A/N: I'm so sorry. Thank you for your patience
Thank you MinMinette (Thank you, I am well. Very happy you like it!), Lady Mokki (Haha! Thank you for making the suggestion or that scene wouldn't have come about.), Meryllia (Happy birthday! ...Belated now but I still wanted to say it. And thank you so much for taking the time to tell me you like it. I'm sorry for the long waits. I'll try to get better on that.), cheesepotassium (I'll try to remain tasteful on the more heated moments, but I'm a novice at those scenes in the first place. Thank you, I am getting rest.), Othaeryn (I will do my best to write 'the one' tastefully. We've got a ways to go in this story. I'm so sorry for the wait!), JustBecause170 (Thank you so much! It makes my day to know you like it. Thank you for your patience!), RandomR15 (I'm well, thank you! The problem is she's never received such attention before and doesn't know how to cope.), nofilter (Kya doesn't know what's going on in his head either. Since it's told from her perspective, that makes sense...but a Ghirahim POV chapter has been requested, I just don't know where to put it.), FallenwaterTheFallen (Yes, she is going up! If she could just control it.), Trixedog101 (Thank you for saying so!), Silver4700 (It's nice to hear from you again. I'm glad you still like it. I hope it continues to hold up.) for your reviews last chapter!
[!] Be warned that there is non-con elements closer to the end of the first section. Proceed with caution.
Chapter 34
Black trees loom all around me, their branches stretching high and interconnecting like dark latticework, shielding me from the gray clouds above. It's another dim day, made dimmer in the shadows of this forest. I breathe deeply, relishing the cool, damp breeze that stirs the trees to life.
"Ah," I sigh, smiling. "Finally. Out of the castle. Not that I hate it there, but we seriously needed some fresh air. Right?"
Beside me, Bob the Bokoblin shakes on his spindly legs, cleaver in hand, his beady eyes darting between the trees.
"Relax," I tell him. "See? We're not that far." I point to the tall and imposing castle, still visible through the cracks in the canopy.
Go, Bob signs with his free hand. We go back now.
"Not yet," I say, signing as I speak. "I want to look around a little more. I didn't get to see much last time I was out here."
'Last time' being when I found that human cookbook, freaked the hell out, and fled the castle. I ran blindly and hid, not sparing any time to appreciate my surroundings. Now, I do.
"Come on." I pat the sword and dagger that hang from my hip. "We're both armed. We're fine. Let's go."
I lead on, and Bob quaveringly follows.
What can I say? I can't help it. My itch to explore can't be denied. And with Ghirahim gone, once again refusing to take me with him, why not? I'm a grown ass woman twice over, armed, and with a companion who's also armed.
So it's all good.
As we traverse the forest, pushing aside low hanging limbs and stepping over roots and rocks, I think back on the past several days.
The search for the second Gate of Time continued, with Ghirahim either combing books and maps or scouring the land for Hylia's secret temples. I pretended to help him, at least with the books and maps. As for searching the land…
"Please take me with you," I begged for what seemed like the thousandth time.
"Not this time," he said, which was what he always said, as if there'd ever be a time when he'd let me come along.
I wanted the adventure. I wanted the freedom. I wanted the companionship.
So I moped and continued to mope even when he got back home, until he felt compelled to make it up to me…which usually involved gentle caresses and the soft touch of lips. I couldn't help but feel better wrapped in those iron-strong arms. I think I was making him feel better too, what with him sighing and the tension leaving his form.
I was afraid the first few times. Afraid the touches wouldn't stop and the kisses would become too heated. But every time I tensed up and closed down, he seemed to sense my hesitation and apprehension, because he would ease off with a knowing little smirk and quirk of his brow. Like he knew something, and at the same time was questioning when my nervousness would come to an end.
He has never pushed beyond my boundaries. It surprises me. I thought…I thought…
Well, I don't know what I thought.
I guess I never imagined he'd be the type to have patience.
In conjunction with the soothing touches, sometimes he'd bring me trinkets. Little crystalline figures for me to gawk at, or books that could easily be translated, and other things to capture and keep my attention—all from the Jaayanof, the pinnacle city of the demons, where they had staked their metaphorical victory flag for having broken free to the surface.
"Read," he said. "Or draw me a picture of your Knowing Realm."
"Eh…" I shrugged. "I'm not so good at art."
"Perfect time to learn then, is it not?"
I tried. Painstakingly I dragged ink across paper in an attempt to create a cityscape. But none of it conveyed the greatness and majesty of the skyscrapers, stretching from earth to sky. If I ever do get it right, I told myself, I'll show him.
In-between everything else, there were the training sessions; a combination of serious teaching and the games we used to play in the tower. If I strike him three times with my blade, I win. If he pins me, he wins. Giddiness would suffuse us, our laughter ringing in the halls—because our games sometimes took us beyond the weapons room.
Those sessions were too short in my opinion. I didn't want them to end. But eventually he would have to get back to work, back to the search.
My restlessness grew. Ghirahim wasn't blind to it. So, in another attempt to occupy me, he brought me to a room I had never been before, located down a brightly colored hall and not far from our bedrooms. He opened a door and inside surrounded by tapestries and diamond-shaped windows was almost every instrument I could dream of—and some not even known to me, but native to this world.
The piano kept my eye out of all of them.
Ghirahim led me to it. I sat next to him on the rosewood bench and watched his fingers glide across those ivory keys, listened to the beautiful array of tunes he made.
"I never knew you played," I said.
"Every now and then, when I have the time."
"My…" I stopped myself from saying anything about my father, and how he had played piano. "I mean, I wish I could play like that."
The tinkling of the higher piano notes stopped abruptly as he took his hands off the keys to reach for mine. "I'll show you, then."
My fingers were clumsy and stiff, haltingly pressing the keys. I was surprised Ghirahim didn't snap or sneer or deride my skill, or lack thereof.
"It's all right, darling." He resumed playing. "You'll get there, someday, perhaps, if you practice."
I snorted. "Yeah, I'll be as good as you in no time."
A corner of his mouth curved in a smirk. "Very few can play as well as I can."
"Whoa, there, Ghirahim. Ease up on the humility. I mean, give yourself some credit, come on," I said with joking sarcasm. A second later I realized… "I'm sorry," I quickly amended. "I meant 'Master.'"
He was quiet for a time, the duration of which was filled by the piano's sweet song.
My heart pounded, and I wondered how angry he was, until he said, "It's all right, my darling. You may use my name…provided it is in the presence of just the two of us."
Just the two of us, huh? Can it always be that way? Just the two of us. No demon king, no goddess, no destiny. Just us. Just being. Just living.
I didn't dare to utter a peep of those thoughts.
But the good news was I got him to play some familiar tunes. I hummed the Song of Storms, Epona's Song, and even the demon lord's own theme, and he played them back for me.
In the present, I'm once again humming the Song of Storms. It had rained recently, and with the clouds as they are, I'm wondering if it will rain again when I trip over a black root and catch myself on a big tan mushroom, the spongy flesh of it crumbling under my weight, the musty smell intermingling with the damp of the forest floor. I stand and brush myself off.
"…Huh. Cool shrooms," I mutter before following a trail of the toadstools, hoping maybe I'll see something as grand as those moon-like fungi in that other forest.
As I walk, I try to focus on what's ahead of me, but the demon lord keeps coming to the forefront of my mind. He's been so good to me. Gentle touches and words, patience and teaching, giving gifts to ease my time waiting…
Waiting…
I keep wondering if he realizes how much his attention on me is disrupting him from his master. Maybe he knows. Maybe I'm distracting him from a futile search that would normally drive him insane from an urgency and worry that can't be channeled right now, that probably couldn't be channeled in centuries.
It's a waiting game for Ghirahim. Has been for a long time.
A game I'm familiar with too. In both lives.
But, now, the way he treats me…
Did he ever treat any other human like this? No way. Never. They were just insects to grind his heel into. So why am I different? I'm human. I'm one of those he looks so far down upon.
And yet he doesn't treat me like a human at all.
Once, he even asked if I really was one.
Just the other day he was sitting on a golden throne-like chair, conjured from magic, with his legs draped languidly over the armrest. It was only us in the library, rows of books towering around. But once again he'd been distracted from the search. He was reminiscing, speaking of his master, Demise, and how the silly Hylians came to know him as such.
I could guess why, and Ghirahim's explanation confirmed it: Because the demon king sundered all in his path and left nothing but desolation for his enemies.
"…and those ridiculous little Hylians fled at the mere sight of him, scuttling like the bugs they were. The humans could not hope to stop us."
I wrinkled my nose and kept to myself what I really thought of Demise, but couldn't help but comment on the Hylians.
He talks like I'm not one of them. Okay, well, I'm not. Not Hylian at least. But has he forgotten I'm human too?
I reminded him. "I'm one of them, remember?"
His stare was incredulous. "No, you're not. You're nothing like them, darling," he said, as if he were comforting me.
"Throw me out the window! See if I survive! That'll tell you how human I am. I bleed when I'm cut and I break when I fall."
He gave me a withering look. "You are like no human I have ever known."
And the matter was closed. He would hear no more of it.
I stalk through the forest now. I'm not even sure what I'm looking for. I just wanted to see what it was like out here.
Getting out of the castle was a lot easier this time around. Shii had been ordered to root out the mutinous Lizalfos and surprisingly Essil volunteered herself to help with the tricky mission, saying with a rare conviction that she could tell who was trustworthy and who was not.
With the Lizalfos out, that left me with the Bokoblins.
Thankfully it was Bob's platoon that was set to guard me.
The Bokoblins were stationed in the halls and at the doors, and they screeched and waved their arms about when I ventured out until I retreated to the main rooms, where they thought I was safe and sound, I guess. But as soon as I spotted Bob among them, I knew I had a way out. It took some convincing, but eventually I got Bob to lead me down secret tunnels, twisting round and down, until we came out a small side exit hidden seamlessly in the castle wall.
It was quiet. No loud auras needed. No banging open the front gates.
We made our way out here, to this oddly dark and alluring forest.
A group of Keese squeak and flap their wings somewhere in the distant trees. The mushroom trail has led me nowhere. I have to be sure to get back home before Ghirahim does. He said he'd be late, but still.
"All right," I say. "Let's start heading back now…uh…" I look behind me to find no one there. "Bob?"
The sound of far-off wings is all that answers my call.
"O—kay." I keep looking around like he's going to come bursting through the underbrush any second now. When he doesn't, I shout, "Seriously? Bob? Bob!"
In looking about, I find something else instead.
It is small; a pale green orb floating above a rotting stump. It flitters down, forms wings as it touches crumbling bark. It sits there, wings gently moving.
I stare curiously. Is it a moth? Or maybe a fairy? My eyes light up. I've been wanting to see a fairy again! Maybe this one will talk to me.
I approach slowly, careful not to scare it off. "Hey…" I reach out, fingertips grazing the soft glow emanating from the fairy, its wings looking so delicate, so pretty…
And then it's gone in a blink as if it was never there.
I blink rapidly, surprised at its sudden disappearance, before sighing dejectedly. Why can't I find a talkative fairy like Navi or Tatl? "Oh well," I mutter to myself. "I better get back. I'm sure Bob will meet me at the cas—"
A grumbling comes from beneath my feet. The earth seems to vibrate, and then it moves, sending me stumbling several paces. I gawk with wide eyes at where I once stood. Something sprouts—but, no, that's no plant. Yellowed and dirty bones erupt from the dirt, taller, and taller, until there is a warrior of bone standing before me, dirt and loose roots drifting off it. It shakes and rattles, and holds up two decrepit blades.
Stalfos.
It advances towards me.
I stagger back, stare locked onto the two pinprick spheres glowing in its otherwise empty black eye sockets.
Quickly I shake myself out of my stupor and draw my sword. This isn't an enemy I can talk or reason with. I have to act; I hold up and steady my blade, eyes fixed on the walking dead before me.
The Stalfos stalks closer, and I'm tempted to retreat, but I force myself to hold my ground.
Come on then, I think, waiting for it to get close enough. When it does, I lunge, jabbing the tip of my sword into its knee joint. The bones pop as I twist the blade, and then I leap away from a vertical slash.
My feet are light on the ground, and I dance around the Stalfos, dashing in to deliver quick strikes to its weakened joints, both knee and elbow, and jumping back whenever it swings its blades.
Back and forth, back and forth, until The Stalfos is only able to hold up one sword and must drag its ruined leg to move.
Suddenly I am glad for all those training sessions with Ghirahim and sometimes Shii. Glad for the swiftness and evasiveness imparted by Shii, and for the sword and weapon knowledge taught by Ghirahim.
Go for the spine.
I brace myself, take one breath, two breaths.
I can do this.
Rushing in, I put all my weight behind a stab to the undead's vertebrae. My blade bites into bone, and I rip it away only to repeat the stab as many times as I can before the Stalfos throws out a clumsy retaliation. I pull back, sword catching on a discolored rib as I do and taking a piece of it off. I don't stay back long. Again, I run in, hacking away, until the spine can withstand no more.
The Stalfos gives a shriek that pierces through the forest's quiet. Its glowing pinprick eyes fade until there is nothing left haunting those empty sockets. It falls apart, rusted blades thunking to the ground, bone falling from bone, and when it's over the scattered remains lie still and silent in the dirt from which it came.
I stare, hearing nothing but creaking tree branches swaying in the wind and my own deep breathing, half expecting the bones to come back together once more to continue the fight. They don't. I stand there, refusing to turn my back on the Stalfos remains, thinking I should really head back to the castle.
Ghirahim doesn't need to know about any of this.
I'm about to run for it, before anything else can pop up from the ground, when I see that green glow again floating over the decaying stump—but only for an instant, and I'm left wondering if I'm just seeing things.
Mid-thought, I feel a chill shiver through my body, feel something similar to fearful premonition.
But the forest is quiet.
I'm crazy, I think. I huff once, twice, then I laugh softly, a sudden thrill surging through my veins. I did it. I beat a Stalfos, and without a single injury. Giddiness suffuses my cheeks with warmth. I laugh again, louder, and bounce on my toes. That was so cool! Way better than experiencing it through a silver screen, even if it was a little nerve-wracking at first.
Hey, maybe I can stay out here a bit longer. Bob can't be too far and—
Mad, gleeful laughter echoes throughout the woods, the sound bouncing off of every tree and straight into my ringing ears. I startle, stumble in circles, searching every shadow for the source of the laughter, searching for the source of the voice that says, "Well, looky, looky what I've found here."
My breath hitches and my heart goes into overdrive. I recognize that voice, though I've only heard it once before. I draw up my sword, holding it threateningly.
The laughter sounds once more. "Isn't that cute. What's a weak little thing like you gonna do with that?"
"Balak!" I bark, nerves making my tone harsh.
"Aw, how sweet," he mocks. "You remembered my name. Shame I never got yours. Oh well. Not that it matters. I think I'll just call you what you are: Ghirahim's little bitch."
I grit my teeth and glare as the tall Wolfos demon steps from between the trees. Nothing's changed since I last saw him on that cold and snowy field. Same dark hair with a widow's peak, same sable-colored fur coat gathered into two tails at his back, and, most familiar of all, same cracked and chipped teeth.
It makes his grin all the more grotesque.
"Nothin' to say?" He laughs and pulls a crude axe from the folds of his coat. "This is gonna be so much fun," he says quietly, as if talking to himself. Then louder, to me, he says, "You sure you got nothin' to say? I'll deliver your last words to Ghirahim myself."
I scoff, gripping the hilt of my sword hard, hoping it'll stop the shaking. "Your cowardly ass won't go anywhere near Ghirahim. Not without a group to hide behind."
His grin falters, his yellow eyes glinting menacingly. "You little shit. Whatever. I'll just tell him how much you screamed!"
With that, Balak charges, and my wildly beating heart jumps to my throat. I jerk my sword up just in time to block a sideswipe from Balak's axe, and when he turns the blade to swipe at me once more, I leap back so he misses entirely.
We circle each other slowly, me white-faced and tight-lipped, and him with a mad dog grin back in place, made madder with those jagged, uneven teeth.
In a white-knuckle grip, my sword is held out in a defensive stance. Balak shoots forward and laughs as I in turn skitter back. This happens a few more times, the Wolfos demon laughing all the while, and I realize he's toying with me.
My fear bleeds into anger.
Now, when he rushes in again, I do more than stand my ground—I lunge and thrust my blade at his torso. His shocked expression tells me he expected me to keep running, and he twists to avoid a direct gut stabbing, but twists a little too late. I catch him in the side, my blade disappearing between his coat and his ribs, and it comes away with blood on its gleaming edge.
First blood goes to me.
Balak stumbles back and reaches in his coat to palm his ribs. His hand comes out red, and he stares at it in disbelief. Disbelief that quickly morphs into snarling rage. "You little piece of trash! Lucky hit! But your luck's run out."
He moves fast—too fast for me. Suddenly he's before me, knocking my blade to the side with his. In a flash he brings the axe back with another swipe and pain explodes in my side. I cry out, swing my sword and almost slice his face, but he pulls just out of reach, and returns the favor by thrusting the head of his axe into my cheekbone. Another blast of pain staggers me, and then Balak sends me sprawling with a well-aimed kick to my gut.
I lay curled on my side, head spinning, Balak laughing. He stands over me, a shadow against the muted gray sky and dark canopy.
Move.
I have to move.
Pushing through the pain, I roll onto my feet, still clutching my sword, teeth bared, tear streaks cutting down my face. My cheek throbs. I glance at my aching side expecting to see blood. None. But he got me with the blade of his axe, I saw its rough edge flash in the dim light before it connected. Then it hits me: I'm wearing special Skulltula silk. It wears like armor. Great. Still gonna leave a horrendous bruise, maybe even a fractured rib. I fight not to curl in on the pain. Fresh tears run, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
I need the white light. I need my former body's strength. I grit my teeth and hold my breath, trying to summon either.
But nothing happens.
I pull in a shaky breath, open my frightened eyes.
Balak stands not far, tossing his axe between his hands, like he can't decide which he'd rather kill me with.
The realization that I'm going to die dawns on me rather slowly. Tears spear back into my eyes and I hold them there, letting no more fall. "Why are you doing this?" I ask, and really, it's a stupid question, one I already know the answer to, but I'm stalling, hoping I can come up with something miraculous.
Balak chuckles. "Seriously? Are you stupid?" He snarls. "Look at me! Look at my fangs! I recall you found that real funny. And let's not forget my pack."
"If you cared for them, why'd you send them in to fight and just leave them?"
"Shut up," he growls.
"You saw them getting slaughtered and you just up and ran."
"Shut up!" Balak readies his axe, settling on his right hand, the hand that's going to kill me.
Good job stalling, I tell myself. You just made him angrier.
And I've come up with nothing. No newfound strength. No genius idea.
I glance up at the early noon sun. Ghirahim told me he won't be back until late evening. He won't be here to save me.
All I can do is fight until my last breath.
Balak comes at me swinging and I barely parry the blow, his raw physical strength reeling me. I recover just enough to thrust my blade in for his throat. He derails the stab with his left fist, getting a cut between his knuckles, but sparing his vitals in the process.
I dance out of reach, only to dart back in, feinting low but going high, hoping to slice his eyes and blind him. And it makes me sick, but my survival instincts scream at me to keep going. As we dance around each other, me swiftly and him brutishly, glancing blows, dodging sharp edges, I remember Ghirahim's earlier teachings. That dreadful lesson with the blue Bokoblin. You don't have the luxury of choosing, he'd said. I don't know what fantasyland you lived in above the clouds but down here on the surface it is kill or be killed.
Kill or be killed.
With horrific clarity I understand fully. I have to go for the throat, the heart, the gut, the eyes. I don't have the power needed to grant mercy. And this isn't like skittering Scaldera or the lumbering stone Taliticus. I'm facing a greater demon. He is stronger, faster, smarter.
My own wolf comes out, snapping and snarling, and my frenzy bursts out of me, spurned by fear and anger, but something tells me it won't help me like it has before.
The only other greater demon I've fought is Ghirahim, and he was never gunning for my life.
Another strike from Balak's axe makes contact on my arm. The blade is stopped by the Skulltula silk—but the force of the impact hurts me down to the bone.
I grip my sword for dear life.
And I start praying.
Be with me, I plead to my God. Be with me, be with me, be with me—
My blade cuts into the wood of the axe. But the wood is too thick, and my sword arm too weak.
Be with me—
Lightheaded. I am so lightheaded. Tears blur my vision. I'm going to die here, here among dirt and bones littering the forest ground.
"Not laughing now, are you, bitch!" crows Balak. His mocking laughter echoes all around me.
Blurrier—I can't see—and I duck behind a thick tree to buy time. It doesn't do any good. He circles around quickly and my stuttering breaths can't seem to keep up with his speed.
Be with me, be with me, bewithme—
Suddenly our blades clash with the sound of thunder—and it's not from the sky.
Shock and confusion flit across Balak's face.
Metal collides again with a booming clang, and the force of it staggers Balak.
Dark streaks cut through my hair and I feel lighter than air. I stand tall, strong.
"What the…?" Balak shakes himself and bares his chipped fangs.
"Not laughing now, are you?" I say darkly.
He charges.
He tries to hook my sword with the curve of his axe so he might pull it from my grasp, but I see it coming, knew because in the many training sessions with Ghirahim I was taught more than just swords. I slip my blade free, the metals whispering against one another, and lunge with a jab that makes Balak bleed from his collarbone. He snarls and darts in with a jab of his own. I leap aside and feint at his leg, and as he moves to block, I instead go for the wood of his axe once again.
This time my sword arm is powerful.
My blade bites deeply into the wooden handle, a chunk of it flying off as I yank away. I do it again and again, trying to hit around the same spot, chipping away at it, being as accurate as my blurred vision allows.
Balak doesn't realize the structure of his axe is compromised until it's too late. He hits me with a hammering blow that I parry, and when the blades clash his axe head snaps from the handle and flies off into the underbrush.
He is left standing, gaping, with what amounts to a stick with no blade attached. "How could you have…?" Balak shakes himself again, growling. "There's no way! You're just a stupid, weak human! How did you—how were you able to—" he sputters. "What kind of human are you?"
"The kind that's going to cut your balls off if you don't get out of here. And never come back." Now I am strong enough, I think, to grant mercy. The she-wolf howls in triumph, standing watch over the bleating ewe.
I squint, barely seeing the shock and confusion melt from Balak's face, replaced by a vicious smirk. His laughter starts small, then grows and grows, the higher pitch making it more akin to a hyena than a wolf. The trees trap the laughter, resonating it. "You know what?" he says, tossing the ruined axe handle. "It doesn't matter. Not when I have this." From his pale, dingy shirt he pulls a green pendant. It sways on the end of its cord, glimmering even in the clouded sunlight.
I frown. "You're threatening me with jewelry?"
"I wouldn't expect you to know what it is," he says condescendingly. "But you'll see. Right now." He jerks the pendant out in front of him like he's wielding a weapon.
The ground beneath me rumbles.
Another Stalfos?
My assumption is debunked when thick, dark roots shoot up from the dirt, writhing like giant serpents. Before I can react, the roots whip out at my arms and legs, curling and latching on with near crushing grips.
Balak laughs. "There's no—"
I pull with all my might, yanking and contorting, the roots creaking and groaning, until the one ensnaring my right wrist is snapped.
"…escape." Balak grits his teeth. "Damn it! What are you!" he asks again, shaking the pendant.
More roots surge up from the earth, recapturing my wrist, even more coming to replace the others I manage to snap over and over again. I break one binding and another takes its place. I heave and huff, my heart beating like a war drum, fighting and fighting.
Exhaustion creeps up on me, slowly sinking its fangs in until I am a limp, gasping mess.
Balak, confidence regained, approaches me. "I'll admit, you've got a lotta fight in you. Not that it'll help you in the end. Now, what was it you said? Oh, right. You were gonna cut my balls off. Y'know, I was planning on chopping you to bits, but I'm inspired now. Think I'll leave Ghirahim a little something to find in your corpse."
With that said, Balak unfastens his pants.
I freeze. "What—are you doing?"
The roots pull at my legs, spreading them wide.
Horror dawns anew. "What are you doing!"
Balak comes closer, the front of his pants undone, and though my vision is blurry, he gets close enough that I can make out the vague shape of his sex jutting out from his hips.
"Get away from me!" I shriek, struggling against the roots, trying my hardest to free my legs. "Get away from me!"
Balak only laughs. "I can smell your fear. Smells good." He runs his hands up my thighs in mockery of a lover's caress before pushing my skirt up. With one swift tug of his claws, he rips my underwear.
I scream, scream louder than I ever have before. The ewe cries. The she-wolf snaps with slavering jaws.
Balak's sex touches my inner thigh, prodding to find the most private part of me.
I scream my throat raw.
And a white light explodes out of me, pushing Balak back just far enough so that when I wrench my right leg free of the roots, he is in the perfect spot to get nailed in his left thigh by my kick. As my foot slams into him with all the force my Knowing Realm body can give, I hear a crack! upon impact.
Now it is Balak's turn to scream.
And scream he does, spewing every foul word and curses both known and unknown to me, staggering and falling. He tries to get up many times—and each time he falls, broken femur unable to support him.
But then suddenly he goes very still and very quiet.
I'm fighting the roots; I don't notice immediately how fear distorts Balak's entire expression, can't clearly see it even if I was focused on it.
"I just can't leave you alone, now, can I?"
Diamond fractals flare up like flames at the base of the roots ensnaring me. They shrivel and die with the flames, and I drop to my feet, sword still in hand. I look to who had spoken, know who it is, and squint my eyes to see him a bit clearer.
It is then I understand Balak's terror.
The white figure of Ghirahim walks nearer, his blood-red mantle dispersing into a mist of scattering diamonds. Black veins spread like cracks all over his body, splintering the pale skin, spreading up his arms and legs, over his chest, up the side of his face hidden by his hair—everywhere.
He is looking a Balak.
And there is pure murder in his eyes.
"Kya," Ghirahim says, "there is a waterfall to the west of here, just ahead. You should be able to hear it. Go there and wait for me." His jovial tone is at complete odds with those murderous eyes, those deep blackfire pits made darker by raven shadow.
After stuffing himself back in his pants, Balak tries to run, but his damaged leg renders that impossible. He flounders, muttering frantic curses, wide eyes rolling in his head, looking for escape—an escape he'll never find.
A pang of pity flickers through me, vanishing quick as it came. Balak is fastening his pants with shaking hands, as if he has any hope of covering up what he just tried to do to me.
I turn my back, quickly striding in the direction Ghirahim indicated, passing trees, listening for water. I soon hear its whisper calling me.
The screams begin.
I break into a sprint, not slowing until I arrive at the waterfall; a small one, only about ten feet tall and four feet wide, spilling over the precipice of a sharp incline. I sit on a sizable rock just out of reach of the water's spray, and, after returning my sword to my belt, wait with hands clamped over my ears.
Balak's screams have turned dreadful and inhuman, ripping through the stillness of the forest. I press my ears tighter, letting the splash of the waterfall and the blood roaring in my head distract me, counting each beat of my heart.
You can be thankful for Ghirahim's cruelty, growls the she-wolf, now that it is directed at someone who wholly deserves it.
Solemnly the ewe bows her head. She says there's nothing I can do to stop it.
Why would you want to? snaps the she-wolf.
The ewe is silent.
I don't know how long I sit there. My stare skips around, seeking more distraction, vision jumping back and forth between clear and fuzzy—mostly fuzzy. The clouds part, letting spotlights of sunshine through. It pours like liquid gold between the branches, highlighting little green buds growing on what I thought was bare bark, and sparkles on the rippling water's surface. Wind hushes through the trees, brushes over my skin, raising goosebumps…and the faint scent of blood is carried on its breath.
The screaming has stopped.
His black skin blends with the trees, but his white rhombus markings set him apart, and though he is currently blurry like everything else, I see him coming through the woods like some ethereal apparition, some dark fae of the forest. Sunbeams glint off his metallic skin. The closer he gets, the clearer he becomes. He goes straight for the waterfall, stepping under its spray.
The water comes off him red.
I watch the color sluice from him, trace it as it flows down the small stream. Ghirahim stays under the water until the red completely fades. His footsteps fall silent on grass and moss. I don't look at him then, locking my gaze down on my toes. He comes into my line of sight. I keep my head bowed, and he kneels so that our eyes meet.
Nothing is said for a while.
He cups the side of my face, thumb resting on my aching cheekbone, the coolness of his touch soothing.
Finally, he speaks, voice tight. "Did he take you?"
I blink stupidly. "…What?"
"Did he take you," he repeats slowly, strained.
Understanding clicks. "No, no I…" I try to keep my voice stable. "…I broke his leg before he could."
Ghirahim is silent. Then, "Don't lie to me."
My brow scrunches. "I'm not." He continues to look unconvinced, so I say, "Ghirahim, if he'd—if he'd—" I can't bring myself to say the word. "—if he'd gotten me, I wouldn't be sitting here calmly. I'd be bawling my eyes out. For real."
He says nothing. He brushes his thumb over the tearstains on my swelling cheek, and I curse myself for not thinking to scrub my face.
"Those—that's from pain. He hit me twice with an axe." I gesture vaguely to my side and arm. "Good thing I was wearing this dress. Didn't cut."
"If he had been using a higher quality blade, it may have," Ghirahim says. "Skulltula silk doesn't make you invincible."
"I know." I grimace. "Believe me, I know."
He is quiet again, glancing me over, thumb stroking restlessly.
"I…" I swallow the lump in my throat, hesitating because my voice starts to shake. "I didn't…drop my sword…this time…"
Carefully, he brings his other hand to my face and guides me to him until our foreheads touch. "Good," he whispers. "Good."
The diamond situated on his forehead digs into mine, but I don't care. We stay like that, listening to the other breathe. I try to keep my breathing like his: slow and deep. After some time, he gently pulls me onto his lap, encircling his arms around my smaller frame. His dark skin is wet and cool, diverting my attention from the sharp pains I still feel. I hug his neck, blinking away tears, trying not to think of what happened—of what could have happened. You can't cry, I tell myself. Who knows what he'd think then, after telling him I'd be bawling if…
"Let's just go home," I beg. "Please."
He rises, taking me with him, my legs wrapped around his hips.
"Yes," he agrees, "let's go home."
We reappear in the main chamber of our rooms, diamond-shaped magic blinking out of existence, the dizziness caused by warping ebbing.
Ghirahim seems loath to let me go, but I wriggle out of his grasp, legs stretching down, feet straining for the floor; he is so much taller in this metallic form. Eventually he concedes, let's me down. I walk a few steps, rubbing at my aching injuries.
"I…" I begin uncertainly. "I'm going to go ahead and get ready for bed. Call it an early day. I'm…feeling really beat up." I give him some wary side-eye. "Okay?"
He stares at me for what seems like forever, those glowing white eyes revealing nothing, before giving me a single curt nod. I can't read his expression, and I usually can, given he's so frickin' expressive, even in his metal form, but right now he's like stone.
I am in so much trouble, aren't I?
I'm slinking to the bathroom when a thought occurs to me. "Oh! Is Bob back?"
Ghirahim furrows his brow.
"Bob," I say. "Bob the Bokoblin. Did he make it back?"
"…Was he with you?"
"Yes. I took him with me. We got separated along the way, and then…" I clear my throat. "Anyway. If he's not back, could someone go look for him? Poor guy might still be looking for me."
Ghirahim crosses his arms over his broad chest, is silent for a few moments, and then says, "He will be found."
I sigh, relieved. "Thank you."
Seconds later, I shut the bathroom door behind me, remove my weapons, and start peeling out of my dress, wincing at the pangs and protests of my body. My torn underwear hangs like a loincloth between my thighs. Quickly I take it off and hide it under my hastily folded dress, not wanting Ghirahim to see.
It's not long after I sink into the bath that Essil knocks and pokes her head in. "May I en-enter?"
"Yeah. Hey," I whisper just loud enough for her to hear, "do me a favor. There's some underwear under my dress. Get rid of it. Don't let Ghirahim see. Please?"
"O-of course." Essil sets a red potion and salve on the counter before fishing under the blue dress for the offending garment. Pulling it out, her big eyes look to me in alarm.
"It's okay," I assure her. "I wasn't—I wasn't gotten. I broke my attacker's leg," I finish almost cheerfully.
Essil nods shakily, tucking the ruined panties in her apron. She then picks up my weapons and dress for cleaning.
"You don't have to do all that," I say, tone becoming deeper, raspy, and I don't know if it's from all the screaming I did or if my voice is taking on aspects of my former body as well.
"I like to do it. I like to help you, Mistress."
My eyes widen. "Don't call me that! I'm no one's mistress. Just Kya will do."
Essil smiles. "Kya. There is nothing I wouldn't do for you."
I stare, bewildered, at a loss of what to say, tears threatening to well once more. So I just lower my head and thank her for the healing items before she goes.
I hurry to finish my bath, wanting to be in bed with this day and all its happenings behind me. My light-as-air feeling diminishes bit by bit. By the time I'm out and wrapped in a towel, I'm completely back to normal, dark streaks receded, vision cleared, voice…I'm not sure about. I mutter a random sentence. Yes, mostly normal.
In the hall I linger, watching Ghirahim. He's sat on the sofa, dark skin glistening before the hearth fire, narrowed white gaze fixated on something he's holding. I sneak closer. "Is that…? That's the pendant Balak was wearing."
"Yes," says Ghirahim, frown sharp. "Its magical properties are much too complex for that mangy beast to have enchanted it on his own. Someone gave it to him." He laughs dryly. "And the name he gave me while I was…questioning him…I don't know if I believe it. And yet…" He stops observing the pendant and fixes me with that piercing gaze. "Never mind. Go rest."
I do as told, but can't help but wonder what he was going to say.
Later in the evening, Essil comes into my room with a dinner tray.
"I don't know if I can eat," I tell her. "I'm worried. Have they found Bob yet?"
Essil sets the tray on the bedside table with trembling hands. "They…found him."
I sit up straight-backed. "Is he okay? Essil?"
Her orangish eyes land on everything except me. "H-he's with lord Ghirahim now. In the throne room."
I throw the covers off and stand. "Take me to him."
"N-no," she stutters. "I—I don't think that's a good idea. Better to wait here until…until it's over."
My eyes flash. "Until what's over?"
"P-punishment," she says weakly.
"Okay, that's it. Take me there. Take me there now!"
She hunches her shoulders and shakes her head.
"Essil! Please. Please!"
"Oh!" She wrings her hands. "Oh, I—"
"I'll find my own way if you don't."
"All—all right," she concedes. "But, oh…"
She says no more, taking me through service tunnels and halls bleeding with evening's reddish hue. We make it to the large doors of the throne room.
"Let's go back, Kya," Essil says. "Let him t-take his punishment and be done with it."
"He doesn't deserve punishment. It wasn't his fault; it was mine," I say, and then ram my shoulder into the great door, pushing hard, easing the hefty thing open, slipping into the grand hall that is all black stone and bright fire.
Before the black throne stands Ghirahim and a group of Bokoblins. Bob is at the forefront of the ragged band of monsters, who I assume found him and brought him to their lord, and they keep a safe distance behind Bob. Even now, they surreptitiously creep backwards. Ghirahim's voice is deep and each word comes out like a heavy blow, the demon dialect, so foreign to my ears, scathing and biting.
"Wait," I call, rushing to them, skirt of my nightgown swishing violently around my legs. "Stop, it wasn't his fault!"
Ghirahim turns his glower on me. "Go back to the rooms, little bird."
I stop a few paces from them, huffing. "It's not his fault," I repeat once my breath is caught. "It was me. If anyone deserves to be punished, it's me."
Ghirahim narrows his eyes. "Is this not the Bokoblin that took you out of the castle?"
For just a fraction of a second, I think of lying. But it will do no good. He'll be able to tell, and then he'll be even angrier.
"…Yes, but—"
"And then proceeded to leave you alone in the woods? Not," Ghirahim spits out, "that he would have done you any good against a greater demon like Balak."
"H-he got lost. I walked too fast. I took a sharp turn. I dunno, I just know—"
"Thank the damned spirits I happened to come home early."
"—it wasn't his fault."
Ghirahim bares sharp fangs. "If not for him, you would have been safely within the castle. It most definitely is his fault."
"I asked him to! I made him do it!"
"And he should have denied you. You didn't 'make' him do anything."
I open and close my mouth, at loss for words. I glance at Bob. He is shaking, hands clasped in that all too familiar prayer hold.
"You were almost killed. And more," Ghirahim hisses. "Do you not realize what he would have done if I hadn't been there? If I hadn't decided on a whim to come home early?"
My gaze snaps back to the demon lord. "I had it under control."
"Did you! Because from where I was standing you looked to be on the last dregs of energy, edging the pits of total exhaustion, struggling to continue your struggle!"
"I broke his leg," I bite out, "and I would've broken his other one too."
"A claw to your heart. A fang to your neck. That is all it would have taken." Barely suppressed rage makes a muscle in Ghirahim's clenched jaw twitch. "Someone will answer for leading you into harm's way. Someone will pay!"
"Balak paid. And so will I." I bunch my fists into the fabric of my gown, steadying my resolve. "So do what you will. Whip me. Beat me. Chain me. Throw me in the dungeon."
Seconds pass like minutes, and minutes like hours.
Ghirahim stares at me hard in that time, white eyes that shouldn't be able to see but all too clearly do, once again unreadable. Then, quietly, he says, "I'm not going to harm a hair on your head."
A breath I didn't realize I'd been holding releases. "Then let's just forget about this. Lesson learned. It won't happen again."
"No," he says lowly. "It won't."
There is a sudden spray of fractal diamonds, a flash of a sweeping black blade.
And I watch in stunned horror as Bob's body falls, and his head rolls.