A/N: Thank you cheesepotassium, Othaeryn, Lady Mokki, Aries, Dreams-exe, Bluebadger, RandomR15, and SonyasSiren for your reviews last chapter! I'm glad everyone liked the battle!

Warning for adult themes in the last scene containing dubious consent. Skip to the very last paragraph if you don't want to read.

Chapter 37

"Tell me how my daughter died."

The old medical examiner sits in front of the doctor's desk, his grey eyes solemn and regretful. He lets those eyes wander for just a moment, over the sleek, organized desktop, with nothing out of place, no mess, not even a speck of dust. As meticulously organized as the man that sits behind it…or so he used to be.

Dr. Robert Marson was a man many replied upon, a man made strong and relentless by duty and compassion, a man as strong in mind and body as he was in heart. But that man, once well-kept and poised, now hunches in his chair with a fragility only caused by heartbreak. Stubble shadows his cheeks, his dark eyes bruised-looking and red. His hair was barely combed. His white coat is rumpled and wrinkled.

"Tell me," he repeats, voice cracking, "how my daughter died."

The medical examiner returns the grief-filled stare of his long-time co-worker and friend. They had worked at the same hospital for many, many years. "I'm sorry, Robert. We don't know."

Dr. Marson pinches the bridge of his nose. "How do you not know? Tell me the autopsy's results."

"Those are the results. Everything was…perfect. Her organs did not fail. No clots. No pulmonary embolism. No hemorrhages, no brain aneurysm, no congenital defects. Everything was perfect."

"Perfect," Dr. Marson echoes dully. "And yet she's dead."

"Yes," the medical examiner says softly. "I'm sorry."

"People don't just…die. There's always a reason. Heart attack. Trauma. Disease. Was there a disease in the pathology report? Drugs? My daughter never took drugs."

"Nothing was found in the pathology tests. I'm telling you, Robert, everything was perfect. The cause is undetermined. We don't know why she died."

Dr. Marson slumps forward in his chair, his face falling into his hands. One breath becomes two, soft at first, then forceful heaving sobs wrack the doctor's body. The medical examiner can do nothing but helplessly watch, unsure what to say, or what to do.

Eventually the sobs subside. Eventually composure returns to the good doctor. He stands, pushes his office chair in.

"I'm taking the rest of my bereavement leave," Robert Marson says. "I'm taking personal days. I'm taking whatever is left of me…and I'm going to spend it with the family…that is left to me."

The sunlight glitters on the water's surface, dapples of silver and gold dancing with every ripple. The water itself is greenish, the flow throughout this strange garden slow.

I pull my gaze from the sun's reflection and scan the arrangement of marble pillars, archways, stepping stones, crumbled walls, and statues. Time has weathered this place, yet it still holds a certain beauty. The statues are eerily true to life, women and men with pointed ears, some chipped, some cracked, folds of carved cloth so life-like I half think the depicted clothing will start moving with the breeze…if they all weren't covered in encroaching green.

This garden was once in a clearing, but is now pervaded by foliage. Moss and lichen both gray and green grows everywhere, draping and spotting the arches, crawling up the pillars and walls along with leafy vines, and decorating the statues. Trees have grown amid everything, here and there, twisting and curving around stone, away from the forest's line where they were once contained.

I walk among it all, pausing to run my fingers over a stone harp in one male statue's arms, his blank stone eyes reminding me of another's blank white eyes. The sound of trickling water makes me turn to study the female statues that hold vases in various pouring poses, little streams still falling from some of them.

There is magic still in this place. Even I, with my complete lack of magic, can tell.

"Did you hope to find the Gate of Time here?" I ask, and then take a deep breath, smelling the moss and old wet stone, the grass and earth beneath my silver slippers.

The demon watches me, a being with skin the same color as these statues, minus the green adornments. He walks the water's edge, eyes never straying from me. "I had hoped to at one point, yes. But that was quite some time ago. I searched extensively. It's not here."

A little frog jumps from a lily pad at my approach, and my stare trails it as it swims beneath aquatic flowers. "Then why bring me here?"

"You wanted to be out of the castle, did you not?"

I look up at him in surprise. "Why?"

His brow furrows. "What do you mean why?"

I take a step towards him, stopping at the pool that separates us. "Why do you care what I want?"

Ghirahim's winter lips twist into a scowl. Then the expression drops, and I could almost swear I see hurt in his face, somewhere deep in those black eyes. "…Is it so hard for you to believe that I want you happy?"

I stand there and stare in silence.

He waits, and when he gets no response, he closes his eyes and sighs. "It is…of my own doing, I know," he says so quietly I almost don't hear him. He holds a hand out to me, and louder says, "Come here, little bird."

I do as he bids, carefully making my way across the stepping stones dotting the languid pool. Even so, diamond fractals flare along the platforms with every step, as if he won't risk me falling. He's there to catch me when my stupid self stumbles onto dry ground, then hoists me up in his arms like I weigh as much as a feather, and to him I probably do.

"Have you had your fill of the outside world?" he asks, nuzzling my ear.

I fight the urge in me to pull away, fight the urge to lean in. "For today," I whisper, a part of me fearing to be caged up. "Will we come out again tomorrow?"

"As much as you like." Ghirahim smiles, a smile that turns grim. "Provided it is safe to do so. Don't pout, my darling." He presses a quick kiss to my cheek. "I will make it safe for you. In time."

He raises a hand, fingers ready to snap.

"Wait," I say, pointing, "what's that?"

He follows my finger's direction. "Just another part of the ruins."

I glance up to the Great Tree stretching tall above the surrounding forest, know we're somewhere in Faron, and know…that we've been here before. Or, I have. I squint at the far end of the garden, see more crumbled walls and pillars, but among them is a familiar statue, one covered more thoroughly in moss and vines. A feeling of uncanniness settles in my stomach. The lone statue is almost completely concealed by its grandiose foliage. Vaguely I can make out its pose, sitting hunched and bent and…there's a loneliness to it I don't like. A sense of despair I can't quite out my finger on.

It's then with a flash of recognition I realize we're standing in the same grove I tried to hide in when Link had forcefully taken me back to Skyloft.

"What is it?" asks the demon I had returned to; the demon Link had attempted to save me from.

"It's…" I hesitate. "It's nothing. Thought I saw something."

He grants me an indulgent smile. "We'll be back out tomorrow. No need to delay."

Ghirahim snaps his fingers, diamond fractals immersing us. My eyes never leave the statue whose arms I had hidden in when the hero tried to save me.

Contempt dissolves into admiration. Harshness flows into tenderness.

I don't understand it. He's so gentle with me now. Something in him has changed—or maybe that's what he'd like me to believe. And I…I can't help it. Beneath all the doubt and skepticism lies the barest sliver of hope, a hope I know I shouldn't feed.

You idiot, I tell myself. You stupid, stupid woman. Don't you be like her. Don't you believe it.

Yet I can't help make the comparisons, of past and present.

"You cannot fathom how he is now," Shii said to me once, "because you do not know how he was."

But now I do know. I've seen. Seen things I wish I hadn't. Which makes the way he is acting so much more surreal.

I'm not allowed in the tower anymore, he says. I should have never been up there in the first place, he tells me, and I can't decipher whether he means I shouldn't have gone wandering up or if he should've never imprisoned me there in the beginning.

So I flat-out ask him.

It happens one late evening after yet another day of poring over tomes and scrolls and maps. I'm reclining on the bed, toweling my hair dry from a recent bath, half-listening to him rant about the goddess and her dogs, about her temples and her secrets. I toss the towel to the end of the bed, stretch back against the pillows, and admire the fading golden-red light in the stained-glass windows.

Ghirahim huffs. "You're not going to leave it like that, are you?"

I quickly sit up. "I was listening! Goddess and her dogs. I mean, what?" I glance at the foot of the bed. "The towel?"

He raises a brow and gives a wholly unimpressed look, a smirk somewhat dulling the severity of it. "I was referring to your hair, nitwit."

Anger creeps up my neck and heats my face. I think of returning the insult. Who's the nitwit that doesn't know the Gate of Time is right next to the grounds where your precious master is sealed, Master? Dangerous thoughts. I bite my tongue, clamp down on emotions that have been far too overwhelming lately. What is wrong with me?

"Well?" he presses. "Oh, never mind. I'll see to it." He strides to the vanity and plucks up the silver comb before coming to sit by me on the bed. At first he is rough, tugging and yanking at my wild hair. I snarl, gritting my teeth and squinting against the stinging in my scalp. Rough but efficient; soon the tangles are taken care of and his strokes become smooth and gentle. "So hopeless," he says, smiling with a strange combination of exasperation and fondness. "Hardly caring for yourself. Always wandering into trouble. What were you doing up in that tower?"

"Praying," I mumble, but before I can even get the word fully out, he's continued on.

"You are never to go up there again. That blasted bat could have made off with you, and so soon after you returned from the sky. Let's not mention the damn wolf that nearly took you as well when you left the castle. Never again. You should have never been out of the castle and you should have never been up in that tower in the first place."

"Never should've wandered up there or never should've been imprisoned up there to begin with, Master?"

He goes completely quiet, the combing stopping half-way through my hair.

"As for Batreaux," I go on, oblivious, uncaring, "he's my friend; he never made me bleed."

Ghirahim sits frozen, staring at me as if I just spat in his face.

My tone held no accusation, and oddly I feel no anger. It was just a question, asked with calm interest. I blink at him, the inquiry still in my eyes. Slowly trepidation trickles in, and I look away, realizing I've insulted him—and it's then the anger sneaks in, because how have I upset him? By speaking the truth? Let him be upset then. Let him!

The comb runs through the rest of my strands and his other hand comes up to lightly touch my cheek, makes me look at him once more. His expression is as still and blank as those statues at the crumbled temple, but beneath it is something I don't think I've ever truly seen in him before.

Do you regret? Have you ever felt guilt?

The silver comb glitters in the growing candlelight as he places it down in his lap, and with both hands he cradles my face. "You never should have been up there to begin with," he says roughly, gravely. "And you never should have bled."

Before I can respond he leans forward and presses his mouth to mine. His lips are cool and smooth and gentle, moving softly, and it almost feels like he is asking for something, maybe even pleading for something. Something only I can give. But he feels my resistance, my stunted reciprocation. He angles my head to deepen the kiss, becomes more insistent.

If you think you can love bomb me, snarls the she-wolf, and make me forget all the times you hurt me, you've got another thing coming. That worked on Aunt Pitty; it won't work on me.

Forgive, forgive, keens the ewe, where oh where is the line between forgiveness and acceptance?

Torn and confused, I pull away. He lets me, regarding me carefully, maybe seeing the confliction in my eyes. He doesn't push or try to force anything. Actually, if anything he seems…subdued. Picking the comb up, he resumes brushing my hair, though it's as tangle-free as it's ever been. His strokes are slow and rhythmic, and it seems to be calming him, so I let him continue, bowing my head to give him better access, and think back on his last bout of contempt.

"Humans are so weak," he said from his throne-like armchair, sneering at me from over the rim of a crystal chalice, a dark liquid swirling within, the hearth fire glinting off the surface of the glass. "Pathetic, really. Done in by the simplest of things. It's a wonder you've all survived so long. Oh, but that would be thanks to your wretched goddess, wouldn't it."

I eyed the liquid with an apprehension that edged into rage. What's in that glass, Master? What are you drinking? "We can be pretty surprising, Master," I retorted. "Sometimes we're weak, sometimes we're strong. Depends. I stood strong against Balak. Was I supposed to stand against you?" My glare cut like daggers. "And she's not my goddess, for the last frickin' time!"

I don't know exactly what I was talking about. Stand against him when? For what reason? I was still eyeing that damn glass with its fancy etchings of crossing blades, gripping the book in my lap like I was about to chuck the thing at his face, and it's when I actually looked at his face that I saw his eyes had gone wide, scorn melting away like ice in a river of lava.

Ghirahim lowered the chalice. "You would not stand against me…even when I…"

I was tempted to ask what we were even talking about, but was too transfixed on the emotions flickering in the depths of those blackfire eyes. Too many flew by in an instant; I couldn't catch every one of them, just confusion then wonderment then—

"I understand." He smiled, sincerely. "You are like me in that respect. You know what loyalty is. True loyalty. I would not stand against my master either."

His words knifed through my heart. I felt like I was choking. I said nothing, just went back to the book, pretending to help.

I come back to the present, to the lulling pull of the comb being joined with the fingers of his free hand threading through my lackluster hair, his stare roaming over my every feature, drinking in the sight of me like a man dying of thirst. He hasn't looked at me with derision since that moment before the hearth fire. No, his gaze holds something else now.

How is it you've come to look at me with that glimmer in your eyes?

Sometimes I catch him staring at me funny when he thinks I'm preoccupied. His piercing gaze no longer holds any cruel amusement. In the beginning he regarded me with nothing more than frivolous curiosity. That's gone. Now he looks at me as if he's weighing me heavily.

What is it you're looking for?

His fingers glide through my hair as he brushes it over my shoulder, tucking wispy strands that refuse taming behind my ears. He then takes to tracing the round rim of my left ear, observing it distractedly. Suddenly he looks uneasy. "Friendship," he starts, voice strained, "is very different among the Demon Tribe than it is to humans. So few of them are true. So many plot behind backs and closed doors." He rubs my earlobe between his thumb and forefinger. "It is considered foolish to trust. One must ensure obedience through power and might."

"And yet Batreaux is from your Tribe," I say.

"Was," he corrects harshly. "He fled centuries ago."

I frown, trying to understand his point. "And?"

A muscle flexes in his jaw as he clenches his teeth, his eyes narrowing as if he's in pain. "I may have…been harsher with you than I intended."

I wait, breath baited. Is the demon trying to apologize? For a moment I think he'll do it, watch his lips part, ready to hear it.

But the moment passes and he says nothing, just sighs and leans back. His hand drifts from my ear, down my neck over the jeweled collar, to rest on my shoulder, squeezing. "Never mind, darling. I'm as exhausted as you look."

We sleep after that, leaving me wondering over what he said, what he didn't say. So few are true. Plotting behind his back. My chest feels tight, tighter than his arms around me. Am I not plotting?

We're in the library early in the morning, amassing books and volumes and papers from the immense floor-to-vaulted-ceiling shelves, spanning multiple stories, piling anything even slightly relevant near that forest-green sofa, the skylight spotlighting our researching. While we read, I stew in guilt carried over from the night. And why? Because I'm trying to save humanity? Because I'm trying to simultaneously save the very demon who would be responsible for their destruction? If anyone should feel guilty, it's him!

I glance over at Ghirahim covertly. Just look at him, I grouse to myself. Head down, brow furrowed, chin resting in his palm, dark eyes scanning unceasingly. So intent on freeing his stupid precious master who he'd never stand against. Those sentiments from the night before—I bet they're not real. He's fake. Fake and unyielding just like those statues in the garden. He'll never change.

He'll never choose anyone…but his master.

And I can prove it. I will prove it. And it's gonna hurt.

I quietly close my unread book and stand, glaring holes into the stacks Ghirahim has gathered, so carefully selected throughout the morning, so neatly arranged. If they even mention time travel, they're marked and sorted by relevance.

I'm going to mess it all up.

Whatever hope I've harbored, I'll dash it. He'll hurt me like he used to.

I wander over to the meticulous notes, and Ghirahim is too absorbed in his reading to take notice. I 'trip' over my own ankles, falling bodily into the mountain of research. Scrolls roll out, books tumble down with a thundering roar, papers take flight like frightened doves. I'm sprawled in the chaos, gawking stupidly. "Oh," I gasp. "Oh, no. Master, I—"

He's shot to his feet, a dark fury written across his features.

I knew it. Here comes the pain—

"Are you hurt? Tell me!"

I'm taken aback. "Wha—? N-no, I'm fine. I'm just a clumsy idiot."

His fury ebbs, and my attention is rapt on the process of it: the fire in his eyes extinguishes, his shoulders relax, his stance does too. No. No, that can't be it. I just ruined hours of organization. I just— Before I can finish thinking he moves to get me up; a gentle grip on my arm, a steadying hand on the small of my back.

"I…" I try again. I know that cruelty is still in there. I dive headfirst into what I know will anger him the most. "Looks like your master will have to…" I hesitate, choke on a wad of fear. The last I spoke ill of his master I was surrounded by daggers. "…wait even longer," I squeak, both succeeding and failing; speaking, but had meant to be scathing. I push further. "He'll wait." Oh, wow, Kya. Stay your lashing tongue. Still, I stand stiff, prepare myself for blood and bruises.

…But Ghirahim doesn't lash out. He just eyes the mess dully, silently—so silently I think it's the calm before the storm. He breathes deep and bends to retrieve the tome that had fallen from his lap when he leapt up, tossing it to the sofa. He follows the tome, resting his head back against the cushions. He closes his eyes and heaves a sigh. "Yes," he agrees, tone flat and soft, "I suppose he'll have to."

I don't prove anything. I just feel bad. Worse than if he had struck me, or threatened to. If I was brave, I could've said worse.

I'm not going to harm a hair on your head.

I hear those words in my dreams, yet instead of consoling me they make me afraid.

I find the courage I lacked in the library amid the haze of sleep. When Ghirahim tries to wake me before dawn, I grumble, "Leave me alone ya fuckin' Twinkie," and roll over, my groan and sigh going unchecked by violence.

Moments pass, moments where my sleep-addled brain tries to warn of potential danger, until the demon quietly asks, "What is a Twinkie?"

"A cream-filled pastry," I mumble into my pillow.

"Ah," he replies, and then I hear him leave the room.

No strike. No slap. Not even a verbal reprimand. My brow furrows, nose wrinkles, but my eyelids stay stubbornly closed, hoping for more sleep. What is happening, I wonder distantly, weakly fighting the fatigue pulling me back under. He would have killed me for that in the beginning. Or at the very least strangle me a little. I drift off thinking on it.

The next thing I know I'm vaulting upright with a shriek, icy water running in rivulets over my body. "Wh—what the fu—!"

The demon places a large vase on the bedside table before gripping my chin, leaning in until our lips almost touch. "What did I say about that mouth of yours?" His gaze burns, yet instead of acting on whatever dark thoughts he's having, he pulls away, dropping my chin. "Get up."

I grit my teeth to keep them from chattering. "B-but why?" I snap. "It's still dark!"

"I'm not about to let you lie about and waste away. Get up."

"Waste away? What are you even talking about?! It's not even the ass-crack of dawn—I'm not wasting anything!"

His only response is to grab my wrist and forcefully pull me out of bed.

I lose it.

Wet, cold, tired, I'm suddenly screaming every curse I know, every insult, every degrading phrase. I rage my throat raw, stomping my feet, slapping and clawing at his chest. Tears streak down my face, and I keep screaming. Fear mixes with rage, a cresting horror, a realization that I'm going to pay dearly for this—I remember the last time I called him names, in the tower, and cold, sharp steel was pressed to my trembling lips, splitting them, the taste of blood still fresh in my mind—but it's only fuel to the fire.

More tears, more curses, until I'm purple-faced and gasping.

Ghirahim stands there through it all, expression unreadable stone. Eventually, though, he has enough. He moves and I brace myself for an explosion of pain. No pain comes, just the feel of his arms as he lifts and carries me, doors opening with bursts of golden magic, right into the bathroom where he throws me into the huge pool-like bathtub, warm water encompassing me, splashing and spilling over the marble steps. I stagger upright, sputtering, glaring at the man-monster.

He smiles saccharinely. "Forgive me, darling. I forgot humans don't like being cold. A warm bath should set you right. Finish up in here and come out for breakfast."

He's gone before I can say anything.

Dread builds as I get ready, resigning myself to the too-early start. By the time I'm dressed and out in the main room, Essil is removing silver lids from the dishes, retreating to the shadows. I take my place next to the demon lord gingerly, poised to spring away if needed.

"Well?" Ghirahim gestures to the assortment. "Eat, drink."

"I'm not hungry."

His sight narrows on me, cutting. "You will eat," he all but hisses, "and drink."

Don't argue with him, I tell myself. You've already pissed him off. I grab a piece of fruit and start nibbling. After a while I can't take the silence anymore. "I'm—I'm sorry, I lost my shi—crap."

Ghirahim waves a hand dismissively. "Forgiven, forgotten…mostly. I doubt you knew what you were saying." His smile is wry. "Not many insult me to my face." And live to tell about it, goes unsaid. "Of the scant few who have, none have ever called me a, what was it you said? A 'wiener-sniffer from whoresville.'"

I cringe. That must have been one of the tamer things that came out of my mouth. "I, uh, don't recall saying that."

He laughs, a sincere laugh containing no malice. "I assure you, you said it."

My heart is still fluttering from that laugh. Flutters more when he kisses my cheek.

"You'll forgive me as well, of course," he goes on. "I've never…handled a human before you, you know."

My heart skips a beat. Wasn't really an apology, but… "You make it sound like I'm some sort of wild animal."

"You did behave somewhat like a wild animal in the bedroom."

I snort. "Don't take that out of context." I ignore his smirk, picking up a glass of juice. Before sipping, I ask, "What're we doing so early?"

"Going out," is all he says.

Out in the world we go, the rising sun painting the clouds in pearly hues, the mountains blue against the brightening sky. The wind, fresh and cool in my nose, my lungs, rolls the grass of the moors like waves in a green sea, the morning dew still glittering on the blades.

I don't know where we go; we just walk.

The sun is at our backs when we come to a stop at a hill's precipice. Beyond, in the distant distance, are more mountains shrouded by clouds—these gray and stormy, a sheet of rain spilling from them. Behind us shines the sun, lighting the land, contrasting the storm, and faintly in the raincloud the colors of a rainbow can be seen. It brings to mind a song about a child asking God to make them a rainbow so they could shine down on their grieving parent. Tears spear into my eyes, wavering, threatening to fall, as I think of the vision I had of my father.

A gloved hand lightly traces my jaw, lifts my face. "Why?" is all he asks, almost angrily. So I tell him of the vision, of how they had no idea how I died. "Does it matter?" he asks callously.

I step away, glowering. "The hell do you mean does it matter?"

Ghirahim regards me coolly, unprovoked. "I mean just what I said. Does it matter? Does it change where you are now? Would it affect anything at all?"

I tense to argue, but my voice dies in my throat. I blink my tears away.

His raven-shadowed eyes narrow on me, and he tilts his head in consideration. "…You've been mourning all your life," he states quietly. Then, sharply, "Where are you?"

Confused, I glance around. No sign of the Great Tree or the lakes of Faron, no far-off smoking mountain of Eldin, no golden expanse of Lanayru. Just rolling grasslands and distant mountains of no name. "Somewhere…wherever this is?" When he asks the same question again, sharper, I snap, "I don't know! Here! Wherever—"

"Yes," Ghirahim interjects, "you are here. When is this?"

"…Now?" I venture, catching on.

"That's right. You are in the here and now, Kya." The breeze stirs his blood-red mantle, gently lifts his curtain of hair to fleetingly expose the black diamond under his left eye. "I have lived for millennia; it can be overwhelming at times to look back—so don't, except when it serves to move forward. Open your eyes and look at where you are, where you're going." He pulls me close. "If the future is also too much then just look at the present. You are here, with me. Be with me. Do you understand? Say it."

"Yes, Master. I am here with you," I respond, trying to let his words sink in, surprise making it hard.

"Good." His wintery lips curve into a rueful smile. "Your tears are like venom to me, darling. I don't want to see them anymore."

"You d-don't have to do that."

I keep on sweeping the kitchen floor, throwing Essil a lopsided smile. "I like to. It's very calming to me. Like my version of raking sand in one of those Zen gardens."

"What is that?" Essil sprinkles flour onto the stone countertop, flopping a hunk of dough on top.

I explain it to her. Afterward we lapse into a comfortable silence, broken up by the rasp of the broom and the smack of the dough. I hum to myself. "Where's Shii?"

Essil looks around nervously. "Keeping you safe. Dividing the trustworthy from the untrustworthy. We must be careful." She lowers her voice. "The walls may have ears."

I stop sweeping and walk close to her, whispering, "How long is Shii gonna have to deal with this?"

"Until we're sure all those who are a danger to you have been taken care of."

My heart clinches at the lethal implications. "I…I never wanted anyone to die because of me."

Essil pats the dough, sprinkles more flour, and is quiet so long I think she won't say anything. "It is a hard world," the purple Lizalfos finally says. "Do not begrudge yourself your own survival. Disloyalty leads to death. Demons and monsters know this. They have made their choice."

It doesn't stop the twisting in my chest—if anything makes me think on Ghirahim's stance with his master. He's gone again for the day, looking for that stupid Gate of Time in places he won't take me. I swallow, start sweeping again. "I guess that's why you guys never leave me alone, huh?" I try to say it as a joking barb.

Essil finds no amusement. "Lord Ghirahim has assigned me as your guardian, to take care of all your needs in addition to defending you."

I smile mischievously at her. "I remember you hiding under the table in this very kitchen when we first met."

Essil smiles back. "Things have changed. More than you know, I think. Lord Ghirahim said if I can stand up to him, I can stand up to anything. The special breath I breathe is also good for dealing with enemies. Where Shii and others like her breathe fire, my type breathes a paralytic fog."

"Curse breath," I say.

Essil nods. "I have heard it called that. I can paralyze foes and get you to safety."

I pause, the rasp of the broom doing likewise. "…When did you stand up to Ghirahim?"

Essil's eyes go big and round. "Er-erm," she mumbles and smacks the dough with gusto, "j-just…some time ago…when you were sick. Do you like bread?" she asks quickly, loudly, as if to drown what she'd just said. "Biscuits? Muffins?"

I frown at her reaction. A vague memory of her leaping before me, purple fog spilling between her thick fangs, flashes before my mind's eye. I rub my suddenly aching head.

"Muffins it is then!" Essil continues. "Lord Ghirahim will be upset if you do not eat well."

"Yeah," I grumble, "he's been really pissy about that recently."

Food, water, all comforts I could want or need have been provided, sometimes even forced on me. Heaven forbid I go an extended period without a drink of water. The life-giving liquid is always available to me; Ghirahim commanded Essil keep a crystal decanter full on my bedside, along with a couple glasses, like I'm partaking of some exotic vodka or some crap and not just water. A bowl of apples, oranges, peaches, plums, you name it, is always stocked on my vanity. A tray of breads is kept on a small rosewood table in the corner. Blankets upon blankets drape the new chaise lounge for my use in case I get too cold.

"He's been annoying, actually," I say, sweeping more vigorously. "What happened to make him like that, Ess? What changed?"

"…You have done something no demon, fae, or monster has ever been able to do." Essil keeps her knowing eyes down on the dough, smiling a smile that is both sad and glad. "You have terrified him."

I'm half-dragged, half-walked through the corridors. Torches flicker in their sconces, candles in their carved niches. The deep red carpet running down the center of the stone corridor is soft on my feet. My silk gown swishes between my legs as I stumble after the demon lord.

"Are you freakin' serious, Master?" I gripe. "It was just a nightmare."

"I told you I don't want to see those tears anymore." Ghirahim won't look at me, just marches straight ahead.

"Not like I can control it," I snap. "So, what? You gonna dunk me again?" But even as I ask it, I know it's not so. We've passed the bathing room. We're going down a familiar brightly colored hall. "Where are we?"

He doesn't answer, just leads me to a door that opens to the music room he took me to before, with tapestries quivering with light and shadow from the torches as they blaze to life, and diamond-paned windows letting in the sparse moonlight playing hide-and-seek with the distantly rumbling clouds.

He leads me to the piano and sits, pulling me down with him.

"What's happening?" I ask.

He stretches his bare hands over the keys. "Perhaps this will dry your tears."

"Venom, you said. Do you even know what venom feels like? Nothing can pierce your skin, let alone a little snake."

"No, but I have seen it and can imagine well enough." He begins playing, fingers moving delicately.

I watch his hands, am fixated on his lack of gloves. His nails are clear and shiny. "Thank you for putting on pants," I say distractedly, having been reminded how naked he was when he pulled us both from the covers, magic fractals manifesting into clothes after I squealed about it.

"Hush," he says, "and listen."

It starts off sweet and slow, a tranquil collection of notes reminding me of a stroll in a summer garden. Ghirahim's fingers move over the keys effortlessly, smoothly. When the tempo picks us, he doesn't miss a single jaunty beat. My eyes go wide when his hands suddenly fly over the keys, sweeping up and down over ebony and ivory, the rhythm becoming burning and sinister. He goes even faster, fingers moving so deftly I have trouble keeping track.

My father could never play like this, I think, gawking disbelievingly.

Ghirahim doesn't pause or seem to get tired despite his unnatural speed. He glides over sharps and flats, cascades over natural tones, never faulting in a cadence that began so peacefully, rising in tempo, so rapid and urgent it makes me think of someone giving chase or fighting a battle. For a moment the melody breaks off into high, sweet notes, before plunging back into the chaotic symphony. It's almost like he's playing an entire orchestra by himself on this thing. I didn't know anyone's hands could move like that. It makes the songs I've heard in my previous life pale in comparison. Don't tell him, a part of me exclaims. His ego's fat enough as is. He's had centuries to practice. He must have played whenever he felt anxious or frustrated.

Ghirahim plays on and on. I listen and watch raptly. A serene walk, a chase, a battle, a situation of dire need. Whatever he's playing tells an entire story. It becomes cheerful, though just as complex, like some sort of conflict resolution being achieved. Then it goes soft, soft and sweet and blissful like a reunion. Growing grand once more, I can see it in my mind, like a finale to a movie. It ends on a single high note, held until it fades.

"That was…crazy," I say.

He plays a few more notes. "Feel better?"

"Yes," I say, voice cracking unexpectedly, emotion hitting me for a reason I can't identify. "S-sorry. I mean, I don't know what's wrong with me—I wasn't a crybaby in my former life, or—or even much of one in this life, I just—!" I ramble, stumbling to stand and nearly pitching over backwards.

Ghirahim lurches to his feet, catching me, steadying me. He turns back to the piano, playing furiously, magic dancing from his fingertips into the keys, and when he takes his hands away the magic keeps playing. "Dance with me," he insists, an edge of desperation in his tone, his eyes.

I stare back uncomprehendingly. What are you trying to do? Why are you trying so hard? You act like you're trying to save me from something. "I—I can't dance. I'm surprised you can."

"Are you? You shouldn't be. Swordplay is much like a dance in itself. Follow my lead." He takes me by the hand and waist, twirling and spinning me in some approximation that's not quite a waltz—he moves too swiftly and I stumble and step on his feet more than once, but he keeps me up, moving with an elegance I wish I had.

My mind spins with our movements. I stare into his dak eyes. My foe. My enemy. My God commanded me to love you. To fight for you. You never loved me, never cared beyond curiosity and utilizing my foreknowledge. Yet now it feels like you're…fighting for me, too.

He stares so intently it's like he's trying to see into me. "I am a weapon of supreme destruction. I can decimate armies. I can cut through anything, be it man, beast, stone, or steel. Nothing can touch me," he hisses, "and yet your crying…it is…" He makes a sound of frustration. "Must I see it, hear it?"

"You have your own room."

"And leave you alone to weep?" He shows something between a grimace and a snarl. "I am a weapon," he repeats. "Whatever enemy assails you, whatever threatens to consume you, I can kill it. How"—he takes me by the face and cuts through my tear streaks with his thumbs—"am I supposed to kill these?"

I have no answer for him. I lay my head on his chest, listening to the pulse beating within.

…loving hands surround my throat…

I stir from a nightmare that was never in focus, just a ghostly impression of fear and the inability to breathe.

What once was cold is no more. Ghirahim heats from the inside out, a fire forged within radiating to the surface of cool steel. I am caged by his massive body, dwarfed by this frightening form of his—I don't know why he chose it, maybe to enfold me more completely, to keep me warm.

But it's grown from warm to hot. Too hot.

I stretch out, moan a protest. His strong arms unwind…only for his hands to start gliding up and down my frame, up along my thigh, over the curve of my hip, squeezing at my waist, grazing a breast, and briefly massaging my shoulder, and back down again. His legs, smooth and metallic, tangle with mine. His lips are cool in comparison to the rest of him, his breath contrastingly warm, as he kisses along my neck, touch slow and lingering.

Suddenly he slices down the front of my sleeping gown in a single motion, rendering the fabric in two—a perfect cut, though I saw no blade—and alarm bells go off in my head when he slips a hand to my breast, kneads it, gently pinching and rolling the nipple until it becomes taut. He sucks at the crook of my neck, slides his silky tongue up my jugular. I draw in a breath, bite back a groan.

Dark, heavy words are whispered heatedly in my ear. I don't know what they mean, but every phrase feels like it's caressing me from the inside out. He rolls us slightly, so I'm facing upward with my back against his unyielding chest. One of his large legs bend up between mine, forcing them apart. The whine coming from my throat is part protest, part something else. A strange mixture of revulsion and elation clash in me. I want it and I don't want it. If he were human, maybe it'd be different. But, no, I realize. If he were human, I would never forgive him for hurting me, because he would have known better. Maybe if we weren't on opposing sides…

All thought is wiped clear as he massages both my breasts, fangs nipping at my neck and sending shocks along my nerves. A strange feeling is pooling in my stomach, gathering deep in my lower belly, like a coil has curled there, getting tighter and tighter with every touch, every suckling kiss, every electrifying bite. My breasts ache in a way that is not wholly bad—but bad in that they ache for more.

I keen, twisting my hips against him. He groans deeply, tightening his hold with one arm before slipping a hand down to the juncture of my thighs, smoothing a fingertip over the silk underwear, rubbing a spot between my nether lips no one but me has ever touched before. I cry out, jerking my hips and arching my back, banging the back of my head against his metal chest, and maybe that's what brings me back to my senses—senses that were ravaged by his touch, by the feel of his powerful body surging behind mine. My eyes blow open wide, at first taking in the navy canopy of the bed, the flickering candlelight.

"M-Master," I gasp, then whimper because his fingers are toying with fleshy petals through the silk.

"My name," he breathes, "darling, use my name."

"G-Ghirahim, please…" I turn my head, looking down his body, the dissonant tones of his moan and panting heavy in my ear, mixing with my own frantic breathing, and his dark muscles ripple as he gives another surge, his metallic skin glimmering in the low candlelight as if there were a sheen a perspiration covering him, and my stare goes down over his chiseled stomach, down, to his—

"H—holy shi—! Holy shi—!" I shriek breathlessly, thrashing against his hold, eyes rolling and wild and then glued to what's pressed hard against my thigh, standing swollen and rigid. I struggle out of his hold—he releases me blessedly—and I flap off the bed to the floor, scrambling until I'm backed against the wall beneath the stained-glass window, its colors dark in the night.

Ghirahim has bolted upright, white eyes wide with alarm and confusion. "Kya?"

I point shakily at what stands between his legs.

"What is it? What's the matter?" The demon shifts to get out of bed, one leg out, and—and it moves with his motion.

I suddenly feel the grievous amount of wetness in my underwear. "I—I just pissed myself!" I shout, scrabbling to my feet, dashing out of the room, and slamming the bathroom door behind me once I'm in.

I stagger to the sink like a drunk, heart hammering, belatedly realizing my gown is still cut, my breasts hanging out—

Ghirahim's reflection in the mirror has me whirling around, clasping the sundered front of my gown together. "Wh-what—"

He stands in the doorway—how did I not hear the door open?—at least seven feet of metal and muscle, wearing nothing but a no-nonsense expression. "Care to explain your behavior?"

I point a trembling finger at his hips. "Your—your—"

He looks down. "Yes." He looks back to me. "What about it?"

"It—it…works? Like a normal man's…?"

He gives me an odd look. "My master made me capable of enjoying all life's pleasures." He sneers. "Unlike that sad little shadow hiding in that sword the goddess created."

That sad little shadow is going to pierce right through you, I think despondently. And then when her purpose is done…

"You act as if you're afraid of—" His glowing eyes flare. "…Have you never seen the male sex? No, that's not so. You've seen me before, but…perhaps…you have never seen one in this state until now?"

"I've seen plenty of dick!" I snap, only to shrink back and say, "Just…not in person."

The murder that flashes in his eyes at the word 'plenty' is replaced by a dawning understanding. "Oh, darling. How sweet you are. You've never been touched." He takes a step towards me, halts when I vault onto the sink, squawking like a distressed bird.

"You—you stay right there! You—how can you stand there like that with everything showing?!"

He arches a brow at me. "I am not ashamed of my body. Quite the opposite, in fact. You, however…"

Though his eyes are a blank white void, I get the sense he is scrutinizing me head to foot. I know what I must look like: hair a mess, fabric pinched in a fist at my chest, stomach showing, underwear showing…

Embarrassment heats my face.

He's tilted his head in that certain way again, considering something. "Tell me, Kya. Who taught you to be ashamed? Which deity was it? Your God or the goddess?"

My jaw goes slack. Then, I bristle. "Neither! I'm just—it's just how I am! Now, would you please"—I gesture to his still hard sex, curving up to his navel—"make that go down?"

He laughs lowly. "It doesn't work that way, dearest." His lids lower over his eyes. "What's wrong? Does the sight instill something in you?" He looks pointedly between my legs. "I can see that it does."

I snap my knees together, acutely feeling the wetness, wondering if he could see it through my—

"That's not 'piss' by the way." Mirth colors his tone. "Have you never been aroused before? Shocking, considering all the time you've spent with me." He gives a fanged grin.

I grit my teeth and push down a growl. "I've been frickin' aroused before! Just…never like this."

Oh, the smugness that washes over his face in that instant is something I wish I could claw off, kiss off—I mean, no! I blink hard and faintly shake my head, trying to clear it.

"I know," he says huskily, the echoic cadence of his voice making him sound otherworldly and forbidden, "I'm stunning. Magnificent. All power and beauty. So perfectly made." One hand goes to his chest, the other glides up his thickly muscled thigh. He grips himself, first at what's hanging below, then up, pushing his sex against his ribbed abdomen.

I make a small noise in the back of my throat, the sensation of a coil pulling tight in my lower belly returning. "So f-frickin' humble."

"Why adhere to false modesty? I speak truth; I am beautiful. And I can tell you want me, Kya." He leans his head on the doorframe, expression love-drunk. "Why deny yourself? Are you afraid? There's no need to be. It won't hurt."

"You're telling me that," I point, "won't hurt?"

"…Much." He smiles, fangs glinting in the lowlight.

I swallow thickly. He doesn't know the real reason; he doesn't know my beliefs. And how can I tell him? I've been laughed at before, don't much feel like being laughed at now. Let him think what he wants.

He makes to move towards me again. I push myself back on the marble counter, squawk when my butt falls in the sink bowl, scrambling to keep as much covered as possible.

Ghirahim frowns. "…You are the same as me, Kya. Do you think you are not wonderfully made? You needn't be ashamed. How lovely you are."

The demon speaks sweet words. Don't affirm them. Stay strong. Yet tears spring to my eyes.

Alarm flashes in his face. "No, darling, don't cry—"

"Stay where you are! No!" I point angrily, trying to balance myself in the sink with my elbow, one hand still clutching the cut gown. "Not…not now," I amend weakly, fearing his anger, fearing he'll force me.

He tilts his head. "No? You'll make me wait?"

I hold my breath, heart beating like mad.

"You torture me," he sighs, leaning heavily against the doorframe. He straightens. "But so be it. After all, aren't the best things in life worth waiting for? Long ago, before you were ever so much as a conception in this world, I never had any patience. I wanted what I wanted and I wanted it instantly. I learned, however. I learned from my master, from time itself. I hated waiting. Still do to an extent. As I said, torture." His white eyes flare, and a vicious, fanged smile overtakes his face. "But torture can feel good, even when you are the recipient."

I shrink back just a little more, glancing down to see his sex give the barest throb, and with horror I feel my own respond to the sight. Stop it, I scream internally. Are you hearing what he's saying? He's a sadistic and a, apparently, masochistic demon. Though he touches and looks at me as affectionately as silk, he is still a blade.

"I'll wait as long as you need," he's saying now, viciousness vanished. A sincerity, a…a gentleness has taken its place. "I won't hurt you, Kya…" And then, so quietly: "…never again."

I stare in mute amazement. What has happened? Stone does not change. Not unless it is buffeted relentlessly throughout the ages by the elements. Is that what has happened—what is happening even now? Have I become the wind and rain?

He walks to me, steps even and measured, approaching like one would a skittish animal. This time, I don't startle. This time, I watch his face, caught in a gaze that encompasses a tenderness I've never witnessed.

"And when the time comes, my darling…" he breathes, voice laden with desire and promises. I reach out without thinking, place a palm to the silver diamond guard on his chest, and swear I can feel a pulse beneath, ever so faintly. I gasp with fright and my eyes widen when that silver diamond breaks away in shards, shards that disappear like snow in the air, and before me glowing red and hot is the gem in his chest, his core. He covers my hand with his own, pressing me closer, the diamond heart almost too hot to touch, and the pulse strengthens. "…You can have all of me."

A/N: A longer chapter! I don't know if that last scene was romantic, comedic, or cringe, but...I made myself laugh, so at least I accomplished that, haha! I'm not sure how much is exactly allowed on this site. I've seen others with much more detail sit on this site for years, but watch my story get canned. T_T

The piano scene was inspired by Pachelbel's Nightmare. Thank you for recommending it, Ninja Squirrel!

A special thank you to Dreams-exe for the wonderful picture made of Kya. I wish you could post pictures on this site. I will try to get the link to work: Type in 'imgur' then 'dot' then 'com' then this: /a/kya-SiS7oNl

Thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!