A/N: I put off writing this because I know less about BOTW than I do Skyward Sword, but holy crap am I having fun writing this! I'll just use wikis and novelizations to help me along, it's fine. My comfort character is worth all the possible lore errors.

TW: Mentions of abuse, self-hatred- self-deprecating thoughts, being forced into evil.

Who was he?

On the surface, it was an incredibly basic and simple question, but Ghirahim found that it hit him quite hard. Standing here, at an unknown place, in an unknown time, the demon realized that he didn't know.

It wasn't that he was amnesiac, oh, if only. He knew who Lord Ghirahim was, for he had spent years fleshing him out. The villainous—slave— right hand of the demon king who would stop at nothing to appease his master's every whim. It had started off as a mask of fake confidence. A persona he wore to achieve his goals and survive. But then, what had become of him?

At some point, he'd lost himself in the performance. He just hadn't realized how bad it got until this very moment. Like that moment in the Sealed Grounds all over again.

But he couldn't let his emotions overcome him again; nothing good ever came of that. He supposes he'd have to act, just a little, one more time.

As kind and non-threatening as that voice had been so far, he didn't know who it belonged to, or what they wanted with him. Given what he was known for in the past, as much as he hated to think of it, as much as it hurt his heart to think anyone would be capable of such things, he couldn't discount the idea that whoever this was had less than positive intentions when they resurrected him.

Ghirahim had never lied about his intentions, even at his worst; he'd always found tactics such as those to be shameful and cowardly. If you could not be honest and proud about your intentions, do you even have the will to carry them out in the first place? Unfortunately, most people aren't Ghirahim. It's disappointing, but it was a sad truth in life that the demon had to accept early on.

So, Ghirahim allowed his instincts from all that time ago to take over, and that confident front slid up upon him once again, like a flexible yet somewhat stifling set of armor.

A soft chuckle bubbles up from the demon's throat, echoing throughout the room. As much as he disliked temples, he did quite enjoy the acoustics they provided for his monologues. Everything just sounded so much more powerful and serious with a healthy dose of reverb.

"Surely you jest," he titters. "You couldn't have gone through all this effort to return me to my full magnificence without knowing the nature of the brilliance you sought." Ghirahim gave himself a mental pat on the back. He usually isn't this eloquent on the spot, not without a large amount of preparation beforehand. He'd spent ages writing out and rehearsing those encounters with Link, to the point he could still probably repeat the lines verbatim if he were asked. (He hopes he isn't asked.)

"Unless of course… you were expecting someone else?"

Ghirahim mentally cursed. Try as he might, he just couldn't keep some of his true feelings from leaking through there. He'd meant the question to come out incredulous, disbelieving. How could this mysterious person want to see anyone but him? Instead, it came out, ugh, soft. And sad.

I haven't been back for five minutes, yet I am already failing miserably. Story of my life, I suppose.

The voice, which Ghirahim now realizes had been coming from some sort of mental link, seems to sigh sadly. "Yes. I… I was. And I—… I always thought that… he would be by my side forever. I don't know how you ended up here,…"

"Ghirahim."

"Ghirahim." Nobody had quite said the demon's name that way before. Usually, there was fear, or anger, or mockery when the speaker thought he wasn't listening. Never this soft sadness combined with somewhat confused neutrality, the voice's owner feeling out the name as they spoke it for the first time.

"You truly have no idea who I am, do you?" The sword spirit asked before he could stop himself. He couldn't help himself. How is that possible? If his appearance wasn't preserved, then surely his name would be, at the very least? Could he be so far into the future that the tragedy that was the Demon War had been completely forgotten? Is that even possible? Ghirahim could live for billions of years after this, and he was positive he would never forget the horrors he'd witnessed… and wrought. No, he wouldn't hide from the truth. Not anymore.

"Should I?" There was now a tone of uncertainty and nervousness in the depths of the voice.

Ghirahim deliberates on this for a moment. It was a good question. If they truly didn't know who he was, that meant it was possible that no one did anymore. And if that was true… part of him felt hurt, to think he was so forgettable after doing everything in his power to avoid this fate. But at the same time, it meant that he now had a blank slate. A fresh start. And by the gods, he had no intentions of wasting such a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Ghirahim made his choice. If people found out, he wouldn't try to hide from the truth. But otherwise he saw no reason to condemn himself unnecessarily for a second time.

No more would he have to live under the brutal tyranny of his ex (yes, ex!) master. No more would he be forced into playing the role of a villain (though he played it quite wonderfully, if he did say so himself.) He could be himself now. He could begin to truly discover what it means to be Ghirahim. At last, he was finally, really and truly free. He'd break into a happy dance if he knew almost for certain it would just put whoever brought him here even more on edge.

Whoever they were, and whatever they had in store for him, he figured it would be a good idea to try to get on their good side. Then, as he got to know them better, he could decide from there what to do next.

He could decide! How novel!

For once, Ghirahim allowed some of his true emotions to come to the surface, and a small, almost soft smile played across his lips. "You know what? Pay my prior words no mind. It's all in the past now; no need to reopen old wounds. All you need to know for now is that my name is Ghirahim, and I am pleased as punch that you managed to awaken me, even though you didn't intend to." His voice came out so light, so free, he almost convinced himself. "Thank you, truly. For a moment there, I thought I would lie abandoned and broken forever."

Alright, so maybe he was laying it on a bit thick, especially at the end there, but it's not if he was being insincere. He truly was grateful for this chance. And it's never a bad idea to garner sympathy, right? Not that he actually wanted someone to empathize with his pain for once, no, absolutely not. He needed no one's pity. He just needed to do everything in his power to make sure this person is on his side, and didn't even thinkabout trying to ceil him away again. Or worse, kill him. Just because no one remembered who he was, specifically, didn't mean they couldn't eventually figure out how to off him. He would not make the same mistakes his ex-master did when it came to underestimating hylians. If the person he was speaking to even was hylian.

But that was something to think about another time. There were other, more pressing matters. Those being: Ghirahim was naked.

That wasn't a problem in and of itself, at least not the way it was for humans. Ghirahim, being a sword spirit, lacked the sort of—ahem—attributes hylians insisted on pretending didn't exist even though they seemed almost maddeningly obsessed with them at the same time. Ghirahim never understood it; it's just flesh, like any other body part. So he could not care less if anyone saw him nude. Hells, he had no choice but to be completely naked aside from a small shield over his exposed heart in that accursed metallic form his ex-master had loved so much. Well, as much as he was capable of loving something, anyway.

Ghirahim shakes his head, trying to clear it. He didn't want to think about those times right now, not when he'd had no choice but to focus on nothing but them while he had been dormant. Instead, he began scanning the room, truly taking it in for the first time. He doubted his clothes would just be lying around in here, but surely, he could find something to cover himself and appease the ones outside until he did. And he would find them, because if anyone had done something to harm a single stitch in his beautiful, fabulous outfit…

The room was small and round, with little lights all over that Ghirahim forced himself not to stare at for too long should he become transfixed. What can he say, he loves shiny things. There did not seem to be a visible exit, but he wouldn't get worked up over that just yet. Things sometimes aren't as they seem after all, and surely this person with the soft voice wouldn't resurrect him just to leave him imprisoned, surely they wouldn't be so cruel. Especially since by the sound of things, the original target for the revival seemed to be someone they cared for. So he took a deep breath, and kept looking.

The only other object of note besides the pool Ghirahim had woken up in was a stone pedestal, with more of those glowing lights attached to it. This seemed to be an indicator that it was intended to be the thing he examined next, clever design really, so he does so.

There's a small recess in the center. And inside that recess is what looks to be a little rectangular slab of stone… with a blasted Sheika symbol on it. The lights on the pedestal flash and the recess lifts up as he approaches, showing it off in all its, ugh, glory. It's glowing as well, because of course it is, and the demon doesn't even need to extend his tongue to taste the magic tingling in its core. So it's not just a piece of stone; it's a device of some sort.

It took everything in Ghirahim not to snarl at the sight of it. Though he had no love for his ex-master now, it still made his blood boil to be reminded of the people who humiliated him time and time again. The ones who repeatedly made him leave, empty-handed, knowing full well the punishment that was to come for losing.

It's not that he didn't understand their position, truly, he did. He knew for the most part they were only defending their world. But another part of him, the more volatile and irrational part, still felt the sting of being barred from completing his master's orders, with such a holier-than-thou attitude when they went about doing so, no less. Did they know he was punished every single time he failed, even when it wasn't his fault?

They wouldn't care even if they did know that, and we both know he'd find another reason to punish you even if you had won. A nasty little voice spoke up in the dark corners of the sword spirit's mind. It sounded like him, but also not. Harsher, angrier. When he was at his worst, at his most hurtful. They'd probably think you deserved exactly what you got. Which you did, by the way.

Ghirahim demanded the voice to be silent.

"Go ahead and take it." That wasn't the nasty voice again, thank the goddesses. It was the soft, kind one who was responsible for his resurrection. It sounded a little sad.

"Are you sure?" He asks not only because they sound uncertain, but also, he really would rather not take something Sheika-made no matter how valuable or useful it may be. Is it petty? Yes. Does he care? No.

"Yeah," the voice replies after a short pause. "You'll need it in order to proceed. It can help you."

This time, Ghirahim can't help a small sigh. "Very well, then. But I'll be the judge of just how helpful it ends up being." That last part was muttered under his breath.

As Ghirahim reaches out to lift the small slab, he realizes how angry it would make Impa if he were to use her clan's technology. He can feel himself smirking at the thought of the old woman rolling in her grave. And just like that, he has done a complete one eighty on taking the device. Is it petty? Again, yes. Does he care? Again, absolutely not. In fact, he cares even less so than the last time you asked.

"It's called a Sheika Slate," said the voice as he picked up said object. Turning it over in his hands, he saw that the other side was smooth and black. He definitely wasn't intrigued about this little thing though, don't get the wrong idea. He just wants to spite that old woman and get out of here.

"Wow, such a creative name." The sarcastic, drawling quip comes out of his mouth before he can stop it. He knows it's probably not a good idea to sass someone he barely knows who seemingly has all the power in this situation, but what's done is done.

Thankfully, the person seems slightly amused. "You're certainly welcome to think of a better one."

Actually, that's not a bad idea. It would make Impa angry enough that Ghirahim was using her clan's tech, but naming it? He knows he should be cautious, but goddesses he's really starting to like this person now, they're giving him so much ammunition. "Alright, I will." He declares, sticking his nose in the air. "I'm rather good at naming things, I'll have you know. I even named mysel—whoa!"

As he was speaking, a sudden rumbling from the nearby wall got his attention. He looked up just in time to see that what once was just another intricate wall had now become an archway. "Yes! At last! Freedom!"

He immediately bolts for the opening, and then through the next one. He can see sunlight up ahead; he's so close to freedom!

"Wait!" He's suddenly halted in his tracks by the voice. It sounded a little desperate.

"What now?" Ghirahim mentally curses at the whine in his voice; already he is letting his guard down too much, making his feelings far too obvious. But he wants to leave, damn it!

"You're still naked."

Oh, right. Of course. How could he forget?

Glancing around the room he found himself in, there was another pedestal, its lights glowing orange. There were some clothes draped over it, but calling them such was quite the stretch. They were little more than rags.

Ghirahim felt almost queasy as he looked at them. There was absolutely no way he would allow himself to be seen wearing such an insult to fashion and the humanoid form as a whole. And he means that quite literally, as on a highly reluctant further inspection, the fabric of the shirt scraping horribly against his skin as he lifted it from its rather haphazard resting place, they wouldn't even fit him.

These clothes were meant for someone shorter and a little broader around the shoulders. Someone like… no, no, no. Do not go there. Surely the universe wouldn't be so cruel. Surely not.

Is this my life now? The demon lamented. Am I doomed to live the rest of my life as a nudist prisoner? Wait, wait, wait! He shoves the shirt away and perks up with realization, no longer confusing the hell out of whoever was still watching him.

I put my clothes in my inventory when I transformed the last time! That means…

The magic came as easily as breathing to Ghirahim. All he had to do was call out to the secret hidey hole only he had access to, and tell the world what place he required the objects of his choice to be summoned.

First came his outfit. The shimmery, form-fitting material surrounding his body in a light, silky embrace. Next, the equally silky sash, slithering around his waist, the beautiful red diamond gem fastening it firmly in place. Then his gloves, fitting snuggly up to his elbows, helping to coordinate his magic through his hands in loud but controlled bursts when needed.

His jewelry found its way home all the while. His golden bracelet a reassuring weight around his upper arm, and his earring sticking fast to his earlobe, held on with magnetics thanks to the countless metal filings reinforcing his flesh.

And then, last but certainly not least, his magnum opus. The first thing he had created that was completely and truly his. He had toiled over it for weeks, put passion into every stitch.

His beautiful, wonderful, perfect, magnificent, elegant, fabulous, dramatic, amazing, brilliant, cool, unique, fantastic, cape. It also just so happens to be his comfort object, but he'll die before admitting it. Still, he can't help but give the collar a little nuzzle with his cheek and make a silent vow: I shall never part with you again, my precious, beloved capie. I missed you.

But he snaps out of it quickly, realizing that as much as it may feel otherwise, he's not alone and does, in fact, have an audience. Quick, time to do something big and loud so they forget about anything they might have seen before.

"Perfection, is it not?" He does a little twirl, his heart doing a delighted little buzz when his cape billows out. "And I made it all with my own two hands. You'll be hard-pressed to find something quite so stylish anywhere else."

And I never need to part with it again! No one can force me to hide it any longer! Oh, this is simply the best feeling!

"…Whoa."

"Lost for words, are we? I can't say I blame you; I even amaze myself with my own beauty!"

"How did you do that?" The voice asked incredulously.

"Why magic, of course. My gifts in sorcery are certainly nothing to sneeze at."

"Yes, well, I gathered that. But… did you just create a whole outfit just like that?"

This gets a genuine chuckle out of the demon. "You're adorable! No, of course not. I simply summoned it from my inventory."

"Your…"

"You know, hammerspace? Pocket dimensions? Any of that ringing a bell?"

"…"

Gods, what sort of educational system did hylians devise after their victory? Because it has most certainly failed.

"Well, never mind that for now, I suppose. Freedom awaits!"

He makes his way towards the light once again, slower this time, to truly savor the moment now that he was almost certain it would not be taken away from him.

"Ghirahim," the voice says as he approaches the exit. It sounds a little bit fainter now? "I'm sure you have a lot of questions, and to be honest, so do I. But I'm running out of strength. I've set up a guide to help you get started. Good luck."

"What? Hey, wait! You can't just do that!" He grasps desperately at the connection with his magic, trying to strengthen it, to keep it stable. But if anything, it splinters even faster the moment his power collides with the fading remnants. Moments later, it's as though there had never been any magic to begin with.

"Well, how do you like that?" He asks no one in particular, annoyance bubbling up in his core. "Brought into an unknown time and place, and then ditched with little fanfare. Do people not learn a thing from history? Nobody likes a revive-and-deprive."

Ghirahim sighs, running his gloved hands over the velvety fabric of his cape to help center himself. "Well, what's done is done. Can't do a thing to track them down. For now, I'm on my own."

He takes another step further, wincing and shielding his eyes from the light of the sun, which is blinding in comparison to inside the cave. Especially for him, since his large demonic eyes had a greater capacity to see in the dark than a hylian's. But, it's sunlight. Ghirahim never thought he would see the sun again. If his ex-master had his way, he wouldn't have. It's bright, and it's warm. His skin and hair sparkle wherever it hits them.

The air is warm. The world is whole.

"I'm on my own… I'm on my own!"

Filled once again with an increasingly familiar rush of excitement and wonder, Ghirahim rushes out into a new day.