A/N: Thank you Moon ninja Luna, autumn-lee-chan, Voidlash, Mokki Takashi, Meta-Akira, YingWhiteyWolf, Guest, Zorauza, Ambiguous Cake, Guest, Anthiese, Alter Ego Bob, Pineapple, Wingdings13, SarukoDark, Luna Latanya, and Guest for all your reviews.

I'm sorry I didn't get to respond to everyone. Please know your support means a lot to me.

Chapter 19

You're not a prisoner, you're a pet. A pet! A know-nothing pet!

I toss.

You do not know how he was. You cannot fathom how he is now.

I turn.

You cannot fathom…

"I didn't change anything," I mumble, curling in my sleep.

Shii's words won't leave me alone. My sleep is fitful, my stitched-together shoulder not the only thing plaguing me with discomfort. The red silk of these sheets should feel good, but all they do is remind me of whose bed I'm sleeping in. His room. His bed. Why am I in it?

An underling would not be recuperating in his bed…

I can't stay in it.

I struggle to sit up, pain racing down by back as fire does on oil tracks, and I flounder in tangled silk like a shaky newborn foal. But I don't stop fighting. Panic sets in. I shouldn't be in his bed. I shouldn't be getting such nice treatment. Things are happening that shouldn't be, and I don't know how to take them.

I roll out onto the floor and crawl from the entrapping sheet. The fluid silk drags out onto the stone, a monster with a red hand reaching for me. I want away from it.

The wound curled on my back screeches in pain. On hands and knees I shuffle to the foot of the bed, and then I can make it no further; it feels like my shoulder is splitting all over again. Regret over refusing the last offering of numbing potion fills me. There's no getting any now. Not this late. It is completely dark, save for the fire glowing in the stone indents along the walls, each flame no bigger than a stuttering candle. Shii and Essil have probably long gone to sleep. A part of me wants to cry out for them, as a sick child would in the depths of night. Shame keeps my mouth shut. I'm the one who turned the potion away. I thought it was making me see and hear and feel things that weren't there.

I thought. I was mistaken.

There are times when flashes of light hit me when I close my eyes. Voices are heard as if someone is speaking right next to me. When I look no one is there.

If the potion was causing it, surely it would have stopped by now.

Leaning up against the end of the bed, I am careful to keep my weight on my right. My sutures twinge and ping regardless. A grimace screws up my face and my breaths come shaky and shallow. I can feel sweat starting to gather in the most uncomfortable of places; under my arms and breasts, along my forehead and down my back. It cools on contact with the air, and I shiver. The stone tiles beneath me also seem to suck away warmth.

The dark creeps in from the corners of the room, hushing the candles' glow.

For a while it is quiet.

I wish it was just Shii's voice keeping me from sleep. I wish it were just remembered words and uneasy implications. But that's not all there is. There are other voices.

They're whispering now.

I throw my head left and right, greeted by nothing but dimly swaying shadows. Shivers morph into violent trembling, subsiding as quickly as they emerge. And then I am still, still and waiting for another bizarre occurrence. I don't know what's happening to me. Am I getting sick? Is it the pain?

…has not abandoned you.

I jolt upright, nearly crying out from the pain in my shoulder. I know that voice! Zelda's voice. That was Zelda's voice.

Tense and motionless, I listen. More whispers fall in the silence, all bundled and buzzing together. I can't make out anything they say. They are like the drone of voices found on the city streets, in a world far from this one.

I rest my head back on the foot of the bed, squeeze my eyes as tight as I can. Flashes of white. Noises in my head. Maybe I'm just remembering things too vividly. Yeah, that has to be it. That's all it is. I'm tired. I'm hurting. It's stress. That's all it—

A woman appears on the back of my eyelids, clear and profound.

My eyes snap open, stretched wide. What—who was that? My trembling comes back full force. My fingers slowly curl, nails scraping along the stone floor.

Uneasiness bleeds over into anger. I grit my teeth and close my eyes. Fine. Fine! Whatever's happening, let it happen.

As if responding, the flares of light return, popping like florescent bulbs. One reveals Zelda, smiling in her Skyloftian dress. Another flash shows her again, in that white flowing dress, mouth pulled by a weary frown. Another stab of blinding light, and I see the woman again. She has the same blue eyes and golden hair, wears the same white dress, the same shimmering bracelets and hair clasps. But she is different from Zelda. She seems tall as the sky. And there is something about her that just…isn't human. There is an ethereal glow about her, like the sun, and it sets her form in a golden blaze.

She is Hylia.

She stands in the blare of light, her mouth moving. I scrunch my brow, unable to hear anything. I hone in on her lips, but still, I can't make out a word.

No, wait…

"She…" is what her mouth forms.

She? She, what?

I push my concentration, and my head begins to ache for it. She seems to say more, but I cannot tell what.

And then just like that she's gone, leaving spots of color burning behind my eyes.

More voices pour in the void, some familiar, some not. For a moment I think I hear my father and my mother and my brother among them, distantly, like they are very far away. And getting further, and further…

Pressure builds in my closed eyes. Comeback, I want to say. Come back.

But I know they were never here. I hunch over, pressing my face into my knees, willing the pressure and the voices to go away. Go away, and just leave those that I know.

Hah, but they don't, of course. If anything, they seem to get louder. Louder, and louder, and—

A hand grips my uninjured shoulder. "Kya."

I inhale sharply and jerk upright, my eyes darting first to the pale hand grasping me, and then up to the tightly drawn face of Ghirahim. He is kneeled beside me.

"What are you doing out of bed?" Narrowing his dark eyes, he leans to look deeper into my face. "What is it? Your aura was fluctuating quite rapidly."

I say nothing, only stare in petrified silence.

His grip tightens a fraction. "Were you having a vision?"

My mouth opens and closes without the grace and purpose of Hylia's. Words spill out before my mind can catch them. "Just a bunch of dis-discombobulated shi—stuff."

He tilts his head oddly, hair falling over his left eye. "Of what?"

"Hylia." I squeeze my eyes shut and quickly try to reevaluate what I can and cannot share. "Just…Hylia."

"Did you see if there's any possible way we could get to the spirit maiden? Or…anything concerning my master?" Ghirahim speaks on baited breath, the hint of hope in his tone unmistakable.

I shake my head slowly so as to not upset my wound. "No."

There is a beat of silence, one which gives the impression he is waiting for me to change my answer. It is a silence which threatens to choke me, pushing in, pulling the air from my lungs.

It passes and Ghirahim leans back, his disappointed sigh brushing my cheek. "…Get back into bed, little bird."

I hunch closer to my knees, consciously tugging at my night gown so I am covered. "I can't."

His eyes sharpen. "And why ever not?"

Remembering Shii's words, I avert my eyes. "…Because it's yours," I say so quietly it barely constitutes a whisper.

"So? I'm not using it, am I?" He stands in one fluid movement. "Get back into the bed."

I shake my head.

I feel his black eyes boring into me. "That wasn't a request. I suggest you do as you're told. Now."

My fingers clench at the floor, hooking as if they were talons. "No, it hurts. Just—just leave me alone."

He bears down on me with a withering look of disapproval. "Perhaps it wouldn't hurt so much if you had stayed in bed. Well? You can't stay on the floor."

"Yes I can."

"Kya!" His face contorts with impatience. He lunges, yanking me by the arms. "Get into—"

My choking gasp cuts him short.

His hands jump off me like I've burned him, and then hover just above my skin, as if debating whether I'm safe to touch.

Neither of us moves for what seems like the longest time. We are both statues caught in a stilled frame, neither blinking, neither seeming to even breathe.

"…Must you be so foolish," he whispers, and the spell is broken.

He curves an arm beneath my thighs. His other arm rises under my right shoulder and steadies me. Despite the awkward hold, he lifts me like I am no more than air in his arms. He is cool against me, and I feel the subtle movement of muscle beneath smooth flesh as he carries me over to the bed. He lays me down where he is intent on having me, and then brings the sheet up, pulls it up over my shoulder, all with a gentleness I am not used to, one that is far too sincere.

He steps back, glaring. "And you'll stay there until… Stop chewing on your lip. Here, just…" He swipes his thumb over my lower lip. It comes away with a smudge of blood on it.

I stiffen. "S-sorry."

He stares at the stain, left on what I'm assuming to be a new glove. His face has gone oddly blank.

I wait in trepidation.

A shadow of rage comes over his face and for a moment I think he's going to scream at me, but then he snaps his fingers and is gone in an array of gold and red and magic chime.

I stare uncomprehendingly at where he stood.

Weariness robs me of my will to understand. I sink down into the luxurious pillows, still at odds on my position. But I stay, at least for now. The ache throbbing down my back doesn't stop, but the voices have. Ghirahim's presence must have chased them away; the blackest shadow to curtain the bombardment of popping lights.

I close my eyes and try my best to sleep. For a while I do, I think. For a while.

And then the drone of voices, like those on the sidewalk of a busy city street, kick back up. Among the skyscrapers and bustling people, there is one voice that does not belong. It belongs to a goddess in a girl's body. And she keeps whispering the same thing, over and over.

…you're still…connected…

My head swims and I don't understand it, so I close my eyes and try to ignore it.

But in the dark of my dreams I hear, and I see, all the sights and sounds of the Knowing Realm.

Eventually the noises stopped, and somewhere along the line of blurred consciousness nipped at by continuous ache, exhaustion finally managed to wash me away in its tide.

Which is why, of course, tonight of all nights, I am startled awake by a booming crack of thunder.

This place is always stormy, it seems. Sunlight is as rare as precious jewels. The weather mostly varies from dreary stillness to windblown rain. Grumbling thunder is no stranger either.

Tonight, however, the storm is worse than ever. It growls, and rumbles, hisses, and roars. It tears and claws outside of the castle, trying to get in. Rain pelts bullets, thunder shakes the walls, and lightning flashes its fangs through the windows.

I pull the sheet over my head, annoyance leaping into fear's place. Why couldn't it let me sleep?

My right arm tingles from having laid on it too long. I shift in the bed. Watery silk glides over my legs in a gentle caress.

It feels strange.

Right now I'd normally be huddled on wet stone, bracing against the wall as wind and rain howl through a glassless window.

How long had I been in the tower? How long had I slept on stone? How long had I shivered and huddled against the gusts blowing in from that glassless window? And now suddenly here I am, in a plush bed surrounded by finery, in a silky night gown, the storm thumping outside on barriers it can't hope to break, with warm food and clear water and medicine being brought to me in frequent intervals.

The first instance Essil delivered such a collection, I could hardly believe it. She set a silver tray over my lap and lifted the shining lid, revealing a steaming bowl of pheasant soup. A smaller bowl was set next to it, filled with freshly cut assorted fruits. Warm slices of bread were set to the other side, along with a glass of water and a vial of numbing potion, the likes of which was colored a sickly marsh green. Ignoring the foul medicine, I took in the elaborate display, of silver tray and utensils, of crystalline glass and decorated china.

I looked up at Essil with confused awe. "Why?"

A secret smile pulled along her snout, adding a serene sparkle to her normally nervous eyes. "Because my lord commands it," was all she said. And then she busied herself with fluffing pillows that really didn't need to be fluffed, made sure I was comfortable and sitting up straight, and then left me to my meal.

It was too surreal.

Even now, lying here in lightning pierced darkness, I can't get over it—can't get over any of this. He couldn't have commanded that. Why? It's not like him, him who forgot about my existence entirely the first few days he had me. Why care now? Why act like he cares? Because I pushed him out of the way of a sword he would have dodged anyhow?

That's right, I muse. I remember. Without the daze of blood loss or strange potions or even stranger voices, I can see it. I can see the scene as clearly as I saw it the first time on that silver screen. When Link came down with the Goddess Sword, Ghirahim would have leapt clear of it.

But he didn't.

Because I was there.

Because, in a moment of sheer panic, I reacted. I did not think.

I did it without thinking. Why? Loyalty, Shii said.

I curl tighter under the sheets. Peering out through a crack between the bed and the sheet, I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the many gold framed mirrors. My body, huddled on the very edge, is dwarfed by the huge bed; a tiny sparrow in a snake's den. Taken care of. Allowed to live. A pet. I glare at the reflection. It wasn't loyalty. I just didn't want him to die. Is that what constitutes as loyalty in the demon realm? Simple integrity?

And yet…

He has never known such loyalty, Shii said. They follow and obey him because he is strongest. If another came along who was stronger, they would follow that one. I grimace. What kind of devotion is that? Granted, he treats them lower than dirt, but… Is that how all demons are?

An image of Demise, of hellfire hair and black scales, flits through my mind.

Is that how…Ghirahim's loyalty works? If he could be convinced Demise was not the strongest, would he…?

I slap the notion down before it can fully form. Of course not. I've read his lines; I know how he speaks of his master. I've seen how he will bow when his master stands unsealed and free. He'll smile and welcome the demon king back like he's greeting a revered friend. There's nothing fickle in how Ghirahim regards Demise. His tenacity in securing his master's freedom is matched only by Link's drive to save Zelda from falling to a sacrificial fate.

Ghirahim could be convinced to abandon his master no more than Link could be persuaded to abandon Zelda.

A bitter sting of disappointment shudders through my heart. My feral smile cracks in the dark. Ha. Ha. ha. As if I actually had hope. How stupid. Love your enemy, but don't trust him, and definitely don't go thinking you can save him. Why would I even want to?

But then, when I think of how it all ends, when I think of a sword, shining and black and imposing in all its ferocity, shattering into a thousand tiny shards, that bitter disappointment resurfaces. It swells my heart and leaves behind a burn that won't abate. Angrily I rub at my chest, willing the confounded feeling away. How stupid. How stupid, stupid, stupid! As if there could be another outcome! Whatever. As long as Link wins and humanity is safe, I don't—

I don't want him to die.

—care. I squeeze my eyes shut, cursing my admission for turning around and biting me in the butt. A dangerous admission, growls the she-wolf. Dangerous, echoes the ewe. Oh good. At least they both agree on that.

A squealing peel of thunder shakes the night once more, lightning searing to the backs of my eyes.

"Sonofabitch!" My scream is swallowed by the after-rumbles of the storm. I sit up, stiff as a board, huffing rapidly through my nose.

I sit listening to the clamor outside the windows, feeling my heart count the seconds between every blinding blast.

With sleep out of reach, I throw my legs over the side of the bed and clench my teeth against the pain streaking down my back. I walk on despite it, remove myself from expensive silks and elegant furnishings. I'm not accustomed to such things. I didn't have them even in my Knowing Realm days. I had a job and paid my own way. Not in housing—I didn't want to be by myself—but in things. On minimum wage, I could afford plush synthetics and cheap imitations. Real velvet, satin, and silk were out of bounds. But I didn't care. I bought my own food, my own clothes, my own bedding and necessities.

Even still, my mother would throw down pamphlets to different colleges in front of me.

"Your brother's getting his future together," she'd say briskly, before her heels clicked to the door, keys jangling in her hand, her tailored dress suit crisp and clean. "It's past time you got your act together too. Pick one." And then she was out the door. Gone. As always.

I never did pick one. I barely skimmed those pamphlets, all telling of schools that led down paths to all the dreams I didn't want. I didn't want to be a doctor. I didn't want to be a lawyer. I didn't want to get involved with corporate. Or anything else. What I wanted was so much simpler.

Simple, but never attained.

You're never home. The halls are empty. The rooms are empty.

The thunderstorm growls in discontent. I stop in the space between the bed and the door. Lightning reduces the shadows of the bed's thick hanging drapes to pinstripes. Rain roars against the stained-glass windows, wishing it could go in with the light.

I grind my teeth. How annoying. Thunderstorms used to comfort me in the Knowing Realm. I'd sleep through those storms like a baby; they were like lullabies back then. But years on Skyloft, where anything but perfect weather is rare, has sensitized me beyond discomfort.

Another clap of thunder spurs me the rest of the way to the door. I hurry out into the short hall and turn into the main room, where the glow of hearth fire pushes back the battle between lightning and shadow.

I come to an abrupt halt.

There is the demon, silhouetted against the maw of bright flames. How could I forget? He's sitting on the sofa with another—or maybe the same—book in his lap. Just like before. Unlike before, he's not idly combing through words with one hand on the page. This time Ghirahim sits with his spine curved, his face in his hands, fingers curled and ridged, digging into his skin, sliding up into his hair.

Dark utterances find their way to me. It doesn't sound like any language I know.

I go to take a step back, feeling I've intruded on a sensitive moment. Reconsidering, I take a hesitant step forward instead, unblinking, or else I'll think I've imagined this.

Another step closer. Another. I catch wisps of that dark, heavy tongue. Another step and—

My foot hits a book, knocks it down the few stairs lending into the slight indentation where the couches are. It lands with a smack.

Ghirahim vaults upright, hair disarrayed from his fingers, wild eyes locking onto mine, petrifying me in their dark stare. He keeps me trapped, keeps us both trapped.

My heart pounds on my ribcage, counting the beats.

He leans back into the sofa, smoothing his hair and a crinkled page. He doesn't take his eyes off me.

"…What are you doing out of bed, little bird?" He enunciates carefully, but it is not enough to hide the strangled edge in his voice.

I don't move, and I don't answer. I'm still caught in his gaze.

A dangerous gleam enters his eyes. "I asked you a question; I expect to be answered." The hushed way he speaks is like the drawn out hiss of a snake, more penetrating than any scream.

If he is the snake, then what am I? I cannot break free.

He rises, the book falling from his lap. A swift kick of his heel sends it flying backwards into the fire. It bursts off the stone inlay, pages coming unbound, spilling out, only to be curled and blackened by ravenous flames. It pops and hisses and flares purplish. Ghirahim doesn't look back at it, refuses to break contact with me. He stalks towards me, pinning me with his glare.

Now would be a good time to move. Legs? A quiver runs their length, but no more than that.

Ghirahim puts his foot on the first step. "For days I've searched, book after book, page after page, hour after hour—"

The second step. His height gains.

"—looking for something, anything, that will help me revive my master."

The third step and he already towers above me.

"And now, here, my prophetess, my one and only tangible lead, is flouncing around"—he reaches final ground, bending over to look me right in the eye, his voice dropping into a rasping hiss—"trying to tear open the wound that nearly killed her."

I take short breaths. My eyes are wide, but not even the she-wolf can bring forth her fanged smile. Prophetess, my mind echoes. Yes. That's right. Of course. That's why he's taking such pains. That's why I'm being treated so well. A dead prophet can't talk. That's the only reason—

He takes my face in his hands. "I'll ask you once more, my little darling. My sweet little darling. What. Are you doing. Out of bed?"

My lips part, but no sound comes out. His black eyes swallow mine.

A shriek of thunder rockets through the night.

My own shriek shoots off to join it. "Jesus Lawd, save me!"

Ghirahim's hands fly off my face, float on either side of my head. "What are you—? What did you say?"

"N-nothing." Out of the trance, I stagger three steps back. No way am I explaining that English phrase to him. As a demon he should know it, know Who to fear.

…But he doesn't bat an eye beyond his initial start, and I'm left wondering what kind of demon he is.

Ghirahim covers my strides with a single of his, reclaiming the space directly in front of me. "You'll tell me what you said. Now."

"It—it was just…! A nervous exclamation, okay? Ack!" I jump at another thunderous boom.

His incredulous expression shifts into one of dawning comprehension. "Are you afraid of thunder? Really?"

"No!" I snap. "No, I'm just—! It's loud, okay? It's loud and it startles me, that doesn't mean I'm scared."

His brows lower over an unimpressed glare. "Must I coddle you like a little baby?"

"What? No! I'm just startled," I continue. "You know, like most random loud noises tend to do to people? Tch. That doesn't equate to fear."

He sighs resignedly. "Mm-hm. Certainly. Come this way, my darling."

And just like that he's back down the steps and on the lounge with another book.

I blink once. I blink twice. Where did his rage just go?

He opens the new book, flips through a bunch of pages, and then looks up at me. "What are you doing still over there?" He holds out a hand. "Come here."

After what just happened, I don't dare refuse. I skitter down the steps and cross to him, hesitating only when I see he actually expects met to take his hand. When I do, he eases me down beside him.

"Turn around." He makes a spinning motion with his finger. "I want to see it."

I give him my back, feel as he brushes my hair aside and slips my gown's strap from my shoulder. He peels back the wrappings and his fingertips glide down the train track sutures.

While he scrutinizes my wound, I glance around the room. A tea table of glass and rosewood sits in the space between the couches, its transparent surface covered with books. There are even more books scattered about than the last time I was in here. Stacks of them lean against the walls, the couches, towers of them rise from the floor, and there's an unraveled scroll spanning like a carpet down the steps. I squint at the squiggles written across its length.

Ghirahim makes a dissatisfied noise in his throat. "I'm far more attuned to slicing flesh apart, not mending it together."

My eyebrows perk up. Funny, that almost sounded like he was admitting to imperfection.

His breath tickles my skin. "Now I've read somewhere that humans are prone to infection…"

"If it was infected, it'd be super red with puss and I'd have a fever."

He pinches the back of my neck. "I'm not some ignorant bumpkin, Kya. I know what infection looks like. Which is why I know we can't be too careful, hmm? You'll be a good girl and rest from now on." There is a sharp edge in his tone, rebuffing negotiation.

I stare off at the far wall, too tired to argue. I let him touch, and I let him fuss, all the while reminding myself he's only doing it because, unlike these other tomes, I'm the book he can't replace. I'm the bird parroting knowledge guised as prophecies learned from a life ago.

Nothing more.

And as the demon's hands slowly run down my arms, as he presses his face into the crook between my neck and shoulder, lips resting there in an approximation of a kiss, those words echo in my head.

Nothing more. It's a trick. Nothing more. It's just a trick.

I force my breathing to remain even. "Master…?"

He hums, pulls away, runs his palms back up my arms. "Lie down."

I don't think I heard right. "What?"

A yellow glow suddenly encases me. I gasp and sputter as a strange force lifts me up and twirls me until I am lying on my right side, my head resting on something firm and smooth. Realization is quick to strike. Telekinesis. His thigh. Shock and the spell keep me from springing off. Ghirahim twists his wrist slightly to the right, and the glow surrounding my body mimics the movement, situating me just as he wants, before it fades.

And then I lay there, eyes wide, mouth pressed in a thin line. My head is on his thigh, my nose facing his hip. And it's too close, it's far too close.

His fingers thread into my hair before I can move. He keeps them there, like he knows, if given the chance, I'd escape. I glance up into his face. He gives me a smug little smile, and then casually turns his attention back to his book, which he moved up to the arm of the couch.

My brain labors away, trying to make sense of the situation. I stare at his hip, at the golden sash and red jewel. My nose is a little too close, I think I'll just wiggle down, and maybe off, his thigh.

His fingers start kneading. A warning.

I can't take it. "Okay, Master, this is weird. Can I just—"

"Hush," he says softly. "You're the one who wouldn't stay in bed. Now lie still and go to sleep."

I don't think he realizes the impossibility of that command. Between the wailing wind, cracking thunder, and…him…there's no way the tension will leave my body, or my mind. But I lie there anyway. Because I have to, apparently.

Thunder and lightning crash into the room, ramming the darkness through the walls. It retreats, and darkness reclaims ground.

I jolt in Ghirahim's grasp.

Black eyes flicker to me, then back to the book. "Storms of this magnitude happen every once in a while. There's no reason to be alarmed."

"I'm not…" But then I don't bother.

The hearth crackles and snaps; a log falls lower into the flames. I lose count of the seconds that pass by. The occasional flip of paper chimes in with fire and thunder. His fingers drift softly through my hair, getting caught in knots so many times that he gives up and transfers the attention to the downy hair at the nape of my neck, lightly scratching, twirling the thin strands around his fingers.

Annoyance sparks in me. What am I? A cat to be petted?

But after a while that annoyance retreats, and I begin to realize how tired I really am. The storm clouds move away; I can hear their growls recede, and it isn't long after that that my eyelids start to droop. I shouldn't…I shouldn't be relaxing, I… This is too weird. Why is he doing this? This—this goes beyond what is necessary. He's messing with me, he has to be.

I glance at him through hazy eyes, but that little smirk from earlier is gone. In its place is a faraway look. His eyes are on the pages, but he's not reading. There's that same gleam in his eye, the one I thought I saw before. It is despondence, a look of downcast hope. I've seen that look before. On me. When I'm thinking of everything that I've lost. And to see it on him is just…too strange.

But that's to be expected, I guess. The Gate of Time had been destroyed, and he doesn't know about the second one yet. He thinks the spirit maiden—and the only sure way to bring back his master—is beyond his reach.

Now here he is, pouring over dusty and heavy tomes, searching for a solution he's never going to find.

And yet…he still looks.

I open my eyes a little wider, but am careful not to move, am careful not to draw him out of his reverie. He's never known such loyalty? Yes he has. How else would he recognize it? Has he not given it to his master every day of his life?

He's given it.

He's just never received it.

He comes from his daze, catches me staring. "…Why are your eyes still open, little bird?"

"How long have yours been open?" I ask hesitantly, wondering.

He doesn't say anything at first. He just looks at me, that crestfallen air still about him. And then, "It doesn't matter. I don't need sleep like you do." His expression sharpens, as does his tone. "Close your eyes." And then, softer, "Dream a vision. Find me a way."

A part of me twists in agony—the part of me that dared to hope even a little. He'll never stop serving his master. There will never be another solution. Just death, of one side or the other. And it can't be Link. It can't be humanity that perishes.

So I close my eyes and pretend.

But later, as he still strokes my hair, as he reads with firelight sparkling in his blue diamond earring, I peer up at him, and I hear an echo from deep inside me.

I don't want…him to die.

A/N: It felt like every time I sat down to work on this, someone was knocking at my door needing me to do something. "Sorry I'm late," should be my catchphrase.