A/N: Health issues delayed this. It's been a little over a week, but still, I'm sorry.
Thank you Voidlash, Mokki Takashi, Moon ninja Luna, Alter Ego Bob, bluebadger (You will get more! ^_^ I'm happy you like it.), A pal (I try to catch typos, but my brain often auto-corrects it so the error doesn't register. I'm glad you're enjoying the story!), MayBeADragon12, SortingHat (Firstly, if you want to go on political tirades go to a political forum. This is a LOZ story. Not once were American politics mentioned here. Stay on topic. Second, Skyward Sword storyline combined with BOTW gameplay would have been perfect. That's how SS was planned originally. They canned it due to hardware limitations, but I suppose the budget/economy factored in too. Shame. Lastly, if you're going to call a chapter retarded, say why so I can fix/avoid it in the future. Learn how to give constructive criticism. Otherwise I won't give a second thought to what you say.), Luna M. Moon, autumn-lee-chan, whisperinwind87, and Kyoki no Megami for your reviews last chapter.
Chapter 25
Rhombus panes herald our arrival to…
I gawk up at the massive doors of the castle, gape further still up to the stone gargoyles on the precipice of multiple rooftops and balustrades and spiked rails. Spanning further are the towers that reach into the rumbling gray clouds like fingers delving into the very sky.
We're at the front doors of the castle. I've never seen it from the outside like this.
Glancing behind me, I see the secondary wall that would open out onto the land beyond the castle grounds. We stand in the courtyard between the two.
Ghirahim gasps beside me. "Well, it would seem…" He pauses for breath. "I've miscalculated."
I eye him. "Are you—?" Okay? I'm about to ask, but then I think better of it. He'd take it as a slight to his pride. Lamely, I finish: "Tired…?"
The dark crackle in his eyes confirms my reservations. "We've just been out from dawn to dusk throwing my magic left and right. No, I'm not tired. I'm fine."
I tilt my head. "…I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not."
He sighs. "Let's just go inside."
As we approach, the colossal doors open, the black and gray veined metal creaking loud as drumrolls of thunder. They swing inward, revealing a pronounced hall of brown tiled stone and center lined with scarlet carpet. Sconces the size of satellites flare to life with bursts of roaring fire, lighting row by row, all the way down the seemingly never-ending hall. Their eruptions of heat rend the chilled air.
Ghirahim sighs again and takes my hand. "Upstairs," he whispers, leading me to a grand curving stairway hidden partially behind the wall.
I follow quietly, not saying what I want to say. He's tired. How could he expect not to be? He's been teleporting us everywhere, taking us places faster than any train, plane, or automobile could go. I want to tell him such, to ease the burden of his misplaced pride, but then I'd have to go on explaining just what those vehicles are, and expand more on the world from which they come.
He's going slower than usual. The way is straightforward and the halls aren't changing or shifting as they used to seem to do. Astonished, I realize I could trace my way back to the front doors if I so chose.
Soon we are at the halls of beige stone and colored glass. It is at the end of those corridors where Ghirahim's apartments lie.
"Mm, bath can wait." Ghirahim stumbles past the sofas we spent so much time researching books on. "I need…" He pauses, lurches towards his bedroom. "I need to…see to something. You go ahead to the bath—you need it."
Blankly I stare after him. He can't even admit he needs to lie down. "Sure, Master."
His bedroom door clicks shut, and I'm left to tend to myself.
Making my way to the bathroom, a wave of dizziness overcomes me. I drank and ate nothing all day, not because I couldn't but because I refused to run the risk of needing to relive myself anywhere near Ghirahim. He wouldn't have been far from me, and I couldn't stand that. But what little I did drink before we left is enough to spurn me now. I waddle to the toilet, briefly wondering why a sword spirit even has one. Does he function as a human would?
I shake my head, cringing at the direction of my thoughts. The things I wonder, but will never ask.
After struggling out of my dress I climb the two stepped dais and sink into the inlaid marble bath. The warm water encompasses my aching muscles, warmth seeping into skin and down to bone. I sigh. Though I'm loath to move, I force myself to soap up and scrub clean. Get it over with so I can spend the rest of my time lazing. As I let a subtle current, which must be a filtration system—yes, it is, I see the narrow slits lining the bottom edges of the marble—lull my pains away, I think over the day's events. I wasn't the one teleporting. I wasn't the one leaping mountains or getting tossed off cliffs. That was Ghirahim. He even carried me occasionally, when he became impatient. Still I feel like I've been run over and forced into a marathon. Today was the most I've moved…ever, I think.
But then, fighting that Taliticus would wear anyone out, cliff diving or not.
I stand and the room sways. I wade over to the curtain of water falling from the granite slab and open my mouth to the surprisingly cool flow. After sucking down the much needed hydration, I lazily swing a leg through the water of the tub, the stillness turning into ripples. How can it be warm when its source is not? Then I feel it: the heat pushing up through the soles of my feet. The tub itself is heating the water, though I don't know how. Is there a furnace below the floor?
I squint at a line of inscriptions made into the marble just below the water level. Ever so slightly they glow, a faint pale green against the white stone. Is it a spell…?
My eyes glaze over, mind getting lost somewhere between my head and the rippling water. So many things I don't know… After today, that's become clearer than ever. To think this world has so many mysteries and wonders, the likes of which more than I could dream of. How did I not see it before?
Because I was either stuck on a cloud, or trapped in a tower, I answer myself, frown creasing my face. I think of my life, of the one that was lived and the one I'm living now. I've always been stuck or trapped. In a gray, uncaring city, in an empty home filled with unanswered phones; on a too perfect island in a too perfect sky, and below in a cold, drafty tower. And now I wonder…where exactly am I going to end up?
For the first time in a long time, I wonder about my future. In this world. Instead of always longing for what once was.
I finish up in the bathing room, going through motions with a head fuzzed with other matters.
I pause in the hallway to stare at Ghirahim's door, pondering about him, about what he will do with me when all is said and done, before moving on to the room he'd given me.
My dress is laid out over a chair as carefully as it was picked up, as if it were made with glass and not steely Skulltula silk. Stepping back, I look it over. Not a stain or tear mars it, despite what it had gone through with me. All those enchantments Ghirahim placed worked.
The hair clip is safely on the vanity top. Nightgown changed into. I'm settling down in the quiet dim, pulling the sheets over my legs, when a knock sounds from the door. I look at it questioningly. Is he up already?
A small voice comes from the other side. "H-hello…?"
Okay. Definitely not Ghirahim. "Hi, Essil."
The Lizalfos cracks open the door, poking her snout into the room. She backs in a moment later with a small tray of tea and sandwiches.
"Oh, you don't have to…" I stop. How many times have I told her she doesn't have to fuss over me? She doesn't listen.
Essil places the tray on the bedside table, her purple scales shining darkly in the candles' glow. She clatters with the ceramic lids of the cream and sugar, and the silver spoon she sticks into the sugar bowl trembles in her grip.
I eye her warily. "Are…you okay?"
She starts, bumping the table with her knee. Her orangey eyes are large, her frilled quill flattened against her head. "I'm f-fine."
My brow furrows. "You don't seem it."
She ignores me, plops a spoonful of sugar into a teacup and stirs absently…with no tea.
"Er, here." Reaching over, I take the small pot and pour the steaming auburn liquid into the cup. "You drink it—you look like you need it more. I already brushed my teeth, anyway."
She does so without stuttering a protest—extremely unusual for her—sipping from the cup with wide eyes that do not leave the wall.
I put the pot down on the tray with a click. "All right, seriously, what's going on? You have to tell me now. I'll think about it all night otherwise."
Essil stares into her tea.
"I won't be able to sleep," I insist, though in truth I feel like I could pass out any moment. "Seriously, tell me."
"Oh," she starts, "they—they're saying such terrible things."
"Who? What are they saying?"
Essil shifts her eyes left to right, as if there might be someone hiding in the corners of the room. "There are groups of Lizalfos speaking of…"
I sit up straighter. "Yeah?"
Her gaze lingers on me, then drops to the floor.
"Look, if they're messing with you, I'll do something about it. I'll…" I trail off. The heck am I gonna do? "…stab them, or something."
A smile jumps at the corners of her snout, but it falls quickly and she shakes her head. "It is not me they speak ill of." Her shoulders hunch and her head dips. "It is you."
I blink. "Okay."
Her stature snaps straight, orange quill rising slightly. "No, it is n-not okay," she says, voice strained. "If you only knew what comes out of their foul mouths! I—I tried to correct them, but they only grumbled louder."
I shrug and snort. "Let them say what they want about me. I don't care."
"I do," Essil says so quietly I almost miss it.
I shift uncomfortably. A choking feeling travels from my chest up my throat. I'm touched by her concern, but don't want to show it. Though her head has once again dipped with submission, I catch glances of her sorrowful eyes—because suddenly I can't look at her straight on. I clench my teeth and minutely shake my head. Someone cares about me and I get all awkward about it. It's ridiculous. I look her in the eye. "Thank you, but, really, it's okay."
It is then I see the sheen of fear in her stare. It is sharp and painfully aware. "You do not understand. They whisper of a filthy human stinking up their castle, a human that deserves—"
"Nothing," a voice cuts into the conversation.
Essil and I turn our heads.
Shii stands in the doorway, back straight and arms across her lithe yellowed chest. The green scales of her back nearly blend into the shadows. The feathery hair-like crest atop her head is neither flatted nor raised, merely held at a half-cocked nonchalance. Unlike Essil, who is reminding me of the moment I first met her, back when she was cowering under a table hoping for an end to conflict and pain, Shii looks collected.
"Nothing is happening. Essil, you should know better than to spread rumors."
"It is not rumors," Essil says pleadingly. "It is—"
"Nothing," Shii stresses, her yellow eyes narrowing to slits, "I cannot curb. The discord among the squadrons will be dealt with. Order will be maintained. Nothing will occur."
A feeling of dread pricks at me. "Um, discord?" How serious is this?
"May we at least inform Lord Ghirahim what is being said?" Essil presses.
Shii's maw contorts in a scowl. "I will not bother our lord with the trouble of petty squabbles and loose tongues. Do you think I cannot do my duty? I thought you had more faith in me than that."
Essil curls in on herself, head bent, shoulders hunched, her claws clasped together. She stares at the floor in shame. "That's not…what I meant."
"Hey," I interject for the crestfallen Lizalfos, "maybe she has a point, maybe…" I squeeze my eyes and shake my head. I'm so tired; my brain doesn't want to work. "What exactly is going on again?"
"Do not be concerned, human." Shii locks stares with me. "It is nothing I cannot handle. Come Essil. She needs sleep."
I open my mouth to protest, but Shii warns me with a sour look. I'm not going to get anything more from her, no matter how I ask. I sigh, and lean back against the pillows. "Thanks for the sandwiches," I mutter.
Essil nods and, without raising her head, follows Shii out. As Shii holds the door for her meek companion, I notice the difference in their size. Essil is bigger and boxier than Shii, who is slim and narrow. Odd, that the smaller would be the stronger.
The door shuts gently behind them.
The strange altercation leaves me disturbed. Essil's worry, though not uncommon, seemed genuine. And Shii's stony reticence didn't instill reassurance. The Lizalfos of the castle are having disagreements—about me being here, apparently—but that's all I got.
…Are the disagreeing Lizalfos going to try to do something about me? The thought flits through my mind just as I teeter on the precipice of sleep. I think of the tunnel between Ghirahim's room and mine, of its black stretch and cobwebbed stones. A servant tunnel. Or an escape tunnel. But what could let me out could just as well let others in.
I should…lock…my door… I think it, but it never gets put into action. Uneasiness is drowned by exhaustion. I don't know when my eyes shut, or when my spinning mind ceases its carousel ride. Only that it did.
The soft click of a door carefully opening and closing is what wakes me sometime in the night. My ears perk at the sound, but my mind remains in the bounds of sleep. Somewhere, in the back where my instincts stir, comes vague worry. I'm not alone.
The whisper of the sheets being peeled back, the dip of the mattress as another weight joins mine, the silk sliding on my bare shoulder as the covers are readjusted—each action tugs me further out of sleep until I lie awake, not daring to move in a grip of sudden fear.
Someone's gotten in the bed with me.
Who is it? My thoughts try to process. Then the fog of fatigue lifts with a slap of lucidity. Who else would it be? One of the Lizalfos talking crap about me? Essil or Shii? There's only one person in this castle who would be so bold.
"Mas'er?" I whisper in a sleepy slur.
I shouldn't be relieved. I really shouldn't.
He slides right up to me, lays his arm over my waist. "The door wasn't locked," he says.
I scrunch my brow. What does that have to do with…? Then it comes back to me. I control the lock. "I keep for…" Forgetting to lock it, I'm about to say. But when I register the muscled chest at my back and the comforting dip of another weight beside mine…I fear he'll take it the wrong way and leave. And I don't want him to.
What were you thinking? I'll ask myself in the morning. But now, in the drowsy glow of dimmed candlelight, it is so easy to not think at all and simply drift…
The dream I have is of snow fluttering among steel skyscrapers. I stand in the middle of an empty street, listening, waiting, for what I don't know. I close my eyes and tilt my face skyward, feel the chilled kisses of winter. The dream is so real I can smell it, steel and snow, beside me, all around me. The sun filters through the clouds, light bleeding through my eyelids…
I guess I really am a prophetess. Because in morning's glare, What were you thinking? is exactly what I ask myself.
My waking thoughts are slow to process, but once they do—once the extra heat and presence sinks in—my eyes pop wide open. My breath hitches and I stiffen. His heavy thigh is draped over my legs, his arms curled around my waist. His soft breaths puff in the crook of my neck, where his face rests just millimeters from my skin.
The air in my lungs turns to cement and my limbs become wood. For a while I don't breathe, for a while I don't think, let alone move a muscle. A span of frozen panic, the kind that incites a ringing in the ears, stays too long and leaves too soon.
I relax. The gentle rise and fall of his chest attests to his sleep, and the situation isn't as bad as I first thought.
A centimeter is all I risk when turning my head. I strain my eyes to roll as far as they'll go in my sockets to get a look at him.
He must have bathed sometime during the night; there's not a speck of dirt on him and he smells of silver and clean snow. His eyes are kind when closed. His lips are gentle when not pulled in a sneer or twisted in a mocking smile. The expression of his face is serene, and more human than I've ever seen. I actually find it hard to tear my stare away from him.
Attempting to free myself is out of the question. Just wriggling my hips causes him to stir and sigh. The heavy leg across mine curls and hooks, pulling me ever so closer. All I can do is wait for him to wake.
But waking up with him feels…weird.
If I could just get his arm off me, I could shimmy up from his leg and escape across the pillows.
I go to lift the arm clutching my waist—the other one I'm lying on—only to find it as heavy and unyielding as his leg. My attempt to pull it tightens the hold.
He sighs again and scoots closer. I expect him to be awake now, but a check of his breathing and an uneventful wait prove otherwise.
The sheet has slipped from his shoulder, pooling along the contour of his arm. He's not wearing gloves. I stare at his hands in wonderment. I've never really seen them bare and up close.
Even his hand is…perfect. The bastard.
His flawlessness is reminiscent of a Grecian marble statue. Smooth hairless skin, clear gleaming nails. I reach for the strong bones showing in the back of his hand and trace them up to his knuckles, marveling at the slight outline of colorless veins along the way. With new clarity I recognize I have no idea how he was made or how he works.
Yes, just like a marble statue. With the translucent sheen that particular stone provides, so close to human skin in appearance, shaped into a realism only the masters of the Renaissance could achieve.
But he's not a statue, and that makes him all the more incredible. Unlike stone, Ghirahim's skin gives when pressed, is supple and soft when stroked. The only difference I feel is the impenetrableness—I push my nail in and it doesn't leave so much as an impression.
The skin not warmed by mine is cool to the touch. I'm tracing from his knuckles and up his fingers when his hand rises, slowly like its afraid it'll chase mine away, and the pads of our fingertips meet.
Now that he's awake, I have the freedom to move.
He peers at me from half-hooded eyes, a lazy smile shaping his snowy lips. "Morning, darling." His voice is thick and deep with sleep.
"No one's allowed to wake up with a face full of perfect makeup," I mutter.
He chuckles, the gentle rumble reverberating through his chest into me.
I want to ask him what possessed him to get into my bed, but the words get stuck half-way up my throat. I clear it. Then I remember I didn't exactly protest, either. "Um… Good morning, Master." Suddenly I'm polite. It helps abates the weirdness of the situation.
"You looked so fascinated just now. Are you awed just from the beauty of my extremities? You should see the rest of me."
I choke on my own spit.
His laughter merges into a relieved moan as he stretches, lifting his arm and leg in the process. I scramble from the sheets and stand before the flower-glass window where morning's soft light phases in, smoothing my nightgown down frantically.
"Mmm." He settles back down. "You're right, we should get started on the day."
But then he just lies there, playing with a lock of his hair. Looking at me with those dark hooded eyes.
I stand rigid like I'm ready to pounce out the window.
He bites his lip, smiling a secret smile I can't understand. "You really are so very soft and warm, little bird. It's such a comfort."
"Why'd you get in bed with me?" I ask, suddenly perturbed.
"I just told you. And besides, why not?" He arches his spine in another stretch. Then he swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands.
He's stark naked.
I slam my eyelids shut. He faced away from me, towards the door, and in the instant the cream sheets fell from him I saw all of his backside. His ever-so-slightly tousled hair, his broad but sleek shoulders, the corded muscles running down his back, fanning from the groove of his spine, and…
I slap my hands over my closed lids, trying to banish the picture my mind took. I didn't close my eyes fast enough. The sight of him is burned into my retinas.
…The two dimples indented in his lower back, just above the curve of his tight, compact butt—
"Agh, Gawd!"
"What?" he asks so innocently.
"Where are your clothes?!"
"Hm? Oh, I don't wear any to bed. Too stuffy."
I sputter incoherently, averting my head to the side as an added barrier in addition to my hands and eyelids.
"What's wrong with you?" Amusement shakes his tone. "Ah, that's right. The nude form bothers you. Such strange human customs. Tell me, are humans offended by their own bodies, or just that of others?"
I stare into the saving blackness, teeth gritting. "It's just common decency, dude."
The quiet of his footsteps scarcely murmurs of his approach around the bed, going silent on the scarlet rug, and whispering again on the stone tile.
Blindly, I back up to the window.
He's in front of me. I know it.
He breathes into my ear. "Flustered?"
I stiffen, breath hitching.
He leans closer, his smile felt against my ear's shell. "Open your eyes, Kya."
I've pressed myself completely against the glass.
"Kya…"
"No."
He takes my wrists and pries them from my eyes. "Open." It is a hard command now.
I tilt my face up to where I think his face will be and obey.
He's smiling again, and damn my eyes, they flicker down—
He's dressed. The form-fitting suit, the golden red jeweled sash around his hips, the gold arm band snug over his right bicep. Even the blue diamond swinging from his earlobe. All he's missing is the cape.
"What are you, magic?" I blink. "Oh wait…"
His grin widens, reveals gleaming teeth. "You're a riot, darling. Get dressed. I'll see you out in the main hall for breakfast."
He leaves me standing at the windows. My heart hammers long after he goes.
As I move around getting ready, I swipe a hand over each burning cheek. Stupid Ghirahim. He riles me on purpose, teasing and laughing and…it feels good, in a way. It's been so long since someone's been antagonistically playful with me. Nikki was the only one who played like a wolf and rested like a sheep.
A new wave of heat hits my face as the image of Ghirahim's backside comes back to haunt me.
But she never played like that!
…Or was it play at all?
The echo of his laughter, now long gone, suddenly taunts me with derision. What was first taken as friendly, albeit inappropriate, play becomes mocking jibes, a bitter taunt to what he sees as a lesser creature. Was his laugh teasing or rancorous? I can no longer tell. Or did I ever know?
I snap drawers open and slam them closed. I yank on a pair of underwear that appeared in the armoire with the rest. I don't know who put them there, or where they came from.
Realizing I was sleeping without underwear and he was naked, I shudder. But there was never anything to worry about, was there.
Abruptly Indua comes to mind, with her thick, luscious hair and immaculate, iridescent skin. Compared to her, I'm imperfection incarnate.
It doesn't matter what his sexuality is or isn't, he'd never look at me that way. And I'm relieved by that fact. Really, I am.
I slip into my dress, pull on the silver slippers. Looking into the mirror, imperfection is all I see. Thin hair, dull eyes. Ruddy skin, mottled with pinks and bluish veins, with a red snake-like impression on my neck left by the edge of the covers. Plain features so unremarkable you could put the dots of acne from my previous life back on my face and I still wouldn't turn any heads. Not even from ugliness. Definitely never from beauty.
Beautiful. The word itself feels a bitter mockery in my mouth. I've seen others clothed in it, but never myself. And, really, I've hardly cared before.
But now…
I rip my hair back into its golden clip. I don't bother brushing it—wouldn't matter if I did, so why make the effort?
Sometimes I wonder what it's like to be pretty. And in my head I find my thoughts trying on that nymph's skin, her hair, her…prettiness.
My jaw tightens, grinds my teeth.
With a strike of rationality, I hear Ghirahim's laughter for what it really was: mockery. He wouldn't do it for any other reason but for flaunting what I could never have.
And don't want, I tell myself vehemently.
It would be nice to be pretty, sure, but if it would cost me to become as insufferable as that demon then forget it.
Not worth it.
He and Indua can have their beauty. On the inside they rot.
And yet…
I can't seem to forget about that stupid nymph. Neither her nor her possible communions.
It splits the sun in two, this massive shadow of mountain in the distance. It looms high, its jagged peaks and slopes seeming to take a bite out of the sky.
There's something foreboding about it. Ominous.
Naturally, we're heading right towards it.
"There it is, darling. The Jaayanof. It holds great significance among demon kind."
Ghirahim's excited, has been so all day. After an awkward impromptu breakfast at the tea table in the main room, where I tried to eat and chew when he wasn't looking (an almost impossible task), he informed me of his conviction that I would have a vision soon. Perhaps it would be sparked by the majesty of the odious mountain, and if not, oh well. He expressed his desire of me seeing it regardless.
"It's inherently important to us," he tells me as we walk along tall grasses and jagged rocks. "It stands as a symbol of our power and freedom."
I nod, hardly understanding. It makes sense they'd chose such a vicious looking mountain. The why is unclear.
We've been traveling since dawn, winding our way here and there—anywhere Ghirahim thinks Hylia may have plotted—making our way to the mountain. I saw more demons and dark fae in that time. Like yesterday, Ghirahim kept me under his cape, an invisibility spell woven around me. Few caught sight of Ghirahim, but those that did saw him as if he were out walking alone. Quickly they did the odd bow I had seen Indua perform: crossing their arms in an X across their chest and bending straight at the waist. Some didn't, but they were too busy scurrying away in fear.
"Why do they bow like that?" I whispered.
"To show respect, of course. Crossing their arms in that manner means 'All that I am,' and followed by a bow it means 'All that I am bows before you.'"
"And if they don't bow?"
"That would signify a challenge. 'All that I am stands before you.' A fight to the death would ensue." He smiled darkly. "Very few have been so foolish as to challenge me."
Something niggled in the back of my mind: displaced familiarity.
Now we walk in silence as I think of it.
I frown. "I've seen someone cross their arms like that before. You know, the bowing thing? Except they weren't bowing."
"And pray tell where that could have been? Greater demons and moderately powerful fae are more likely to perform the action. Those beneath simply run or cower. Indua was the first greater you'd seen." He stops in his tracks, forcing me to do the same. "Wasn't she?"
I sense the hard edge of his apprehension. Who else has seen me?
I scrunch my brow in thought. "I didn't see it in person."
"A vision? Well, who was it?"
"It was… I dunno." We walk a few paces before it comes to me. My face goes slack as the memory reveals itself—of Ghirahim standing tall and strong as iron in his true form, glaring down at Link before the final battle.
"You. It was you standing like that, un-bowing."
"Who was I challenging?"
"I don't know," I lie, fighting my expression into one of confusion. "I just saw you. You looked, uh…you looked like you were about to kick someone's ass."
He pinches me for the curse, but laughs nonetheless.
I'm glad he doesn't question further. I suppose he thinks it doesn't matter who or why he was challenging. To Ghirahim it would be like issuing an execution. No contest.
We arrive at the base of the mountain as the sun reaches its peak. Ghirahim teleported less today, to let me sightsee, he said. I know he's conserving magic, but I don't comment. With the giddy way he's showing me his world, both reasons ring true.
He lifts me in his arms and takes flight. From leap to stomach-clenching leap, we climb higher and higher. He lands on a whisper and sets me down to draw me into his cape, the invisibility spell cast, and leads me to the top of a drop-off.
So he wants me to see from the top. Or maybe he wants to push me off. I laugh inwardly at the thought.
But then my breath is pushed out of me.
"It's…" I choke.
Ghirahim smiles, spreading his arm in gesture to what lies below. "The Jaayanof."
Down, down, down goes the chasm whose precipice we stand. A cityscape, or something close to it, spreads throughout the entirety of the colossal crater. Homes and towers are carved from the circular cliffside, and even more towers stretch up from the deep, deep bottom. Stones taller than a hundred feet stack one atop the other, and columns made of solid stone—somehow carved and melded seamlessly together—make up the larger-than-life towers. Lights shine golden through thousands of windows. Burnt iron fixtures bend and conform to angles and decorative edges.
The city was made with magic, had to be. It's the only way these…skyscrapers…could have been assembled. In this age. In this world.
Longing and homesickness churn.
Though primitive, this city is the closest I've come to seeing my world again. Where stone and tangled iron prevail, steel and concrete echo from a distant plane.
I shiver and blink away tears.
"Isn't it marvelous, darling?" He looks down upon the city with glowing pride. "This is where it all began, when we came from below the earth and took the surface for ourselves."
I gape once more into the hollow mountain. If I thought the jagged peaks looked like biting teeth before, I definitely think so now as I stand on the ledge gazing down into the great maw that brought forth the demons and monsters.
A damp wind blows skyward, fluttering Ghirahim's cape and my hair, prickling my arms and legs, smelling of rock and earth and… Fire. Smoke. Brimstone.
"Are we…going to go down there?" I ask, half fearing, half hoping.
"No, darling. Many greater demons live here. I'll get caught up in one social platitude to the next and I don't want you wandering and lost. Just look for now. Do you sense…anything?" he ends lightly, and I know he's hoping for a vision or something.
Dread climbs. I realize I hate to disappoint him.
"I remember…a vision I had a long time ago. It's nothing you don't know already."
"Tell me." He commands it. The hand on my shoulder tightens.
"It's blurry," I caution, thoughts scrambling for a way to tell the painted images preceding the game's beginning, silently freaking out for mentioning it at all. "Demise burst up from the earth. He was surrounded by…six? Six people. One of them kinda looked like you."
"It was me. My master, I, and his generals came up first—" Ghirahim's head turns sharply to the side, eyes narrowing. "Stay quiet. That's no request."
He drops his hand and assumes a natural pose. Surreptitiously he nudges me closer under his cape with his arm.
It creeps towards us, glimpses of it stolen from between the split craggy rocks. As it emerges in the open I stifle my gasp. Two-legged and upright, but with too many long, spindly arms. Its skin is the shade of a corpse's, pale and almost purplish. Its eyes—six of them—are shiny and fully black, the largest being near the dual slits it has for a nose, and the smallest near its temples, partially hidden in scraggly black hair. The scraps of cloth it wears are white. White and oddly fine, like a spider's silk.
I blink stupidly.
Well, that explains the arms.
Ghirahim addresses the strange creature. "What do you want, Skulltera? Shouldn't you be down in the caverns with your Skulltula wards like the rest of your kin?"
"Came up for air…Lord Ghirahim." Its voice is whispery and its words garbled. "Came up for air and…smelled something. Something that hasn't been smelled for…centuries."
Ghirahim scoffs. "I didn't come out here to be bothered by your nonsense. Leave me."
"Human. It is…human I smell."
Ghirahim's frown turns ugly. "Those pitiful holes you call a nose couldn't distinguish food from dung. Be gone with you!"
The spider demon creeps ever closer. "Human, human… We haven't had human in such a long time."
"You seem to be hard of hearing." Ghirahim looks around the empty cliffside. A smirk quirks his mouth. "Hm, you know what? No one will miss you."
Somehow sensing what's coming I shut my eyes and turn into his cape, and it's through sound and movement I'm made aware of the killing. The sudden jerk of Ghirahim's body precedes it, muscles shifting, followed by the fleshy thud and roll—and then the larger thud of the body. I keep my eyes shut tight, not wanting to see the blood.
One of us is shaking. It's me.
The snap of fingers clicks in the air. My nausea doubles as the teleportation yanks and contorts my very being. We reappear at lower altitude. The breeze trails a hint of icy claws over my exposed skin, disappearing under my dress. My eyes snap open and I come alive.
"What was that." No question. I know. I just want to know why.
"What was what?" He feigns innocence, his bloodied sword dispersing.
"W-why couldn't you just punch…it…in the face and knock it down a few ledges?"
He shrugs, as if the whole thing is inconsequential. "It was necessary. She stuck her nose where it didn't belong and defied me when I gave her the chance to leave. I wasn't going to tolerate it."
My mouth works but my scrambled brain refuses to produce.
He moves down the slope we're on. It looks like we're on the opposite side we came from. "Whatever your objections, come along. We have a gate to find, things to do… Do you have any more old visions I should know about?" He sees me shaking my head. "You better not be lying to me, little bird."
"I'm not." I am.
We walk on. I keep a good distance behind him.
Frustrated and nervous, I blurt, "Do you have to be such a sadist?"
"Why shouldn't I be? It signifies strength. It is a very desirable trait among my kind."
I mutter, "Not among mine."
He tosses a glare over his shoulder, silvery hair flashing too dark eyes.
We walk silently for some time and I conclude the conversation's over. But then…
"Your kind," he says into the quiet between us, "are beyond weak."
He doesn't look back at me when he says it. There is no bite to his voice. It was said with quiet contempt—a fact laid flat.
It has me spitting mad.
Heat races up my neck despite the cold, floods my face and ears, and it's all I can do not to screech curses. I keep a lid on it, because a fit would do nothing but prove him right. Throwing words is all I could do. There's nothing to back it up.
It doesn't stop me from stewing silently. Stupid, needlessly kill-happy…! For a split second I think to bring Link to humanity's defense, only to realize Link has only faced Ghirahim in direct battle once…and he walked away only because he was allowed to. Link lives because Ghirahim hasn't bothered to kill him. And he could do so. At any time. At least until the true Master Sword is complete, and even then…
The thought has me shaking from more than just anger.
What am I going to do?
The terrain gives way to a rough landscape. Frosted brambles grasp my ankles and calves. Patches of snow look like blots erased from the earth's canvas of dried, crunching grass.
We keep walking in silence. Twice Ghirahim stops and surveys the area, tense like there's something out there he doesn't want to deal with. We teleport, and again he stands stiff, face divulging chagrin. He says something in the demon dialect that sounds particularly nasty.
I sidle up next to him. "What is it?"
"…My forgetfulness gets the best of me at times. The invisibility spell deceives sight, muffles sound, and I'm one of the rare few who can sense auras, but…" A muscle flexes in his jaw; he's grinding his teeth, like he's hating what he's about to admit. "I didn't take scent into account."
I look up at him in confusion mixed with dread and a little derision. "Spider's dead. You made sure of that."
He's about to answer me, but stops and focuses on the boulders and thick brambles in the distance. "They've followed." Ghirahim wrinkles his nose. "No point in recasting the spell now. Of all the rotten luck."
"What?"
"You might as well come out," he calls to the seemingly empty tundra. To me he says: "Kya, stand close."
Wolves skulk out from the thickets.
No, wait.
I squint at the familiar-looking beasts, at their black and gray fur, their larger forelegs and massive claws, their fangs protruding past their lower jaws, and their eerily glowing eyes…
Not wolves.
Wolfos.
"And where is your alpha?" Ghirahim sneers. "Balak, I can sense you. Don't bother hiding."
It is then a group of people, or what seems to be people, emerge from between the boulders and brambles. There are seven in total and they are clothed in furs and leathers, the hair atop their heads thick and wild. Some carry iron axes roughly hammered to wooden handles; others carry double-edged swords made with the same crude quality.
Their narrowed eyes glint at us with malice and distrust.
A tall man shoulders his way to the front of the small group. Sable fur makes up his attire: the coat being long, the tails of which are thick and gathered in such a way I think they might really be the tails of a wolf. His dark hair meets his forehead in a widow's peak, and below that are yellow eyes fixated and blazing with hate. "Who's hiding? Did I hide from you last time, Ghirahim?"
Ghirahim huffs a laugh. "No, if I recall correctly you were too busy running."
The man, who I assume is Balak, snarls, showcasing a single long pointed canine and… What happened to the other one? Looking closer at his teeth, I notice they're all mostly chipped and cracked. The other canine is broken off at his gum line.
"Did I hit a soft spot? You're always running, Balak, and yet you walk around with such pomp in your stride. Does the fact I've never deemed you important enough to chase rile you? How ungrateful you are. You should be praising the dirt and trees you worship I couldn't care less for you." Ghirahim smiles darkly. "It's the only reason you still live."
"You're an arrogant bastard, Ghirahim. I'll make you pay for what you did to me."
Ghirahim raises his brows. "Frankly, you did that to yourself. I don't recall forcing you to bite me."
Understanding clicks as I weigh between the broken teeth of the Wolfos' alpha and their exchanged words. The result has me imagining the furred idiot trying to sink his fangs into the great black sword that is Ghirahim.
I scoff breathlessly.
Balak zips his glare to me, cocking his head with a sneer. "Something funny?"
And…I don't know. Maybe it's the malicious river running through my heart, or maybe because his amber eyes make me nervous. Laughter breaks through me. "You broke your teeth trying to bite him! That's—that's—" Hilarious.
I don't finish the sentence, instead inching closer to Ghirahim like the little weenie I am, twittering all the while.
Those yellow eyes flash with violence. "You little bi…!" His face switches from wrath to fascination, his nostrils quivering. "You're the human." Laughter bubbles up from his mouth, a deep and intimidating rumble. "I gotta admit, when my old friend here"—he jabs a thumb in the direction of a grizzled Wolfos standing among the pack—"told me he smelled a human, I couldn't believe him. But he insisted. And now here we are. Tell me, Ghirahim, what are you doing with a human?"
"Who I take as a slave is my business. Don't you have somewhere else to be? Some carrion to chew on? Some den to piss in?"
My momentary surprise at his curse is overridden by Balak's next action.
He licks his lips in a hungry fashion, asking, "Are there more?"
"There's one wearing an idiotic green hat out somewhere. Go pester him."
"Nah." Balak swings his heavy arms back and forth, like he's warming up for some exercise. "We'll take this one."
Ghirahim smiles slowly and lowers his chin, but his stare remains locked on Balak, the light in his eyes darkening to odious levels. "You can try."
Everything moves at once.
The Wolfos dash in first while the humanoids circle.
The quadrupeds skid to a halt ten to fifteen feet before us, their salivating jaws snarling and snapping at the air in a threatening display.
"What lovely sets of fangs." Ghirahim's two obsidian swords materialize in black diamond spritz. He holds them up menacingly. "Come here, and I'll show you mine."
One lunges in a great leap, and then another, and another.
With a single wide swinging arc of Ghirahim's sword the once weedy but pristine cold land gets turned into a bloodbath. The more Wolfos close in, the more the patches of snow and dried grasses are tinged pink and splattered red. Ghirahim moves like a machine, disappearing and reappearing in flashing blinks, his dual swords flying in a deadly dance. Wolf heads roll, guts are spilled and entangle in the brambles, claws and teeth splinter, limbs are severed right before my eyes.
My dagger is unsheathed, but none of them get close enough. Even those who rush around to our backs are dealt with in a diamond flash and a swift slice.
I watch in a haze of disbelief. The slaughter fuels the hysteria buzzing through my cerebral cortex. The dagger shivers in my grip, yet I remain taut and ready to attack or defend.
There are only a few Wolfos left.
The humanoids glance to Balak for a signal, their swords and axes ready despite their unsure and nervous gazes.
Standing the furthest from Ghirahim, Balak gives the nod.
"Are you not going to instigate me yourself?" Ghirahim smirks. "Not very 'mighty,' are you, Balak?"
The humanoid demons advance. With crackling growls and spitting snarls and echoing war cries they all blast in, focused on Ghirahim.
Tears spring to my eyes, blurring the field of gore, of screeching pain and fear, of warring bellows turned to begs and pleas once they realize they can't hurt him. They can't scratch him. They can't even make him flinch.
And they can't make him stop.
One Wolfos warrior is cleaved from shoulder to hip while trying to flee, his face frozen in abject horror when he falls to the ground.
Inside me, the ewe wants to bow her head and close her eyes against the massacre, to shut her ears as well and pretend it isn't happening—how did it come to this, why is this transpiring, why, I don't want—but standing beside her is the wolf of my own spirit. She is stiff backed with hackles raised, her rumbling growl warning the ewe not to let her guard down against this aggressing pack. Stand your ground, she says. Prepare your horns. And the ewe does. She stands with the she-wolf, ready to ram down steel if she has to.
The gentleness, which assures my humanity, and viciousness, assuring my survival, in my heart entwine.
It's the reason I see the attack coming. With Ghirahim's straight sword in the gut of one Wolfos warrior and his sabre skewering the skull of another, a female warrior breaks rank and flies through to me. Her amber irises are bright and shining, her cheeks streaked with tears of fury. Her axe flashes along with her long canines, the blade coming for me in a horizontal strike.
I fall into a crouch, the axe whizzing above my head, and just as quickly I lunge in an upward jab with the dagger. The survivalist she-wolf aims for the throat, and the resolute ewe does not argue, but the demoness jerks back in the nick of time and I slice only her cheek.
The demoness is a better fighter than me, because in the same movement of her dodge she repositioned her axe for another swipe, bringing it down—
Black blades rain, appearing from nowhere and disappearing to nowhere after striking the ground—or a body.
One such blade catches the demoness in her axe shoulder, making her falter and allowing me to stagger away. In the next moment she is grabbed from behind by a pair of black shining arms. Ghirahim, streaked with the promises of his true form, spins her around so his back is to me. A loud, sickening crack follows and the female's head flops over. Ghirahim tosses her aside like a used tissue, her untamed blonde and brown hair splaying on the wet earth.
I truly wish it were rainwater seeping into her mane.
When I raise my head I realize it's over.
He's killed every single one.
Except for…
"Damn him! Damn that filthy mongrel!" Ghirahim spins slowly, dowsing for Balak. "He must have run shortly after issuing the order for attack."
Shocked rage takes residence with horror, further spurning my shivering body. How could he order his pack in and just leave them?
"Because he's a coward, darling. That's why. An arrogant, strutting coward with flapping gums and no gumption to back up his claims."
I look at Ghirahim in shock, not realizing I'd spoken aloud.
A scuffling sound comes from one of the bodies. A silver-haired male moans weakly, digging his fingers into the dirt, trying to drag himself away.
"Oh—" I choke on my voice, and do nothing as Ghirahim stalks over and thrusts his sword into the male's neck, severing the spinal connection to the brain. The male was in such bad shape, the swift kill was a mercy. Despite the pain in my heart, I let it happen.
Probably couldn't have stopped it if I wanted to.
There is a moment of stretching silence, interrupted only by the cold wind rolling over the landscape. The breeze makes the gore decorated brambles wave cheerfully like some sort of messed up horror show. It doesn't take away the overpowering smell of copper.
Ghirahim brings his blade to his mouth and with a reverence I can't understand slips his tongue out and slicks the blood into his mouth.
In spite of my numbed-out brain I feel the power exchange occurring—like there are remainders of the various life forces in the blood left behind, and Ghirahim is the one absorbing it. The red of his enemies draws a line down his chin and drips like a drop of rain to the earth. The glittering heat in his eyes couples with the heavy satisfaction shown on his face. He's gotten off on the violence, I realize. It's not surprising, but no less disturbing.
If it weren't for his protection I'd be dead. Yet suddenly I can't stand to look at him.
I stare at the ground beneath my feet, at the clusters of frost glittering in the dry grass, untouched by the violent filth surrounding it.
"The next time I see him he'll be dead. This is the last time he gets away, mark my words."
His voice is deep with both satiation and vexation, and only serves to make me lower my head further. My toes. I can kinda see their shape through the silver slippers.
His footsteps crunch their way toward me, stopping in front of my feet. Mine are clean; his are not.
"Darling…" His tone is soft now. "It is the way of things. One day you will understand." More roughly, he says, "Are you all right?"
I give a singular nod and nothing more.
We stand opposite of each other, waiting. For what I don't know.
"…Your aura seems stable."
After he says that, I understand and remember the time after he forced me to slay the Bokoblin, how my aura flatlined and he rushed in to see if I was dead.
He raises his hand to cup my cheek. I flinch away from it.
It is red. His hand is red.
Slowly, he lowers it.
His cape, which had at some point in the battle dispersed, reforms over his outstretched arm. He wraps it around me, shielding my untouched form from the blood covering his. Then he picks me up and carries me away.
A/N: I hope my out-of-mind state didn't effect that last scene too badly.
Jaya is Sanskrit for 'victory;conquest.' I added the 'a' and 'nof' to be reminiscent of Ganondorf.
Bala is Sanskrit for 'mighty;strength.' Hence Ghirahim's 'Not very 'mighty,' are you?' line. Villains are required to be punny.
Thank you all for the feedback. I enjoy reading your thoughts. And as for the rating...I have it scheduled to go up to M around chapter 32, but if you think it needs that beforehand, let me know.
Thank you for reading!