A/N: TW: Blood, self-hatred, self-deprecating thoughts, mentioned physical and emotional abuse, pushing one's physical limits as a form of self-harm.
Pain.
Pain, pain all over.
It hurts.
It hurts so much.
Blood. Lightning. Soft flesh. Hot, unforgiving scales.
So much.
Enough.
He is pain, he is pain.
The first thing Ghirahim was made aware of when he slowly regained consciousness was the pain in his chest. It hurt something fierce, but the sword spirit had grown used to that long ago. Pain was an inconvenience at worst. What truly made it unbearable was the pain in his heart.
The dim, dusty ceiling of his little hideout gradually came into focus above him. Dingy. Old. Gray. A different gray than the eternal luster of his skin. An ancient gray, a forgotten gray. A gray meant to be overlooked. Never the focus.
He didn't remember his choice to teleport here, specifically, but it made sense why he did it. It had been the place on the Surface he had felt the safest, despite the beast that had lived outside.
But the Imprisoned was dead now, crushed by that abomination of a statue. And now, so was the demon that had been trapped in the depths of whatever it had had for a mind.
I don't regret it, Ghirahim insisted to himself, allowing a low, pained moan to escape his lips. It bounced off the uncaring stone walls. I betrayed him, I abandoned him to his fate. I left him to die. I know this, and I don't regret it. I don't. I'm not sorry.
But his loyalty to his master had been his entire purpose for centuries. Even now, after all he'd experienced, there was still a small, slimy part of his being that battered at the rest of his mind, shrieking in rabid protest at the deed he'd committed. It sounded quite a lot like him.
Insolent boy! Miserable wretch! Good for nothing dog! Your loyalty was the only redeeming quality you had in the eyes of the world; now that is gone and you have nothing. You are nothing!
Ghirahim moans again, louder. It was more of a whine than a moan at this point, really. A sound of unrestrained despair. Something that had been a rarity from the demon, having had them all beaten out of him at an early age.
Even now, after all these years of being on the receiving end of them, the insults still sent agony through his heart. Maybe it was because he'd hoped, against all odds, that once his mission was completed, they would finally come to an end.
But that was never going to happen. He knew that now. His mas—his… now ex-master had made it perfectly clear how he felt about him when he'd been revived, and the first thing he did was to—no! No, no, no, no, no!
He wasn't going to think about that. He wasn't going to relive that, not now. Not when it was so soon.
Even now, a small part of Ghirahim, a tiny, vulnerable, childlike part that he had so desperately tried to get rid of couldn't understand why the Demon King had done that to him. He'd done everything right, hadn't he? He was good, wasn't he? He'd succeeded against all odds. So, why? Why was Master so… so… mean?
Before he even knew what was happening, Ghirahim found himself rapidly sitting up. His head fiercely protested the sudden movement, his stomach soon following. But his soul ignored it all.
An ear-piercing wail tore itself out from Ghirahim's burning throat. It cut through the air as harshly and mercilessly as his spiked host blade, lasting as long as a hylian could scream, and then even longer. The sound was agonized and raw, embodying all the pain he had experienced not just now, but in his entire life. Pain he was forced to bottle up, and never truly express or process, should even more of it follow.
When the sound finally ended, tears stung at the sword spirit's eyes, and unlike every time before this, he didn't fight it. He let the sobs come, engulfing his tortured form in great, convulsing torrents that sent him forward, barely catching himself with his hands.
Not a single tear was shed for Demise, however. Every tear that was liberated from its cage of flamboyant indifference was for Ghirahim, and Ghirahim alone. For the agency he was robbed of. For the path he was forced to tread, the miserable excuse of an existence he was born into. And for every poor, sorry soul who had the misfortune of encountering him and his master. For every life lost, for every drop of blood shed. For every time, he had a chance to resist, to fight back, but didn't.
Why? Why had it taken all this time to get it through his head just what kind of being his master truly was? For years, he had been alone on the Surface; why, during that time, could he never see? Why had it taken him getting defiled again, to break free? And why was there still a tiny part of him that still wished he could come crawling back!
Another scream came, this one of rage. Anger had been the demon's default emotion to fall back upon for years. Anger at the goddess and her hylian sky pets, anger at always losing, always failing, sick, sick, sick, sickwith anger! So it really wasn't that big of a surprise that his temper reared its ugly head once again at this moment of turmoil.
But there was nothing and no one to take it out on. No one who deserved it, at least; Ghirahim was still just clear-headed enough to realize that. He had no outlet, and that was where the real sick feeling came from. He was going to explode! No, worse than that. If he didn't get ahold of himself soon, he would transform again. And he did not want that. Especially not after what happened last time.
He inhales sharply, but deeply. It helps, but only slightly. He had to do something to get all of this sudden energy out, and the first thing he did was straighten out his back the best he could and start crawling. He had to get out of this tiny building. Fresh air would do him good, surely it would if he can just reach the hatch.
His hideout was tiny, but even with the raging emotions swirling within Ghirahim's heart, it seemed like a nearly impossible feat. You managed to awaken an ancient evil that almost destroyed everything, that voice piped up again. Quit being a lazy, whiny crybaby and suck it up.
Well, it didn't exactly say it in the most polite way, but it did have a point.
The cold stone bit painfully into his bare skin with every movement, and the burst of energy was waning as quickly as it had come. Spots swam before the demon's exhausted eyes by the time he made it to the hatch, but he was determined. Once Ghirahim set his mind to something, he never stopped. Even if it would be in everyone's best interest if he did.
With one final effort, Ghirahim pushed himself out of the hatch. He slammed down hard directly upon his injured chest as he did so, and fell to the ground in an undignified heap. Pain rocked his very soul, sending his form into a great spasm that caused him to vomit a torrent of dark blood all over himself, before consciousness left him once again.