A/N: Thank you Moon ninja Luna, Ambiguous Cake, Mokki Takashi, PokemonTrainer4700, Voidlash, Alter Ego Bob, Onoskelis, Bluebadger, mun3litKnight, and Wingdings13 for reviewing last chapter. I can't believe we made it to 100 reviews! *Throws confetti* Thank you all so much for your kindness and support!

Chapter 14

The golden choker tingles around my neck. He has me pressed face-first to the wall, bent over me, his hand at my nape, pushing at the cold, smooth metal that lies snugly clasped there. I fight to keep my breathing calm, steady, in and out. It's all right, I tell myself. It's okay. Don't struggle, it's what he wants. Don't move, because you really don't want that part of you rubbing against him.

My breath quivers at the thought.

It's okay, I remind myself. He's totally gay. He won't touch you like that. You're safe.

And yet he presses closer, breath hot on my neck. His other hand twitches where it pins my wrist to the wall, his grip varying in painful intensities, as if he is constantly reminding himself not too tight, or my bones will be crushed. His cloak is gone, lost somewhere along the chase, and skin as smooth and cool as a river contradicts the warm puffs of air at my ear. He moves ever so slightly, but it feels like more. More, because of the way the white bodysuit's diamond cut-outs allow skin to glide, and I shudder despite myself when the exposed flesh of my arms meets his unhindered.

The shadows of torches flicker in the dim corridor. He curls around me, and his lips are at my temple again. A silvery scent washes off him, cool and faint like snow.

I try to keep from shivering. "Get off me."

Soft lips move against my temple. "Say the magic words."

I squeeze my eyes shut and clench the fist trapped between my body and the wall, refuse to give in any more than I have. "No!" I bark out. And then, in English: "Bite me!"

His interest is immediately caught. The grip on my nape tightens. "What does that mean?" he whispers, a hint of wondrous excitement laced in his tone.

"Bite"—I jerk my head—"Me!"

It's another way of saying, 'Screw you,' or 'Piss off,' but Ghirahim chooses to take it literally.

My curdled scream follows the phrase, echoing down the halls like a frightened ghost. Teeth that feel cold and hot all at the same time slowly extract from the junction between my neck and shoulder, and a long tongue flits over the resulting punctures. He swallows the red down, emits a soft moan in the back of his throat. I buck against him, no longer caring of the warnings I'd given myself. I snarl and screech and fight with all strength I can muster.

He doesn't budge. In fact, I think he's smiling.

I'm about to froth at the mouth, words tumbling out unbidden in my native tongue. "Sonofabitch! Get off me! Get! Off! Me!"

"Get," he repeats English, "away from me?" Reverts to Hylian at: "Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes, yes—please!" I loathe to say it, but I must.

His lips, indeed smiling, move against my ear. "Who am I?"

I grit my teeth. "Master, please!"

Just like that he releases me, and I fly down the hall like a rabbit on the loose. I run from the wolf. I play his game, his one-sided game, because it's not really a game when there's no equal chance of winning.

Not yet anyway.

I run the scenario from the mountain through my head. I come to the conclusion that I must mimic whatever I was doing inside the temple, when my aura went silent. I run, I hide. I think of the events that transpired in Eldin, how I was, what I felt. I was hot, sweaty, exhausted. I felt feeble, weepy, listless.

I remember the reason why.

Death everywhere, and it felt unfair. They were no match for the hero. They were no longer faceless drones only seeking to do evil. They were doing what they had to, to survive. Follow your orders or be cut down by the one who commands you.

I count the seconds to when Ghirahim catches me.

One, two…

Nothing.

Five…

Still safe.

Ten…

He usually gets me around the fifteen second mark. When it passes, my dampened spirit lifts, but I rein it in, remember the blood spilling in the temple. The way Link took their tails…

Thirty seconds.

Forty.

When I reach a whole minute, my eyes widen in astonishment. I've never made it this far before. I clutch my knees tighter, hunch closer to the statue, a snarling wolf-like beast molded from black iron. Two minutes, three…

Can he actually not find me?

The choker on my neck, usually I can hardly feel it, starts tingling, pricking, then goes from itching to burning. I tug roughly at it, but it does not stop the feel of pins and needles.

A hand grabs my arm; a scream catches in my throat. He pulls me out into the open where I am immediately slammed to the wall, my back taking the brunt of the force. Fingers splay through my hair, yank it so I am forced to look up into glinting dark eyes. I see his irritation, I see his confusion, and it is then I know I was successful with 'flattening' my aura.

The manic smile spreads my lips, shows my teeth. His burning glare does little to lessen it.

But then he's the one smiling. Smiling, because I am in his grasp. Smiling, as if he is the one who has secretly won.

If it's not hide and seek, then it is tag. It is the little victories that matter to me, the small triumphs, like hiding for three whole minutes, or lashing out with a dagger and tagging the mark. When I regain my edge, I run with it, keep it close. A calm mind, filtering through knowledge of the unknown versus the known. It is the only advantage I have over him, and I'll keep it. Keep him in the dark; let him see only what I want him to see.

I told him of the desert. But I will not tell him of the Temple of Time, or what is to transpire there. I will not tell him of the mining facility or of Link. I only said I saw Zelda, walking through swirling sands and blistering wind, golden hair tangled and white dress aflutter.

"She's walking into the sun," I said. And then I was silent.

He believes me with far too much ease, with a roll of his shoulders, and a quirk of his lip.

Then it is back to the game, the game of strike and dodge. It startles me, how he doesn't question further or threaten immense pain for the penalty of lies. He simply takes what I say and moves on, like nothing could be wrong.

He slashes out with the black blade, this time a sabre with a red jewel on its hilt. I slide under with just a centimeter between it and my nose. I whirl around and fling the Lizalfos dagger. It clangs off his sword with reflected ease, and I must dash to retrieve it before he does.

I skirt about him, lashing out, zipping in and out of range, rolling under and away. Another swipe of his blade sends his scent in the resulting waft, and I try to remember if he always smelled that way. Silvery and cold, like snow freshly fallen in the precipice of winter, or of ice tasted on the wind long before a drop falls, riding in the dark clouds far on the horizon.

I narrow my eyes and watch him. Has he always moved like that? With the sinewy grace of a cat, delicate yet powerful all at the same time. When has he been anything but gaudy? Where did this subtly come from? It is in the faint flex of muscle beneath colorless skin, in the turn of his wrist, the direction of his feet.

His tranquil smile widens, and his eyes lower to a pleased half-mast. "I know I'm a marvelous sight to behold, darling, but do try not to be too distracted."

My wandering eyes snap to his face. "I wasn't—mmph!"

I slam face down to the floor, the teleporting demon lord sprawled on my back. He covers me, one hand trapping my wrist, his other arm circling my neck in an all too familiar choke hold. "You were saying?"

"…Not distracted," I mumble.

His laugh rumbles into me, has me shuddering from the feel of it. The dagger is pried from my free hand and tossed to the other side of the room, unreachable, unusable. "Now tell me I didn't see it coming," he whispers, and I can say nothing in response.

I wait. In this moment it is the only thing I can do. I wait, and I think. No weapon in reach, same choke hold I barely got out of last time. He isn't going to make me say 'please' again, is he? Oh, that's probably it. But first he'll gloat, no doubt about that.

But then it is silent, silent except for the glassless window's quiet breathing intermingling with our own. He is a weight on top of me, solid and real. I wonder if he can feel my heart beating through my back and into his hallow, pulseless chest. I wonder if it makes him feel like he has one of his own. I mentally laugh at the thought not a second later. Of course not.

"So soft," he murmurs into my hair, "and so warm, aren't you, little bird."

"And you're hard and cold," I grit out, trying and failing to push up his weight.

"Oh, darling…" He chuckles softly. "You could try warming me if you like, though I make no promises of softening." And then he whispers, "Only hardening."

My mind flips to the image of his final form, dark diamond skin, glimmering white patterns, white moon eyes…the problem being that's not where it went first. My face is already hot with strain, and now it burns at the implied innuendo.

I hiss through my teeth, try once again to buck him off me. I turn head, attempt to bite, but it seems none of my previous tricks will work. He simply pulls out of reach. I glare up into his face, into raven-wing shadow and wintery lips, smiling so amusedly at my struggle.

In a fit I claw for his face with my free hand, nails slipping uselessly from pale diamond skin. But when fingertip touches wisps of snowy hair, I freeze.

"Something tells me," I whisper roughly, "you will go into a psychotic rage if I mess with your hair."

He burrows right down to my ear. "That 'something' would be absolutely correct," he whispers back.

"Thought so." I continue the hush-hush. "I'll just go for your eyes then."

"You can try."

I do. And it'd be a lie if I said I didn't have a little fun doing so, though he had to let me up in the end.

But the she-wolf's violent glee only lasts until the ewe is set out to roam the corridors.

I last far beyond five minutes before he catches me, and am far too pleased with that fact to offer any kind of resistance beyond huffy indignance. He has me trapped in what oddly looks like a hug, his arms tight around me. My face is once again smooshed to that red cape, but this time my hand clings to a blood-fang flap of it. The silky texture is cool between my fingers. I pull my head back, the top of which softly clinks the silver chain hooked onto two gold buttons near the throat of his cape. The finer detailing of his attire comes into focus. The golden rhombus patterning on the inside of the cloak, and inlaid in the flare of the mantel, truly looks like gold with the sheen it casts.

Then I catch sight of what's beneath it.

I try to keep my eyes from those diamond-shaped cut-outs, from sleek skin and leanly sculpted muscle, and instead focus on the large red diamond sitting on his hip, fastened there by a golden sash. The bright red jewel looks exactly like the one at my neck, excluding size difference.

I hear the smile in his voice. "You're so obviously looking."

I stiffen, then scrunch my nose. "Only because you're wearing the most show-offy thing ever." Quickly, so there can be no mistake as to what I was inspecting, I throw in, "I can't make sense of your outfit."

His hand finds its way into my hair, fingers threading to my scalp, and I'm sure he's about to yank it and scold me. But then he doesn't, merely keeps his hand there. "You wouldn't know style if it bit you in the backside."

I make a grumpy but consenting sound in my throat, and then change the subject. "I don't care that you caught me," I grumble, shifting my eyes away. "I won."

He looks down at me with brow raised. "Is that so?"

"Is so."

His laugh comes out in a breathless huff, and I feel his smile stay as he rests his cheek upon my head. "All right, darling. I'll give you this one."

He's left me in the tower again—the door locked tight this time.

Playtime's over.

"It's been fun, darling, but I really do have other matters to attend to. Be a good girl and wait nicely," is what he said before slapping a few petals of the heart flower onto the bite wound he gave me earlier. The punctures were not as deep as they felt. So why bother healing me? I threw him a questioning look. He merely smiled that devilish smile. All that before he walked out like the catty bitch he is.

Rubbing the healing petals to the aching punctures, I bristle at his smugness. I try the lock just to be contrary, pace the room, lean out the window as if an escape route could possibly make itself known to me there. The effort is fruitless. I go back to pacing. What 'other matters'? Why couldn't he let me explore the castle in the meantime? I want to go back to the hall of stained glass, to touch the glowing etchings on the opposite wall, perhaps try to read them, just—anything than pacing this room!

Shriveled petals fall to the floor, their excretions drained and their color dimmed. I throw myself onto the floor beside them and shriek in a flare of childish fit. I'm tired of waiting. But, left with no choice, I go back to counting the seconds ticking on an imaginary clock.

I lose count somewhere along the way.

A sense of calm leans up against the wall of unease surrounding me. It washes off the graffiti of anxiety, cools hot and frazzled nerves. I don't know its source, whether it's the games or the little victories or something else entirely. I think of the victory he gave me, ponder the oddity of him 'giving' anything.

The rhythms of song start slowly, deep in my throat, no more than burbled rumbles, then rise up to mouth in wispy tunes. They are random, disjointed hums like a child would sing, but from there they morph into fuller strings of viable song. I stick to the happier ones I remember in an effort to vitalize the veil of calm, hope to keep it from tearing. I do not need the trampling hooves of fear or rage, have grown so weary from them.

Then I settle on one of my favorite songs. The thrum of indeterminate calm is kept in place by the familiar tune from another life. Its nonsensical lyrics and peppy beat rarely failed to add a spring to my usual heavy, prudent stride. I sing this jovial song, a song about some lovestruck fool who calls upon his lover to stay or else he'd lose all his colors.

The acoustics of the tower provide me a playback, and I can't help but sway a bit, sway to the song and remember happy, carefree times.

A flash of white at the corner of my eye stiffens my back, makes my child-like voice falter.

Ghirahim lays on my blankets of fur, stretched on his back, hands behind his head, legs crossed at the knees, the topmost one bobbing to the echoic rhythms. I notice the white bareness of his bouncing foot and realize he's never worn any kind of shoes. It is just the white of his bodysuit, with nothing more coming between the soles of his feet and his environment. No wonder he walks so quietly. Tch, I always knew he was a fruitcake…among other things, but I never imagined I'd be adding 'fairy' to that list.

His swinging leg gradually stills when echoes fade to quiet. He looks to me, lip forming in an almost poutish purse. "Why did you stop?"

I swallow my resurging nerves. "What happened to your 'other matters'?" It comes out far harsher than I meant it to.

He waves a hand before tangling it back in his hair. "Done. She isn't there. Yet."

I blink slowly at this, my mind taking its sweet time to catch up. So he was dowsing for Zelda. And he hasn't found her. Strange how relaxed he is then. I eye him warily. The last instance I told him where she'd be and she wasn't there in time to suit his patience, I clearly remember being yanked by the neck in his bruising grip, him seething in my face, his glare threatening to set me aflame. Now? Now he's…taking it in complete stride. Like he knows where the spirit maiden will end up and has no worry or doubt she'll be there in due time. Time that he is biding like a cat that believes it already has a claw in the mouse's tail.

No doubt. No distrust. He has taken me on my word.

My jaw nearly hits the floor at the revelation.

"Little bird," he calls, arching his neck to look at me better. "Sing."

"I'm surprised you wanna hear it. Doesn't my voice make your ears bleed?"

He smiles, scoffs in what can only be described as a verbal eye roll. "You're not that bad, darling. I've heard worse, besides…you should hear the harpies sing." He shudders.

Harpies? I wonder. "There are…other demons." I say it, do not question, because I have suspected.

He laughs, low and quiet. "Though I am indeed a one-man army, my master could hardly be called a proper king with but one follower. Did you think I was the only one? Or did you think Bokoblins and the like were the extent of his rule?"

"No," I say quickly, grimacing at the mention of the demon king, "it's just…you're the only one I've seen. In person."

"Let's keep it that way." There is something menacing in his tone when he says that, though it does not seem to be directed at me. "Which is why you won't take to wandering without someone with you. Is that understood?" He turns hard eyes on me.

I nod mutely, frowning in troubled contemplation.

He relaxes once more, smile returning. "Good. Now sing."

I press my lips together and glare.

He watches me with half hooded eyes, bites his lower lip. He seems to be considering something. And then, "Please. Darling, sing for me."

All my composure shatters like crystalline glass and I must do a double-take with mind, eyes, and ears. Please? Did he just say please? I am at a loss for words. The she-wolf in me does nothing to help, merely stands there with her toothy mouth unhinged in utter disbelief. It is the ewe who jumps into saving action, the ewe who says, "Yes, yes, he did say please—he did! You must reward such behavior or he will never again repeat it, you must, quickly!" and spurns me to sing.

I start off slow and unsure. What was I singing again? Oh, right—that jovial song. Erm… Well, if it's awkward, it's awkward. It's as the ewe said. No denying him now.

I sing about the lovestruck man who gave up his dreams to pursue his love.

It isn't long before I see Ghirahim swaying, his leg bouncing, and hear him humming along. And it must have been the jaunty tune, the surprise of the acquiesced 'please,' because I translate the song to Hylian without him asking me to. Granted it's only a direct, basic translation. I do not have the cerebral swiftness needed to match rhymes and the rhythm falters when I must drag out a clipped Hylian word to fill the gap of its more drawn out English equivalent. Far from perfect.

And yet, surprisingly, Ghirahim doesn't seem to mind. He beams at me with a smile I am not used to seeing from him. For some reason I cannot meet that smile—its lack of ill intent confuses me—and I avert my eyes.

When my peripheral shows him gracefully shifting into a standing position, my already frail volume lowers. I try to steel against the nervousness as he comes close. He kneels in front of me where I sit cross-legged and watches my lips intently, as if they're blessing him with profound wisdom.

I lean back, he leans forward. I fight not to lean further, know he will follow me if I do. So I keep straight, keep singing, keep my options open. And try to keep my hammering heart from imploding.

But when his tongue gently glides over his lip, it becomes too much—his proximity, his silvery scent, his intent stare. My heart shudders and my voice cracks into silence.

In an instant he has my chin between his forefinger and thumb. "Don't stop." His voice is hushed and rough, quiet, yet urging. A demand lightly disguised as a request.

He wants something, needs something. And for a moment, I fear what he would do to get it. That fear kicks my voice back to life.

His winter-stained mouth moves silently in imitation of mine, matches and learns the words he so desperately craves. For what reason I cannot fathom. Maybe because it's something new, something interesting, something different among all he already knows. Perhaps he's hungry for something he doesn't know. And to a certain extent, I can understand that.

Ageless demon. He's been around so long it must feel like he knows everything. Nothing is new anymore. Nothing is exciting.

My heart trembles with the familiarity of those last two thoughts.

My suspicions are all but confirmed when I finish the song and he asks for more. His dark eyes, widened in excited wonderment, remind me of my little brother, of how he used to be before the busyness of life sucked him up in the same vortex that took our parents. The young adventurous spirit, the thirst to find more, to know more…

How is it I'm seeing the same aspects in the face of a demon whose age spans far beyond even my twice-born soul?

I remember the same look on my brother's face when we ran through the woods out in the park far from the city, when he'd suggest we climb the rocks, or explore the stream cutting through the ravine, glittering a sun-soaked trail through moss and roots. We looked behind every tree stump, over and under every rock, searching as if for a great treasure of our own.

And now it is before that eager and wanting stare that I sing my brother's favorite song, a song about rebels and outlaws, about pioneers and pilgrims, of underdogs and mutineers. I close my eyes so the tears do not build, slam the flood gates shut before the water even rises as a precaution. My brother used to play that song over and over…

A hand touches my face. A thumb presses just below my eye, further stemming the build-up of tears, whether done intentionally or as a mere coincidence is unknown. A voice rises to meet mine, softly at first but only growing stronger. I never knew what voice to imagine for the demon lord back in that old life, never knew what vocals or vowels would match with those…interestingly worded phrases, but now… Now I can hear him. My girlish, light tones mix with his darker voice, and they serve to both highlight and contrast each other. His voice is deeper than I thought it'd be, though far sharper than anything I may have dreamed up. In that regard I suppose it does hold a higher lilt to it, delicate yet deadly in a way only blades can be.

It is with that voice, and with the words of my brother's song, that I…actually start to feel…

I do not let the feeling complete itself. My guard, though unseen, resurfaces against the calming flood waters. Because I'm smarter than to feel at home. Because I know what I know. Because I'm not about to fall in with Ghirahim the same way I fell in with Shii.

After the song is complete I open my eyes to his dark ones, to the quirked lips of satisfaction still waiting to be satiated.

Ghirahim then announces our real English lessons will begin.

I'm as dumb a teacher as I was a student. My attention is easily diverted, mind wandering off on its own little adventure, sometimes in midsentence. Ghirahim gets fed up, grows tired of snapping at me and swatting my head. He decides we're going to take a more…engaging approach.

At first my heart flits nervously, especially with the way he says it, especially when he yanks me to him. But then we teleport. The contorting sensations leave me woozy as we reappear in Faron Woods. He plucks up my wrist when I sway.

Ghirahim guides me along a path only he can see, a path lined with rocks and weeds, mushrooms and trees, little birds singing, and little birds fleeing, and leaves rustling to the soft breeze.

"Tree," he says, gesturing to one. "Give me the English word."

I do so. We start with the tree as a whole, and then he breaks it down from there. Leaves, branches, twigs, bark, roots… And then we move on to the earth, the grass, the rocks.

"Stream," I say in English in regards to a bubbling brook, continuing with, "Water, spring, river, creek," when he demands more.

At some point as we walk along, the canopy of trees whispering above us, light and shadow playing tag at our feet, his hand slips from my wrist and down to my hand, bit by bit. Maybe it's my unsteady gait, the stumbling and jostling that causes his hand to slide, so I'm unsure if he realizes he's doing so, until his palm is pressed against mine, fingers tangled. My hand feels small and fragile in his. It is with a grim jolt I remember he could crush it in his grip if he so chose, without much effort on his part at all.

Discreetly, I try to tug my hand away. A smug smile tilts pale lips and he looks at me from the corner of his eye. His grasp tightens, and then he brings our joined hands up from the folds of his cloak to where they can be clearly seen. The knowing spark in his eye nearly makes me shiver.

"English word," he commands.

"Hands," I answer, lips twisting in discomfort.

He rubs his thumb over my knuckles. I get the hint. I give him the word. He wriggles his fingers, flexes his palm. I answer each time, trying to ignore the squirmy feeling in my gut. A feeling that only intensifies when he pulls me closer, traces a finger down my nose, under my eyes, across my lips. I give him the words, because I must, and try to quell the fear buzzing beneath my skin.

His free hand continues its exploration to my ears, fingers the rounded rims, while his other hand holds mine, keeping me bound in place.

It is when his touch travels to my neck and downward that the buzzing turns to a roar. My eyes widen, the feral smile twitching at my flat line mouth, questioning whether it should come out. It's a trick, I tell myself. No matter what he thinks he is or isn't doing, it's a trick.

"Smoke!" I exclaim in English, seeing it in the horizon's sky. "Smoke, it's smoke." I am too relieved at the distraction to worry about its source.

"A fire, hmm?"

"Fire?" Hoping to keep him distracted, I give him the English, "Fire."

He turns his smile on me, and it's less…no, no it's still smug. But there's something in his eyes, something strange and almost…warm.

My heart pounds in my head, beating the drum whose rhythm says, It's a trick, it's a trick, don't believe it, it's a trick.

"Yes, darling. Fi-re. Fire." It takes him only two tries to get it right, as with most of the words, first to try it on his tongue and then to meld it into one fluid piece. "Shall we go see?"

He scoops me up without further inquiry or consent and has me curled at his chest. We soar through the trees, my fingers hooked into his red cape like a frightened cat.

We come to a steep decline, see the fire blaze bright orange on the hillside, black smoke billowing skyward.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" The reflection of the fire glazes in his irises like a candle in the dark.

"Destructive," I say, observing the blackening trees and fleeing birds. "Shouldn't we…put it out?"

"Put it out?" He grunts and makes a face of distaste. "Its destructive force is part of its allure! And besides, wild fires happen all the time. It is a part of nature. It would be a foolish waste of time to extinguish it."

"Okay, okay. You're right. It's great, it's pretty."

I stare off into the blaze, try not to think of the displaced animals whose homes will be reduced to ashes soon. They'll find another home, a calming thought says. I let myself be mesmerized by the glow, feel the heat carried on the wind. It'll be coming this way…

"What?" I ask when I feel Ghirahim's eyes on me. "Um, the fire's pretty…pretty fire, sooo…"

Why don't you look at it and stop looking at me?

"You know, little bird," he says, dark eyes ever trained on me, "your aura is much like a fire in certain ways. Small like an ember"—he gestures his chin to the smoking hillside—"large as that inferno. Switching back and forth in mere seconds. Why is that, little bird? How can you be two very different things at once?"

"I don't know," I mumble, "I can't even sense auras, so…no idea."

He sighs. "I suppose you wouldn't. …Fire's crawling this way, darling, we should go. I don't want your feathers singed."

It is the evening of the very next day that he comes to me. I don't know what's come over him these past days; he can't seem to stay away. I'd say it's the desire for a new and exciting language, but he doesn't just come for that.

I just wish the cheerful songs had transferred over to today, because now he's…

I leap away from the sabre, the tip of the blade cutting the hem of my tunic. A dark glare burns in his eyes and I have yet to tag him even once. He is being far more aggressive, his slashes longer, stronger, and his footsteps quick and impatient. Is it because of the spirit maiden? Has trust dissolved—was it trust at all? Or was it a tentative hope he hadn't even realized he held?

I stagger and fall backwards, my heart beating a song of panic as he advances on me. His swift strides do not allow a single second for me to scramble away. Before I know it he is in front of me, the point of his sabre touching my throat. Gone is the lazy smile from yesterday, disappeared is the hooded contentment of his eyes that I had not known was there until now.

I can do nothing but sit frozen and wait, wait for him to either let me up or slit my throat.

My expression stays as frost, and not even the smile of mania shows through.

Ghirahim does not move either. His face seems stuck in that dark glare, the only movement seeming to be that angry spark glinting in his eye. There is a fight crackling in those black pits, as if he is trying to come to a difficult decision. That, or he is trying to come to terms with something…

Suddenly there is a twitch at the corner of his sharply frowning mouth, and then another twitch, barely detectable, at his lower left eyelid, something I would not have seen if not for the chilled breeze blowing in through the tower window, gently lifting his curtain of hair. A quiet, strangled noise comes from the back of his throat. And then he is moving the sabre. The slight, but all consuming, pressure leaves the fragile ridge of my windpipe, traversing instead to the right of my neck, the flat side of the sabre sliding along my jugular. My pulse quickens against it.

He tilts the blade, presses it into my neck agonizingly slow. The lack of splitting flesh alludes to the fact he is pressing the dull, flat side of the sabre into me, not the hair-splitting sharp edge. My brow wants to knit in confusion, but I do not allow even that to show. Cannot, I should say. The frost in my heart keeps my expression immobile.

The flat end of the blade pushes up against my jaw, prevents me from lowering my head. Seconds pass in a tense staring contest.

He is the first to break it, his burning eyes flickering up and down my body.

"You're an ugly little creature," he whispers. But the way he speaks it is strange, as if I'm not the one he's trying to convince.

I do and say nothing.

His eyes flicker up and down my frame once more, and then his black glare manifests into a full-blown snarl. "You've been wearing those disgusting clothes since I met you! Honestly, have you no sense of style? Ugh!"

I blink hard. "Eh?" is all I can manage.

"I can't take the sight of that hideous getup any longer!"

The frost abates and I finally let my brow come down. "There's nothing wrong with what I'm wearing, 'Master.'"

"The fact that you think it's okay makes it that much worse."

"You…!" I stumble over my tongue.

He removes the sword from my neck, fingers of his free hand fiddling with the sharp tip. "Those clothes are no longer acceptable. You can't be seen standing next to me in such filthy rags."

My nose wrinkles. "Whatever. Haven't you ever heard that keeping ugly…" I cannot bring myself to say friends. "…people around pretty people only makes the pretty look prettier? Or something like that?"

His stare is intense. "No, I haven't. Even if that were true, I have plenty of Bokoblins around, but you…you are…" He drifts off, suddenly seeming at a loss for words. He regains ground. "You are not a Bokoblin. Which reminds me, that stupid little Bokoblin you spared isn't acting any smarter. I think I'll kill him soon. Does that make you happy?"

I gape at him before shooting to my feet. "What? No! What the hell, man?!"

The sabre comes back to my neck. "Language," he hisses.

"What the…heck, man." I stutter, voice losing strength.

A pleased smile upturns his lips. "I'll give the Bokoblin more time then. Until that time runs out, we need to do something about that…" He sneers in contempt. "…ensemble you call an outfit."

"Well, excuse me"—Princess, whispers from the back of my mind—"for not having a spare change of clothes! I didn't exactly pack."

He resumes fingering the tip of the sword. "The rest of your wardrobe was probably just as pathetic. Not to worry, darling, I'll see to it that you get something decent."

My glare stutters with fear. "I refuse to wear anything skintight."

His stare slides up and down on me, and he smirks.

"I mean it." I stand tall, looking him right in the eye. "I won't wear it."

"Anything," he says, stepping forward, "will be better than this burnt and soiled garbage."

I look down and see that he's right about those last two points. My tunic still bears the blackened, frayed seams left by the fires of Eldin. Multiple stains, blood and dirt and grass and fruit from the forests of Faron, spot the fabric from top to bottom. But I do not want to concede to him, not after he frightened me with that sword. "Whatever," I say in English, "you're super gay."

His eyes sharpen. "What was that?"

"…I said fashion is stupid!"

His hand darts out and grips the front of my tunic. With a single firm yank, he tears the cloth from the top hem of the bodice all the way to my navel, leaving a sagging gap where my dingy camisole shows from underneath. The fabric of the undershirt is worn, almost see through. I stumble back and slap the flap of blue tunic back over my chest. I raise my eyes, glare electrified, ready to yell at him. But my yell is caught, the breath never making it out of my lungs. I am frozen once more.

I don't like the way he looks at me. There is something smoldering in his eyes, something hot and barely contained. Something I cannot discern.

A/N: I have mixed feelings about this chapter. Sometimes when I look at it, I like it, and other times not so much. I hope you enjoyed it regardless. And thank you all again for everything!

Songs referenced are the Numa Numa song and Renegades.