A/N: I've been stuck in a rut.

Thank you autumn-lee-chan, Meta-Akira, Moon ninja Luna, PokemonTrainer4700, Mokki Takashi, Luna Latanya, SarukoDark, Bluebadger (I'm happy to hear that! ^_^ Maybe he is~! No one really knows with the demon lord.), Ambiguous Cake, Guest (I'm sorry~! T_T There's no concrete schedule, but I'll try to update more often. I can't make any promises. Keep checking back every now and then, though. Sometimes I surprise.), AttackOnDatBooty (Thank you! I will.), Voidlash (Hoo, you can say that again. Life, indeed.), MoonlightDovakiin (I'm very glad you like it! ^_^ I'll continue to do my best.), and ForEVER n EVERs (Rest assured I have not given up and am not going to give up. Things just get in the way. Thank you for the encouragement!) for your reviews on the last chapter.

Just keep swimmin', just keep swimmin'...

Chapter 20

I wake the next morning to stone grinding and wood creaking, to quaking walls and reverberating floors.

I leap off the couch and dive under the nearest table, punching my head and back into the underside in the process. My thoughts fire rapidly. Earthquake?! What do I do, what do I do?!

But it stops as suddenly as it started, subsiding first to little tremors and then to nothing at all. I crawl out from the table and stand uncertainly on my feet, having little trust for what I thought to be crumbling mere seconds ago.

"Uh…" I hold my arms up by my sides, like a chicken doubtfully stretching out its wings, wondering if it could miraculously fly if it came down to it.

And then it happens again.

Each individual stone tile seems to shiver beneath the pads of my bare feet, not as strongly as what woke me, but moving all the same.

"Okay, seriously?!" I squeak, head whipping to look around. "Shii? Essil? Master?!" And then, uncertainly: "…Bob?"

There are no replies but the dust hissing from the vaulted ceiling, pilfering downward like some ominous dark glitter. The tremoring, meanwhile, subsides unevenly. It lessens and lessens until it is coming from only one side of the great room. Sounds of scuffling and scraping, like heavy furniture being moved, come from behind one door…that I'm sure wasn't there before.

I start towards it, curiosity prevailing over caution. Knowing just what Nikki would say, I can practically hear her now: "Oh, yes, do the whitest thing you can do. Go investigate that scary sound. Honestly, have you ever watched a horror movie?"

And then I'd point out that she was creeping behind me, also intent on investigating, to which she would demand I shut up and pay attention to what's ahead of me.

The door comes into focus. With a trembling hand I reach out towards it.

Only to have the thing shoot open. It slams me in the face and knocks me down.

Ghirahim stands in the doorway, hand on the knob. "Darling, come here and… What are you doing on the floor?"

"Polishing the stone with my butt!" I snap sarcastically, face contorted in pain.

Ghirahim pricks me with an unamused glare. "Pick yourself up and come in here." He pauses, glancing down. "…And close your legs."

I clap my knees together and furiously tug at the gown, the heat of embarrassment adding to the ache in my face. But Ghirahim has already turned away in a regal swirl of his red cape and moved into the room. After staggering to my feet, I follow after him.

As soon as I get through the threshold, I freeze. "What…is this?"

Before me lies a room of gentle splendor. Two bell-shaped stained-glass windows, glowing with the hazy light of another cloudy day, immediately catch my attention. They sit side by side, a small gap of stone between them, both spanning about ten feet long and wide. The blue, green, and yellow shapes of the glass seem to create an abstract picture of flower petals scattering off their stems in the wind of a clear blue day. To the left of the windows lies a large square bed, its sheets a warm cream color and its thick coverlet subtly embroidered with glossy thread. A canopy of layered navy velvet trimmed with gold hangs above, supported by towering bedposts carved with rhombus indents. A crimson rug stretches at the bed's end from the door to the windows, lending the cold stone tiled floor a semblance of warmth.

Ghirahim, standing in the center of said room, the colored glass of the windows shining behind him, tilts his head and lifts his arms as if gesturing to the entire area. "I would think it obvious. It's your new room, since you are so adamant about not staying in mine."

My mouth works, but no words come out. "I, uh…" For a moment I think to ask why. Why would you do this? Why am I not back in the tower? But the ewe and the wolf kick and claw those questions away, and together they glare, telling me not to shove this…thing we have going on…off the edge it's teetering dangerously on. But what that 'thing' is, I'm not sure, and only more questions arise.

Ghirahim looks at me curiously, his head still tilted, his arms slowly lowering. "You'll find spare clothes in the armoire"—he flicks a hand in its direction—"and other necessities lying about."

When he doesn't continue, I get an overwhelming feeling that that's my que to speak. Say something, say something—quick! the ewe screams from under the sudden lump in my throat. "Th-thank you," I finally manage to croak out.

The barest hint of a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. "It's not as glorious as it could be, but with the spells and time allotted…I suppose it will do." He scans my flustered self, complete with disheveled hair and crumpled gown, up and down with a judgmental eye. "For you."

His slight jab does not fully register. But, in fact, I'm not even sure if it was a jab. "Yes. Thank you," I echo tentatively. "You…didn't have to."

He scoffs, flicks his eyes to the mildly sloped ceiling. "Oh, I know that, you little idiot."

My shoulders relax at the insult. Now that's more like him.

"But I wanted to. And we can't exactly have you sleeping on the couch every night now, can we?"

And just like that my tension returns. And stays. For the first time since I woke up, I notice my shoulder throbbing, creeping vines of hurt traveling from the slash wound and outward through my back. I hunch awkwardly.

Ghirahim is in front of me before I know it, traversing the space between us in the blink of an eye. "Let me see it," he demands quietly, and I must oblige, because he's already at my back and tugging at the bandages. "Relax. Put your shoulders down."

I do my best to do so, but it's hard. Not just because of the pain, but because I'm not used to him acting like this, and I can't keep from thinking that it's all some elaborate prank. The curtain's gonna rise any second, they're all going to point and laugh at me. I'm going to be thrown back in the tower.

He peels the gauze away, for a while says nothing. Then he hisses, "What did you do?"

"What?" I jerk my head to look over my shoulder.

He grabs the back of my head. "Don't move. What did you do?"

"I—I, um…" I scramble for anything that he could be talking about. "Uh, the table. I dove under the table near the couch."

"Why would you do something so stupid?" I feel him blotting the sutures with the gauze.

"Um, because the castle was shaking?" I stop myself from taking on an irritable tone.

"That was merely the spells I used to—"

"Yeah, well, I know that now, thank—eep!" I break off in a squeak as his fingers pinch into the back of my neck.

"Don't interrupt me," he says lowly.

I keep quiet while he continues to sponge at my wound. The wetness can be felt overtop the hot pain now, and I know I am bleeding, but cannot say how badly. And I don't ask him, either, for fear of riling him further.

The silence lags and I grow restless. My legs begin prickling, muscles aching in demand for movement as they usually do when I must stand still. I ignore their plea. But despite my intent to keep from annoying him, I accomplish it. Rather, my hair accomplishes it. He swats the wayward strands from the wound and the wispy tendrils float right back to where they were shooed from.

I can practically hear his teeth grind together. "Have you ever taken a brush to this rat's nest? Or are you content to live like a sloven savage?"

"…I can't seem to remember having a comb in the tower, Master." My words are soft and contemplating, as I truly stop to think about the tower and all that was afforded to me in its cold, damp space.

The sponging of my wound stops abruptly. It restarts slowly. He dabs the weeping sutures a few more times and then carefully presses the bandages back into place. He says nothing, and he seems lost in thought when he wanders over to a vanity desk made of the same richly colored rosewood as the rest of the furniture. He fingers the objects lying on the polished surface, among them being a silver backed comb and brush.

"You'll find these for your using," he says softly, and there's something in his voice that strikes me. He won't look at me but if I didn't know any better I'd say he sounds almost…apologetic.

But I do know better. So it can't be.

"Okay," I respond plainly, still not sure how to take all this. "Thank you," I tag on for caution's sake.

His gaze finds its way back to my shoulder and just like that the fleeting softness is gone, replaced by a sharp glare. "And I expect you to use them. I won't have you looking like a lost mutt any longer."

I give him a flat look. "Yes, Master." Another door over his shoulder catches my eye. "What's that?"

He follows my stare. "For emergencies," he replies curtly. "You control the lock."

I don't understand. I open my mouth to question further but he speaks before I can.

"Did you not hear what I said before that? Brush your hair!" He huffs and a snowy strand of hair falls out of place. He puts a hand to his head. "Oh, never mind, lie down! Well? Don't just stand there—DO IT!"

His outburst has me scrambling to do so. My bumbling feet nearly send me to the floor but I am saved by my outstretched arms catching the cushy bed. At his hissed "careful!" I gingerly ease onto my right uninjured side.

He fixes his hair, and for a moment I could have sworn the fingers slipping that errant strand back into place were shaking. "I must resume my search for a solution to our…dilemma…with the Gate of Time. I'll…send Shii in to change your dressings. Don't do anything strenuous"—his voice turns nasty—"and that means no diving under tables!"

I nod mutely.

He rests his hand on the doorknob. "Good. Goodnight." His eyes flicker to the sunlight in the windows. "Day."

The door opens and slams behind him.

I lie there in the quiet.

What. The heck. Was that?

What was that? He was shaking. He was stumbling over his words. That thing I said about the tower couldn't have affected him that much, could it? Why would it affect him at all? No, it must have been something else. I turn over the possibilities in my head.

I raise my head from the pillow. "When was the last time you… Oh. You left. Right." I settle back down. Apparently he's not the only one out of sorts, I think dryly.

When was the last time you slept? I wanted to ask. The question pesters me continuously, nagging to be spoken. It nearly drives me up to do so.

And then I hear him yelling through the walls. The solid stone walls. They muffle enough so there is no coherency, but the harshness of his tone is conveyed all the same.

Shii comes in not a second later and I know by the panic flittering behind her yellow eyes that it was her Ghirahim had raised his voice to. "I apologize," she says stiffly, standing as tall as a solider with her back to the door. "More red potion will be made, but for now I have this…" She holds up a small jar, pale green paste dotted with a darker substance showing through the clear glass. "Essil made it."

I learn the mixture was created from various healing herbs. The little dots turn out to be leaves and the smell of it is both pungent and sweet. It tingles when Shii smears it onto my shoulder wound and continues to do so after she has carefully wrapped fresh bandages. It dulls the pain.

I'm led back to bed but I don't sleep. I'm awake when Essil comes knocking with food. Awkwardly I let her take care of me again, let her set the tray over my lap and fluff the pillows. But inside I'm writhing. I'm not used to this.

"You don't have to fuss over me," I say.

Essil blinks at me curiously. "But if I want to fuss?"

I draw back and twist my lips in disbelief.

She smiles. "You are a strange human."

"And you're a weird…" I almost say lizard but then think better of it. "…Lizalfos."

Her closed lip smile spans further, her orangish amber eyes crinkling at the corners. "You will be good for us, very good," she mutters. I don't think I was meant to hear because she turns away and is gone before I can ask what she meant.

These lizards seem to have something in their heads that I don't.

As for me, there's still that one question. When was the last time you slept? Like, really, peacefully slept?

I start to wonder who it is I'm asking. Me or Ghirahim?

There's a cheval mirror by the far wall, held up on a frame of gold studded with diamonds. I stare down the length of the bed, moving my feet so I can see it better. It stares back, the little figure in its glass mimicking my movement. The vanity mirror is adjacent to that, to my right, set against the wall between the door to the living area and the mystery door.

Speaking of which, I had ventured to see what lied beyond that door. The dark heavy wood had opened up into a tunnel of square-stacked stone. To the left was a solid wall—dead end. To the right was a never-ending passageway lined with cobwebs and darkness. A servant tunnel? Old manors in the Knowing Realm had such passageways. I left it unexplored, and instead ventured to the other wooden door right across from mine. It led into Ghirahim's room, where more mirrors greeted me with the sight of my own face. I quickly backed out of there.

For emergencies he said. Was he talking about the tunnel or his room? What kind of emergencies did he have in mind? Why the heck would I need to go over into his room? In case I have a nightmare? Hah! Now there's a thought.

You control the lock. A small comfort when he can just as easily teleport in here, but a comfort it is and it lessens the uneasiness rolling around in my gut. That's as close as I'm going to get to an admission of respect. He won't enter without permission. He's truly given me my own space.

And yet…

The mirrors stare at me. Their reflective surfaces remind me where I am, a small plain figure in a moderate but lavish room. The polished rosewood of the furniture shines, the gold and diamond and silver trimmings glitter, and even the dark velvet of the canopy bed has its own sheen. And then there's me. A brown hen with dull feathers wrapped in shimmery falsities. At least in the tower I knew my position.

I'm still waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under me.

And wait I do.

I wait.

And wait.

He told me to lie still and rest, but my muscles ache for stimulation. I take to passing the time looking through all my (should I even call them mine?) new things. There are the brushes and combs, of course, on the vanity along with vials and jars of pastes and powders. Make-up, I think. Ghirahim has to know I'll never wear it. I mean, do I look like the type that does? We'll be lucky if I get around to using just the comb. I avoid mirrors for a reason, and not just because they remind me of the face I lost. I just don't care enough to take care of what I have.

After inspecting the vanity I open the armoire he had pointed out and find it filled with different sleeping gowns, all made of the same silky lightweight texture, in varying colors. I wonder where he got them from. I suppose it doesn't matter. More importantly, I have yet to find a pair of underwear.

Shut up, I tell myself. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. You have food and clothes and you're out of the cold wind—shut up. Do you want to make him angry? Don't dare ask for more.

I turn around and look at the bed with a contrary frown. I know he told me to lie down. I know he's acting strangely and for that I should want to obey faster for fear of his rage, but…

The hazy daylight has all but faded from the windows, the stained glass dull compared to what it was this morning. Even a lazy person has their limits. I've laid down long enough.

With shoulder wound tingling still, I wander back out into the living area.

I'm getting used to seeing him on that couch, more used to seeing all those dusty books. Why does it feel like I've been in this part of the castle much longer than I have?

I take one look at him and know it's not good. He's hunched over, rubbing at his eyes, mumbling to himself. A heavy-set tome lays open and waiting on the tea table in front of him.

He's so out of it he doesn't notice my approach.

"Master," I begin gently, because startling him would surely earn me a dagger between the eyes.

He jumps anyway, instantly straightening his back and glaring at me with all he can muster—which is a lot coming from that black gaze. "What!" he snaps. His eyes narrow. "What are you doing up? Can you not do as I say for five minutes?"

I stand with a displaced sense of calmness, something I shouldn't be feeling in his presence, especially as he is now. "It's been all day."

"Has it?" He slumps back into the sofa, looking weary and dazed. He glances at a small cedar-carved clock sitting above the mantel piece. "…So it has."

My eyes roam over the books scattered about. "How long have you…?" I clear my throat, try again. "Um…any luck?"

"Luck?" His voice rises once more, glare reemerging. He flings an arm to all the paper surrounding him. "Does it look like I've had any luck?"

My brows come down. "Uh-huh. You need to…"

His black eyes cut to me, piercing.

I go quiet, rein myself in. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don't go telling him anything. Don't forget who you're dealing with. You can't go making demands. Now suggestions on the other hand…

"Maybe…" I lightly clear my throat. "Perhaps if you rested your eyes you might—"

"I haven't the time!" He yanks the entire tea table towards him and bends over it instead of, you know, just pulling the book closer. The wood creaks in his grip. "I must find a way—there has to be a way."

My expression hardens, cementing my frown into place. "You're a demon. You have all the time in the world." Finally I ask the question I've wanted to ask: "When was the last time you slept?"

Ghirahim waves a hand like he's shooing an annoying fly from his ear. "Doesn't matter. I told you I don't need sleep."

"You've got a pretty big bed for someone who doesn't sleep," I say prickly. Just as quickly I bite my tongue. I shuffle forward, cautious. "You might see something you wouldn't have if you gave your eyes a rest."

His glare finds me, glinting coldly. He holds me with his eyes, eyes that are so obviously strained.

"Just one hour," I persist. "Just close your eyes for one hour."

He doesn't budge.

Irritation leaks through in spite of my self-given warnings. "One measly hour, Master. Your master will still be waiting for you, it's not like he's going anywhe—"

The table flips in an uproar of paper and leather-bound spines. It crashes against the neighboring sofa. The cling! of his teleportation singes the air and then he's standing in front of me, roughly cupping my face in his hands.

Daggers appear in zings of diamond fractals, circling us, their tips glowing a wrathful red.

I stand frozen, staring into the face of a beast of rage, so immobilized that not even my expression moves save for my widened eyes.

"Don't you dare speak of him," he hisses, his prominent canines bared. "My master has waited centuries to be free. I will not stand to have him wait any longer than he must. And you! You little wretch! Speaking as if you know! If you were anyone else…" The black fire in his glare flares. His fingers curl into my cheeks like claws, his fangs wielded and ready to tear my throat out. He leans in, our noses nearly touching. "You'd be dead."

From the corner of my eye I see the daggers flash.

My pulse thrums against his hands. Both the she-wolf and ewe scream for release. Only the wolf's hackles are shown. "So what?" I spit the words. Then, quickly, at behest of the ewe I throw out, "She's in the same boat."

His glimmer of confusion stalls the flames. The daggers suspended in the air stop their circling.

Before he can rip my face off, I continue, "Zelda's not going anywhere. The spirit maiden," I clarify, because he likely doesn't remember her name.

He blinks slowly, as if allowing his thoughts to catch up to his ire. He leans back from me, letting me breathe again, but does not let go. "The spirit maiden…" Slowly his grip eases. "Kya. You're…" He blinks rapidly and sways ever so slightly. The black fire extinguishes. He refocuses on me. "You're bleeding."

The daggers fall to the floor, clattering and then disappearing in little fractal blasts.

I feel a warm bead of blood forming on one of the crimson crescents his nails have created.

He rubs at them with his thumbs.

I don't look away from his glazed eyes, barely focused on what he's doing. "One—one hour." My voice shakes. "It'll help you see better. More cost-effective in the end."

"You think you know everything," he mutters, his thumbs stilling.

"No," I argue. "It's just what I figure."

"…And what was that you said about the spirit maiden?" Again his thumbs stroke, one brushing just below my eye. It stops at the corner of my cheek. He presses it there firmly, over the skin he had pierced.

I don't see any harm in telling him. "She's stuck. On the other side of the Gate of Time. She can't go anywhere, so it's not like she can get away."

His stare loses some of its tired glaze. "And how do you conclude that?"

"I don't conclude. I just know."

His eyes sharpen fully. "What did you see? You better not be keeping anything from me, little bird."

I scrunch my nose. "I'm not! I just—bits and pieces. She's stuck, all right? That's what I know. She'll still be where she is now no matter what, is the point. You can lay down for a little bit. Seriously. Y-you're stressing yourself out."

His gaze narrows. "You wouldn't be saying this to protect her by any chance, would you?"

"I don't need to protect her," I shoot back unthinkingly. "She has her champion. It's you I…er, I mean…" I catch myself. "J-just go lay down for a while! I'll keep looking for a way if it makes you feel better." I pull away from him and snatch up a book to make my point.

"You're quite insistent." He looks at me for what seems like a long time. Then, quietly, "Are you worried about me, Kya?"

Pride grits my teeth. "You won't make me say it." But by saying that, I practically had.

His eyelids lower to half-mast. "…One hour, then." And then he has me between his hands again. He leans down and kisses my cheek. He brushes past me, the scent of winter lingering like his fingers did, gently cupping my face. He stops before the hall leading to his room. "And Kya?"

I turn my head ever so slightly, just to show I'm listening.

"You will never refer to my master with any trace of disrespect again, in your tone or otherwise."

My heart pounds. I nod.

His room's metal doorknob whines in his tightening grasp. "Say it."

"Yes, Master."

After his door clicks shut I right the table and reorganize the scattered books and pages, going about business like that didn't just happen. Because it couldn't have.

I mean, the outburst totally happened and I should've seen it coming. His master. Touchy subject. Don't mention again.

But…

He's pressed his lips to my temple before in a blank imitation of a kiss, and that's all. He's never applied anything more, never given the pleasant pressure of a real kiss, or left behind the tender sound of lips parting from flesh.

Except just now, my brain supplies. I shush it. Don't think that way about him, I tell it. Loving your enemy doesn't include kissing! It was nothing—it didn't happen. Shush. He almost stabbed you.

I push my thoughts onto other things. I think of the way he was swaying, of how he was mumbling and blinking as if to clear his head. Sleeplessness had him acting like an angry drunk. I don't have good experiences with drunks, and I wonder how I had managed to get away with only scratches on my face.

Frickin' Uncle Lewis would have hauled off and cracked me across the jaw, I think as I sit down to peruse the first book. Uncle Lewis was always an angry man and when he drank he lost all inhibition of keeping that anger in check. Poor Aunt Pitty.

Blankly I stare at the first page of the book I picked up.

And then I stare some more.

At all the squiggles I can't read.

"Well," I breathe, "shit biscuits."

But I don't let the unknown, yet slightly familiar, language stop me. I told him I'd keep looking, after all. I should probably keep my word, to toss some solid honesty amongst the half-truths and lies. But I can't feel bad. He doesn't need to know about that second Gate of Time. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

But it's a foolish thought. Because Ghirahim isn't the type to give up. Ever.

The clock ticks away on the mantel, the fire beneath burning low, and it isn't long before the squiggles start to run together. And how long had he been at it? Days? Without sleep at that. No wonder he was in such a disheveled state.

Before I know it the hour is up.

I stare at the softly dinging clock with dull interest. I turn back to the books and let the hour go by without announcement. And then two, and then three. With every one that passes I tell myself he needs more. I don't care if he yells at me…or worse.

After the fifth hour I hear a shout and a crash. He comes bursting out of his room shortly after.

"Why didn't you wake me?!" He hauls in air, shakes the walls with his voice. "Kya, you little idiot!"

"What!" I take the large book I was 'reading' and hold it up like a shield, shoving my nose in it. "It's fine! I'm still lookin', see? Geez…"

He pauses, catches his breath. "…Are you reading that book upside-down?"

"What?" I glance at the cover. "Pssh. No."

Ghirahim descends the few steps into the lounge, carding a hand through his hair. "They are written in the ancient tongue," he says slowly. "Did your people in the sky keep records of the old language? Do you know what you're reading?"

I peer up from the book guiltily.

Realization opens his eyes wide. "You can't read them. You told me you'd search in my stead and you can't even read!"

"Shhh, I'm waiting for something to pop out at me. Maybe it'll cause a vision to start."

He locks me with a flat glare. "Turn the book right-side up first."

I delicately turn a page, click my tongue. "Why aren't there any pic-tures?"

Ghirahim heaves a sigh and runs a hand down his face. "Oh gods…"

Surprisingly that's how we end up teaching each other to read.

"Quit harking on me. So what if I can't read ancient Hylian? I can read the modern Hylian. Besides, you can't read English," I snip, beginning the whole fiasco.

He lays out a piece of parchment, hands me an inked pen, and makes me write his name in English, and then again in Hylian. I do so with deliberate slowness—to annoy him. Or maybe to help him see exactly what I'm doing. The Hylian letters are blocky and disjointed compared to their smooth English counterparts. I can keep the pen on the paper for most of the English, whereas the Hylian requires me to lift the pen more often to add accents and tick marks.

I finish writing both versions of his name, sitting back to regard my handiwork. My heart pings wistfully at the English writing.

Suddenly his hand slips over mine and he takes the pen. Above my writing he writes out his name in the ancient language, in what Hylian used to look like long before the goddess raised Skyloft into the clouds all those centuries ago—and I mean really long before that, as Hylian hasn't changed that much from the time Skyloft was first raised to now, orally or written. I study the three versions of his name. The ancient text was actually slightly closer to English. Or maybe it's because Ghirahim's handwriting is smoother than mine.

He holds the pen out to me once more. "Now your name," he says with a hint of excitement. Is he actually enjoying this?

Well, yeah, I chide myself. He always gets excited about new things. Something new. Something to break the monotony of what he already knows.

What's more surprising is that I find I'm enjoying myself too.

I take the pen. "Which one?" I scoff without thinking.

He tilts his head and narrows his eyes. "Which one…?"

I realize my mistake. My heart stutters. "W-well, yeah. Kya or…or little bird?"

His suspicion doesn't relax as much as I'd like it to. "Kya, of course. You little twit."

I write 'twit' just to spite him.

He smacks me upside the head. Though it is nothing like the smacks he used to give me. His hand barely grazes me, merely sends a portion of my hair flying into my face. I blow it out of my eyes and then I print my name out for real. He runs his fingers over the finished letters in an almost tender fashion, a strange look in his eyes, like he's sleepy. But not the weariness I insisted he be rid of. No, this look is more…peaceful.

I watch him with a scrunched brow.

He blinks out of it. "Now for the entire alphabet. All of them."

The next thing I know we have all the letters of all three languages spread out on a large piece of parchment. His eyes roam the freshly inked contents, fascination making them glitter. "Wonderful, wonderful…"

The clock strikes three past midnight.

The chimes yank Ghirahim from his satisfied daze. "Damn! Look what you've done! You've taken me completely off track."

My brows rise in astonishment. "Language, Master?"

"Oh, shut up!" He waves a hand at me and pulls a tome from the table. "Don't distract me again. I must find a way to revive my master." He plunges right into the book, eyes scanning the pages faster than any human could read.

I lean back into the couch cushions and pout. Then, making up my mind, I grab a book as well.

His gaze flicks briefly towards me. "What are you doing?"

"Helping, I guess."

"You don't even know what any of it says."

I reach out and pull the alphabets we'd just written closer.

He regards my action steadily. "That will take forever." He pauses. "Although… I suppose it will help your slow mind grasp the language."

"Thanks," I say dryly and start matching up letters. Then I mumble, "At least I'm helping. You're welcome."

He says nothing.

We sit in silence, side by side, working, when suddenly he reaches over and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear.

I think it's as close to a 'Thank you' as I'll ever get.

The hours of the night blur together. I don't know when I nod off. I just wake up with my head in Ghirahim's lap again, his fingers winding and unwinding in my hair. He's moved the book onto the arm of the sofa. The scene is so familiar I feel displaced. I listen for rain and thunder. The crackling of the fire is all I hear.

I take in his hair and his makeup, neither showing any proof of his earlier nap. Though, somehow, I can still tell he's tired.

He catches me staring. A smirk tugs the corner of his mouth. "Like what you see?"

My lips pinch into a tight line. Well, exhausted or not, he's still an ass. "Pretty as ever, Master." My tone delivers firmly with not an ounce of the sarcasm I intended.

His smirk leaps into a smile of gleaming teeth, his hand delving into my hair to lightly scratch my scalp. Like I'm a dog or something. But I'm too distracted by that…that surprisingly wonderful smile that I can't bring myself to be bothered.

"Your aura is jumping…" His eyes take on a contemplative spark. "Sit up a minute."

I do as he says. He takes my hand in both of his. He traces the blue veins running up to my knuckles, and then to the veins stretching like little rivers down the underside of my arm. I hadn't noticed his fingertip was glowing gold until it stops.

"Not a trace of magic in you," he murmurs. "A pity. But it's normal for you humans to have little magic, isn't it." He is silent for twenty beats of my heart, and I wonder what his point is. Then: "It was purely your aura that was culprit for shattering the barriers. Every single one you've run through…"

"What's the difference?" I ask, trying desperately not to mind the tingling sensations his cool fingertips leave on my skin—like ice on a burn. "Between aura and magic, I mean."

He smiles grimly. "Those with their heads in the clouds know nothing, hmm? Your goddess kept you safe but ignorant."

"Not mine," I remind him firmly. "Not my goddess."

"I know, darling." There's something warm in his eyes, an ice melting. "My statement stays true regardless." His fingers probe the soft underside of my forearm. He laughs softly. "I'm unsure how to explain this in terms you'll understand. I'll keep it as simple as possible."

My disgruntled glare is solidly ignored.

"Think of your aura as your spirit or life force. It runs through you like blood from your heart. Spill enough of that precious fluid and you'll die." He eyes the veins of my wrist hungrily, with a sudden unhinged grin.

Wariness knots in my stomach.

"Now, magic…" He traces swirling patterns around my tendons. "Magic is like another set of veins; a neighbor to your spirit but not a bedmate. One could completely exhaust their magic reserves and be fine. One's aura on the other hand… Well, like I said, you'd be dead."

His eyes and smile take on a contemplative vibe. "A skilled sorcerer could tap into their aura and pull upon it if their magic ran out. They'd have to be desperate—to do so would put their life at risk. But you…" He peers at me through low lashes. "You, without magic, have gone directly to your aura and used it without permanent damage to your being. That…fluctuating life force of yours, rising and falling so easily…" He reaches a hand to cup my face, the other staying on my wrist, fingers caressing.

"Y-yeah?" I prompt, hoping my face hasn't turned red. It feels hot against his palm. Why the heck is he so touchy?

"Do you know how extraordinary it is," he breathes, "that you've been able to use your aura like a weapon? That it's replenished all of its own accord—immediately after you've used it?"

"N-no…?"

Ghirahim laughs, the sound resonating deep in his chest. "It's almost beyond believing, darling. To have a human whose aura burns as small as an insect one moment, only for it to flare bright as a goddess's the next. If I hadn't sensed the spirit maiden I might have thought you were her…provided your aura ever stayed stable. Are you…certain you're human?"

"Yes," I say without hesitation. But something pricks at the back of my mind. Something Zelda said. Her soul is more than that, more than what any of us could imagine. She is not alone…

Not alone…

There's another Spirit in with mine.

A source to the well that never runs dry.

Impossibly smooth lips press to the vulnerable skin of my wrist. His tongue dances out briefly.

My heart jumps. I freeze, daring not to move.

With my wrist still held captive, the fingers of his other hand glide further up my arm.

I suppress a shiver.

"Do you know how you do it? What about on the bridge, when you blasted everyone away? That wasn't the first time you'd done that."

I say nothing, but my uncertain look is answer enough.

"…You can't even control it, can you? You're only half aware when it happens, too. I saw you, standing there with your mouth open, blinking stupidly." His quiet laughter is low and dark. "It's all right, darling. We'll figure it out. For now…"

We return to the books, my arm still tingling with the cold fire of his touch.

A/N: The pace may seem to be slowing, but bear with me. It takes off next chapter, and the action in chapter 22 propels us to a whole new set of actions in chapter 23. I'm keeping it going. Thank you again for the gentle prods and advice.