A/N: Thank you Moon ninja Luna, WaruWaru, Ambiguous Cake, Alter Ego Bob, PokemonTrainer4700, Voidlash (cool new name! :D), Mokki Takashi, Wingdings13, Bluebadger, Lily, Onoskelis, and TheAlmightyPanda for your reviews and encouragement. I apologize if any of my replies were incoherent or babbling. I haven't been sleeping well since...forever. XP

A couple of you asked a really good question, and I'm going to address it now: When a character speaks English, it will always be stated (i.e. she said in English). If it is not stated to be English, assume it is not. I use italics to emphasize certain words and phrases, and though all English sentences will be in italics, not all italics will be English. I apologize for the confusion.

Chapter 12

Ghirahim barks something out in that dark, heavy tongue I cannot understand. Whatever he says, it has the little Bokoblin up and scurrying away without so much as a backward glance of gratitude for me. Not that I'd expect it. I mean… Those crisscrossing scars…

That can't be the same one, can it?

Creepings of guilt fall short. I am yanked forward, face smooshed into Ghirahim's hard chest. The hand splayed at the back of my head keeps me there. My nose searches for oxygen, my cheek slides against the velvety red of his cape. A small comfort when my facial bones feel like they're being crushed by the surface beneath. As I breathe in, a strange, metallic scent fills my nose. I attempt a disgruntled snort to signal my displeasure at his rough treatment. Of course it only comes out as a strangled huff and goes completely disregarded.

Ghirahim raises the black blade to the sky. He brings it down in a slow arch trailing dark mist, the sounds of metal and magic echoing in the hot mountain air. I am pulled apart and put back together again, and then the cold breeze of the tower is whispering around me.

I am able to breathe once he releases my head, my face freed from his cloak, and take in the fresh air thankfully.

Ghirahim moves around me, and for a moment he has me thinking he's leaving me to nurse my wounds in peace. That is until his chest presses to the back of my head, and pale arms tough as steel trap me in a mockery of an embrace. I stand rigid as he wilts over me and rests his cheek, hard as a diamond, on the crown of my soft head.

My heart pounds into the ensuing silence. I hear his breaths, feel them ghost over my hair.

A soft moan comes from his throat, startling my heart to stillness.

"I've had a bad day," he laments, wilting around me further, shoulders sagging, making himself my cage, getting ever more confined and snug.

I am careful, so, so careful in my response. He cannot think I am against him now, or he will blame me, and if he blames me there will be no mercy. "…She can't evade you forever."

"Mmm, I know, but it would have been so nice to have her sooner rather than later."

"All good things take time."

He hmphs deep in his chest. "Well, well, aren't you just the proprietor of wisdom today."

I try to keep from shaking. "I'm your prophetess."

After I say it, the words sear themselves into my mind. I'm his prophet. That fact alone is the only reason I live, the main reason why I should want to die. But I am afraid. Afraid of fear, afraid of pain, afraid of where I'll end up after this world. Where will I go if I have truly been cast aside by my God? But can I not at least act brave? But then, I wonder, to live or to die—which one is bravery? I don't know anymore. I am your prophetess, I say, more as a reminder to myself than to him that…that I have a job to do. I cannot let Demise win. I cannot let Link be killed. I must do what I can. And then I can die. Or live. Depending on how things go. Depending on how brave or cowardly I really am.

His arms tighten. "That's right, you are. And don't you go forgetting that. I still haven't forgiven you for running off with that boy…or for failing to inform me of that wretched dog of the goddess."

"I didn't see her—I only saw the boy," I lie, keeping my tone flat. "Link. His name is Link."

"Whatever!" he snaps, voice so sharp it makes me flinch. And then it falls quiet once more.

I hear the ticking of the clock in my head, wonder when my time will be up.

Ghirahim sighs again. "I need a pick-me-up. Make spaghetti."

My brow knits at the oddness of the request. "Okay…"

More time passes, and he still doesn't get off me. I start panicking, heat and exhaustion from the mountain still spiraling in my mind—I close my eyes and still see the imprint of Scaldera, running at me, fire blazing in its jaw—luring me into thinking his motives are ulterior. If I don't act, he will.

"Desert."

He stirs slightly. "Hmm? Oh, no, thank you, darling. Just the spaghetti."

I blink. "Lanayru Desert."

"Mmm?" He sounds…sleepy. He comes alive with a jerk. "Lanayru province? Is that where she'll be next?"

"…Yes," I say quietly, second-guessing the wisdom of…no, it has to be this way. It'll go as it should, and…and I'll make sure no one dies.

Or maybe you're just being an idealistic fool, I scold, my voice coming from the back of my mind. It is the she-wolf, disparaging the hopes of the ewe. This isn't a game anymore…it hasn't been for a very long time.

"And just when did you learn this?" the demon says menacingly.

I think quickly. "While you were yelling at me on the mountain."

Suddenly I am spun around and wrapped in a crushing hug, being swayed forwards and backwards by my captor's excitement.

"You darling, darling girl! I didn't even have to squeeze it out of you this time." His fingers knead my back; they feel like needles.

I am already shocked by his touches, but it is his reaction that really throws me for a loop. Is he not disappointed? Shouldn't he want to 'squeeze' the information out of me? Does he not revel in torture? Shut up, says a side of me. Shut up and be glad he hasn't done that yet! Don't bring it to his attention; just—just let him be a crazy fruitcake. Preferably a non-torturous one, thank you.

But my mind still wants to fathom the being that holds me, and it tries even while I am shaken and spun in his roller-coaster of a hug.

When two pale lips smack me on the temple, however, all thought grinds to a halt.

He stills too, suddenly. And then we are both like a picture taken, frozen in a moment of time.

My heartbeats pass by.

The chest compressed against mine is eerily silent and still, cold. Then, slowly, as if he's testing, he lowers his lips to my temple again, presses them there lightly. It feels like forever before he pulls away.

He releases and backs up from me, cocking his head and narrowing his eyes, looking at me like I'm some messed up equation, like he did the first day he saw me. And then that smug smile comes back full force. "You're an ugly little creature."

My expression, stuck in mute shock, falls into a scowl.

"Thanks," I say dryly.

His smile widens. "…But perhaps not so bad as I first thought."

My face moves into neutral, only the tiniest bit of astonishment showing through my eyes.

"Now," he flicks back his hair, which merely falls into place again. "Let's do something about those hideous wounds, shall we?"

My heart skips in fright, but then the tower door opens, and in walks Shii.

And suddenly I feel safer.

He leaves me in Shii's care. It is Shii who soaks strips of cloth in red potion and dabs my burns, my cuts, my abrasions.

We don't say anything to each other. We sit cross-legged on the stone floor in comfortable silence. But it is a silence I break when I remember something, something that makes my chest tighten just thinking about it. Though it shouldn't. We had no choice. Or better to say Link had no choice. They attacked us, they wouldn't stop, and I…I couldn't get them to understand.

"'I belong to Ghirahim.' How do you say it in the Lizalfos tongue?" My voice trembles as I ask it.

Shii sends me a suspicious yet quizzical look. "Saah mish Ghirahim."

"Saa…mich Ghirahim?"

"No, no. You must put more emphasis on the 'sss,' like you are hissing. It is in the tongue and here," Shii pats her neck, "in the back of the throat. Try again."

I do, and Shii speaks along, moving lip and tongue blatantly so I can mimic.

"Saah mish Ghirahim."

"Yes, good. Close enough."

"'If you touch me he will kill you.' How do you say that?"

Shii's eyes take on a far sharper sheen, and she replies hesitantly. "Heich mals chitah oush saa."

I repeat until approved. The language of the Lizalfos feels both like both a hiss and a cough. It puts extra stress on vowels like A's and I's and E's. It makes a beautiful, exotic language, I think, sounding both dangerous and enticing. It takes a frightening name like 'Ghirahim' and makes it even more so. Saa-h mi-ch Ghir-a-heem. The end of his name is stretched in their tongue, making it sound more like heem, rather than the usual short him that I'm used to. But then I wonder of other demon languages, wonder if his name truly is pronounced as it is in Hylian, or if it is meant to be pronounced as the Lizalfos do it.

Then I think: What of the Hylians that came before Skyloft? Did they learn to say that name? Or did they just learn to fear it?

"Now," Shii says, laying another strip of cloth over a burn on my shoulder, "tell me why you needed to know those words."

I hesitate, shrug. "I…had a bad run in with some Lizalfos. That's all."

"Hmm. Did not turn out well, did it?"

I stare off at the far wall, a faraway look clouding my eyes.

"Unfortunate," Shii says in her usual clipped tones. But then, uncertainly, she asks, "You…were not harmed?"

Surprise brings my stare back to her. She shifts uncomfortably, and she will not meet my eyes. I smile at her unpracticed concern. "I'm fine…but they weren't. I—I want to avoid that in the future. If I can."

Shii eyes soften exponentially, and for a moment she seems caught for words. In the end she offers a short hum of understanding, and moves on to the next task.

Which involves bubbles apparently.

I gawk at the foaming bucket, hearing the water sloshing gently within. A bright yellow sponge floats amidst the white froth.

"Wh-what is this?" I ask, voice quivering with hope.

Shii grunts. "What does it look like? Use it while it's warm, human." And then she leaves me to my privacy, the door clicking softly behind her.

I stare at the contents in the bucket. Can it really be? Warm, soapy water? A freaking sponge? I kneel before it and my fingers delve into the bubbles like they are precious diamonds, glimmering and shining on my skin. Tears nearly gather at my eyes. How long has it been since I've had an actual wash like this? Being dumped with cold water hardly suffices for getting one clean.

"Thank y—" I start to say it, but belatedly realize Shii's already left. I'll tell her later.

Right now, I'm going to relish this gift.

The suds cleared away, I see the wavering reflection of a young woman looking back at me. I pause, lower my soaped hand from my forehead. The reflection does likewise. Her skin is marred with the pale scarlet blemish of healed burns. Her wild hair is temporarily tamed with the froth of soap, is limp and choppy, curled and frayed where it was charred. Her thin lip is split, red and chapped against the whitish tips of her teeth. Her nose is small and rounded, but narrow bridged. She wouldn't be too bad looking, if she were all well and healed. Maybe pretty, even, depending on who you asked.

But the water sways, and in a fraction of a moment it shows another face.

Small eyes overshadowed by black rimmed glasses, a nose a bit too wide and blunt, a jaw too slim and too square at the same time. She is not burned, but still there are blemishes she can't get rid of no matter how many times a day she scrubs at her face. She is not ugly, perhaps, but she is most definitely not pretty either. But that doesn't matter.

Because she's me. The real me.

She is gone with the flash of the water. Gone. And never to be seen again. Except for within the frames of pictures, scattered in an empty home back in a world far, far away.

Nothing more than a memory to those she called family.

Nothing more than a name carved into stone.

Shaking fingers, the pale skin stretched over fine bone, raise up to trace the skin that is naturally unblemished, touches a face that is by far prettier…but not mine. How many nights have I spent, waking in fright, clawing at the mask I cannot take off? If I could peel the skin off my face, if I could unbury the person I used to be…that I still am, in many, many ways…I would. I would trade this naturally clear skin, this little smile, this thin brow—all of it, if it meant being me again. If it meant being home again.

I want to look in the mirror and see me. Is that so wrong?

I receive no answer from above. I never have.

In the silence of abandonment I delve back into the bucket, and with bitterness scrub at the face that should have never been mine.

I guess it was the homesickness inspiring actual sickness. Or maybe it was the volcanic ashes, or the gases from inside the mountain that brought a fever to my body and a wheezing cough that drained every ounce of energy I had.

I guess I should consider myself lucky. Volcanic gases from the Knowing Realm can kill a person with just a couple gulps of it. Not so for Eldin Volcano, apparently.

I guess… Tch, I guess a lot of things. It might help if I actually knew—

Oh, good. Here comes another fit.

The hacking coughs echo in the round chamber, beating on the walls, until they escape out the silent, ever vigil window, always breathing in with its chilly breezes and gusts. I am curled on the floor, prickly wool blanket wrapped as far as it will go, until I am like a burrito with my face and feet sticking out. My toes are numb, my nose is numb. I wiggle them, trying to return feeling.

Three-toed, scaly feet pad to me. When—when did she even come in the door?

A rough palm sweeps across my forehead. And then she is padding out of the room, feet swift.

I can't keep awake long enough to figure out what she's up to.

Darkness. A dream of lying on my plush bed, the sunlight drifting in through the big square window, the gleam of city towers just outside, of concrete and glass and steel. Of blue sky and noisy people. A little wet nose touches my elbow, a black and white cat curled at my side, snuggling deeper into the velvety blanket. Another rests curled on the pillow beside mine, tabby gray on the blue cloth. Their purring is like a hum in my ears, constant, pleasant, pulling me deeper into my afternoon nap.

Everything's okay. Everything's…

"What is that horrendous noise?" A sharp voice cuts into the blare of racking coughs.

"She is sick, my lord."

"So I hear, Shii! What are you doing about it?"

I am shaken gently, back and forth. I roll with it limply. "Sit up, human," comes Shii's urgent whisper.

I do so, because of her tone, because of who is in the room with us. I quiver with the strain, wince as aching muscles scream protest, shiver as air floats into previously closed off spaces. My lungs convulse with another set of coughs.

Ghirahim's voice slices through the noise. "How quickly do humans heal? What does she need? Did you give her a potion? Little bird, will you cease that racket! Well? Don't just stand there, you stupid lizard. Do something, Shii!"

A cork pops, and a bottle of red potion dumps out on my head. The red liquid runs rivers through my hair and down my back. I sputter at the droplets that splash my face.

My expression flattens entirely. "…Good job, guys. Good job."

The clunk of the glass bottle dropping on my head resounds through the stone room.

I lay down shivering, not caring or hearing anymore what they have to say. I wake up in fragments. I sleep in fitful darkness. I dream of my plush bed again.

At one point I wake up in furs. My heart soars in the brief moment of delirium most have upon leaving sleep, believe I'm really home, tucked under the covers. But it is not so. The scratchy wool is gone and I am swaddled instead in swaths of soft reddish fur. What animal did this hide belong to? I wonder, but get no answer.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised when meat is added to my diet, served in a broth with vegetables.

It's hot now, so hot. As bad as the volcano—no, worse. I kick the furs off, only to wake with them pulled back over me.

"Stop—stop doin' that, Shii! I'm—it's…hot!"

But the room is empty when I say it.

Fever dreams pervade my mind. I am in Skyloft again, in Gaepora's office because I did something. It's always something I do—or don't do.

"Thanks for taking the time to talk with me, I mean, do we ever have a social visit?" I hiss at him, glare as cutting as I can make it.

He stands at his desk, arms poised behind his back, ever the large, contemplating owl-like man. He says nothing.

I grip the sides of the chair I'm seated in. It's oddly soft, like fur, and not like a chair at all. "I mean, my gosh. Can—can we not just sit and have some chicken nuggets? Oh, that's right, you dickwads don't have chicken! I understand why no cows, but chickens? Come on! We could keep a little flock. Just—just throw some corn at them. Do—do we have corn? I can't…remember…"

The large orange figure of Gaepora blurs, blurs until a person is barely discernable. The blur, like mists behind a veil, shift and a slimmer figure, just as tall if not taller, takes shape. Orange fades out to white, bleeds into crimson.

"Seriously, why—why have I never seen a single Cucco on Skyloft? They're birds! Birds! Sure they're flightless and dumb, but they're birds! Are they not good enough for you? Are they not allowed in the cloud club? Go get one! What? You—you scared of the surface? I'll go then; I'm not scared of going below the clouds. I'll—I'll go… I'll go right now, I'll jump off the frickin' edge! I hate this floating rock!"

The dream is cut off at some point. I can't remember where.

When Shii brings me another serving, there is different meat, different broth. Lighter than the swarthy brown of the vegetable and red meat soup. Familiar bits of white meat wait within. When the taste hits my tongue, I actually cry. Chicken. It tastes like chicken. To have such a comfort again…

"What is it, human?" Shii moves closer, a glint of panic hidden in her glare.

"I—I can't—I can't even—hurrrrgghh!"

Shii backs away.

Fever dreams float in every corner of my mind.

What…what is that? Who is that?

My mother, auburn hair catching fire in the soft glow of the lamp. Her dark eyes watch me silently. She sits on my bedside, her cool fingers brushing the hair from my burning forehead. Yes, that's right. This…this is what she used to do. When I was sick, suddenly I became more important than her job. I wish I was sick more often.

A cool hand upon my burning skin, cold fingers grazing at my temple, brushing at the flyaway hairs.

A cold hand on a burning forehead. Is that the most I can remember of my mother?

She is kneeling by me, by the furs piled beneath me on the stone floor. She pulls up the fur, covers me to my chin. She smooths my hair, runs the back of her fingers along my cheeks.

I blink my eyes, squint. Try to see her in the darkness of the tower. But my vision is blurry with tears. I cannot see but her shape. She is pale, as she has always been. But now that paleness extends to her hair. A ghost. A spirit that has traversed worlds just to see me again. I cannot help but smile at her, a happy, tired smile that holds no reserves of the self-consciousness it usually does. "Stay," I rasp to her in English, bordering on pleading. "Stay with m-me."

"Fight," she tells me, and her voice is sharp. A little too sharp, a little too deep. "Fight it."

"M-Mom…" I whisper, before my consciousness fades again.

She isn't there when I wake. I don't think she ever was.

Eventually my fever recedes. Eventually I am able to sit up without quaking. Eventually I am able to stand and walk and run.

Is it just me, or is Shii smiling more often now? It twitches at her snout like it isn't sure how to place itself. She never smiled that much to begin with…

"Essil said she will make more of the pheasant soup you like. That is reason enough to face the day with strength, I think."

"Pheasant?"

"Yes, pheasant. Out of the blue one day my lord demanded Essil prepare some. Don't you remember? You were so…" Shii cringes. "…overjoyed that you 'couldn't even' speak properly."

"Oh…"

I feel lighter after that, and the residue of my cough goes away completely a day later. Everything seems back to normal. Well, concerning my health, at least.

Ghirahim comes up every now and then. He says nothing, oddly enough. He just eyes me occasionally while walking slow, pacing circles around the room, discerning gaze traveling over what seems like each and every stone. And then he just leaves.

One time he comes up to me, places fingers cold as ice to my forehead. I look at him, confused. But he just smiles and walks away. I don't know if I like that smile. There was a hint of conceit in it, to be sure, though different from his usual haughtiness. It was almost amused, that smile, like he knew a secret I did not.

I start thinking of my mother again, in the long silences between visits from my captors. The thought of her, the want of her, drags me back down. What I wouldn't give to see her again, just one more time…even if she was just a traveling spirit, leaving her body in her dreams, visiting with me for a little while, just a little while, before returning to her body back in that other world.

How old is my mother now, anyway? Has she gone gray? Maybe that's why her hair held no color. I fall asleep to these thoughts.

I open my eyes to dim light, thunder rumbling in the distance.

I'm better now, so I guess Ghirahim takes it as an invitation.

The banging door joins the chorus of thunder.

He spreads his arms like he's just jumped out from a stage curtain. "Get up, little bird! It's time to play."

"…I'm not playing." My voice is hallow, my eyes glazed. My heart still aches for my mother.

He summons the black sword.

"Go ahead," I whisper, not moving. "Have your fun."

He rushes at me, swipes the blade before my face, the tip centimeters from the bridge of my nose. My hair billows back in the wind.

The fingers of his free hand twitch, curl and uncurl rapidly. He swipes again, and again there is only a flash of black, a breeze in my hair. No pain, no cut.

Still I sit, cross-legged, unmoving, back hunched and head drooped.

He lets out a growl and his foot connects with my shoulder, sending me sprawling on my back.

"Get up!" he shouts.

I do not.

"It's not fun if you don't fight back."

Funny. It almost sounds like he's whining.

I sit up like an old person rising from a nap. "So sorry, sir," I say with faux regality, "But I'm afraid I cannot entertain you this evening."

His glare is as cutting as his blade. "It's morning."

I look to the left wall, look quickly to the right. "Hey, where'd that clock go? Oh, wait…there wasn't one."

He huffs, stalks circles around me, poison stare never straying. "What is it you need? Potion? Food? Water?"

"Alone," I drone. "I need to be alone."

The tip of the black blade comes to rest under my chin, tilts up my face. Dark, dark eyes peer down at me inscrutably.

"You've been alone for quite long enough, I think."

I cannot stop the bitter smile from spreading over my face. Those words would be comforting coming from anyone but him.

The blade stays for a moment longer before it dissipates into dark diamonds, shrinking away into nothing. I stare into the stone floor, waiting for him to grow bored and leave.

White and red lower down in my peripheral. He sits next to me, mimics my cross-leg position. The curtain of white hair hides his face from view.

I don't know how long we sit like that, side by side. He is close—too close. His red cloak brushes against my arm with every breath he takes. The contact is both unnerving and soothing; nerves fray at the seams, only to be stitched back together, over and over.

And it's driving me insane.

I slam my arm out in an attempted push. He sways but a little and is quick to return the gesture. I topple over. I roll back up like one of those rounded kids' dolls that can't be knocked down, and ram my shoulder into him. Again, he only sways, again he shoves me over. Back and forth, back and forth this goes until he pushes me so hard I slide across the room. I charge him like a bull, crash all my weight into him. He almost bowls over, almost touches the floor, and I think I've won. But then I catch a glance of his secret smirk, flashed as his hair swings.

He's the one who won, I realize.

He wanted a game, and he got one.

He tosses his head and no longer deigns to hide his smile.

"Keep fighting, little bird." He stands and strides to the door, and then he whirls, cloak and hair fanning out, giving me a glimpse of the black diamond marked under his left eye. "This world is so much more interesting with you in it."

The door closes with a quiet click, and I am left sitting on the floor of the cold tower, shocked that he would say such a thing.

A/N: ...Just me attempting to integrate pronunciation differences. Apparently the end of Ghirahim's name is canonically pronounced 'Heem'. At least that's what Hyrule Warriors told me.

The Lizalfos tongue is an entirely made up language. Any resemblance to any real languages is entirely coincidental. I have to say that in case I accidentally put in a dirty word.

I hope you liked the chapter despite its shortcomings. Thank you for reading and, as always, I appreciate your thoughts.