fear at what could have been done to me, bubbles up as tears and spills over my cheeks. It's like with Groose and Pipit all over again. The soft side of me, a ewe, baes mournfully. What am I doing—what was I about to do? I didn't want to hurt anyone, I certainly don't want to kill anyone. I was just scared, I was angry.

There is blood all over me.

I throw myself back into the water, not realizing until later that letting that Bokoblin go was the worst thing I could've done.

I usually curl into Turk's side when night falls, his feathery down keeping the shivers at bay, but tonight I do not sleep. I do not shut my eyes; I'm reluctant to even blink.

Who do the monsters report to? Who do the monsters answer to?

I know the answer.

I…I was supposed to be with Link. I was supposed to be at his side when faced with…

But I am alone. Alone with an injured bird that cannot yet fly.

I took care to erase my footprints, I eased around the forest as not to disturb even a blade of grass. I am hidden, we are hidden. It's all right, I tell myself. It's all right.

Don't panic.

Every noise made in the night startles me. Every insect, every breath of wind, every whispering leaf, every creaking tree.

I am still shaking when the sun crests the horizon. Sunrise does not mean safety. But at least Turk opens his eyes at the light, and it is with great relief I see him move his wings, if only slightly. More red flower petals, more spores, and then I'm loosening the vines. But only a little so he can move a bit more. He still needs the stability of the splints.

I reach for another fruit piece, only to grab hold of the leaves I was keeping them on. Empty, I bemoan.

A debate takes place in me. I want to stay under cover. But my stomach tightens and twists and growls. My bird is no better. His eyes are brighter, more alert, but his weak caw is what finally sends me out to scavenge for more food.

I dart around tree trunks, crawl under bushes and pick through thorns. Anything to stay off the main paths.

My eyes span the distance up a looming tree to where a fruit hangs. From the ground the tree looks like could take me back to the sky, though it isn't the Great Tree. My fists clench, and I will the shaking in my limbs to stop. I scale the tree, using branches as foot and hand holds. At one point, when nothing presents itself for a step, I koala the trunk.

It's when I'm in reaching distance of the fruit that I hear the hornets.

If you don't bother them, they won't bother you, repeats the mantra my mother—real mother—taught me one day in the city park. I loved going to the park, loved climbing on the rocks and the trees, loved pretending I was on an adventure. But that was then, that was when I wasn't struggling for survival.

The hornets take notice despite being shunned and dive for me. Stinging, stinging, stabbing— Stop! I scream, lunge for the fruit, and fall with it in my arms.

Branches give resounding cracks and pops as I hit them on the way down. Pain explodes all over me, the fruit is crushed into slimy pieces in my arms.

Rage boils the blood roaring through my veins. The knife is pulled, and what's left of my rational mind through the haze of anger is thankful the thing didn't stab me on the way down. It did cut me, however, right down the base of my back, and it only serves to fuel my frenzy. I swing the blade wildly, unaware of any hits or misses. Exhaustion does not stop me. I keep slashing, swiping, until I realize I'm doing so at empty air. The hornets have already retreated.

"Bastards," I hiss, putting away my knife before scooping up what's left of the fruit, and then I'm gone, running back to my bird.

I'm almost to Turk, going fast as I can through underbrush and over roots that try their hardest to trip me. I look over my shoulder in paranoia, scanning the shadows. It is then I slam into a large rock—unsurprisingly, since there's plenty of boulders scattered about the wood where I am—which I could've avoided if I wasn't being so stupid. I fall on my butt, and the fruit scatters. I move to get up, only to plop back down. My heart freezes, my entire body freezes.

That's not a rock, I realize.

It just felt like one.

Eyes darker than any I've ever seen look down on me, staring out of an inhumanly pale face that's half obscured by a sleek curtain of white hair. A sharply angled face, one that looks like it was chiseled out of stone rather than flesh, is a face made for cruelty. A red mantle cape with folds of fabric like a wolf's bloodied fangs moves with the slight wind, the gold rhombus inlays glinting. A white skin-tight suit with diamond cut-outs shows lean but frighteningly defined muscles.

It's him. Clearer and sharper and more alive than I ever could have seen in my other life.

It's Ghirahim.

It's who I've been trying so painfully to avoid, and he's found me. I'm dead.

Ghirahim glances at a speck of fruit I had gotten on his cape when I smacked into him. He curls his white lip and brushes it off. Then in the next instant he smiles—a smile not matching with the deadly air surrounding him.

"How curious," he says. "I thought I sensed something, some strange fluctuating aura. So small"—he suddenly jerks down into a weird crouching pose in front of me and I fight to keep from flinching—"and insignificant one moment, then"—he jumps back up—"so large and loud the next. 'What could it be?' I wondered. Then when my little friend came and told me about a human in the forest, well, I simply had to come see for myself."

My bones feel like unbending stone. I don't think I could move even if I wanted to. I don't even blink, just stare like some wide-eyed wombat.

"And what do I find?" He leans down, reaches out, fear stabbing my heart, and flips a lock of my messy hair. "Nothing but a filthy little rat."

My teeth bare of their own accord.

The demon chuckles. "But don't worry. I won't kill you just yet. I think I'll play with you first."

It is that line that finally gets me moving. I whirl up, leap backwards. A hiss escapes my gritted teeth, and my fingers close over the handle of the knife at my back.

Ghirahim looks nothing but amused.

My expression lessens, softens. The comprehension slowly dawns that, no matter how many times I slash at this guy, I won't be able to hurt him. I do not hold the Goddess Sword. I do not hold a sword at all. I hold a frickin' kitchen knife.

I'm dead. I'm dead.

…But I've always been dead, haven't I?

A laugh tickles deep in my throat. What am I scared of? Am I not still the same girl who looked down from the edge of Skyloft and thought of jumping? Am I not still the girl who died long before she was born into this world? He can kill me. He can kill me all he likes. I'm already dead.

I laugh full-out now. A gleeful, happy laugh that should be heard from a happy girl on her birthday, not one making a last stand before death.

Ghirahim is no longer smiling. He tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowing, brow lowering, as if he's being faced with a rather odd problem.

"Yes," I say, grinning far too wide. "Yes, send me back! Send me home, Ghirahim, back to the other side!"

I clasp my blade, bring it up to my face, hiding my smile with it, because there's a side of me that doesn't want this. The side of me that screams self-preservation.

And it reminds me of my bird.

I beat down the urge to even let my eyes travel in his direction, hidden deep in the brambles and leaves I piled high.

"Come on then," I say, voice suddenly high-pitched, afraid, yet manic with an unidentifiable glee. I walk backwards. "Come play."

The demon lord is still looking at me strangely, like I've told him heaven is earth and earth is actually heaven. But then he follows me, walking at that sedated pace I know all too well from the first boss battle of the game. Except he doesn't disintegrate his cloak. I guess I'm not worth even that effort.

"You know," he says casually, like we're both out for a morning stroll, "a little part of me was hoping you might be the spirit maiden. But, no, the aura just doesn't match." He lifts his hand, index finger and thumb poised to catch.

"Oooo," I coo, then get serious. "So sorry, but Zelda won't be falling until the day of the Wing Ceremony. You'll have to wait."

His eyes narrow in that confused, calculating way again.

"Does that make you angry?" I goad, a smile of anticipation snaking onto my face. "Outraged? Furious? Sick with anger?"

He tilts his head again, as if considering. "No, actually. Just disappointed."

I blink, smile falling. "Oh."

Then I lunge with the knife, delivering a single quick swipe. I'm not surprised when he catches the blade. I let go and leap back. I'm not stupid enough to play a pulling game of strength with him. I'm not Link; I don't have his muscles.

"Though I am curious"—I freeze when I realize Ghirahim's not in front of me anymore. The back of my head hits his chest, and then he's leaning down and whispering in my ear—"how you know my name, sky child. Or how you think you know when the spirit maiden falls."

My own knife is brought up to my throat.

"It doesn't matter," I croak, more to myself than to him. "You can't change destiny. She'll fall no matter what I do or say and you—you won't get close to her until the—Skyview Temple. So piss—off!" I slam my elbow back into him, only to nearly break my own bone. In quick desperation I dive to the side, the blade of the knife leaving a shallow slice on my departure.

I stumble away, grasp at my neck. Blood seeps sluggishly through my fingers. I like to think my glare is potent, but it does nothing to diminish the demon's smile.

"Interesting," is all he says. He gives my knife a disdainful sneer before chucking it at me.

I dodge too late—the knife catches me in the side, opening a small gash. I cannot stop my scream. A scream that somehow morphs into manic laughter. I clutch the wound, clutch my knife, and I'm back to my feet. I'm already dead anyway! the dominate voice in my head yells. Smaller, smaller, in the back of my mind, a voice says for me to stay alive, stay alive.

"Rah!" I dash at the demon, slash out. I don't care that the knife does nothing, doesn't even leave a scratch. To and fro I rush in a game of attack and evade. I know his moves, and as long as I keep my head clear I can dodge.

We play this game, this game, cause that's all it is, isn't it. That's all it is. He's focused on hitting me now, and the fact he can't seems to make him smile for some reason. He watches me as I start moving, reacting to an attack I shouldn't see coming, but I do, I do.

He charges at me, I do the same to him, but at the last possible moment I'm rolling under his reach and I spin around to slice him in the back.

It does nothing. Nothing. But I did hit him and, for me, that counts as a victory.

He comes back around and backhands me across the face. I roll away, rush up. I smile through the blood coming from my nose and mouth. I'm going to die, die, die—I don't care!

…stay…alive…

The bushes crackle, and my grin falls, shatters.

Turk bursts from the undergrowth, his eyes alight with a blazing fire of wrath, his wings arching upwards, stretching and snapping the splints and vines. The cry he lets loose sounds more like a roar, the battle call of an eagle. He looms down on Ghirahim, who merely reacts with a laughing smirk, a black blade appearing in his hand.

"No!" I shriek. "No, what are you doing?! You damn turkey! Get out of here!"

I run to my bird, I put myself between him and Ghirahim.

"Fly, fly! Get out, damn you, fly! Fly!"

But then his wings start to droop, bending oddly.

"Run, then! Run!" I spin around just in time to see the demon lord preparing for a lunge—the same kind of lunge he did towards Impa at the Temple of Time. That fast as a bullet, and just as strong, kind of strike.

And he's focused on my bird.

I run at him. It's the only thing I can think to do. I run straight at that black blade, hoping to skewer myself on the end of it—at least then it can't skewer my bird.

My shrill scream of defiance, of rage and fear, fills the sky, bounces off the trees, echoes shattering the quiet of the forest.

Then there is a blinding light, a flash of white, overtaking my vision whole, much like the blackness that stole it when I fell from the sky. And I suddenly feel like I'm falling. Down. Down. Then it stops violently like I've hit ground, leaving me dizzy and disoriented.

When my sight returns, Ghirahim looks as if he's been blasted away, his feet having left long skids in the dirt from where he once stood. And behind me, above me, is Turk, looking like he got caught in an updraft.

I don't have time for confusion.

"Fly!" I scream one more time, tearing my throat raw with the intensity. For the first time in his life, my bird obeys, a glaze of sadness smothering the fire in his eyes.

He can't go high, but he goes away, somewhere to the east. That's fine. Anywhere but here.

"There it is again." Ghirahim's face is darkened by a perplexed frown. "That fluctuating aura."

In a blink the demon lord is standing before me, catching me by the back of my hair, forcing me to look up at him.

"You." He looks down on me. Far down. The game did not do justice to show how tall he really is. He towers head and shoulders over me.

I go limp. My eyes lose the urgent spark, instead taking on a sheen of uncaring. I'm sure he's going to kill me now. I can't fight anymore. There's no more game to play.

But then suddenly the demon lord is smiling; a sinister, plotting kind of smile, and it is then fear steals back into me.

"You just might come in handy." He tosses his head and the blue diamond hanging from his right ear bobs. "And if not, then it is of little consequence."

"Um…" I want to wriggle out of his grasp, but his hold is iron, and my wounds screech their pain. "I—what?"

"Yes, I'll make you useful. Oh, no, no need to thank me. In fact, telling me about this 'Wing Ceremony' will do just fine."

My eyes shoot open wide, my mouth sets in a firm line.

My scalp screams as my hair is yanked.

"A servant," he whispers, a crazed light in his eye, "would do well to answer her master."

"Yes." It comes out before I can stop it. The pain, the fear, the rage. The voice that keeps saying, Stay alive. "It's…four days away. The spirit maiden goes flying on the—the southwest side of the floating island. A black tornado takes her down."

Coward, I hiss to myself. The other voice says, It's going to happen, whether you speak or not.

"A tornado…" Ghirahim looks thoughtful. "We'll see, sky child."

Then he grabs my arm with a grip I know will leave bruises. I bite my lip to keep from crying out—I won't give him the satisfaction.

"Don't lag behind, my little broken bird. A servant should always be prompt."

"Don't you have other servants to boss around?" I snap.

"None as interesting as you." He jerks me nearer. "Now stand close, and hold still. We're taking a little shortcut."

I tremble, whether because I'm scared or angry, I don't know, and I think of pulling away, making a run for it. Just to spite him. Or maybe to force his hand to kill me quickly, instead of the slow, agonizing torture I'm sure to meet wherever he takes me.

I'm about to attempt it, I'm about to break free.

But then I don't.

Freakishly, it is Zelda's voice I hear from the back of my head.

Heed your master… Heed your master…

I remember her saying that to Turk, but it is only now I wonder why. Zelda told me once that one is a rider of a guardian bird, not a master, and the birds should be revered as friends, not servants. She'd usually get on her father for saying the M-word. Friend, not master, she'd insist. So how could Zelda, of all people, have such a grievous slip of tongue?

Something in my gut tells me she wasn't saying it to Turk, not really. Did her divine subconscious know what would happen to me?

Heed your master.

I do. I have no choice.

Ghirahim presses me close and snaps his fingers, black and golden panes of diamonds flittering before us. I feel stretched, yanked, contorted. We disappear.

This isn't how it was supposed to be…at all.

A/N: Thank you to those who reviewed last chapter.

Is it still worth continuing?