A/N: Thank you James Birdsong, Moon ninja Luna, PokemonTrainer4700, autumn-lee-edits (it won't let me write your username as is. It thinks you're a website. ^_^'), Mokki Takashi, Voidlash, Onoskelis (do not touch his hair indeed XD), Alter Ego Bob, Wingdings13, Ambiguous Cake, Fury, Maybe (Don't worry, I understand about being busy), and CrashingUpward for your reviews of encouragement and advice. I appreciate every one.

Now hold onto your socks, because it's a long one.

Chapter 15

I was scared, those moments caught in Ghirahim's burning gaze.

Again I was frozen. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move.

All I could do was wonder, hope, and pray he wouldn't act on whatever he was thinking.

The gentle pitter of rain, just beginning, whispered into the silence. It broke the trance. Ghirahim blinked hard, caught himself. The strange part was he looked just as confused as me, and…if I didn't know better…I'd say even a little frightened. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by clenched jaw and hardened glare. He did not look at me as he stalked from the room. Though, just before he stepped through the door, he snapped his fingers and sprang to life a pane of diamond glass to keep out the rain.

And then he was gone.

Relief made my legs weak and I slid to the floor. The hush of the rain tried in vain to calm the beat of my heart.

I don't know how long I sat there before returning to my pallet of pelts. In the end the rain persevered; I fell asleep to its lullaby. Warm, safe from the cold droplets singing outside the sealed window.

Now, at the hour of dawn, the rain fades out, and the pane of mystic glass with it. The first rays of light bleed through the ever-present clouds. More light than normal makes it through the haze, catches in a stray drop of moisture gliding down the stone inframe of the window, glitters like a freshly fallen tear. It urges me to stand from my nest of warm fur.

A damp breeze ghosts over my skin just as the fur falls away, raising goosebumps. Wrapping my arms around myself, I am made keenly aware of my lack of sleeves, made even more aware of the new rip in my bodice, of the shark tooth gap bringing an extra chill to my breasts. The dingy camisole offers little protection. I shiver, but pad to the window nonetheless.

I stand before the window forever it seems, wet stone lending the breeze an earthy scent. My gaze moves to the shifting clouds overhead. This tower is so high up it feels as if I could reach out and touch those rolling puffs of white and gray. They remind me of someone.

Turk… I think of my dapple-gray bird, and can only hope he got better, and returned to the sky.

The mists dissipate slightly, more than they ever have, and now finally from this tower that should see everything do I get glimpses of mountains and trees. They are mere silhouettes of shadowy purples and blues, but they put a pulse of excitement in me regardless. I wonder what's down there, wonder what secrets there are to explore in this misty, shaded world.

My imagination takes hold. Though my body is firmly grounded, my mind is given wings, and it goes on an adventure all its own.

My little brother is in it, wearing a dark, faded green tunic in tribute to his favorite hero. Wielding thin swords that make up in sharpness what they lack in size, we fight through hordes of monsters, dash from giant Skulltulas, and cut past throngs of Deku Babas. Against all odds, we fight. We seek the treasure hidden in the mountain. We search for the route of escape. We trample over the despair that threatens to choke us. We surge onward, the greatest allies of Link, the new hope for mankind, the…

The door of the tower creaks open, pulling me from long dreamed fantasies.

My eyes widen at who I find standing in the doorway. "You. What—what are you doing here?"

The Bokoblin shakes on short wobbly legs, looking as if it has been forced to come up here against every ounce of its will. Its beady eyes stare at me with fear. The morning light luminates its many scars. Its quivering hands are clasped in front of it, raised as if in prayer.

With a painful, seizing clinch my heart beats in the realization. This is the very same Bokoblin from Faron woods, the one I attacked in a fitful rage. No doubt about it now. Those praying hands were what made me stop.

Stop, a part of me had screamed. Look at yourself—look at what you're doing.

Guilt slams into me full force, leaving me silent and immobile.

The Bokoblin and I do nothing but stare at each other.

Finally I can take the awkward, fearful quiet no more. "What are you d-doing here?" I ask again, shame making me stutter.

The Bokoblin only shakes harder.

"Uh, please…" I keep my voice small and soft, not wanting to frighten it any further. "Come…in?" I offer hesitantly when it shows no sign of leaving. When it still doesn't move, I gesture with my hand.

The Bokoblin reacts to the motion, takes trembling steps into the room.

Mid-motion I stop and stare at my fingers, my palm. I remember trying to speak to the Lizalfos in the Earth Temple. Words failed, and in desperation I attempted to communicate in a language without sound.

An idea forms. I stare at the red creature before me, fingers flexing. I will speak to this Bokoblin. I will speak with this Bokoblin. And I will do it without uttering a single word.

I gesture it to come closer.

It hesitates, and then shuffles forward only an inch.

My heart clinches again. What must I look like to this creature? The light at my back throwing my figure in the shade of silhouette, the chilled breeze from the window making my hair writhe like inky tendrils, the rusted bloodstains on my clothes—some of it from this very Bokoblin. I've always regarded its kind as monsters, but now I must look like the monster.

I fiddle with my fingers, second-guessing myself. Ultimately I concede to try. I have to, I realize. I've nearly killed this Bokoblin, and…I haven't exactly saved it yet.

I step to the side of the window, then gesture at it. "Window," I say, stacking one hand upon the other, palms facing me, like a wall. I separate them vertically, and then bring them back together, a motion akin to the opening and closing of a modern window. I do the sign again and again, each time pointing to the large window beside me.

The Bokoblin blinks like a dull-witted cow.

I frown, tempted to give up. But then I remember Ghirahim's threat. I'm going to make you watch, he said. I shiver, recalling the way he spoke into my ear. But then the she-wolf bares her fangs. Her reply is absolute. No. You're. Not.

I get on my knees and shuffle closer, slowly, carefully. The Bokoblin goes to step back but I grunt and hold up my hand in a stop gesture. I try the window sign again. And again. And again.

Eventually, so very eventually, the Bokoblin puts the pieces together.

"Yes," I whisper excitedly. "That's it. Window."

I point to the window again, and then I wait. I do not do the sign. The Bokoblin does, if hesitantly. I suppress a squeal of excitement.

"Yes, yes," I say, holding up a fist and motioning it like I was rapping on a door. It is the sign for 'Yes' and I nod with my head in addition, hoping the Bokoblin will catch on. It doesn't. Not right away, anyway. Like with the window, I must repeat the motions endlessly until it understands.

As it does, I squint at it, wondering what 'it' really was. No female could be that ugly. I frown. No, no, I can't say that for certain. A female could very well be that ugly. …Oh well. I'll call it a 'he' from now on.

And then I start wondering about its—his—name.

Not knowing the Bokoblin tongue, and not knowing that frightening, heavy language Ghirahim was using, I realize we'll have to come up with our own name signs.

I look at the Bokoblin. He is still signing 'Yes' with that blank cow expression.

It will have to be simple signs. Very simple signs.

I hold up my hand with index and middle fingers extended, my thumb nestled between the two, for the letter K. I point to myself, sign K. Rinse and repeat.

Next, I point to him, then hold my hand with all fingers extended, the thumb laid flat across the palm for the letter B. For Bokoblin, I guess. Or Bob. Boko Bob. Bob-o-kin.

After that I try to remember more signs, but then decide I don't want to overload Bob-o-kin's brain.

I point to the window, hoping he's retained the information. Long seconds pass. I hold my breath. Finally, clumsily and slowly, he does the correct sign. My breath comes out with a smile. A real smile, gentle on my face.

I point to myself. He struggles. I flash the K sign quickly to remind him. Next I point to him. He tentatively holds up the K sign again. I shake my head and grunt. I sign B. His eyes light up in understanding.

We go through the gestures again and again. I don't want him to forget; his life depends on remembering. If Ghirahim sees that he can learn, he'll be more inclined to let him live. Perhaps more inclined to let others live too. My heart swells with a sense of pride and accomplishment. I was right. They can learn. Bob will be allowed to live. I think that more than makes up for those scars.

I think so, but Bob doesn't, apparently. Suddenly he starts shaking again, suddenly his hands are back in that gesture of prayer. And it makes my heart hurt all over again. The she-wolf sinks in her guilty fangs. A flash of blade and blood tears through my mind.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

The clouds shift. For a moment, just a moment, there is a glare of real sunlight, of a true sunbeam reaching into the lonely tower. It illuminates a splash of white in my peripheral, and when I turn my head there is Ghirahim. He leans in the doorway, eyeing us, a smile playing at his lips.

I shift uneasily, lacing my fingers over my torn tunic. "How long were you watching?"

"Long enough. What was that you were doing with your hands?"

"…Sign language."

"Another language? And you were keeping it to yourself? My, my, aren't we the secretive one." There is a glimmer in his eye that makes me nervous. I attribute it to the sunlight, but then realize it had gone as fast as it had come.

I glance at Bob, who is frozen, trembling where he stands. "He…he was learning."

"I saw. It's a miracle, really. I didn't think it was possible."

I steel myself. "…He lives?"

Amusement quirks the demon lord's lips further. A laugh, dark and slow, rumbles from his chest. "Sweet bird. Yes, I'll put an extension on his life. For now. Keep teaching him. I'll be watching."

Days pass. Ghirahim never mentions or apologizes for my ripped tunic. Suddenly it is as if that part of me doesn't exist—he looks solely at my face. Or my hands, if I'm teaching Bob Sign. Nowhere else. Just to be safe, I take loose strings and knot what I can of the torn hem back together. No temptation. I mean, tch, not that there's any temptation to begin with. I'm human, after all. He couldn't possibly think I'm pretty. I may be a step up from my previous life, but I'm still plain as a piece of wood.

He's acting weird around me though. Well, weirder than usual. The way he smiles, for instance. Sometimes it's the usual smarmy smirk he wears before chucking a dagger at me. Other times…his smile… His eyelids are lowered, and his lips are quirked evenly. I can find no trace of ill intent in his face. He looks at me as if through a dream-cloud haze.

And then, when he comes out of it, he glares at me like I've done something wrong.

The tight-rope I walk with him seems to be getting thinner, and I'm not sure where to step. When I think the path is straight, he throws in a curve. Though it hasn't gotten too bad; I've handled it.

But this? This has gone too far.

"Why? Why is it always spaghetti?" I look up at Essil, voice and expression stricken.

The purple Lizalfos puts a claw tip to her lip, then shrugs.

"It's always spaghetti," I lament. "Has he eaten nothing else since I introduced him to it? And why is he sharing with me?"

"M'lord likes your spa-ghetti," Essil replies simply, placing the plateful she was holding beside my fur pallet.

I glare at the plate. "Then he can have it. I won't eat it."

Essil's watery eyes go wide. "B-but you must!" She wrings her hands. "He will blame me if you don't."

I wrinkle my nose. I don't think I could stomach any more pasta for the rest of my life. Ghirahim has insisted I eat it. Day after day. I can't take it anymore. I give Essil a hopeful look. "Just don't tell him. Can't I have some of your pheasant soup instead?"

To my crushing disappointment, Essil shakes her head. "M'lord will be o-offended, and he will know if you don't eat it. It is his wish to share with you."

I groan like a dying sheep, curling over where I sit and put my face in my hands. He's doing this to torture me. He must be.

"Quiet, human! Unless you'd prefer to return to the days when you received nothing." Shii walks into the tower room with a scowl. She stands by Essil and crosses her arms.

I glare through my fingers. She's still mad at me for my escape freak out. But, honestly, what did she expect? For me to sit quietly in this empty, cold tower and let the voices in my head grow louder and louder? To allow Stockholm syndrome to settle fully between us? I couldn't let the buddy-buddy thing continue. Although, I'd…I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss it.

"He didn't blame you for me running," I mumble, referring to Ghirahim.

Shii scoffs. "And you knew he wouldn't? Spare me. You knew nothing! You up and ran like frightened prey. Mindless, brainless fear. I saw it in your eyes."

I inhale deeply. "…Excuse me for wanting out of prison for a while."

"Prison?" Shii glares so venomously her yellow eyes seem to glow. "Prison! You don't know what prison is. You don't know how good you have it. My lord's true prisoners don't come up here, human. They go down there." Shii points a claw to the floor, needle-teeth grin emerging. "To the dungeons. And when my lord deals with them personally, they end up looking like that." Her claw indicates the plate of spaghetti, red sauce and shreds of noodles abound.

I stare at her blankly. Partly because I don't want to give her the satisfaction of expression, the other part because I don't know how to digest what she just told me.

"Those little games he plays with you?" Shii continues. "Just that. Games. Nothing compared to the torture he specializes in."

My mind draws a flat line.

Shii sneers. "You're not a prisoner. You're a pet! But you didn't know that, did you? You know nothing. Know-Nothing Prophet."

The clicking noise of Essil nervously biting her claws fills the ensuing silence.

"…Call me know-nothing if you want, but I did know he wouldn't kill you," I say with the sullen attitude of a moping child. It's a lie. A lie to cover the cold glare of the she-wolf, who was willing to potentially sacrifice her captor, no matter how kind, if it meant freedom from the tricks and vices of an emotional mindstate.

Shii snorts her disbelief.

Suddenly I raise my eyes, stare her dead on. "No matter his reaction, no matter what I knew or didn't know, I wouldn't have let him kill you," I say, firm as a rock.

Her glower flickers.

I sit up straighter, speak louder. "I would not have let him kill you."

My heart clinches again. This time with the bite of the ewe.

I don't know how much time goes by. Days. The pain in my chest only gets worse. Pain in my head joins it, flashing white behind my eyes.

Pale, cool fingers clench in and out of fists. They are not as pale or as cold as Ghirahim's, being mottled with pinks and slight blue veins. I remember a knife in these hands, remember blood running down the blade…

The timid smile on my face barely matches with the worry in my fright-widened eyes. I've been thinking too much, I think. I've been reminded of things I thought were long buried.

Just this morning I was laughing—laughing like I haven't in years. With joy, with unrestricted glee. Nothing cold or distant or fake found in its sounds. And yet, by the time the laughter was through, my heart was once again reminded of itself, just as it was the day before with the Bokoblin and Shii. I felt the streak of pain in my chest as surely as I'd been cut.

I can't hurt him. I can't hurt Ghirahim, even when I mean to. I never thought I'd find myself thankful for that.

He upped the ante on our game of hide and seek, gave me a dagger and effectively combined the game with tag. I ran through the corridors with blade flashing, with manic grin in place, growing wider and wilder with every metallic echo I heard following behind me. It was in a bright hall of whites and beiges and dark woods that I saw the giant plate of gold hanging off the wall. It was a decorative cymbal, twice as wide as Ghirahim was tall, glittering at me from the hall's end. The gears of my mind spun into place. Anticipation flit nervously. I raced the long corridor, I climbed the ridges of thick stone—so thick in that part of the castle I could stand on it—and sawed through gold painted rope holding the giant disc in its elegant wood frame.

I hoped my aura would flare and lead my pursuer straight to me. It did.

The moment he was in position, I cut through the last fibers of rope and sent the cymbal crashing down. As it hit and flipped on the floor like an oversized coin, the loud gongs seemed to shake the entire hall. It smashed right into Ghirahim, would have crushed him if he were a mere human, but as it was the cymbal cracked down the middle, right where it slammed him over the back. He hunched against the impact.

My laughter flew in with the fading echoes of the broken cymbal.

"Got you! I got you! I—" My laughter grew in volume as I saw a murderous expression come over his face like a shadow. "I'm gonna die! Hahaha—ah! I'm gonna die!"

With a vicious grunt he split the cymbal the rest of the way, shoved both halves against the walls. They thundered, crashing into stone. He looked up at me with burning black eyes, and I was sure daggers would come flying at me any second. But then, oddly, his mouth twitched, twitched until a smile surfaced. Laughter filled with reluctant mirth rose to join mine—almost silenced me with its sincerity. His eyes had softened.

"Very good, darling. You got me," he admitted. He spread his arms and gave a small mock bow, smiling up at me through lowered brows. "And now, I believe, it is time for payback."

I jumped from the wall, expecting to hit the ground running. I was not expecting to be caught and spun around, to be pressed flat against the wall.

"Got you," he whispered in my ear.

"Okay, okay," I wheezed, cheek smooshed against stone. "You win."

He pressed closer. "Say it again."

"You. Win."

He moaned into my hair.

I sputtered. "Would you stop that? Do you—do you have any idea how creepy that sounds?"

I felt his smirk against my neck. He moaned again, longer and louder.

"Geh! You!" I squawked. "You think I don't know what you're doing?! I. Know. You're just trying to freak me out—stop that!"

His moan merged into a laugh. My gasps and sighs of exasperation soon turned to reluctant laughter of my own. But it was all too weird, too…friendly. I had to force myself to stop. A sudden pain in my chest helped in that regard.

Sitting in the tower now, thinking far too much, I look at my hands and realize something. I never asked if he was okay, just laughed without remorse after that heavy metal plate crashed onto him. I laughed gleefully, the she-wolf looking down in ferocious satisfaction. The pressure in my chest lessens when I remember I can't hurt him—the only person I could ever be vicious with and not worry about. Not that I should worry, I mean, he's my enemy.

And yet I…

I have this twisting in my heart that reminds me…of a promise I've broken so many times.

I never meant to make anyone bleed. It was a game. It went too far.

The she-wolf doesn't know when to stop; the ewe doesn't know when to begin.

I've always been this way.

It wasn't just the kids in Skyloft I've been rough with. On an elementary playground in a world far away I stood with the same vicious grin. I tackled her. She was my friend, a tomboy of a girl whose mother insisted she wear her hair in curled pigtails and donned her in pretty dresses. We'd skid over the mulch and dive through the tire swings without care to our wardrobe. That day I wanted to roughhouse like we had many times before. But there was something wrong with me, even back then. Playful swats turned into fists, harmless knee bops turned to jabs. I didn't notice my wrongdoing, took her shrieks as simple battle cries. It was still a game to me. She was supposed to be fighting back…

It was when I raked my nails across her and they came back red that I finally froze, finally heard her crying, finally realized it wasn't fun anymore.

I didn't move, just gaped at my hand, until a teacher hauled me off her, dragged me away. I couldn't move on my own, couldn't tear my eyes away from the blood under my nails or from her huddled, sobbing form.

She stopped being friends with me after that. Not that I blame her, I…I don't know what came over me. I can't remember what her name was, but I clearly remember the pain in my chest the days following.

I'm sorry, I wanted to say to her, but she wouldn't let me near. Can't blame her, said the ewe—though, I suppose it was a lamb at that point. The she-wolf, a pup, chased her tail without a care, not understanding any more than I did what went wrong.

The ewe knew. I'd let the wolf take far too much control. Like the wolf, I found fun and glee in snarls and bites and insults. When I'd catch myself going too far, I'd pull back and swear to be more careful, remind myself that most people didn't find joy in such roughness. I'd let the ewe take the lead then, return to being sweet and mild-mannered, polite and docile. A little lady in pretty dresses.

My heart was a green valley, full of rustling grass and flowers and kind things where the ewe grazed and played. In the center of my heart, however, ran a muddy, vicious river made of malevolent thoughts and actions. It was the river the wolf ran alongside. It tore grass and earth from its frothing banks, thundered in the otherwise quiet valley.

It never went away, never calmed to a tranquil stream no matter what I did. I couldn't change it—so instead I shut it away. I rose mountains to block the valley, and the malicious river, from the rest of the world. Hot rage became cold stone. Friends were few and far between. Of those that got through the mountains and to the river, only a couple stayed to like me. One of them showed me how to talk with my hands, instead of hit. The other…

The friend I used to have. What would you say about me now? You, who understood. You, who had a river of your own to match mine.

I stare at my hands in the lonely tower, think of the times they were colored red. From broken noses, split lips, knives… I think of all the times I tried to alter the malicious streak running through me. I won't fight again. I'll be patient and kind. I won't lash out, I promised as I gazed up at the cross hanging above the alter. I was still a young girl, still with hope. My family still went to church then.

It wasn't enough. Not enough to block off the river—because in doing so I also walled off the green valley. No maliciousness, but no kindness either. Nothing but cold mountain walls.

Years passed. My promises kept breaking. I still hadn't figured it out.

I've been cold, I've been hard as stone.

Human beings that needed my help, I walked right by them.

The city was a cold and dreary place most days, matching my outward façade perfectly. I kept my head down and moved forward, walked past a homeless person sitting by a dumpster. I increased my pace, wanting to get away.

A flutter at the corner of my eye made me stop. I stared at a little finch, caught in a bright orange net, the kind you'd find in grocery stores with fruit in them. I stared and stared at the little bird's desperate struggle, nothing but cold calculating consideration turning the gears in my tired mind. Eventually, finally, I came to a decision. I bent down by the roadside, reached into the gutter, and pulled the netting away. The bird flew from its trappings like a bullet of feathers, shooting off into the sky without a backward glance or a trill of thanks. I didn't mind it though. I wouldn't have said thank you either.

Something hurt in my chest then. I again caught sight of that homeless person sitting with their back to the concrete, a black trash bag wrapped around them to insulate warmth in their ratty, padded clothes. I felt a stirring in my heart, felt as if something was moving inside me. I knew what it was—knew, but did not want to confront it. The Holy Spirit of God, urging me to help that person like I helped the bird.

The Spirit's whisperings held me there by the gutter, encouraging, gently pushing. But like so many times before, I turned away and ignored the calling. My feet, clad in new boots, were quick over the sidewalk, and the cold beige stone spanned as I put distance between us. What am I supposed to do? What if they don't want charity? What if they're dangerous?

What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do?

I all but ran from that place. The tightening in my heart only got tighter. It tightened all throughout the night, kept me from sleeping soundly. Still I ignored it. I can stop for a bird but not for a human being. It was that thought that finally pushed me out. I went to the store, bought the warmest, sturdiest coat my parents' abundant money could buy. As the sun crested the horizon, putting a hazy glare on the skyscrapers, I went back to that street with the coat in my arms, looked for that person…

The wall was bare. A plastic bottle skittered across the alley like a tumbleweed. They were gone. I lingered and waited, but they didn't come back.

I trudged home with tears in my eyes. I knew I messed up. I should've bought the coat yesterday and set it next to the person—I wouldn't have even had to say a word, wouldn't have had to touch or get too close to them. What was I so afraid of?

I promised God I wouldn't hesitate the next time, vowed to put away my cowardice. It was another lie.

Next time, I promised to Him, I'll be good, I'll be loving and warm to the world like I should, like You were—like You are. Next time…

But my time came to an end in that world. There was no next time.

Sometimes I wonder if He let me go because I was so useless.

It's not true, whispers a voice from the deepest recesses of my mind. Not true.

I haven't changed at all, I realize in this cold tower. I threw rocks, I threw fists. Blood under my nails. I glared at the people of Skyloft, silently seethed at them as if they were to blame for my unfathomable situation. I scorned their smiles, turned my back on their kindness. Kept my head down and ignored the tingling in my heart.

The people of Skyloft…they were the ones deserving of kindness and pity. Not the other way around. There I was, a girl who had lost her world, with the knowledge that they could very well lose theirs too…

It still wasn't enough to lower the mountain walls.

Though there was one person I did not turn a cold back to.

But he wasn't even human.

Everything may have seemed well and good in Skyloft, but the truth was…we were living on borrowed time.

Population dwindling, it didn't surprise me when the boys started fighting over the girls. Women were outnumbered by the men, and so were in high demand.

I knew from the game Zelda was fought over, knew Karane would be too. But I never expected I'd be involved.

I heard them talking, heard my name mentioned. Short round Cawlin and tall spindly Strich. They went out walking after school, passed by the outcropping I was napping on. Well, semi-napping. Their voices brought me from my reverie.

At that age where most boys start considering, they spoke of which girls they'd go after. Zelda was not mentioned, as their alpha, Groose, had already staked his claim. Who else was there then?

"Kina has a nice voice," came Strich's nasally tone. "But I kind of like Peatrice. Do you think she'll hold onto my bugs for me?"

"Enough about you!" I heard Cawlin stomp his foot. "What about ME?"

"Well…there's Karane. Or maybe Kya."

My eyes popped all the way open, brow coming down sharply. The heck did I just hear?

"No way!"

"But she is kind of pretty…"

"Yeah, pretty psycho! Now, Karane on the other hand…"

I scoffed, listening to those little screwballs, talking like if they wanted me, they could have me. Like I would just give myself over to their whim.

"Hey, numb-nuts!" I called down. Their attention snapped upwards. "All my love~!" I sang, right before I shoved a bunch of large rocks off the outcropping. I laughed as the tumbling earth rolled after the two boys, laughed harder at the dorky way they ran, all the way to the edge where they escaped the mini-land-slide via Loftwing.

I laughed and laughed—laughed until tears gathered at the corners of my eyes and I doubled over, clutching my middle. It may not have been all that funny—dangerous and unfunny, even—but I had to take my joys from somewhere. The she-wolf howled right along with me.

The land of Skyloft is considered sacred. Every rock, every patch of dirt, is vital to our survival. So there's no surprise laws exist about chucking bits of earth over the edge and into the cloudy abyss, never to be seen again. Laws I had broken for laughs. So, again, it was no surprise I ended up in Gaepora's office.

"It is very, very important to preserve what land we have, Kya. What were you thinking?"

Gaepora's disappointment had the habit of making me feel like the lowest piece of scum in existence. And the kind, gentle way he dished it out only made it worse.

I said nothing, kept my head down and shoulders hunched, as I usually did.

Harsher punishments existed, but he felt sorry for me, I guess. He confined me to my room with bookwork. As he usually did.

I swear I did most of it. But then the window called to me and, well, I had to fly.

Turk always took his sweet time, but he did come when called. Eventually. I just had to be persistent with the whistle.

We cut through the clouds, dived into the open blue, felt the cool wind between hair and feathers. I liked flying. It was the only time I felt partially free.

But on that day it wasn't quite enough, and I ended up doing something particularly risky. I wanted to fall.

Turk, perhaps sensing my stupidity, lazily turned towards Skyloft. Oh, he had protective instincts back then too, but they were so subtle I never realized. I thought he was being a jerk when, instead of letting me plummet to the clouds, he dove at Skyloft at an odd angle and sent me crashing into the side of Batreaux's house. I cursed at him as he flew away, leaving me on the underside of Skyloft, where the demon's secret house was built into the rocks.

I didn't even knock before I flung the door open.

And that's how I caught a brutal looking bat-like demon chest deep in a pink bubble bath. He squealed like a bat too.

"Oh, geez! Sorry! I'll come back later."

And I did. Now that I think about it, Batreaux was probably one of the only people on Skyloft I enjoyed talking to. And he didn't mind the company either. Tch, most likely 'cause it was the only company he got. Sad that it was from a rude little snarker like me.

Granted, I was trying to be polite. I sat up straight after he offered me a seat, chewed with my mouth closed and sipped quietly when he gave me a tin of biscuits and tea. That was the ewe's nudging.

But the she-wolf wouldn't stay quiet, and I asked a lot of questions, didn't think before I spoke.

"Do your wings ever get in the way? Those horns look really heavy—do you get neck aches? How'd you come to Skyloft—where're you from? Huh…? Surface? Oh, neat!"

He didn't seem to mind though, answered amicably about how, yes, sometimes his wings knocked things off shelves and his horns got caught in the chandelier once, but, no, his neck was fine, thank you for asking. He was good-natured and humored my stranger questions.

But then, one day, I asked a question that made him freeze.

"Do you know Ghirahim?"

He didn't speak, and I think he was trying to ignore the question, but I pressed until he answered. "Knew him, no. Knew of him, yes. But I try not to think back to those days."

A more socially savvy person would have gotten the hint and dropped the subject. But I've always been dense, stupid. Or just plain uncaring. But even I, inept as I was, had a nagging feeling I should stop. I ignored it.

"Ooo, what was he like? Has he always been an arrogant frilly dickwad?" I spoke as if I had met him at that point. And I had. But only through a video screen.

Batreaux seemed very focused on straightening the numerous portraits of himself, and I briefly wondered if all demons had vanity issues.

"…A better question," he finally said, "would be how you know that name."

"Oh, I know lots of things," I said, unperturbed. Batreaux didn't interact with the other townsfolk, so I saw no harm. "So, so, what was he like? What kind of things was he up to?" I plowed onward in spite of my host's clear discomfort for the topic. Because I was hungry to know of things I didn't know. Give me something new, give me something to be surprised at for once. Let me have something to marvel and wonder at.

"It's not for a child to know," Batreaux said quietly, keeping his back to me.

"I'm actually forty years old, believe it or not," I replied boldly, a hint of desperation leaking into my tone. I really wanted him to believe.

"…However that may be," he said, crooking a portrait only to straighten it again, "whether forty or fifty…still a child from a demon's perspective."

There was finality in that sentence, and I finally let the subject drop. Until next time. But he always closed off when I brought it up.

"You know, I come from a world illusioned in peace. The most prominent countries could incinerate everything to dust with just a few bombs dropped. Not the kind of bombs you're used to. Big ones. They could destroy this whole island—and it would be just the tip of the iceberg. I know of things, of history from that world, that could shock even you. Do you want to hear? We can trade stories."

"No, no, I do not want to hear!"

It was the first time Batreaux raised his voice to me. I sat in stunned silence.

"I—I'm sorry," he corrected gently. "But, no, I do not want to hear. And neither should you. Enjoy the good things in life, child, adult, whatever you may be. And do not focus so on destructive forces. Or you may become one."

I stayed away from him for a while after that. Mostly because of guilt. There I was thinking of myself, pushing when I knew he was flinching with…bad memories, most likely. When I eventually visited him again, he was thrilled to see me, was still willing to bring out the biscuits and tea. And then I felt even worse, for leaving him alone so long.

I gave him the only thing I could—gratitude. In the form of crystals to my utter surprise. They kinda just materialized in front of me and dropped to the floor. Batreaux nearly fainted with joy; it was a cluster of ten.

I offered to look for more for him, but told him not to expect much. I found a couple more after that, scattered in between blades of grass and rocks.

Geez, I haven't gone to see him in a long time. I visited him sporadically, without warning or word, but he always received me warmly, with tea and biscuits ready. And now that's just stopped.

I look out the tower window, up into the dense, dim clouds above.

Not exactly my fault though…

The tower door blows open, and in strides the very bane of Batreaux's comfort, a black sabre in hand, a wide, smug smile plastered on his face. And as I look at him, I have to wonder…

Just what it was about Ghirahim that Batreaux refused to speak of.

As Ghirahim walks into the tower I clench my hands, remember the blood under my nails, remember blood running down the dagger I held. Who am I becoming, that fear and rage and coldness are all that's left of me.

"Are you okay?" I blurt, because I never asked him before, because I didn't let myself care—didn't answer the stirring in my heart.

He lowers his brow and frowns, tilting his head in confusion. "What?"

I shuffle awkwardly. "The…the cymbal. It fell on you. I…never asked if you were all right."

He looks at me sharply, confusion not abating. "Of course I'm fine. Do you think I can be hurt so easily?"

The offense is in his tone and I quickly respond, "No, no, of course not. It's just…"

Understanding melts his glare. His words are sweet, crooning. "Why, little bird, have you been up here worrying over me?"

"No!" The mountains around my heart shoot back up. "It's just—just…" I lose steam, actually stop and think.

The image of the alter, of that dark wooden cross, hangs like a shadow in the back of my mind. Reminds me of all the promises I broke. Reminds me of a command I was given regarding my enemies.

I look at the demon before me, black blade still in his hand, waiting to be used. Bloodthirsty and cruel, malice is his middle name. The division in my heart has never been stronger. Have I let him influence me? Have I let his darkness leech off onto me when, as a child of the True God, it should've been me who shed light onto him? …No matter how fruitless of an endeavor that may seem.

The cross hangs heavy and foreboding. But He picked it up and carried it for me anyway…

I never meant to make You bleed…

I must pick up the cross now, if I am to survive. Fear and wrath are tearing me apart, and if I don't pull myself together…I don't want to think of what will happen. The wolf bares her teeth and the ewe baes frightened, but I make them both quiet. Quiet, and looking forward, together. Towards one goal.

Come together. One goal.

I'll be good, promised that girl from another life. I'll be loving and warm like You were, like You are.

A promise I broke again and again, but today—today the stirring in my heart is so strong it hurts. I'll tame the she-wolf; I'll rein in the fleeing ewe. I'll make it so the wolf protects the ewe, clears the path for her, to take the seeds of the green valley and sow them in desolate lands.

Love, love the world like You did, like You do.

I clench my hands, realizing, remembering…

A love that extends even to enemies.

I won't let myself turn an iron heart to Shii even if she is my warden. I won't risk her life like I did. I'll jump in front of the black blade just like I did for Bob the Bokoblin. Though I'll retain some sort of wall of wariness, because an enemy is still dangerous, it won't be like the iron mountains.

And Ghirahim…

I raise my eyes to meet his, unclasp my hands, and steady my voice that wants to tremble so badly. "Yes. You got me. I—my silly little self—was…" I lose courage, lower my eyes, reclasp my hands, pushing just to get that last word out. "…worried."

The silence is deafening, and I dare not chance a look at his face, all too sure I will find cruelness and mocking.

"Go ahead. Laugh." I say it quietly.

I wait for his derision. But no matter what he says, no matter what he does, I'll be a light. Even…even if only a small, flickering one. And even if it goes out again, if I break my promise—as I've done so many times—then I'll…I'll keep trying. I'll be a light. I'll make up for all the times I never was.

"Little bird…" he says, and he sounds alarmed.

I quickly realize why. I raise my hand and gawk at the white glow radiating off it. No, not just my hand. My whole body.

White light, white light…

That white light is…warm.

The same white light that stole into my vision when I fell from the sky. The same light that sent Turk airborne and pushed back Ghirahim. The same light that put out the fire of Scaldera.

"Hold out your hand." Ghirahim approaches me swiftly, but also with a caution I'm not used to seeing from him.

I do as he says, palm up. He mirrors the action, hand above mine, palm facing down. I startle as a mist-like darkness gathers in his hand, rises up like inky smoke. Dark purples and blacks evaporate the closer he moves to my hand. Closer, closer until his hand hovers just over mine. The white light seems to grow more solid the closer her gets, as if flaring in a silent dare.

It looks strange, his pure, white gloved hand in blackness, my splotchy, human flesh washed in an unearthly glow.

Ghirahim observes it with hard eyes, calculating, battling confusion.

"It's like no aura I've ever come across," he says so quietly I scarcely hear him.

Suddenly his eyes widen and he drops his hand the rest of the way, wraps his fingers around mine. The darkness envelops the white light, but does not extinguish it. It shines like a flashlight in the dead of night. Black shudders, whipping like a wind-battered flame. And then it dissipates. The white glow remains a few seconds longer, as if hanging on to make a point, before it, too, fades.

It is so quiet, I hear myself blink.

Ghirahim pulls me close, his other hand dropping the sabre with a clatter and gripping my chin, tilting my face left and right. His eyes are sharp and searching.

"Um." I squirm. "Um, uh…what?"

Ghirahim narrows his eyes. "Whatever it was…it's completely gone now."

I don't say anything, not sure what to say.

"Well," he says after a long moment, "never mind. I'll get to the bottom of that later. What did I come up here for?"

I glance at the sabre on the floor. "To see my pretty face?" I smile viciously. It is gone in an instant, replaced by a grimace. I'm not off to a good start on my promise.

Ghirahim regards me with amusement. And then he snaps his fingers, his eyes widening in realization. "Oh, that's right! I wanted to inform you something is being made for you. You won't be wearing"—his nose wrinkles in disgust—"that for much longer."

I clutch at my haphazardly tied together tunic. "But I like—"

He puts a finger to my lips. "No." His glare adds weight to the already heavy word. His lips quirk at the corners. "What you have on now just doesn't go with your new necklace, and we can't have that, can we?"

I simmer quietly, reminded of the sleek choker circling my neck.

Point made, he smiles, moves his finger to stroke under my chin. "But it will have to wait." His smile grows, shows the tips of white teeth, something dark and foreboding sparking in his eyes. "We have somewhere to be."

A/N: Over 8,000 words. I thought about splitting it, but no matter where I tried it, it seemed abrupt, so I kept it long. I hope it isn't too much.

I really liked writing Batreaux. And Kya comes to a potentially dangerous resolution.

This chapter was heavily inspired by the song 'I'll Be Good'.

The rating may go up to M next chapter. I've found that I've dropped the f-bomb four times in this story already (three were Kya, one was Link -_-) and...I'm not sure where the line between T and M stands on that.