Chapter Text
It was only a couple days later in the northern reaches of Akkala that Link, crouched beside his small fire, reached within himself in search of Daruk's Protection—not to use, as he had hours earlier in his battle with the Lynel who had claimed this place before him, but simply to hold.
Link had often imagined that the Champions who gave him their gifts could sense their use—that they were maybe even present in some form as he used them—but had always chalked any flickers of expression he thought he saw up to wishful thinking, brought on by his own solitary journey and the heightened emotion usually present when Link called upon their powers. Only after that night when Urbosa's presence rose up so strongly inside him had Link actually started to wonder…
And there it was, clear as day now that Link knew what to search for: a heavy, supportive presence that could only be Daruk. It spread out from Link with a wariness that shifted to confusion, flickers of green flame rising from the earth as the barest reflection of a diamond shield encased him, and Link knew Daruk must be searching for the threat that had brought Link to call on his gift in the first place.
“I'm fine,” Link mumbled under his breath, not knowing if Daruk could hear him. He didn't even know whether this was Daruk himself or not, or just some echo of the Goron Champion lodged within his heart. “No danger. I just… wondered whether you were…”
Understanding bloomed suddenly, and with it, an emanating warmth so deep and steady that it might have come from the heart of Death Mountain itself. Biting his lip against the strange, choked feeling welling up inside him, Link stayed there, crouched beside his fire, relaxing unsteadily into the warmth both inside and out as he held Daruk’s gift suspended… until eventually, Daruk’s presence started to dwindle, and Link discovered ruefully that even this weak use of Daruk’s Protection had its limits.
“We’re here for you, buddy.” The whisper rumbled up from inside Link like a hand clapped against his back, Daruk’s Protection coiling inside his chest to recharge as the final vestiges of green fire faded away—and whether what he felt was the whole of Daruk or not, Link decided it was enough. Maybe he’d never been quite as alone on his journey as he thought he was, after all.
A shame that the realization should come so close to the end of it, but Link would take what he could get. He’d already wasted enough of himself mourning over lost time.
If someone could have watched the whole of Hyrule from above, they would have seen a wave of orange lights succumbing one by one to blue as Link prepared for his battle with Ganon in the only remaining way he knew how: tackling the shrines placed across the land for his use in search of the treasure within. Physically, Link had never been stronger—or at least, not since before the day he’d lifted himself shakily from his resting place in the Great Plateau. Kneeling before the statue of the goddess with mumbled prayers spilling from his lips, he could feel her answer come in the gift of life flowing through him: clear, distinct, and holy.
Still, as the spirit orb rippled through Link’s chest at the completion of each shrine, he thought he’d never felt weaker. Maybe he could point his body to any purpose and expect it to follow through, but his mind was another matter entirely, lingering where it shouldn't no matter how he attempted to force it towards their greater goal.
Link had thought he was ready to face Ganon before. He knew he wasn’t ready now.
Only once did Link give in to his longing, stepping across the threshold of the place he’d so thoroughly avoided since his last night with Ghirahim: his own Hateno home.
If nothing else, Link realized with odd detachment, he could now track the outrage he’d felt all those months before when he’d seen this house being demolished back to an emotional source. He hadn’t known what exactly drove him to stop that destruction at all costs—to do whatever he could to save this house, even if it was really the last thing that should have worried him. Now… well, the coop must have fallen apart years since (or maybe they’d demolished that first?) but he’d still seen this house as Aryll ran up the path towards it and recognized the place as home.
Antsy, Link sat at the table and wondered how many meals he’d shared at a table just like this. Had he known how to cook then, or was it always his father, or Aryll? They must have left something in this house—trinkets or letters that Bolson might have discovered and, more than likely, tossed aside, assuming they’d survived the ravages of time. Where had his family gone when Calamity struck?
“The old owner apparently went off to the castle to report for service,” Karson had told Link when he’d asked, his pick-axe leaned up against his shoulder while he spoke rather than dismantling the foundation, and Link had wanted to keep him speaking. “Never came back, never wrote.”
The old owner… himself or his father? With a shiver of foreboding, Link remembered an injured leg, a limp, and a heavy cane. However accomplished a soldier he’d been in the past, the man in his memories had not belonged on the battlefield. Still, in the face of Calamity, with the kingdom he’d pledged to defend burning in the distance and Fort Hateno under attack, would he have seen any other option but to go and fight?
Aryll, though. He wouldn’t have left her all alone… would he? Or would he?
The sun set slowly, the home’s dark interior dimming further as Link failed to light a lamp. Ghosts pressed in on his skin, whispering stories that he could almost make out, and Link closed his eyes, ready… but no new memories came. Why could he never manage to remember anything on his own without pictures on a slate and the heroic mandate to remember? Was that old, silent soldier Link had thought he’d left in the past holding such reminiscence at bay, all too aware of how it might occupy his mind with their task still incomplete?
Maybe it was for the best that he didn’t remember. Maybe his father had been right a century past, and coming home was a distraction Link still could not afford. After all, what good had the memories he’d gathered already done for him in the end?
Then again, Link thought, pulling his slate out abruptly as night settled in and picking a destination at random—somewhere, anywhere that wasn't here—then again, what good had his father's words done him all those years before? They were spoken with the best of intentions, Link knew, and yet…
Maybe it shouldn't have surprised him when the world reformed on glowing strands of light to reveal the luminescent blue walls and moonlit pools of Zora's Domain.
The memory Link had regained of his childhood here hadn't been a bad one—not at all—but he still considered choosing another destination as he stepped slowly away from the shrine, footsteps splashing despite his best efforts. None of those memories had quite slotted into his identity enough for him to know how to act on them yet, and his skin itched with not knowing where to settle… but a darkened silhouette at the top of the stairs called his name, taking the choice out of his hands.
“Master Link! That is you, isn’t it?”
It was Bazz calling out to him, because of course it was. Link half raised a hand in greeting, feeling strangely shy as he remembered just how easily they had once slung arms around each other. Bazz had always taken his flighty memories in stride, never holding it against him… but knowing it wasn’t his fault that he’d forgotten, Link still couldn’t help the curling of shame inside him.
“You’ve picked a fine time to visit,” Bazz continued, not put off by Link’s quiet approach. He had the look of someone on patrol, his silverscale spear held upright in one hand with the other on his hip. “The weather tonight is lovely. I believe the inn has plenty of open beds if you wish to stay the night.”
Watching Bazz resume his ready stance, standing firmly in the center of the steps Link had just ascended, it occurred to Link suddenly to wonder what he was guarding. He supposed the captain of the Zora guard might occasionally watch over the Domain in general, but Link could have sworn that Bazz was facing in towards the shrine when he'd arrived.
In fact, now that Link thought about it, he didn't think he'd ever walked up these steps without some member of the Zora guard standing in that exact space, calling out to him.
“Are you… guarding the shrine?” he asked, looking back down the steps. Sheltered in the heart of Zora’s Domain, that shrine was hardly the sort of place where trouble might break out.
“Of course!” Bazz’s grin, though not quite as dazzling as Prince Sidon’s, still gave the impression of easy warmth. “The prince has informed me of how this shrine serves as a traveling point. All entrances to our home must be guarded, of course—but beyond that, it is a treat to be able to greet you on your arrival to Zora's Domain.”
Link found himself again at a loss for words—something that might have hit with awful familiarity if not for the lightness that infused him, and a budding sense of relief at the growing conviction that his father's words, however well meant, were wrong. There was no shame in returning home, whatever that meant for him now, and no greater good gained by avoiding it.
“You’ve been keeping up with the sword forms I taught you, of course,” Link said abruptly, looking up at Bazz with his best impression of stern sharpness despite standing at little more than half his height. “Practicing every day?”
To his delight, Bazz actually straightened his shoulders, looking mildly panicked.
“I—well, perhaps not every day, but—” He stopped, laughing ruefully as he shook his head. “How is it that you can still make me feel like a new recruit? No, I suppose I’ve grown rusty over the years.” He hefted his spear, spinning it through the air in flashy demonstration. “My expertise lies elsewhere now, I’m afraid.”
“Wellll…” Link dragged the word out, looking him up and down. “I suppose I can forgive you for that. Still, if you ever want to train with me again, I assume you remember the price of payment.”
“Vividly,” Bazz said, eyes sparkling. “I heard you were here the other week seeking out that very thing, in fact. Are you still not satisfied?”
Link forced a sudden shiver down. Forced his grin not to waver.
“Never.”
“Wellll…” It was Bazz’s turn to drawl, considering the sky above. “The next festival is still two new moons out, but if you can manage to wait that long, I could certainly use a refresher course.” His grin flashed again, wide and affectionate and so unlike the last sharp-toothed smile Link had seen. “Fluffy white clouds, clear blue…”
“Zora,” Link said firmly, his gaze following Bazz’s upward to the sliver of a pale moon above. Two new moons… Calamity Ganon should be dead by then.
—
It wasn't much later that Link found it, stashed inside an unassuming chest beneath the enormous statue of the goddess deep within the Forgotten Temple.
Link still didn't know how he'd missed that chest all those weeks before when he first knelt at the statue to pray. He didn’t even entirely know what had drawn him back now, aside from maybe a vague notion of collecting materials for Robbie to turn into weapons for his final battle. The gauntlet of Guardians within had dissuaded Link from delving this temple's depths too frequently, though he'd always felt pulled to these ancient places. Maybe that was all that had brought him back here in the first place: the lure of something forgotten—
Or maybe, Link thought with hitched breath, withdrawing the hidden green tunic from inside the chest, that instinct to return had come from somewhere else entirely.
The shirt was old—ancient, even—though somehow preserved well beyond its time. Running a careful hand over sturdy fabric and simple stitching, Link held it up to his chest, already suspecting a perfect fit. It was like nothing he’d ever worn before, he was sure—and yet…
No green tunic to mark you?
You are wearing red.
It is sometimes the most insignificant details that remain nevertheless the most consistent over time…
Closing his eyes, Link felt clearly for the first time that thread pulling back through the ages, tying him to every previous hero whose life had followed this same, strange pattern, fighting the same battle against evil in the same shade of green. Ghirahim had tried to tempt him with knowledge of those past lives, once… and while curiosity still lingered despite himself, Link knew enough now to dread such knowledge. Where had that thread begun, and when would it end? How had the terribly predictable shape of his existence ever formed in the first place… and what must it be like for the only person living who remembered it all?
With tunic in hand, Link felt the tip of his smallest finger start to ache, and acknowledged with bitter humor that his time had run out again. He was ready to defeat Ganon now, he knew with grim certainty, just as all those heroes had before… but too late. With the blood moon close to rising, Ghirahim would call him back—and if this encounter went like all the rest, by the end of the night, Ghirahim would walk free.
Link bit his lip, green fabric twisting through his hands as he thought. His muddled conscience could no longer believe with any conviction that Ghirahim should remain trapped in his desert prison forever, but neither could he consider freeing him at this exact moment in time. Ghirahim still called Ganon “master” too casually for Link to trust him not to tip the scales in the upcoming battle… and who could say what resentment he harbored after centuries of imprisonment, towards the goddess, the Sheikah, and Link himself?
Of course, the greater question remained of whether Link even had the power to stop it. After all, he was smart enough to recognize their deals for what they always were—little diversions tolerated by a man who knew he held the ultimate advantage—and with just one rope remaining and the final blood moon at hand, such games must be at an end. Ghirahim would take what he wanted from Link as he had on their first meeting, and at the blood moon's peak, even the sword that sealed the darkness wouldn't be enough to stop him.
Link drew his sword on frustrated instinct then, not quite daring to believe he might hear its voice after all this time, but still hoping he might feel something… and saw the lights of the nearby shrine reflect off the silent blade in a way that made him pause.
It was a puzzle, Link decided after a moment. Words had never been his greatest strength, after all, even if they came to him now when they hadn't before. The sword was his greatest strength, but had already proven ineffective against a man who seemed to be at least half sword himself—but maybe neither of those things were the answer now. If he put all that aside and turned the problem on its head…
With the goddess looming over him and the shadow of a grin on his face, Link started to form his plan. Who could have guessed that those shrines might have prepared him for something after all?
—
The next day, Link spared the Molduga.
Avoiding the beast took almost as much effort as defeating it had in the first place, surfing and gliding from pillar to sunken pillar and sometimes only narrowly dodging its ire, with none of the tangible rewards that came from killing it. He almost couldn't say why he bothered—or maybe didn't want to admit to it? It was such a small thing, really—but if his entire existence was a cycle he had no way of breaking, then at least he could disrupt this loop in unexpected ways.
Besides, Link thought, there was something almost peaceful about watching the Molduga's powerful form cut through sand, the sun setting behind it in an explosion of hues he'd only ever seen in this desert—though as he paused to take in the sight of it, Link considered the likely possibility that his sense of such things had long since gone irredeemably skewed.
Still, that tranquil feeling stayed with Link as he descended the now-familiar ladder, building his small fire on blackened stone and arranging the items he needed at hand carefully within his pouches. He’d done everything he could to prepare for this encounter, and if it wasn’t enough… well, Link would cross that bridge if he came to it.
As his final preparation, Link touched the souls of his fellow Champions one by one, taking maybe a little longer than strictly necessary to ensure that all four were at the ready. He only expected to need one of them tonight, and that one only as a last resort, but it felt… nice… to tap into the variations of focused support that all of them, even Revali, had to offer in the brief few seconds that he could hold their gifts without draining them.
At last, with everything at the ready, Link indulged the itch in his feet that led him further down the tunnel, lighting his torch for both light and warmth this time as he left. Dubiously, he’d exchanged the ruby at his forehead for the hat that had come with his tunic, half expecting it to fall off his head at any moment, though the fact that it had survived a Molduga chase already meant it must have fit him better than he’d realized. The so-called trousers he’d found alongside them were shoved into the bottom of his pack, and only a lingering sense of obligation had kept Link from abandoning them in the chest where he found them, dryly certain that he could imagine Ghirahim’s reaction if he ever wore the complete outfit.
The tunic fit with eerie perfection, exactly as Link had known it would, and after all of Ghirahim's thinly veiled hints towards its existence, he knew exactly what sort of message wearing it would portray. Of course, expecting Ghirahim to acknowledge Link's readiness to defeat Ganon tonight was maybe expecting too much—more likely, he'd have some other tactic prepared to throw Link off balance—but some things didn't need verbal acknowledgment. At the very least, the green tunic meant a wrapping up of loose ends—and loose threads.
Even the sight of Ghirahim's sword at the end of the tunnel wasn't enough to shake Link’s nerve. Walking through the stone door and finally closing it before Ghirahim could, he settled the torch in its familiar niche, feeling wrapped up in steady determination. Then he turned to face the tiled room—and found Ghirahim staring at him like a walking ghost.
Stepping back quickly, Link tried to swallow and realized that his throat had gone as dry as the desert above, the calm before the storm faltering beneath the first sprinkling of rain. That final rope still held, he noticed with distant relief. He had halfway feared it wouldn’t… but with just one rope left as an anchor point, Link was all too aware of how small a sliver of space remained outside of Ghirahim’s reach. This room had always seemed to grow or shrink with the strength of Ghirahim’s presence—a trick of the mind, he thought—and it felt about as small as a tomb just then, with Ghirahim's wide eye pinning him to the wall.
“This is the last night,” Link finally heard himself rasp beneath that blank scrutiny. There was no threat to that gaze, exactly, though when flowing words were expected, simple silence on Ghirahim’s end became deafening… but Link’s voice broke the trance.
Ghirahim stirred, mirroring his step backward as if Link presented some sort of threat. Did he?
“So it is,” Ghirahim said without argument, tossing his cloak as if to shake off whatever troubled him. His dark eye traveled slowly down Link’s outfit, flicking back up to the hat again with annoyance. “Your choice of attire held so much promise until now. I had halfway hoped that perhaps you of all the heroes I’ve met might finally disdain the hat.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Link said, secretly glad that he’d kept it if it got him this kind of reaction. Ghirahim’s hand rose slowly as if to tear the offending garment off his head… but instead his wrist twisted in a beckoning gesture.
“Should we get this over with now?” he asked briskly, fully recovered from the mood that had gripped him earlier—or was he? His gaze kept wandering from Link’s face downward. “I think we both know that this night only ends one way.”
With the last bond sliced through. That was the most likely end to things, however Link hoped to prevent it.
“What, no small talk?” he joked weakly, to no effect. Unsurprisingly, Ghirahim wasn’t in the mood. “You’re probably right, but… I did have a bit of an offer. There’s time left for something else first… if you want.”
“Oh?” Ghirahim’s voice sharpened with amusement—and familiar heat. This time when he looked Link up and down, it had a very different feel to it. “What exactly did a wild thing like you have in mind?”
“Not…” Link decided his blushes were a good thing if they made him look like less of a threat, though he couldn’t have stopped them either way. “Not that.”
“A pity,” Ghirahim murmured, his gaze lingering like a touch… but while the heat fell mercifully from his voice, amusement did not. “You are not yet sated with memories, then? You had your chance, little hero!” He sighed incredulously, gesturing towards the heavens as if for help, or possibly commiseration. “I shared all that you would allow me to, and then some! My previous offer was indeed generous, but I'm afraid that we no longer have the time—”
“Not that, either,” Link interrupted him, and Ghirahim cut off, a curious tilt to his head. “Or… not exactly.” He took a deep breath, steeling himself. Maybe he'd come to regret this, but he’d thought it all through and could see no other way. “I think there are… things you wish I could remember. Parts of my past lives that you want me to see.” Another deep breath. “I wouldn’t let you show them to me before, but… I’ll let you do it tonight. If you want.”
Ghirahim stared, the heat sucked so quickly from the room that Link nearly shivered.
“The night’s still young, isn’t it?” he offered when Ghirahim still said nothing. It was still young. Link hadn’t wanted Ghirahim to feel rushed. “There’s probably enough time left for three memories—two, if you’re feeling timid,” he couldn’t help but add, lips quirking despite himself
“I think…” The word scraped over Ghirahim’s sharp teeth, his eyes narrowed, “that you are attempting to be devious.” He tossed his hair, surveying Link over the edge of his cloak. “You believe that I care one way or another what old memories are rattling around inside your head?”
Link shrugged, not even trying to hide the helpless guilt on his face. Maybe Ghirahim didn't care at all, though the way he’d reacted to Link’s tunic just now made him slightly more sure of himself. Of course, Ghirahim would recognize anything he suggested now as the attempt at delay it was—so it had to come off as desperate. If Ghirahim was tempted, he might just allow it anyway, confident that he could withstand whatever last-ditch attempts at escape Link threw at him.
There was almost something fun about it, in a reckless sort of way. Inexplicably, it felt like fighting the Molduga.
“I have been trapped here,” Ghirahim said slowly, some barely-contained tension burning through him as his fingers clenched, “for uncounted centuries… and you expect me to delay my freedom for something as fleeting as a mortal’s memories?”
“If you want,” Link repeated, his amusement withering guiltily into something more sober. “I just thought that the only thing worse than not remembering… is maybe being the only one who remembers.”
A strained hiss of laughter escaped Ghirahim’s lips, though Link wasn't entirely sure that he noticed.
“You and your thoughts,” Ghirahim muttered. He was looking through Link again, as he so often did, and Link had to remind himself that this was what he needed for his plan to work—for Ghirahim to see some other hero through his eyes. “I don't know that anyone else ever realized just how much you… think.”
A long pause while Link tried to breathe evenly, smothering nervous laughter as he remembered all those times he'd suspected Ghirahim of reading his thoughts. Surely that was nothing but his own fear speaking… right?
Then Ghirahim's voice brightened, taking on a showman’s lilt.
“So, you wish to remember what you should not,” he proclaimed with his arms flung wide, the reverberation of his words swallowing up a room that felt once again too small to contain him. His hair tossed aside for a moment, and both eyes gleamed. “Or perhaps it is that you will tolerate such memories if doing so keeps me contained for that much longer. The entirety of your soul's existence at my fingertips…” His laughter rippled down Link's spine. “Oh, Link, have you really thought this through?”
Even as Link leaned back in vague alarm, the thought came with fleeting relief that he had guessed right. Ghirahim really did want this, whether he was willing to admit it or not. Was this dazzling performance meant to distract Link from that fact, or himself?
Was Ghirahim always so easy to pick apart if you only held the keys?
“Well, far be it from me to waste precious time dissuading you,” Ghirahim very nearly purred, measuring Link so thoroughly with his eyes that he felt almost sliced to pieces, his various parts weighed and packed in paper for consumption. “You have stumbled upon the rather inconvenient truth that this is the only night remaining wherein I could restore such events to your mind, if the blood moons are to come to their end. In fact, it is by my master's power alone that each precious memory has returned to you thus far—so be sure to show proper gratitude when next you destroy him.”
Link's blood ran cold at the thought, remembering the skin-crawling sensations that had accompanied each of Ghirahim’s intrusions. The idea of letting Ghirahim into his head was always bad enough, but to think that any part of Calamity Ganon could have touched him so intimately… but what else could he do?
Ghirahim had begun to pace, back and forth across the room's center as the rope restraining him allowed, the air churning in his wake to rustle the tips of his cloak and set the flame of Link’s torch dancing. If his power rose and fell with Ganon’s, then that was reason enough for Ghirahim to interfere with their final battle whether Ganon could wield his sword or not—and reason enough for Link to attempt to keep him here, at least until that threat had passed.
“Another word of warning, since the last proved insufficient,” Ghirahim went on, turning abruptly from his pacing. “These… memories, for lack of a better word, are not strictly speaking yours at all, but ours, preserved by virtue of the fact that I remember them. As you once said, the goddess gives us one life to live at a time for a reason.” He laughed, a light sound. “What a delight to see you disregard her reasoning.”
Link frowned.
“But they’re real, right?” he said cautiously, ignoring the jab. “The memories, or whatever they are… they actually happened?”
“Oh, they’re real,” Ghirahim confirmed, grinning to match Link’s frown. “They happened. I only warn you because you might find that they come with a shift in… perspective.” His tongue dipped between thin lips, out and in again. “It might hurt.”
A warning too vague to mean anything, Link thought helplessly, or to change anything—not if Ghirahim was willing to take the bait. Taking a deep breath, he nodded.
“Fine.”
“Still so determined,” Ghirahim said, his soft voice failing to cover something that felt nearly manic. “Such determination deserves its own reward, doesn't it? Very well.”
In diamond-shaped wisps, Ghirahim's long gloves peeled away and vanished, revealing pale arms that he moved in gestural demonstration. Only the very tips of his fingers were blackened now.
“Don't think for a second that I don't know what you're really after,” he added dryly, holding one hand out. “Still, when you're presented so pretty on a platter, how can I not indulge?”
Link knew what he was supposed to do, or he thought he did. Not giving himself time to second guess, he walked forward reluctantly, his own hand outstretched—and was caught off guard when Ghirahim wrapped his arm around Link's to entwine only their smallest fingers, as he had on the fateful night of their first meeting.
“Any requests?” Ghirahim asked, laughing throatily at the flat glare Link gave in return. “Ah, never mind. As is too often the case, what you want will have very little bearing on what happens next.”
With a lurch made worse from knowing what it was, Link felt the cold power that seeped from Ghirahim's fingers climb up his arm, goosebumps pushing in its wake as it spread toward his head… or his heart… or maybe all of him?
It was almost enough to make Link pull away. Instead, he gritted his teeth, bearing it.
“On any other night, I would take my time preparing you… but with time so short, I’m afraid we have no choice but to plunge right in.” Ghirahim's teasing voice reverberated through Link, like a string plucked across his chest. “You have never believed in our thread of fate, stubborn child that you are, but perhaps following it through the ages will shed new light.”
No, not his chest—his throat, his lungs. It was his voice speaking, his lips curling in a grin as the two of them fell together, and in the crawling darkness encasing them, Link could no longer tell where he ended and Ghirahim began.
“I believe you may have heard of this hero,” he whispered as they fell. “The age of twilight was well recorded, after all…”
Those echoing words chased Link down the winding thread of his past, falling in tandem until…
—
Swirling his goblet of wine with easy poise, Ghirahim thought he had never felt quite so at home in any era of Hyrule’s history as he did this one.
Though no more technologically advanced than most ages he had lived through now, there was still something about this time that grabbed him… a nod towards culture, maybe? For the first time in memory, the fashion of Hyrule held enough intrigue that he had actually purchased a new item of clothing: a trailing blue-violet cloak that he liked despite the primitive fabric. No doubt it would not last the centuries, but his existence held so few novelties now that he supposed he would have to take them where he could.
It helped, too, that his service rendered to his master had been so satisfactory this time around. Grin deepening, Ghirahim took a sip of the regrettably weak drink in his hands, remembering. Captured by the sages all those centuries ago, Ganondorf had still amassed enough strength by the end to nearly rival Demise, the ages he spent trapped within twilight more than enough time to allow his master’s resentful power to fester and grow. He had forced Hyrule beneath his heel, puppeteered that useless avatar of the goddess—and on that final battlefield, he had wielded Ghirahim's sword with all the force and finesse he could ever have hoped for.
His tongue slipped from between his teeth without thought, lost in pleasant reminiscence.
If his master had still not managed to subdue the hero in green… well, that failure was not unique to him. While his loss regrettably meant another slow fading away before Ghirahim was called back to battle once more, at least it opened up an opportunity of a different sort.
The door to the tavern opened, sunlight piercing the room's dim haze, and the object of his musings walked in, his eyes drawn magnetically to Ghirahim sitting in the corner before jerking away stubbornly. Even the hero's signature green tunic bore embroidery in this age, the garment put together with something approaching structure, though Ghirahim despised the familiar outfit no less because of it. The goddess must have had a truly twisted sense of humor… or perhaps this was just her form of petty revenge?
Ghirahim half raised a bare eyebrow, but made no other move to show that he had noticed Link’s arrival, once more contemplating the contents of his cup. No doubt it was simply the balance of life that in a time when so much else was to Ghirahim's liking, this hero should prove the most resistant to his advances yet. Ghirahim had seen enough of Link now both in and out of battle to get a read on him—strong for his size, sturdily built, and stubborn, though not without his breaking point. Quiet, but not incapable of speech. Nauseatingly helpful, like every hero Ghirahim had ever met, though he appeared to prefer the company of animals over any human companionship.
Fitting, as this hero was a beast himself, the veil over his natural ferocity pulled thinner than any before. Ghirahim hoped Link came around to him soon—hoped the red thread that had bound them thus far had not become some thin, faded thing with the passage of time. He had even considered a little nudge in the right direction… but no.
No, it would ruin it all if Link did not accept him on his own.
“Anything else I can get for you?” the tavern's owner said loudly, wandering from another table to bodily block Ghirahim’s view of Link with a warning frown, braids swaying ominously atop her head. Telma tolerated his presence here, usually—something in Ghirahim's eyes had the power to quell even the most hotheaded patrons before a fight could break out, a skill that any barkeep could appreciate—but she didn't trust his intentions with Link.
A smart woman. Ghirahim rather liked her.
“I am quite content as I am, thank you,” Ghirahim said politely, gesturing with his mostly full beverage. The stuff unfortunately did nothing for him that a demonic brew would have done, but it was surprisingly palatable.
Frown deepening, Telma leaned in.
“I'll let you nurse that for now, but when this place gets busy, your table goes to paying customers,” she warned. “Whether you're finished with that or not—”
“He's here with me,” a rough voice said quietly behind her, and the two looked up in surprise. Neither of them had noticed his soft approach. “I'll have whatever you’re cooking that smells so good.”
Link slid into the chair across from Ghirahim, giving Telma a reassuring smile, though Ghirahim recognized the familiar, stubborn set of Link’s jaw. A silent battle raged between them, until Telma eventually straightened, lips twisting.
“I'll have that right up for you, honey,” she said, though her hard eyes strayed back to Ghirahim as she added, “Won't take more than a minute.”
She left, and Ghirahim wondered idly if she hid some desert ancestry as he took another slow sip, surveying Link over his goblet. Of all the human races, the Gerudo had come the closest so far to crafting anything worth drinking.
Link frowned at his silent scrutiny, glancing back at the door as if already regretting whatever impulse had drawn him here in the first place, and Ghirahim relented. Wolves were only tamed with great care, after all.
“To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your company?” he asked, running a gloved finger around the rim of his cup. Beneath those gloves, he knew his fingers had already begun to blacken. “The last time I sought you out, you objected to my offer. Strenuously.”
A mild way of putting it. Ghirahim had learned that night that Link's newly absent companion was a touchy subject, at best.
Link's eyes narrowed, though he didn't speak at once, drumming his fingers against the table. More than accustomed to such silences, Ghirahim waited patiently.
“I’m leaving Hyrule,” he announced at last, looking startled by the words that had just burst out of him. Knowing Link, it was his first time speaking the idea out loud. “Not… not forever, and maybe not even for that long. I just want to see… well, I’m looking for…”
Ghirahim was unsurprised. This hero would not be the first to wander beyond the borders of Hyrule once life within failed to provide the proper stimulation, although every incarnation regarded the prospect with great gravity. None strayed for too long, either, that very same gravity pulling them back. The spirit of the hero was closely knit with Hyrule, after all.
“That's a long journey.” Ghirahim cut across his stumbling explanation, leaning back. “Has… Her Majesty anything to say on the matter?”
Ghirahim only just managed to smooth back the grin that wanted to spread across his face at Link’s questioning look of confusion. Likely, it hadn’t even occurred to him to ask. While they had battled his master together in easy tandem, the princess and her hero were mere acquaintances in this age—a rare eventuality that he always took great pleasure in when it occurred.
No, he rather thought this hero’s heart stolen by another princess altogether.
“Never mind that,” Ghirahim murmured, waving a hand to dismiss the idea. “Will you be taking it alone?”
Link hesitated. “That's… what I wanted to talk to you about.”
This time, Ghirahim had no hope of suppressing his anticipatory grin.
Telma interrupted them then, swinging back around as quickly as she'd promised with a bowl of the stew Link must have smelled upon entering—a dish of meat and vegetables, though Ghirahim could tell at a glance that Link’s serving leaned heavily towards the meat. Anyone who had ever shared a meal with the boy knew where his preferences ran in that regard.
Link thanked her for the meal distractedly, but ignored the food as she left.
“You know about… magic,” he said awkwardly once Telma was out of earshot again, pulled reluctantly away by a cluster of soldiers, though her head still angled their way.
“That I do,” Ghirahim agreed, preening. His ability to perform any great feats with it waned by the day, but the knowledge remained.
“And you're a… sword.”
“The finest you will ever wield,” Ghirahim promised, overlooking the flicker of doubt in Link's eye. He might not have been formed for Link's hands in exactly the same way as his old sword—exactly the opposite, in fact—but at least he would not need to be put to rest in some forest before Link’s life was through.
“You…” Link bit his lip. “You know what’s in the Arbiter’s Grounds?”
Ghirahim eyed Link thoughtfully. “Better, perhaps, than you do.” Far be it from him to dissuade the boy from a hopeless cause, and yet… “There is no repairing that mirror, Link.”
Link’s hands clenched into fists, and Ghirahim wondered if he was even aware of the snarl curling his lips.
“Nobody knows that for sure,” he said stubbornly. “Somebody must have built it in the first place, right?” So, Link had found his purpose—for better or for worse. Either way, the hero's soul never lasted long without one.
“Should I interpret this round of questioning as an invitation?”
Ghirahim knew the answer already, of course. He should have put more faith in a connection already lifetimes in the forging. It was only a matter of time before—
Link looked up at him, blue eyes catching him off guard with their openness.
“Why do you want to come with me?” he asked, something surprisingly earnest breaking through the suspicion that had dogged all their interactions until now. “I know what you said earlier, but tell me honestly: why?”
“You…” The hero almost always had blue eyes, Ghirahim had found, as if the sky he had loved so much so long ago could be contained inside. As much as Ghirahim adored a deft twist of words, saying one thing to obscure another… sometimes with Link, unadorned honesty really was the only way forward. “You remind me of someone I traveled with… a long time ago.”
For only a moment to Ghirahim's eyes, the Link in front of him shifted, a messy fringe of hair framing rounder cheeks and a warm, carefree expression. Shaking his head to dismiss the vision, Ghirahim drained the cup in front of him, wondering grimly if Telma would bring him ten more glasses of the same. Twenty. If he drained this whole bar, would Ghirahim finally forget?
“Your cause will be my cause for as long as we travel together,” he said, grimacing. “I promised as much already, and the why of it doesn’t matter.”
Calloused fingers brushed against his own tentatively, and he looked up in surprise to find Link giving him a somber look of understanding.
“I get it,” he said wearily. “You're a lot like someone I used to know, too.”
—
Link felt his mind pull free as the scene surrounding them unraveled, though only just. He was still falling towards the next memory—still tangled too tightly both body and soul with the man whose voice rang through his chest, shaking his teeth.
“The little wolf… reminded me of you, in some ways.” Laughter burned his throat like bile. “Less so in others. There are always similarities, of course—but the differences…”
Questions piled atop each other in the back of Link’s mind, none of which he’d have the chance to ask. Already, he could feel the next memory approaching, swallowing his weak sense of self, until…
—
The hero frowned down at the sword in his hands, heedless of the rain that poured from above to drench his garish green tunic, and Ghirahim knew that he'd made a mistake.
From the start, nothing about his awakening into this strange era had settled right with Ghirahim. Ganondorf, the avatar of his master’s vengeance in this time, was as much a sorcerer as a swordsman, though when Ghirahim had felt him awaken to his master’s power, he still answered that irresistible call. From the desert they rode like a scourge, capturing with honeyed tongue the ear of the king. His master’s displeasure had fallen in sinister form upon all who withheld the spiritual stones that barred him from entering the Sacred Realm where the Triforce slept…
…And then the hero had emerged from the forest, not to fight any final battle, but to claim that such battles were already fought. While Ghirahim had called the hero from the sky “child” often enough, this boy was a child in truth—but effective still at turning first the princess, then the sages, and finally the entirety of the royal family against his master, imprisoning him in the Arbiter’s Grounds for crimes he had yet to commit.
It all left a bad taste in Ghirahim's mouth. Time was ever a malleable thing where the goddess was concerned, and Ghirahim couldn't shake the sense that he'd been robbed of something rightfully his… or the memory of it, at least: that moment of great finality when his master faced the hero down with Ghirahim’s sword in hand.
To top it all off, the child hero himself had vanished soon after, reappearing intermittently across Hyrule over the years but never easy to track down—not that Ghirahim was even convinced at first that he wanted to. He had followed this strange hero often enough to recognize Link’s spirit inside, though his reserved nature had developed to such an extreme this time that he sometimes went days without speaking… but Ghirahim didn't know him, much less know how to approach him.
The first time around, Link had come to him all on his own. This one didn't know to do so. They had nothing.
Whatever thread had bound their fates in a previous life must have long since lost its strength. Even if Ghirahim somehow convinced Link to take him as his companion, their partnership couldn’t possibly replace what he’d shared with the hero of the sky—with Link as he was meant to be. It might be best for both of them if Ghirahim simply moved on, finding some other way to fill a century or two of slow decline before his master’s waning power pulled him into sleep once more—and yet…
And yet.
Link’s sword decided it for him at last, its gilded diamond pattern calling to Ghirahim like a sign from fate itself. Whatever else he might be, this hero was a gifted swordsman, possibly even surpassing the previous hero’s skill—and so Ghirahim had decided that if fate intended to rob him of that final battle in his master’s hands, then he would at least have this boy wield him now, whether he ever knew it or not.
It had even worked, for a time. It was no difficult feat to change his shape, and Ghirahim had imitated that gilded sword without flaw, slipping seamlessly into the hero’s life… but in their last battle, an exciting dance of rain and blood, Ghirahim had let too much of his excitement slip through—and Link, finally, had noticed.
Still, Ghirahim tried to convince himself, even if Link had felt something, he couldn't possibly understand just what it was he felt. Indeed, as Link reluctantly sheathed his sword after examining every inch of it, mounting the horse that was his only constant companion and riding a short distance to the mountains where an outcropping of rock offered barely passable shelter, Ghirahim decided with satisfaction that Link must have brushed the strangeness off as an anomaly—something brought on by the heat of battle. The truth of the matter was no doubt too foreign for Link to even suspect, much less know what to do about it.
Gathering what kindling he could find beneath the rocky overhang, Link managed to light a decent fire even from damp wood with a quickly cast spell—another startling oddity to this particular hero. The Link of old never had the gift for magic, much less the head. Leaving the horse to graze nearby, Link seated himself on a stone by the fire, sighing at the warmth. Unsheathing Ghirahim’s sword, he laid it across his lap—and sat there in silent contemplation, eyes closed.
Then he pulled out a blue ocarina and began to play.
Ghirahim recognized the power behind the notes immediately, as well as the intent. A song of healing, it was meant to soothe the listener of any old pains or regrets, to the point of putting to rest the souls of those who lingered too long over unfinished business.
It grated like a rasp against Ghirahim’s core, and he wanted—no, needed it to stop.
“Enough,” Ghirahim hissed, emerging from the sword to glare balefully at Link. “Would you cease with that infernal whistle?”
The song stopped, the ocarina lowering slightly from lips hung open. Only as the blistering haze of music faded did Ghirahim finally see Link’s shocked face and realize the extent of what he'd inadvertently revealed.
His first impulse was to retreat back within the sword, though he knew already that it was too late for that. His second was to straighten to his full, impressive height, but the shallow overhang prevented that—so instead, he knelt, tossing back his cloak as well as he could and thinking quickly.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “I suppose we are not yet formally introduced. I am called Ghirahim, and I am… the spirit of your sword.” With a wry twist to his lips, he added, “Do not try that again. I am not some wandering soul to be serenaded to sleep.”
Link’s wide blue eyes moved from the sword back to Ghirahim again in clear, unspoken question, the wet fringe of hair that the fire had yet to dry still plastered across his face, and Ghirahim… hesitated. It was as clear an opportunity as he would ever have to insinuate himself into this hero’s good graces, particularly if he was less than forthcoming about certain aspects of his nature—but the prospect sat poorly with him.
No, Link had accepted him once before despite his past. He would not twist himself out of shape now just to become more palatable.
“I have not always been such,” he admitted, watching Link thoughtfully. “In fact, if my suspicions are correct, you should be intimately familiar with my true form.”
Though his heroic exploits were not widely known, those who knew of Link's true nature in this era called him the hero of time. If he had really fought his master in the future as he once claimed…
With a snap of Ghirahim's fingers, the sword in Link's lap transformed into something much larger: the chosen blade of the desert king. Link froze as if facing a viper, his gaze flicking between the sword and its inhabitant again in sharp understanding.
“As I thought,” Ghirahim said bitterly. “You have been at the end of it.” Shaking his head, his voice nevertheless took on a tone of grandiosity. “Yes, Link. I am not the hand who wields it, but I am that sword.”
Link’s eyes had narrowed, staring at the sword in his hands now in furious contemplation, and Ghirahim prepared for him to cast it aside. He would have to find some other way to occupy his time now… a rather dull prospect.
Then Link looked up at him, his lips writhing with labored speech.
“You… remember?”
The raw longing in those words took Ghirahim by surprise, so like the sky child that for a moment, he was left almost breathless. That yearning for some acknowledgment of the twists and turns of his heroic journey—the desperation for shared memories once the companion who had shared in it all had departed—it must have run deep in his soul if yet another hero sought such comfort from the very sword he'd crossed blades with.
Ghirahim had not quite understood it before, too caught up in the bitter differences to notice, but this was the hero’s spirit. He could see it in the eyes now: that restless wandering in search of purpose that had brought the Link from another time so unexpectedly into his arms.
He did not remember the battle, of course—not in the way Link wanted him to—but neither did Link remember what Ghirahim wished he could, so in that way, they were evenly matched. Still, he thought he remembered enough.
To prove it, Ghirahim snapped his fingers again, and his sword shifted shape once more to mimic a blade that only the two of them in this age had ever seen, sealed away in the Temple of Time: the Master Sword.
Link stood with a startled yell, the sword clattering from his lap to the ground as he stumbled back.
“Don't,” he said sharply. “You shouldn't—”
“I should not,” Ghirahim agreed, and the blade was once again the gilded sword it had been before. The tension in Link’s shoulders eased slightly, and the breath fell out of him in a rush. “Yours still, if you want it.”
Ghirahim gestured, and the sword floated through the air, hovering before Link at just the right height for him to grasp… but Link ignored it, regarding Ghirahim instead with wary wonder. His retreat had brought him back into the rain, which ran in rivulets down his face.
There would be questions, of course, once Link could get his mouth and mind around them, and Ghirahim would need to provide answers—though again, the thought came that the closer he adhered to the truth, the better. If Link caught him in a lie, he would have no second chances… but Link was going to accept.
He could see it in the longing that weakened Link’s limbs, and the way he looked to Ghirahim like he held the keys to… well, relief, at least, if not quite salvation. Ghirahim thought he might appear as such, backlit by the fire while Link watched him from the rain.
Link's fingers twitched, then grasped for the sword, and Ghirahim couldn't have possibly helped the grin that split his face. So the two of them had more than nothing, after all. If their thread of fate still persisted beyond all reason… well, who was Ghirahim not to follow where it led?
–
“It's almost over.” The voice that rasped up through him might have been soothing, if acid could soothe. Link didn't have to know the boundaries of his own body and soul to know that all of him was cold. “My master's power was not made for you, but neither was I, and to bear one means bearing us both. You did offer me as much as we had time for, remember? And there is time for one more.”
The two of them had already fallen impossibly far down that thread–so far down, Link wondered how they would ever climb their way back up.
“The start of it all,” he murmured, a painful vibration—but there was something almost uncertain winding beneath those words, sharp with discomfort. Link squirmed to escape it, or thought he did, and wondered why they still hesitated when they were so far down—
And then all sensation swept mercifully away as Ghirahim opened his eyes…
–
If Ghirahim didn't know better, he would have said that the chosen one of the goddess, the hero who vanquished Demise, was lost.
Of course, that wasn't quite it, Ghirahim mused to himself, tracking Link languidly from a distance with nearly the same ease he always had before. “Lost” would imply some desired destination or, at the very least, a lack of familiarity with his surroundings. Considering that Ghirahim had found Link wandering this same forest when he first fell from the sky, he could assume this wasn't the case… though from the newfound diligence Link paid his surroundings, he might still have lost something—or if Ghirahim's suspicions were correct, perhaps some one.
There was one loose end he'd yet to wrap up from his adventure, after all… or rather, one loose thread.
Then again, if he was seeking out someone specific, Link clearly hadn't even the faintest idea of where to look. His wandering of late had carried him all across the surface… and with nothing better to occupy his time, Ghirahim had followed, wondering at the grim set to his face that hardly seemed to suit a victorious hero.
Ghirahim himself had spent weeks after his frantic flight through the Gate of Time recovering from that shattering loss, and weeks more coming to terms with the fact that he would not recover fully—not when he drew his greatest strength from a master whose power waned further with each passing week. One day, like the swelling of a malicious tide, Demise would gain strength and form once more, and maybe then Ghirahim would gain back that spark of his former self… but until then, all he could do was watch black fissures crawl across his skin—marks that had once been a show of strength, of his true form, now signaling nothing but weakness with his inability to control them—and wonder with dull lethargy how long it would take before his waning strength pulled him once again to sleep within his sword.
When the goddess first sealed his master away, he had lasted for scant few centuries after. With his strength already depleted, Ghirahim could only hope to last half that long this time around.
Link stopped on the path below, pivoting, and Ghirahim just had the presence of mind to slip sideways out of view. This, too, was a new habit of his that had almost caught Ghirahim off guard the first time it happened, and further confirmed his suspicions. He still couldn't say for certain that Link hadn't seen the last, lingering diamonds of his departure earlier that day… but he thought that this time, at least, he'd avoided—
“Hello?” Link called out, turning towards Ghirahim’s hiding spot to peer suspiciously through the leaves. His hand inched towards his hilt. “Who’s there?”
Or maybe not, Ghirahim acknowledged ruefully.
The sword Link drew, while certainly the best handiwork his people could provide him, still fell laughably short of the living steel he had wielded with such grace on their last encounter, and Ghirahim wanted nothing more than to twist that unsightly scrap of metal in his hands. How the mighty had fallen.
How all the mighty had fallen.
“I know you’re there,” Link said more softly, his shaking voice betraying his uncertainty.
Ghirahim had spent weeks already musing over where and when and whether to make his presence known to this boy, all the while watching Link’s stumbling, solitary trek across the surface in search of… something… and while Ghirahim could not abide the notion that Link might think him in hiding, neither was this open forest grove where even the tiniest Kikwi might stumble across them the place for them to meet.
Fortunately, while his days of summoning tornados were behind him for now, Ghirahim’s smallest tricks had always unnerved Link the most. Snapping his fingers with the wisp of a grin, Ghirahim appeared behind Link for just long enough to whisper:
“Come and find me.”
…And was gone again before Link could even finish whirling around, leaving nothing but the echoes of diamonds and laughter for Link to grasp at. That laughter stayed with Ghirahim long after he'd left Link's earshot, leaning up against the temple's entrance to wait. It was gratifying to discover that if nothing else, the shattering chimes of his appearance could still make a hero flinch.
Ghirahim had left Link without naming a destination, certain that none was required, and Link did not disappoint. In fact, the hero arrived so quickly that Ghirahim more than half-suspected him of sprinting the whole way. He stopped short upon discovering Ghirahim outside the temple, perhaps expecting to find him ensconced within as he had so long ago, and his flushed face formed a picturesque mess of thoughts and emotions that Ghirahim—and maybe even Link himself—had no hope of deciphering.
At no point had Link sheathed his sword since drawing it, holding it out between them now warily, and Ghirahim eyed the dull blade with dry resignation. It was like that, then.
“So, you’ve found me at last!” Ghirahim intoned dramatically, as was expected, acknowledging the boy’s presence by gesturing towards himself. “After all this time… It’s not too much to presume that I am the one you’ve been searching for, is it? The last little mar on your heroic record for you to wipe clean...” He waved a wrist as if to flick something away, eyes glittering with condescension as Link approached.
Link had been searching these woods for most of the day now, the warm air and deepening shadows speaking of late afternoon. Aside from the melting away of Demise’s lesser minions, little had changed about this temple since Ghirahim last stood before it, although the humans had already begun to spread across the rest of the land like some self-righteous plague. Their short-lived focus had fixated so far on the new and the progressing, paying no heed to the crumbling remnants of their long-forgotten past.
“How long have you been following me?” Link asked, as blunt and graceless with his words as always. Ghirahim hummed in pretend thought, tapping one cheek.
“Do you mean how many hours today, or how many weeks before now?” he asked in retort, indulging a self-satisfied smirk when Link looked taken aback. Ghirahim's carelessness today was the exception, not the rule. “The number is roughly the same, I think. You’ve been at this quest of yours for quite some time, haven’t you?” He paused, giving Link space to respond. When the boy said nothing, he continued. “I would commend you on your diligence in seeking me out, yet I can’t help but notice that if you’d been even half this inept at tracking the spirit maiden, I would have swept her away quite easily. How disappointing that your skills have begun to rust in your old age.”
Still, Link stared at him in silence, almost unblinking, until Ghirahim began to wonder slowly whether the levers to Link’s reactions that he had gleefully pulled in the past might have started to break down in the months since their final battle. His mention of the spirit maiden had brought the expected flash of anger to Link’s eyes, of course, but otherwise…
“You’ll have to give me more to work with than that, I’m afraid,” Ghirahim said dryly. “If you’ve something to say to me now that you’ve found me, then say it now. However, if you’re here to finish what you started months ago, as that sword implies—” Link jerked, staring at his own weapon as if he’d forgotten that he held it. “—then I’m sorry to say that I’m in no mood to indulge you. In fact, if that's the case, then I think I might just—”
“Wait,” Link said quickly. “I'm not trying to… look, see?” And to Ghirahim’s amazement, Link hurriedly sheathed his sword, even going so far as to hold up his hands in a placating gesture. “Please don't go.”
Taken aback, Ghirahim examined Link shrewdly, taking in the hero anew. From a distance, he had thought Link grim; up close, he looked worn, or perhaps even haggard. Ghirahim had seen enough of the human settlements, and even the spirit maiden herself, to know that both prospered… yet in the aftermath of his victory, Link did not.
“Zelda was easier to find,” Link offered after a moment, with a nonsensical, half-hearted grin. “I… had a different sword then, and…” He paused to swallow, grimacing. Oh, he felt his own lack keenly. “I didn't know whether you were alive, or where to start looking for you… or until earlier today, whether you wanted to be found.”
“I see.” So Link had seen him earlier, though he seemed to be under the impression that Ghirahim had allowed himself to be seen on purpose. Quietly, Ghirahim decided not to correct the misconception. “And the reason for seeking me out, if not to finish me off…?”
Any reason strong enough to prompt weeks of lonely searching should have sat easily on the tip of Link's tongue. Instead, he clammed up, his comparative chattiness vanishing as mysteriously as it had arrived.
Still, Ghirahim could be a patient man when given the right incentive, and the curiosity he felt at this wilting hero was almost enough to remind him of why he had always considered sparing Link his guilty little pleasure. How a mere human could have so thoroughly caught his fascination in the first place…
His patience was rewarded as Link chewed first on his cheek, then on his lip, and at last, opened his mouth to ask:
“Do you still want to kill me?”
Link winced as soon as he spoke, disappointed with how the words had come out. Still, for all its bluntness, Ghirahim understood the ins and outs of what he wished to know. There was an inherent hope hidden on one side of the question, and on the other, a lurking fear: what were Ghirahim’s intentions now—for Link, the surface, and beyond?
“An intriguing thing to ask,” Ghirahim murmured. “Let’s find out together.”
And before Link could do more than blink, Ghirahim had surged forward, a dark saber appearing in his hands just in time to press against Link’s neck.
Link spasmed in shock, attempting to step backward, and was prevented by Ghirahim’s hand gripping the hair beneath his horrid excuse for a hat. Arms half-flailing to keep his balance, Link glared up at him with wild, stormy eyes, his heart galloping in alarm as he strained to pull away from where a red drop of blood wandered along the curve of his throat… and then he stopped. His eyes darted across Ghirahim's face, a sharp crease forming between them as his brows drew down in confusion. Then his lips parted, comprehension pouring out like the sun through breaking clouds.
Each expression told a story, though not one that Ghirahim could hope to make sense of. What about this position could Link possibly find enlightening?
Link's pulse slowed from its frantic pace to something steady and certain—a repeating rush of blood that thrummed through him with such strength, Ghirahim could hear the rhythmic tremble in his breath.
“You don't,” Link said wonderingly, with what really was reckless confidence considering the sword pressed against his throat.
What was more, Ghirahim himself had not yet reached that same conclusion. Snarling with an anger that fed on Link’s calm, Ghirahim pressed in harder, his rage all the more invigorating after its long absence. This boy—this worm —was the very reason Ghirahim existed in this sorry state to begin with, instead of drunk on blood and power at his master’s side. He had emerged from battle victorious, and dared to be dissatisfied! He—he…
He was smiling now, pushing the saber gently from his neck—and Ghirahim, to his own numb surprise, was allowing it. The storm of his eyes had cleared to a calm, brilliant blue, and whatever Link had been searching for before, Ghirahim had the sudden, fleeting impression that he'd found it.
“It's okay,” Link said. “I don't want to kill you, either.”
–
“That’s enough.”
Link was thrust up from the depths of Ghirahim's mind so quickly, he staggered. The scent of stone and burning oil from the torch was the first thing to hit his awareness, and he coughed reflexively.
“Enough,” he echoed in a blank rasp. The afterburn of pain lingered like a gnawing chill in his heart, but in the aftermath of memory, Link barely noticed. Blue eyes still looked up at him from an ancient past, some unknown emotion stuck at the base of his throat… though swallowing dislodged the feeling. A bit.
Whether skyward bound, adrift in time, or steeped in the glowing embers of twilight…
“You said I could show you what I want you to see.” Ghirahim's voice came out quiet, even detached, and he disentwined their fingers with none of the usual flair he might have given such a motion. “I have done so now, and then some. It is enough.”
Link watched Ghirahim retreat—there was no other word for it—long gloves shimmering back into place along Ghirahim's arms as if to form one more barrier between them, but the strange disquiet of the action barely managed to sink in to a mind still whirling with—with…
Ghirahim had actually cared about all of those heroes—though on second thought, maybe “cared” was the wrong word. Still, beneath his callous superiority, and the manipulations, and all that stomach-twisting bloodlust, there had been… something. Something soft.
Except all of that had led them here. With those earlier heroes, Ghirahim had been reluctant to nudge them in any direction. With Link, he’d done it without a second thought.
“What was the point of this?” Ghirahim whispered in a voice that Link could barely make out, though they stood mere paces away. “Even seeing it all wouldn't make you… You share this sparse handful of memories now, still not knowing their weight—and soon you will die and join those men in memory. Meanwhile, I…”
The murmured words faded off as if Ghirahim had forgotten he was speaking, staring at the patterns of tiles below without seeing them at all, and Link slowly awakened to the realization that something was… not right. Whatever Ghirahim had expected to gain from this, Link thought he’d come out with something else entirely.
Licking his lips, Link had the distinct sense that he should choose his next words carefully.
“What happened?” he asked, and saw Ghirahim's eyes snap back towards him. “Something changed between then and now. How did it all go… wrong?”
Ghirahim’s eyes narrowed slightly, staring at Link sideways for so long that Link almost thought he wouldn't answer.
“The last hero,” he said at last, almost wistfully. “Things ended poorly between us that time, as you can imagine… though I suppose I can admit now that we both made our mistakes. Yours was thinking the two of us could make a fool of fate.” His lips curled, their derision directed inward. “Mine was believing you.”
Link's brows furrowed as he realized that Ghirahim had said all that he intended to on the matter, and he looked down to hide his dissatisfaction. In Ghirahim's current strange mood, Link didn't dare press, but still… why couldn’t he have chosen to share that memory instead?
“There really is no helping your hopeless curiosity, is there?” Looking up again, Link found Ghirahim still staring at him, his expression a blend of fond incredulity. “This was all ostensibly to tempt me, wasn’t it? Yet now I could almost believe you've been caught in your own trap.”
Caught in his own…?
A single speck of malice floated through the air between them, and Link instantly understood. The entirety of his focus narrowed in on that speck, tracing its erratic path upward with all the intensity of a Guardian narrowing its sights. Then it vanished, leaving Link staring into Ghirahim’s smug grin.
“Time's up, little hero.”
“Another deal,” Link said, taking a bracing step back to disguise the movement of his left hand reaching into one of his prepared pouches. Ghirahim always placed the knife in his right hand. “I want to make another—”
“Stay where you are, please.” Ghirahim said it almost kindly despite the reproving wag of his finger that stopped Link in his tracks. “This will only take a moment.”
Knowing he was trapped there, Link still tried to move, and found his legs rooted to the ground… but that was fine. Link wouldn’t need to use his legs.
“I’ll cut the rope myself,” he said quickly, another spot of malice floating up between them. This time, Ghirahim did pause. Briefly.
“Oh?”
“After I fight Calamity Ganon,” Link admitted reluctantly. “Once that's done, I promise I'll come back and set you free. In return…”
He hesitated. He had nothing left to give.
“I have everything else I want from you, I'm afraid,” Ghirahim hummed, and Link felt a familiar weight fall into his hand. Looking down, he saw his fingers clench the hilt of a black dagger. “Everything but this.”
“You can come with me after you're free,” Link offered desperately. There was still every chance in the world that this wouldn't work—though squeezing the hand still hidden in his pouch lightly, he felt reassured by the warm prickle against his skin. “Like all those other heroes. If that’s what you want, I won’t try to stop you.”
Ghirahim scoffed.
“Do you still not understand how replaceable you are?” he asked scornfully. The malice flew up steadily now as Link felt himself walk forward, knife outstretched. “How insignificant? It is entirely possible that you will seek me out either way—and if not…” Close enough now to loom over him, Ghirahim's grin had a manic edge as he tilted his head, offering Link better access to the rope at his neck. “There will be other chances. Other heroes.”
Gritting his teeth, Link tensed with reluctant anticipation. This was it, then.
Drawing the time out as much as he could, he waited until the last possible second before clenching his left fist shut.
Inches from the rope, the knife slipped from between Link's abruptly rigid fingers, his rapidly clenching muscles obeying no will but that of the shock jolting through his body. Breath hitched in his throat for a moment before hissing through clenched teeth, and as the crackling current finally dissipated and Link felt himself slump forward, he dared give Ghirahim a level look.
Inside, though, a thrill sparked through him. It had worked.
Frozen in place with a different kind of shock, Ghirahim's single eye looked wide and, for the first time, uncertain. The malice was coming faster now. Thicker.
“What sort of trick is this?” he hissed under his breath. “Your companion…?”
Another quick snap had Link armed again, and Ghirahim growled.
“Cut it now!” he urged with a sharp gesture, and this time, Link surged forward—but focused too narrowly on the dagger, Ghirahim missed Link’s other hand delving once more into his pouch.
Again, the dark knife fell from uselessly clenching fingers, a short grunt of pain pushed out unwillingly through cracking lips. Link's heart beat strangely asynchronous as the electric energy dissipated, a slight tremor shivering through his hands… but it was almost over now. He just had to push through the blood moon’s peak—and the moment of Ghirahim's greatest power.
Gloved fingers raked through Ghirahim's hair, clawed and wrung at the air as if they desired Link’s neck.
“Again!” he rasped, and Link felt the knife return to his hand—his left hand, he realized with a start. Flustered, he dove awkwardly for the pouch with his right… and this time, Ghirahim saw.
“What's that?” he asked sharply, hooking a finger through the air in a quick arc, and Link’s hand jerked from inside his pouch. A handful of electric chu jellies that he'd barely managed to snag pulsed precariously between his fingers.
Ghirahim went absolutely rigid. Their eyes met for less than a second, nearly obscured from each other by flurries of malice, and Link bared his teeth.
“Time's up,” he said, lurching forward to slam his chest against his hand. The fragile jellies burst, unleashing all of their electric energy directly into Link's heart.
The world went white. Vaguely, Link felt himself convulse, flung backward as if some giant hammer had lodged against his chest, shattering him and sticking there, a heavy, immovable weight. Tasting metal, he thought maybe he’d bit through his tongue—but it was all a faded thing. The ringing in his ears, the pale face screeching obscene threats above him, the world gone red in the blood moon’s wake… all of it a distant, faded thing.
Mipha stirred inside him, waiting and ready, and Link smiled at the thought of her healing touch. Little though he tried to use her gift—dying was a sensation Link hoped never to grow used to—it had always left him feeling fully refreshed, with even his smallest aches and pains washed away.
He fell out of consciousness with a contented sigh, knowing he had won, looking forward to the moment when he would wake up to Mipha.
He did not wake up to Mipha.
Pain layered atop pain as Link returned to the world with a start, his ribs creaking dangerously against some heavy, rhythmic force that rocked mercilessly against his chest. Eyes blown open, Link tried to flail, and managed only a weak twitch of limbs. His thoughts scattered in all directions, his wide eyes darting wildly, seeing nothing. There was something he needed to remember. Some one. A presence other than himself that he needed to watch out for.
The pounding on his chest finally ceased, and that force—that presence— Ghirahim leaned over him, white lips locking against his own, and nothing in this world made sense.
Ghirahim was kissing him… or, no.
No, Link realized as his nose was pinched shut and air blown forcefully through aching lungs. No, Ghirahim was saving him. Ghirahim hadn’t known about Mipha, and he was…
Link coughed, convulsing violently, and Ghirahim drew back at once, leaving Link space to hack and retch beneath him. Eventually, the spasming of his chest eased enough for Link to lay back again, looking up weakly into Ghirahim’s contorted face. The other man’s breathing sounded harsh, rasping through lips curved into a rictus snarl.
“You wild…” Ghirahim growled, glittering eyes darting over Link—looking at him, at last. “You stupid…”
He leaned over Link again, and this… this was a kiss. Harsh, grasping, and Link’s mouth still tasted like blood, but Ghirahim’s tongue didn’t mind, coiling around his as if to draw more of it out of him. Moving on strange instinct, Link tried to lean in and moaned at the effort, the sound spurring Ghirahim to grip his shoulders tightly—except the blood moon had passed its peak, malice dissipating into nothing, and Ghirahim was slipping away.
Pulling back with a harsh, despairing laugh, Ghirahim looked down at Link, something indecipherable passing between them.
“One of these lifetimes,” he whispered as he vanished, “I will learn not to underestimate you.”
Then there was nothing but a black sword thrust point first into the ground, a single rope with faded fabric charms stretching out from its hilt—and one last, fading whisper:
“And one of these lifetimes, you will learn not to underestimate me. ”
Shapeless terror grasped Link. Scrambling backward, knowing he needed to move without yet knowing why, Link lurched towards the stone door on his knees, desperate to wedge even just his fingers beneath its edge—
And heard the sharp, unmistakable click of a lock trapping him inside.