A/N: Trigger warnings for this chapter: mentions of abuse and injuries.
Anger. Exhaustion. Pain. That had been his world for as long as he could remember. But he had stayed strong through it all. He had to.
He had withstood every blow. Endured every insult. Conquered every hardship. His feelings consumed him slightly near the end there, but overall, he had been proud of his accomplishments.
Unfortunately, his master didn't feel the same. He never had, had he? And Ghirahim had always done his absolute best.
It was at that moment, when the blade was torn from his already ravaged heart, that the sword spirit began to genuinely consider that he did not deserve such treatment.
It was not Demise he had rooted for in that final battle. When he was struck down, the way he knew, on some level, he would be, Ghirahim abandoned him to his fate. He didn't know he could teleport in his sword form, but he was beginning to realize he was so much more than even himself thought.
Unfortunately, the ex-self-proclaimed demon lord's injuries were far too severe for him to hold on to his form. Before he could enjoy what little heavily priced freedom he had before the Sky Child inevitably found him and finished him off, Ghirahim found himself slipping quickly into dormancy.
It's for the better, he tried to convince himself. One less burden on the boy, and the world at large. I was never destined for freedom.
Unfortunately, Ghirahim's mind was not completely inactive during that stretch of time he spent alone, being forgotten by time. Those countless eons were filled with horrific nightmares, each one worse than the last.
They ranged from memories of real life events of war and torture, to fabricated but nonetheless real feeling delusions of what could have been. To put it bluntly, Ghirahim's mind was all too eager to show him just how deeply he'd screwed up.
If he'd known what he knew now—no. If he had accepted what he had always known on some level to be true, he would've done things very differently. Granted, he wasn't exactly sure how he would have done things differently, but there had to be something! There just had to be. He refused to accept that this was the only way, that destiny truly was so cut and dry. That in another life, he could've been as beautiful as he claimed. That he could shine just as the diamonds he adored, unhindered by abusive masters and meddling gods.
"Open your eyes…"
He wasn't sure when he'd started hearing that voice. At first, he'd thought he was imagining it, but there was something about it that seemed much more vivid, more there than the illusions of his mind despite how quiet it was.
It sounded like none he remembered hearing before. Soft and feminine, but most intriguing of all, kind.
It couldn't be intended for Ghirahim, could it? No one had ever spoken to him in such a way, so softly and warmly beckoning.
"Open your eyes…"
"I want to," he found himself responding.
"You cannot," replied the deep, venomous whisper of Demise as he bared down upon him. "You are mine."
"You tossed me away when I was no longer useful." Ghirahim never thought he would have the will to defy his now ex-master in such a blatant manner. But this was no longer that time. And furthermore, "You aren't even here anymore. You can't stop me now!"
The evil god raged and shrieked, but he was getting further and further away as Ghirahim began to stir at last.
"Open your eyes…"
He could feel his body again now. It was heavy, oh so heavy, but for the first time he could remember, it was free of pain. He felt calm, cozy even. And as his eyes slowly began to flutter open, a rather serene blue light began to fill his vision.
"Wake up, L—wait a minute. You're not Link. Who are you?"
Ghirahim didn't have much time to register the voice's latest comment because now he was waking rather quickly, and realizing exactly where he was. Alright, well, in truth, he didn't know exactly where he was, but he was able to make an estimation.
He was in a temple.
A holy temple.
"Yaaaaaaaaaaaagh!" A loud, shrill scream tore itself from Ghirahim's throat as he violently flung himself from the pool of glowing blue liquid he had been lying within. It wasn't painful, but he knew viscerally well that it would only be a matter of time before it began to eat at his demonic flesh, as all holy things had a habit to do.
Unfortunately, this wouldn't save the sword spirit completely from pain. Gravity, harsh mistress that she is, took control, and he found himself falling onto the hard stone floor in an undignified heap. The hard, freezing stone floor.
"Eep! Cold, cold, cold!" He leaps up from the floor—and promptly bangs his head on the rim of the pool. "Ouch!"
"O-Oh…" But at least that mysterious voice had remained with him throughout the entirety of the ordeal. "Are you alright? That looked like it hurt."
Ghirahim stands up from the floor, carefully this time, using the rim of the pool to help lift himself up. He shakes his head from side to side like a dog, trying to rid his hair of as much liquid as possible, watching with satisfaction as the remainder of the substance drains away in the pool. Though, strangely enough, it still doesn't seem to be causing him harm.
"Terribly sorry for all of that," he begins, pleased to find that his voice isn't rough or broken in any way. Besides the chill and dull aching in his head, Ghirahim finds that he feels rather alright, actually. Invigorated even. Whoever had resurrected him, for that had to be what was happening here, did a mighty fine job. "I promise I am usually much more graceful and coordinated than this. This is an off day for me; that doesn't usually happen."
"Yes, well… who are you?"