A/N: I'm on a roll with this story. The plot bunnies want what the plot bunnies want.

Thank you DiscountPineapple, Moon ninja Luna, Walavouchey, SarukoDark, and Maybe for reviewing last chapter(s) and giving your opinions. It means a lot. ^_^ I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.

Chapter 7

I am taken down farther than I have ever been before. A small part of me ignites with hope. Is she taking me out of here? Has she seen the grievous error of her lord's ways?

But I am not taken to any kind of exit. Down, down, down, and then through twisting corridors. When we finally arrive at a large wooden door, Shii throws it open. What greets me on the other side is…is…

What the heck is this?

Fire roars in a hearth that must be as wide as three men are tall. A cauldron hangs over the licking flames, fastened by an iron pole that spans the brick laden indent. In the center of the room is a stone table, just as long and wide as the hearth set behind it. To the left looks to be a set of impossibly large stone sinks; I could easily take a bath in them. To the right seems to be…some kind of stove. It is a slab of smooth rock supported upon bricks. There are arches laid in the brick, and through those holes wood has been shoved in, and fire crackles inside, casting out an orange glow. Pans and pots and skillets of copper and iron are strewn about, hanging from the ceiling, hooked on the walls.

Water hisses from the cauldron, snapping my attention back to the hearth.

My eyes widen as realization slowly dawns.

Holy crap. They're about to throw me in a pot.

I rear back for the door, knocking into Shii in the process. The Lizalfos unsheathes her needle-like teeth and shoves me forward. I stumble, knock into the center table. I grab one of the pots and fling it at her. It clangs and bounces off her guarding wrist, which is armored by a sleek silver gauntlet. She dives for me, attempts to pin me to the table, but I sail to the side. Shii slides along the table like a panther, hissing through her teeth, yellow eyes flashing with malice. I hiss back, arm blindly waving out behind me for something else to throw. My fingers grip a cast-iron pan just as I back up on the sinks—nowhere else to go.

"You think I'll go quietly?" I snarl.

"You will!" Shii hisses, spittle flecking from her maw.

I ready the pan like a baseball bat, intent on swinging.

Shii prepares to lunge.

A high-pitch Eeep! pierces the air between us.

Shii and I both freeze.

A shadow peeks over the rim of the table, amber eyes glittering with fear. "W-what's happening?" comes a soft, whispery voice.

"Get back under the table, Essil," replies Shii. "I'll take care of this."

"I—I don't want any more of this." The shadow's neck stretches up, fully revealing the face of a Lizalfos with purple scales. "I've had enough violence today!"

Shii flinches at the pleading voice and slowly, very slowly, retracts from her aggressive pose. She stands tall, folds her arms over her chest, and glares holes into me.

My eyes dart between the two. "What's going on?"

"Please." The purple Lizalfos stands and scurries around the table, but hesitates at the corner. She chooses to keep the table between us. "I-I just need help—I can't—!"

"It's all right, Essil." Shii narrows her glare on me. "The human will fix it."

My stare continues to dart, the frying pan in my grip still ready to be swung. "I'm going to fix…what?"

Essil wrings her hands. "Something, anything. Oh, he hates everything I make!"

I blink. "Wait, what?"

Shii snarls. "You will be cooking, idiot!"

My brain flatlines. I stare at one Lizalfos, then the other, trying to discern any deception from their features. Shii glowers at me as she always has. This new Lizalfos, Essil, on the other hand gazes with the most watery, beseeching eyes I've ever seen. She's strange looking, what with those purple scales that fade to lavender at her belly and up to her neck, much like how Shii's scales fade to a light, almost yellowish green in the same areas. And whereas Shii's yellow crest is feathery, almost akin to hair, Essil's orange crest is webbed and ruffled. Her face reminds me of a gecko. Her snout is thicker than Shii's, her body not as narrow, and her eyes are bigger, rounder, and have an almost glazed look to them.

"You…" I start slowly, "…want me to cook?"

Shii snorts, throws up her hands. "The human finally gets it."

"Oh, that would be wonderful!" Essil has taken to wringing her apron now.

I lower the cast iron pan. "O—kay? Why?"

"None of your concern!" Shii barks. "Just do it!"

Essil ducks her head, hunches her shoulders. It is then I notice the marks dotting her arms. The scales are darker, bruised looking, as if blood has congealed under them. "He hates everything I make." Her voice wobbles, and suddenly I understand.

Anger sparks in my gut, my eyes harden. "Seriously? If he doesn't like it then he doesn't have to eat it!"

"Oh, he doesn't," Essil supplies mournfully. "He throws it at me."

The urge to hit something swings the pan up, but as I cannot find a target to strike it hangs up there. "How does Ghirahim even need to eat? He's a freaking sword!"

The room goes completely silent.

"So you know what he really is, prophet," Shii says quietly, eyes narrowed to slits. "I'd keep your voice down if I were you."

The pan plops down to my side. "Is it a secret or something?"

"No. But even so, he is lord of this land, and that is all you need to focus on."

I shrug uncertainly, not understanding. "Okay…?"

Shii points to the stove. "Do something."

I sneer at her tone, but walk over to the stone and brick stove regardless. Once in front of it, I stand and stare at its surface, feel the heat wafting up from the slab.

"Well?" Shii comes up behind me.

"You didn't answer why he needs food."

"He doesn't. But if he prefers to indulge, then it is not for you to question."

"But it is for you to change cooks without him knowing?"

Shii growls, and I smile at the struck nerve.

"I follow my lord's commands, human! He never specified who had to cook it, and Essil has taken enough hits for today."

The smile is wiped from my face, and I glance at the trembling purple Lizalfos, still wringing her apron.

I sigh. "Fine. I'll try. But I'll need you to get some things for me."

I'm no master chef. I wouldn't even call myself a decent cook. But in all the years of my previous life where I had to fix dinner for my little brother, I've never poisoned him.

It was the same reason nearly every time. Our parents would work late, and it was just me and him. I'd put together something easy, like soup or sandwiches—or spaghetti if I was feeling fancy. When laziness weighed me down, I'd order pizza.

But it wasn't like my mother or father cooked either. If they happened to come home on time, we'd go out to eat.

They never came home on time except for special occasions…sometimes not even then.

Whatever. As if it ever mattered.

Back then cold hard granite, polished mahogany, and stainless steel surrounded my brother and me. An overpriced kitchen for two.

"Sooo," I'd say to my brother, "what do you want?"

He'd be sitting at the kitchen island with his nose stuck in a book, his brown hair frizzing despite being carefully combed, black rimmed glasses reflecting the warm glow of the overhead lights. He would almost always shrug his preference.

Except one night, when he said, "Anything but spaghetti."

"What? What's wrong with spaghetti?"

He put the book down, sent me a deadpan look. "We've had it for three nights in a row. It's time to stop."

I scoffed. "Fine. Chicken?"

An edge of fear stole into his stare. "The last time you tried to cook chicken, it was so dry I thought I was eating sand!"

I threw my hands up. "Oh, come on!"

"It was!"

"Fine. Sandwiches it is."

He groaned, but relented, and went back to his book on…law? Ew. Have fun with that, I remember thinking. He was always such a nerd. I guess I was kind of a nerd too, but not in the ways it counted. Whereas he chased the knowledge of concrete realism, I flittered after the wonders of the abstract and idealistic. I was a video game nerd, not a budding scientist or lawyer.

"Hey, Marky," I whispered conspiringly after 'dinner.' "Wanna play Zelda?"

"I told you not to call me that." My brother turned a page, kept on reading. "Later. I have a test coming up."

I scowled. "You always have a test coming up."

"It's college. What do you expect? Maybe you'd know if you actually attended."

Anger mounted when the subject my parents had repeatedly shoved to my attention was brought up, and I snapped, "And do what exactly? Waste my time fumbling around only to find I'm not good at anything? No thanks. I have better things to blow money on."

He gave me a look from over the rim of his glasses. "Mom and Dad won't support you forever. They said so."

"I have a job!" I shouted, shooting out of my chair. "As if I don't do anything! You know what? Make your own damn sandwiches next time!"

My bedroom door slammed, and I played Skyward Sword by myself. I swung the wii-mote like an actual weapon, wishing it was one. I didn't understand; Markus used to love playing games with me.

He did play every now and again, but…he was getting so busy.

So busy. Just like Mom and Dad.

Am I remaining a child who just plays games? While everyone else is moving on, leaving me behind?

I used to think that. I used to cry in my room, in the dead of night, when no one else was home. A grown woman, waiting like a frightened little girl. The blinking lights of the city outside my window, so high up, did little to assuage the loneliness. Are they not coming home? Don't leave me behind.

But in the end, I was the one who left them behind.

I giggle at the thought, but then stop quickly. That's not funny. I don't know why I laughed.

Hot breath gusts down my neck, pulling me from times long gone.

I glance over my shoulder, and innocently ask, "Can sword spirits be poisoned?"

I dodge Shii's responding strike, laughing as I do so. The only reason I even said it was to mess with her, because she keeps watching me like a hawk, peering over my shoulder, constantly following behind me. Does she honestly think I'm going to slip something in the dish? Pssh, as if. Even if I had poison on me, I doubt it would harm Ghirahim.

Essil is another matter. She actually helps me, gets ingredients I need, and patiently listens, tries to understand, when I ask for something she's never heard of. I was accurately able to describe tomatoes, having forgotten the Hylian word in my overcrowded bubbled brain, but now I struggle articulating noodles. English words mix in with the Hylian, and I stutter when I am unable to find a translatable alternative. I enunciate slowly, as most people do when dealing with opposing languages, as if the sluggish tone will magically render the words understandable.

"They should be long and skinny. It's pasta. Pas-ta."

No matter how I say it, Essil blinks so slowly, I hear her eyelids pop with the motion.

It doesn't help that she isn't completely fluent in Hylian either. And Shii doesn't help because, and I repeat, "It's a good opportunity for her to learn." Whatever that means. How is she supposed to learn if you don't help her? When I pose the question, Shii responds with, "Experience." I snort. Shii glares.

"Okay, um…do you have any kind of noodles at all?"

Essil finally understands after multiple descriptions. "I—I could make some."

I smile, or try to. Uncertainty makes it falter at the corners. I've been so used to the manic smile that a real one feels strange on my face. "That'd be great. I'll help right after I'm done with the tomatoes."

The sauce I've done many times, but I've never made spaghetti noodles from scratch before. This should be interesting. And if he doesn't like it, well he can chuck it at me all he likes. I'm not picky, and the sauce will be delicious. I snicker, picturing myself pulling limp noodles from my face, raking sauce from my hair, slurping it all down right in front of a disgusted Ghirahim.

Yeah. That'll teach him.

The tasks go by rather quickly, as most busy work does. I watch the bubbling tomato mixture, hot pads in hand, because there isn't a dial or anything to gauge the temperature. When it begins to froth, I take it off, let it simmer on the stone table, and then go assist Essil. She watches me keenly as I roll the dough, head tilted to the side, a claw tip pressed to her lip.

I grunt in dissatisfaction. "They're supposed to be smaller than this…"

"P-perhaps if you…" Essil trails off and clasps her hands, fearful uncertainty flashing in her eyes.

I glower at the dough sponged in my hands. When my frustration becomes more and more apparent, Essil jumps in like a cricket. With deft hands she rolls it all out flat, and as I watch her I recognize her skill. This isn't some stupid lizard, I realize. She knows what she's doing, and she still got roughed up by that demon… A sinking feeling settles in my gut. My eyes linger on Essil's bruises. Something pangs in my chest, sharp and smarting. It spawns a conviction. I'll take the hits for her this time. Tch, not like I don't take any anyway.

"Now m-maybe if we cut the strips you need?"

I perk at the idea. "That sounds…a lot easier, actually." That and I get to hold a knife again, comes a thought from a certain side of me. Maybe I could stow the knife away…

But Shii is there, her glare never straying as I cut long strips from the flattened dough, and once I am done she snaps the blade from my grasp. I swallow my disappointment and mask it so she will not see, so she will not feel justified.

As the noodles cook, Essil tells me she's never seen such skinny ones. I smile at her, trying to mask the wistfulness of my expression. Suddenly there is an urge to tell her about all the various foods of my previous world, to describe the wonder of the restaurants, the awesomeness of risotto, the hilarity of eating while Gordon Ramsay spews profanities at his kitchen staff on TV—okay, that's a bit too far. To share the simple joys of chicken noodle soup eaten at home.

I bite it down. She wouldn't understand.

"Oh." Essil wrings her apron. "What if he doesn't like it?"

"Then he'll have me to blame," I say. "Don't worry."

"Such a strange concoction," Shii grumbles. "Are you sure about this?"

I bat away their doubts. "Too late now; it's almost done."

When the spaghetti is plated and sauce carefully added on top, I stare at it with something akin to longing. Memories of times and of a world far away knock at my mind's door, hoping for a visit. And I can't help but let them in. Skyloft never had the foods I was used to, and, in that respect, perhaps I was a picky eater after all. Everything I was used to was replaced with pumpkin soup, eggplant, and the various fruits and vegetables that could be grown on the floating islands. It's weird how something like a strange new breakfast can make one feel so disconnected. It's been so long since I've smelled these smells, and my mouth waters in anticipation. For a moment I think of eating the spaghetti myself. Screw Ghirahim. But then I think of Essil, and realize I can't do that to her.

"Well?" I gesture to the plate. "Do I take it to him or what?"

"No!" Shii snaps. "You will not be allowed near my lord's quarters. I will deliver it—right after I put you back in your cell."

"Um, I thought the whole point was to save Essil—"

"He'll know you made it, human. He'll know."

I smirk toothily, a halfway to the wall of teeth I usually bare. "Good. Let him come for me."

Essil goes back under the table.

I am marched back up, up, up. I am returned to my scratchy wool blanket, left alone in the tower as if nothing different had occurred. I am made to wait, as I always have, watching the clouds drift over a dull sky.

Waiting, I imagine the ticking of a clock.

The realm is descending into dark; the light in the sky fades. It won't be long before it plunges into complete blackness.

I bite at my nails, glare at the wall. My leg bounces. Waiting. I've waited too long. That demon better not have laid the blame on Essil, or Shii.

Why couldn't I just take it to him? Do they think I'll find my way to his room later, slit his throat? Please. As if I could even escape this tower.

He isn't here, he should be here.

I get up, the blanket wrapped around me like a cape, and pace the room. My fingers clinch the wool at my neck, nails sinking into the fabric, wishing it were Ghirahim they were cutting into. Hah. Like my little human nails could pierce him. Do I really want a fight so bad?

Is it better than counting the seconds I cannot hear tick away?

I really was expecting him to come up here and throw the food in my face. It just seems odd that he hasn't.

Pacing soon becomes an insufficient outlet for frustration and I resort to running circles around the room, boots clicking like a horse's hooves against the stone. Round and round I go, round and round, round and—

The door slams open with such force it sounds as if a boom of thunder has gone off inside the tower. I freeze mid-stride at the window, turn wild eyes to the open doorway. There stands Ghirahim, glowing white in the fading light. He steps forward, rests a hand on the door jamb, fingers drumming irritably. His dark glare is potent, piercing straight into the center of me.

I take it he didn't like the s'ghetti.

I straighten out, stand tall as possible, and smile. It is a closed lip smile spanning my face, and it shows as a mockery of a sincere one. I wear it as I wait for the explosion, and it twitches, begging to be let loose as the manic snarl. The she-wolf in me is ready for conflict, ready to defend. But, deep down, a ewe baes in worry, calls for the shepherd to save her, to save everyone. It is that part of me that makes me think of Essil.

I open my mouth to inquire about her, make ready my threats and insults if she's been harmed. But Ghirahim speaks first. And what he says wipes any thought of battle from my mind.

"You," he says, glares pointedly at me, "will make the…spa-ghetti…again tomorrow. Is that understood?"

I blink in rapid succession. "Um, I…" I stumble for words. "O-okay?"

His responding stare transfers discontent and I am quick to reform my answer to one more grounded.

"Yes, 'Master,' I mean. I will."

The demon lord nods curtly then, before storming out of the tower the same way in which he came. Loudly, with the slam of a door.

I sink down to the floor, mind trying to grasp at what just happened, when Shii silently enters. I stare uncomprehendingly at her. "He…he liked it?"

I swear there is a smile tugging at the corners of Shii's mouth. She nods. "Amazingly, yes. Very much so."

I gape, jaw attempting to unhinge into my lap. Shii throws back her head, and barks of rough laughter fill the room. I am too stunned to sputter in offense.

Her amusement diminishes from banging chortles to jumping hums and then to silence. Shii regards me solemnly, lowers her head. "Thank you, human. Thank you from me…and from Essil."

Shii is kinder to me after that. And I get to see Essil once more to make another batch, and things seem pretty good. But then…

I am always placed back in the tower.

The lonely tower, with its chilly breezes. The wool can only shield from so much.

Minutes pass like hours, each subsequent one dragging longer than the last. There is no clock to help me keep track of time; no tick, tock, tick to count. The imaginary clock in my head warps, malfunctions. Then it's just me, and the voices in my head.

I start singing to pass the time, to drown out the strange whispers filling my mind.

A song about living life in shackles yet being somehow halfway free passes stutteringly from my lips.

All kinds of songs drift through my clattering teeth, clattering because the rain had come and gone, leaving a frigid breeze to wander where the water did. All the songs I sing are from…from the Realm of Knowing, as I'll call it. A name to the world I once knew, the world that let me peer into this one and know it long before my rebirth. Old-time lullabies to modern culture and everything in-between pass through my chapped lips. The nostalgic syllables of the English language comfort me…and leave in me a wistful longing that will never find fulfillment.

I sing of being previously blind…and yet still not being able to see.

My singing isn't great. Honestly, I sound like a chipmunk—voice cracking, going silent when it hits the too-high range. When that happens, when words cannot be formed, I hum the rhythms.

I close my eyes, and I remember…

Where were You when my world ended?

Modern songs run dry, and I fall back on the hymns I used to hear when I was first little, back in the Knowing Realm. We used to go to church as a family. My squeaky little girl voice bleated out those songs, trying to keep sync with my mother's soprano, my father's baritone. I'd sway to the rhythms with my little brother at my side, standing in the pews.

I wonder why we stopped going. I wonder when the church became nothing but a memory.

No. No, I don't wonder, says the part of me who refuses denial. Their jobs became more important, their money became more to them.

I remember a family from the church. They were a big unit, a husband and wife with five kids. They didn't have a lot. They drove a worn down van, donned hand-me-down clothes. But they were always smiling, always happy, thankful for what they had. I wish my family could have been more like them. I wish Mom and Dad would have been happy with what they had, instead of chasing what they didn't.

I whisper a hymn about the weak now being strong, about the poor now being rich, thanks to Him…

I close my eyes, and I can see it. The white walls, the steeple ceiling, the shining lights casting the wood floors with a warm glow, the people standing amongst the pews, voices converging as one. It was warm in that place; the one place I did not feel afraid, the one place I did not need to wring my hands in worry, the one place I did not shiver and wish for better days.

"Come Thou Fount of every blessing; tune my heart to sing Thy grace…"

I stopped praying a long time ago. But even so I was…I was a child of God, I remember. I wasn't a good one, but one I was. I could've been so much better. I could've been kinder. Instead I usually kept a perpetual glare in my eyes. I was as aloof as the city perimeters, I was as cold as the peaks of the long and distant skyscrapers, rivaling the mountains in their height…

"Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it…prone to leave the God I love…"

But even so I was… No, I am…I am a child of God—The True God. How can I be here? Did my soul get lost on the way? A thousand times I've wondered: is this my purgatory? Surely, He knows where I am. Surely, surely, there's been a mistake. And whenever the thought that He does not exist crosses my mind even a little, the crushing agony it births is more than I can bear. It takes my breath away. I cannot entertain the idea. It is far more plausible to me that I am ignored or forgotten. Yet the doubt remains, a desolate hole threatening to swallow me down into nothingness.

I am forgotten then. There can be no other answer. Forgotten, ignored, left destitute.

Before I stopped praying, I prayed a thousand prayers…

Please, save me. Save me, please.

My voice rises, a desperate cry mixed into the verses. "Come, my Lord, no longer tarry—take my ransomed soul away! Send Thine angels now to carry, carry me to realms of endless days…"

The cold wind howls detriment, drowns my plea, and sends its icy breath across my skin. My teeth clatter with greater ferocity, and I huddle, crouched on the floor with my arms and blanket wrapped around me. Pressure builds in my eyes, and I slam my lids shut to swallow the mounting tears. My voice is lost in the process. Still I rasp, "P-prone to leave Thee… T-take my ransomed soul away… Send Thine angels… Realms of endless days…"

"What's this? Here I thought I had a raptor and all this time I've had a songbird."

It falls silent. The wind ceases to a dull roar, a beast kept at bay by the diamond panes that now reside in the window. I don't look or speak, instead keep under the hooded shelter of the wool.

The demon usually bursts into the room. How long had he been listening?

Ghirahim walks further in the chamber, curiosity apparent in his expression. His usual haughty smile is absent, and he regards me with a slight tilt of his head, hands clasped behind his back in an inquisitive manner.

"What language was that, sky child? It is like none I've heard, and I thought I'd heard them all."

It must have sounded like weird chanting to him. The English language is slower, more drawn out with its syllables than the Hylian Tongue, which is sharper and clipped in comparison.

I bow my head, hide my eyes. "What makes you think it isn't just gibberish?"

His soft laughter reverberates. "Do you think me daft? I know the difference, little bird. I've been listening for quite some time, and 'gibberish' does not sound so organized. You slipped into it back in the temple, as well, did you not? What was it you said? Ge-t a-way f-rom me?"

I tense. He remembered that? Not only remembered but could actually reform the words. I look up at him in amazement, and it is my awe that brings forth an answer. What do I have to lose by telling him?

"It…it is a language from a world very far away from this one. It is…it's the most prominent language from the realm…" I search for my explanation carefully; I cannot tell him I was reborn. Who would believe that? I'm risking enough as is. "…the realm from which I receive my visions. The Knowing Realm."

"Teach it to me."

I do a double-take. "W-what?"

He strides to me, leans over me, hands on hips, and slowly enunciates, "Teach it to me."

"I—I'm not exactly the teaching type."

He flips his hair. "Oh, I'm sure you can manage, darling. I'm a quick study. All you have to do is speak it. Or sing it, if you prefer."

I shrink down into my blanket like a turtle. Sing? In front of him? "Um…"

"Well?" He leans against the wall, head cocked slightly.

I blink, stupefied. Most Skyloftians looked at me funny whenever I spoke what they insistently called 'gibberish.' They'd tell me to stop being childish, and speak real words. None cared to pry as to what I might be saying, none seemed to care. Even Gaepora glossed over it, more focused on the Wing Ceremony than anything. And now, here, the first person to show interest in my native language, to want to hear more…is Ghirahim. A demon. The shock is so great I open and close my mouth a few times before any actual words come out.

"T-teach me some melodious sonnet, sung by flaming tongues above. Praise the mount; I'm fixed upon it, mount of Thy redeeming love…"

I half sing it, half speak it. As time wears on and no harm comes to me, my stuttering fades. I pull the wool blanket around me tightly, and slowly transcend to singing, warbling half-spoken voice smoothing into lyrical rhythm with an almost steady tongue. I risk a glance at him, only to find him with his head bowed, arms folded at his chest, eyes closed. He seems…almost asleep, what with that smoothed, peaceful expression. But the subtle ticking of his index finger, slowly drumming to the rhythm of the song, indicates his wakefulness.

"Mount of Thy redeeming…"

Suddenly the door swings open and my singing cuts off.

"What is it!" Ghirahim snaps.

Shii stands in the doorway, gasping as if she had run all the way up here. "My lord, a message from the mountain…"

A/N: This story started out because I wanted to read something I couldn't find. The same notion applies to this chapter. I've read many reborn stories, all of which were either conveniently atheist or chose not to say. I wanted to read one where the trauma of breached faith was put into question. Therefore, yes, this story will have more mentions of God. If that offends you, please see the back button on your browser. Thank you.

Spaghetti inspired by Papyrus.

Songs referenced are Borderline, Give Thanks, and Come Thou Fount.

And because some of you were wondering, Link does come in next chapter.

Well, if you haven't run away yet, please let me know what you think. It's much appreciated.