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Chapter Text

The surface is much more dangerous at night.

Link steps between prickly bushes and densely-packed trees, careful to avoid rustling branches or snapping twigs underfoot. The heady scent of sap and damp dirt is everywhere. He scans the darkened shadows as he creeps through the forest. There are Bokoblin camps everywhere—one wrong move and the whole forest knows where he is. He should have given up his search hours ago while there was still daylight, but it’s hard to give up when the stakes are this high. But there is no lack of potential enemies down here, especially under the cover of darkness. And after Skyview Temple, Link’s previously bolstered confidence in his swordplay is one more hit from shattering.

He isn’t fooled by his “victory”—he knows when he’s been toyed with.

The shelter Link has holed up in the last two nights isn’t far, but the distance might as well be from one end of the skies to the other. He can’t risk a fight with an enemy in the dark. Not tonight.

A flicker of firelight sparks in a corner of the forest, shrill Bokoblin shrieks cutting through the night. That’s where the hollowed tree is, Link’s makeshift shelter. He drops into a crouch beside a mossy rock and inhales, cool air trickling down his throat and drying his lips. New plan. He’ll find another place to rest until daylight.

A low chime pings from the scabbard on Link’s back.

Master, Fi says in that formless way she does, there is a waterfall approximately half a mile to your south. My readings indicate a substantial area behind it that could provide adequate shelter. The chances of it being already occupied by our foes is 26.7%.

Better than nothing. He doesn’t thank her aloud because the shrieking at his old camp is closer than he realized, and the fire is actually moving toward him. Fi had the foresight not to manifest and make more sound than necessary, so Link does his best not to waste her intuition. He creeps south before the torchlight can reach him. The walk is over in a blink but lasts a lifetime. The trees all look the same under the cover of shadow and the stars are farther away than they are on Skyloft, twinkling faintly. Link aches for his bed, for a carving knife and sparring partners without sharp teeth, for a hot bowl of Piper’s stew from the bazaar.

But none of what he wants matters until Zelda is home.

So Link aches for his bed and his knife and hot stew, and he pushes onward, a fire blazing in his chest.

The waterfall rushes musically, fills his ears and blocks the other songs of the forest. Link won’t be able to hear intruders, but they won’t be able to hear him, either. A gap between the stream of water and slick rock leads to a dry cave. The cave is the width of the fall, and when the moon slips from its hiding place behind cloud cover, the curtain of water across the cave’s mouth alights in a swath of brightened silver.

Much nicer than the rotting innards of that dying tree.

Fi swoops from the Goddess Sword, taking form in an instant, her icelike expression blank as always.

“Master,” says Fi, “this cave should be safe until daylight. There are no indications of previous occupants. Chances of discovery are low. Is this adequate shelter?”

“Yes,” Link says. His voice is rough. He’s barely spoken today. “Thank you.”

She retreats with no further ceremony. Link can’t figure her out. Fi is intelligent and free-thinking, and yet she doesn’t seem to have a personality. A deep, guilty part of Link is glad for it, but a deeper, greedier part of him wishes he could talk to someone. Fi is a sword, and that doesn’t make her a someone. Not really.

He sets up what little he carries. His bag will work as a pillow. While the cave is mostly dry, tiny flecks of waterfall spray find their way back to him. Not enough to dampen the floor, but enough Link scoots closer to the wall. Exhaustion creeps into his limbs, makes them heavy. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll go back to Skyloft and rest and make a plan. Tomorrow the search for Zelda continues. First he needs to wait for dawn.

Link curls up on the rock, bag under his head, Goddess Sword on his back, and sighs.

And then there’s a blade against his throat.

Link’s eyes shoot open. It’s darker than before. He must have been asleep, but not for long. Cold metal rests on the delicate skin of his neck. Slowly, he turns his head to see his would-be murderer.

Lord Ghirahim looks the same as he did in Skyview Temple. There’s something unsettling in the wideness of his eyes, the coldness of his demeanor. A smirk tugs the corners of his mouth. His sword is long and black, curved slightly near the end, sharp as anything. A single wrong move and Link’s throat will cut like paper.

“You drool in your sleep,” Ghirahim says. “I know my beauty is mouthwatering but please conduct yourself with some dignity.”

Link should slice his neck on Ghirahim’s blade when he yanks away, but a quick press of his hand to his throat proves he’s still in one piece. A fluke? No time to wonder. He draws the Goddess Sword and points it back.

Ghirahim laughs, sleek curtain of his hair brushing the sharp line of his cheekbone as he tilts his head. “Relax, sky child. If I wanted to harm you I wouldn’t have given you a chance to fight back. Killing you would be no more significant than grinding a beetle to jelly beneath my heel, and I have better things to do than crush beetles.”

A fact that stings more now than it did two days ago.

Ghirahim is on another level from other hostile surface creatures. Link has never fought something like him before. He can barely call it a fight —the memory plagues him, dancing behind his eyelids every time he blinks. Link, lunging at Ghirahim. The Goddess Sword’s blade catching between Ghirahim’s gloved fingers. Raucous laughter. Link is no match for him, not even close.

“Must you insist on such silence?” Ghirahim waves his blade in Link’s face. “My presence here is a gift. A little gratitude goes a long way with your betters.”

Link licks his lips, mouth dry. “Why are you here?”

A clamor of chimes and a flash of diamonds and Ghirahim vanishes, rematerializing at the other end of the cave. “He speaks! I was starting to think you couldn’t. I said I was giving you a gift, didn’t I? Now stand up. Face me.”

Link is on his feet, teeth grit so tight his jaw aches. Master, Fi chimes in his ear, I sense that Ghirahim is more lax than he was at our encounter inside Skyview Temple.

Of course he is. As if it wasn’t insulting enough to be utterly humiliated the first time, now Ghirahim has come back to—what? Torment him? Kill him?

There’s no time for Link to stand there, frozen, mind spinning with possibilities of what game he’s being forced to play now, because Ghirahim lowers his blade, wide eyes locked on him, and dashes forward. Link moves on instinct, leaping to the side and bringing the Goddess Sword down onto Ghirahim’s with a metallic twang. Hylia, he moves so fast. Still bent at the waist, Ghirahim’s black eyes slide up to meet Link’s.

“You know the basics,” he says, which is wholly baffling. “The very basics.”

Link swings for his neck. Ghirahim vanishes in a glitter of diamonds again, meeting steel with steel when he reappears. They exchange a few quick blows, Link’s movements choppy and desperate. Ghirahim deflects every strike with casual ease, a smirk stretched across his thin lips. Link tries to strike with enough force to push Ghirahim back, but the demon might as well be made of stone—he is immovable, steady as a mountain, his parries sliding each of Link’s blows to the side with ease.

Eventually Link lunges forward, because either he gets one hit in now, or he’ll die here.

Ghirahim’s black blade vanishes and in the next instant, the tip of the Goddess Sword is stuck in the iron grip of his fingertips. Link blinks and his sword is out of his hands, Ghirahim examining it with pointed disinterest. “So this is the sword of the goddess’s chosen hero? How disappointing.”

“Give her back,” Link snarls.

Their eyes meet again. Ghirahim’s smile is cold and cruel. “You’re the one who lost her,” he says. “Talent does not translate to skill, sky child. If you want her back, earn her.”

Link makes a grab for the hilt but Ghirahim steps away.

“You can do better than that.”

Link makes another grab, hands fisting air, embarrassment and rage making his skin hot all over.

Ghirahim chuckles. “See, this is your problem. You strike before you think. Before you plan. Enthusiasm will only get you so far. It’s very boring for me.” He flips the sword, catching the flat of the blade in his palm, and offers it to Link. “Again, from the beginning. And think this time, for Hylia’s sake.”

Mistrust floods Link head to toe. He doesn’t take his eyes off Ghirahim’s smirk, doesn’t so much as blink. “What game are you playing?” he asks. “What trick is this?”

“I just told you,” Ghirahim groans, though Link is fairly certain he didn’t. “Now take your sword, sky child, before I lose my patience and end your miserable existence with it instead.”

Link hesitates.

“Quickly.” Ghirahim waves the hilt under Link’s nose. Link takes it, waiting for Ghirahim to plunge his own black blade into Link’s gut, for a rain of razor-sharp projectiles to slice through his skin. Instead, Ghirahim takes a step back and holds his arms out, eyes closed. Link is being mocked. “Go ahead. I’m waiting.”

Link is poised to strike when Fi’s voice rings in his ear. Master, after careful analysis I have calculated the likelihood that Demon Lord Ghirahim means to harm you is 16%.

Sixteen? It’s not zero, but it’s low. Very low.

When they fought in Skyview Temple two days ago, come to think of it, Ghirahim hadn’t truly harmed him then, either. He’d humiliated him, mocked his swordsmanship, toyed with him. But he hadn’t fought him seriously. Hadn’t hurt him.

“Why are you here?” Link asks again.

Ghirahim’s visible eye opens, all humor gone from his cold face. “Do you have trouble with your ears? Or are your powers of deductive reasoning as poor as your swordplay?”

Link moves before he can think, slicing the air with the Goddess Sword. Ghirahim sidesteps his strike, and the second, his black blade materializing in his hand for the third.

“You’re still relying on instinct. You want to be a threat, not a nuisance. Read your opponent’s patterns.”

Link’s fear is gone, but not his suspicion. The space where Ghirahim stands is suddenly filled with diamonds, so Link pivots to catch him as he appears, their swords shrieking when the metal clashes. The rhythm of battle comes back to him slowly as muscle memory takes over. Eagus taught Link and the other knight candidates as best he could without the aid of real monsters. Link was so flustered by Ghirahim’s lazy indulgence of his play at being a knight the first time they faced each other that all Link’s training had slipped from his mind. He remembers it now.

Side step. Horizontal slice. Jab. Look for weaknesses, unguarded areas. Ghirahim is just another log in the sparring hall. He favors his left side, always turning his sword arm toward the front. Link needs to hit there. He needs—

“I realize there is much about me to admire, but try to stare a little less,” Ghirahim says, swatting Link’s planned diagonal slash out of the way without so much as a blink. “You are far too obvious where you mean to strike. Your technique is better than last time, though. Minimally.”

Red-hot anger boils in Link’s gut and he is done. He reaches out and shoves, the Goddess Sword’s hilt pressed awkwardly between Link’s palm and Ghirahim’s chest. Ghirahim stumbles a pace or two back, lips parted.

“Stop,” Link says. “Just stop.”

“Aww.” Ghirahim… pouts. There’s no other word for it. “But you were doing so well.”

Link shakes his head. “Enough games. Tell me what you want.”

Ghirahim’s sword disappears in a twinkle of diamonds, slim shoulders pulling into a shrug. “You listen as well as you fight. You’re not worth my precious time to kill, as I’ve said. We’re both searching for the spirit maiden. It seems likely we’ll run into each other again, yes? I’ll let you in on a little secret, sky child: I detest being bored.” Another flash of shapes and Ghirahim appears by the cave entrance, moonlight spilling over his skin in a pearlescent glow. “That’s enough for tonight, I think. Give me a little more of a challenge when next we meet, won’t you?”

And in the next breath, Ghirahim is gone.

Link sinks to his knees, the spike of fear he’d kept at bay coursing through him in one great rush. Ghirahim really didn’t mean to hurt him? But they’re enemies. He mocked Link, made a joke of his lack of finesse and his clumsy movements. Had he come here tonight to watch Link struggle? To get in his head? To humiliate him more?

Link stares at the Goddess Sword. Fi stays silent. She hasn’t said anything since informing him of the likelihood Ghirahim meant him harm. If she hadn’t spoken at all, not to break down Ghirahim’s tactics or give him percentages or advice of any kind…

Link swallows. “Fi?”

Fi sweeps from the blade in a swath of crystalline blue.

“Is he gone?”

“Ghirahim has left the region,” she reports. “I do not sense him anywhere in our vicinity.”

Link’s confusion magnifies. The exhaustion of the last two days trekking through the forest and the ache of his body as his adrenaline ebbs away leaves him weak. He slumps to the rock, winded, reeling. That’s all? That’s really all?

“Master,” says Fi, “your heart rate is increasing. I suggest you rest and continue your plan to return to Skyloft in the morning.”

Rest. As if he can sleep now. As if he can trust that a demon like Ghirahim won’t come back to finish the job in his sleep.

“I don’t understand,” Link says. “Why did he come?”

Perhaps Fi doesn’t know the answer, because after several long seconds, she says, “As Ghirahim himself stated, he meant you no harm.”

The unlikely truth of this is what keeps Link awake far longer than he’d like, jumping at shadows and flinching at each whistle of wind that breaks through the din of the waterfall. He lies with his back to the wall so he can keep his eyes on the narrow entrance. Not that Ghirahim needs to shimmy past the water to get inside the cave. The fight replays in his head on a loop. All Ghirahim’s jabs about staring, about his lack of skill, about how where Link chose to rest his eyes betrayed him…

It’s as sleep is finally creeping over him, darkening his vision and turning his mind to fluff, that the truth of it all shimmers to life.

Ghirahim was giving Link a swordplay lesson.

And that only leaves Link with more questions.

Chapter Text

Knight Commander Eagus has always been well meaning, if a little overzealous.

“Glad you could join us for class today, Link,” he says, voice booming and jolly. The sparring hall is packed with Link’s fellow classmates, the twang of steel on steel and blade on wood filling the air. Pipit’s never-ceasing grin as he lunges at the swinging log is so bright it makes Link’s teeth ache.

“Glad to be here,” Link says, which is only half true.

It’s early, and Link’s most recent searches of the surface have proved unfruitful. There’s guilt that accompanies every day he wastes resting on Skyloft instead of looking for Zelda, but the last time Link pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion, he got a lecture on his swordplay he definitely didn’t ask for. Everything reminds him of Ghirahim and their bizarre evening behind the waterfall, but especially standing in the sparring hall watching Fledge flinch at each of Karane’s half-hearted swings. Any one of the creatures on the surface would run Fledge through.

Link shakes himself. That’s an unkind thought. Link’s humbling at Ghirahim’s hand has no bearing on the knight candidates’ skills, and there’s no reason any of them would be on the surface at all. Except for Link. This burden is his alone to bear. The thought leaves him incredibly hollow. Sometimes he wishes Headmaster Gaeorpa hadn’t asked him to keep his quest secret.

Link abruptly wishes he were anywhere but here, but he can’t leave when training has just begun.

“Why don’t you ask Pipit to spar?” Eagus suggests, nudging Link with his elbow. “I know you’re busy these days but I can’t help but worry you’re not keeping up with your training.”

If only he knew. Link was ambushed by Chu Chus just yesterday afternoon. They sprung up from the ground, surrounding him in a circle. The only reason Link was able to pull off the swing that sliced them all into goo was because he hasn’t stopped practicing.

“Pipit’s busy with his sets,” Link says. “I’m keeping up, I promise.”

Eagus shrugs. “Suit yourself. The floor is yours.”

Link shouldn’t have agreed to come. Nothing feels quite as important as finding Zelda and keeping the Imprisoned trapped in the earth. He’d hoped coming to practice today would make the strangeness of the direction his life has taken fade a little, but now Link is only too aware of how much has changed. He takes a few halfhearted jabs at the standing practice log with the dead-center weak spot, praying he blends in. The opportunity to slip away comes when Strich bonks Cawlin a little too hard with his shield, and the shouting starts. Eagus moves in to break up the fight and sooth Cawlin’s tantrum, and Link slips his sword back into its scabbard and sneaks outside.

He swears he catches Pipit’s eye as he shuts the door, but there’s no way to be sure.

The fresh, cool air of Skyloft never fails to refresh Link’s spirits. He heaves a satisfied sigh and takes the shortest route to the bazaar. He’s going to need more potions for his next expedition. Fi stopped being able to trace Zelda in Faron Woods, so he has no choice but to explore Eldin Volcano. New enemies, new adventures, new fights. He’s no longer so naive as to think anything beneath the clouds will be easy. But if Link is the Goddess’s chosen hero, he’s going to do his best to live up to her expectations.

Whomever the Servant of the Goddess is, Link hopes Zelda is safe with them.

It takes weeks to navigate the lava-stricken slopes of Eldin Volcano and untwist the complex passageways inside the Earth Temple. Link has never felt heat like this before. The warmest day in the middle of a Skyloft Summer doesn’t come remotely close to the bone-melting heat of the mountain’s lifeblood. One slip, one misplaced jump, and Link is dead. Inside the temple is worse. Without the open air to dull the full force of the lava, the temple is an oven. Link pushes through.

The small collection of tools he’s acquiring are incredibly helpful. He uses the beetle to scout ahead, flip switches, stun monsters. The Mogma Mitts are… messy, but Link would never have gotten this far without them. And then there’s Fi, of course. Her information is clipped, precise, and priceless. The help is necessary, which leaves a heavy lump of doubt in the pit of his stomach. Link doesn’t feel much like the “Chosen Hero” when every fight could be his last.

It’s with this doubt in mind that Link comes to a halt at the bottom of a long ramp inside the temple. An enormous green dragon statue is at the top, staring blankly down at him. But it’s not the dragon that makes Link stop. It’s the Demon Lord standing atop it.

It’s been weeks since their strange, pseudo-swordplay lesson behind the waterfall, and the sight of Ghirahim is so arresting Link has to remind himself to breathe. The thin line of Ghirahim’s white lips is a stark contrast against the gray pallor of his skin. It strikes Link that Ghirahim must wear makeup, which is such a ludicrous thought, because of course he does. The care he puts into his appearance is plain. All those diamond cutouts on his bodysuit are telling enough.

But Link is a little uncertain how to act. Surely they’re not friends. Right?

One moonlit night behind a waterfall doesn’t make them anything at all.

“Oh, there you are,” Ghirahim says, as if he’s been waiting. “Let me tell you—so sorry, this is terribly embarrassing—I seem to have forgotten your name” —Link’s pride smarts— “but I’ve had a stressful few weeks, you see. Chasing the spirit maiden hither and thither, she and the goddess’s dog always just evading my reach. I’m quite glad to see you, truth be told, sky child. What was your name again?”

Not friends, then. Still enemies. So long as Ghirahim’s goal is to capture Zelda and release his master, they will always be enemies. Link draws the Goddess Sword without answering him, trying to look brave.

A sharp laugh bursts from Ghirahim’s chest, tinged with something wild. “Misplaced though your courage may be, it is quite charming, in its way.” The turquoise gem cut into his earring glints with the glow of orange magma. “I don’t have time to play with you today, sky child. Unfortunately my minions lost the spirit maiden, and I have waited far too long to see my master’s face again to let her escape a second time.”

“This isn’t a game, Ghirahim,” Link calls to him. The distance between them is insurmountable. He itches to get closer, even a few steps. But it’s a confusing urge with no origin, so Link sets it aside.

Ghirahim’s easy smile goes flat in an instant. “No. It most certainly is not a game. You toy with powers and ancient magics beyond your comprehension, boy, and I am quickly losing patience. We will not cross swords today—like I said, I’m short on time—but when next we meet, do try to make it entertaining for me, yes? Put the gift I so lovingly gave you to good use. No one can say I am not a generous host.”

Ghirahim claps his hands together, his glee returned in a heartbeat. “I have an idea! This chase has been so frustrating, you understand, I need a little stress relief. I have someone I’d like you to meet! I won’t even be too upset if you do poorly, because your screams will be just as sweet as your victory.”

He wiggles his fingers tauntingly and a flush of anger rises in Link’s gut.

“Tah-tah, sky child,” says Ghirahim, and Link has no time to notice the pattern of diamonds he leaves behind because the stone dragon’s maw is rumbling open and the ramp is quaking, and something the size of a boulder is—no, it is a boulder.

Link runs for his life, the sound of rock on rock getting closer, closer, closer.

Master, jump.

Link leaps to the side, shoulder smashing to the ground and ribs smacking painfully to the textured guardrail. The boulder crashes into the partition at the bottom of the ramp and Link takes a few gasping breaths, willing his vision to stop swimming. The boulder cracks apart into sections, spidery arms of pure fire bursting from the center as a gaping jaw unhinges to reveal a mouth that leads straight to hell. It screams, a single red and yellow eye bursting open on its face. A cold spike of fear rockets down Link’s spine.

He didn’t know creatures like this could exist.

This is Scaldera, Fi says. A Pyroclastic Fiend from the demon realm.

Link scrambles to his feet, toe of his boot dislodging a bomb flower. It lights immediately, rolls down what’s left of the ramp and explodes on impact with one of Scaldera’s limbs. It screams again, that horrendous mouth opening wide, and it breathes balls of fire toward him.

Link’s left leg is aching but he sprints up the ramp. His sword won’t cut rock. He can’t run, path cut off as it is.

You strike before you think. Before you plan.

Link spins around at the top of the ramp, heart pounding. That wasn’t Fi’s voice. It wasn’t Ghirahim’s either. But they were his words. What had he said, that night behind the waterfall? Think this time, for Hylia’s sake.

Link’s sword won’t cut rock. Think. Plan. The arms, then? The eye? Everything has a weakness. Scaldera didn’t like the bomb flowers. The stone casing surrounding its body may not slice beneath a blade, but it can blast apart. He can do this. He can win.

The fireballs miss him narrowly, leaving his skin singed but intact. Scaldera crawls up the ramp, jaw open as it sucks in air for another attack. Link seizes another bomb flower and tosses it into its mouth. It explodes. Scaldera crashes back to the partition, parts of its rock shield falling off in clumps.

The eye. It has to be the eye. Link leaps, sailing through thick, hot air, adrenaline rushing through his blood. A shout rips from his throat as he jabs his sword into Scaldera’s pupil, triumph thrumming like energy in his limbs as the beast screams.

He can do this.

It takes a few more bombs. A few more close calls with burning balls of flame. The pieces of Scaldera fall off one by one until there is nothing but its naked form, alight with Eldin’s fire and tainted by eternity in the demon realm. One last stab into its eye and a twist for good measure, Link’s final wordless shout, and Scaldera’s fiery glow dulls to black, then bursts apart in an explosion of Ghirahim’s diamonds.

But Ghirahim himself, it seems, didn’t stick around to watch, because when Link scans the chamber for his decorated figure, he is not there to congratulate him.

Chapter Text

Lanayru Desert is hot in a different way from the volcano, but no less sticky and scorching. The temperature of the cavernous paths of the Earth Temple was oppressive, but the open air of the desert affords a breeze, albeit an uncomfortably warm one. But on the dunes, there is no escape from the sun.

Link squints against the bleached landscape, taking in the giant birds that circle the skies like corrupted loftwings, a hungry gleam in their beady black eyes. He dispatches his beetle to scout ahead, breaking concentration just long enough to wipe a layer of sandy sweat from his brow. There’s sand in his hair, sand in his socks, sand behind his knees, sand, sand, sand. Link misses regular dirt and shade. He misses crisp, cool pools of water and the twitter of distant, friendly birds.

Link’s taking a break after a close call with a technoblin’s electrified club. Regular bokoblins weren’t horrible enough, apparently. After a handful of months mapping out the surface, swinging his sword, climbing vines, leaping from trees, and dodging octorok projectiles, Link’s muscles have grown accustomed to the burn of heavy use. He’s noticed the change in his body. When Link returns to Skyloft to bathe and sleep, he sees the new lines and dips on his arms and down his abdomen. He sees the taut flex in his forearm while he grips the sailcloth on his way to the ground. He feels different. He feels strong.

Link doesn’t consider himself to be vain. Not terribly, at least. But yesterday morning at the Item Check, Peatrice’s gaze had lingered on a new, bulging vein on the back of Link’s sword hand, and smoldered in something other than annoyance for once as she bade him to leave her alone. He even felt her eyes remain on him as he walked away. Peatrice is unexpectedly funny, but Link can’t think about romance right now—it would never work between them, anyway. That doesn’t stop him from puffing up a little under her notice.

The beetle comes back. There’s nothing ahead but more sand. He should have known. Link stuffs the beetle into his bag and lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare. Hylia, it’s hot. The distant shape of the Triforce decorating the desert skyline obscures everything else in view. The amount of sinking sand between Link and it is disheartening, but not insurmountable. For good measure, he unsheathes the Goddess Sword and lets Fi’s vibrations guide him in Zelda’s direction. She hasn’t moved. Taking a break, maybe? Link wonders if she detests this heat as much as he does, or if the Servant of the Goddess is making them hide from something.

Or some demon.

“Fi,” Link says without real thought, “can I dowse for Ghirahim?”

She is silent entirely too long.

We have encountered him often enough that I am capable of tracking his aura.

Fi doesn’t elaborate, and Link is surprised that tracking Ghirahim is an actual option. He’d asked in a heat-induced daze, but now he’s wide awake. This is the closest Link has been to Zelda in days, which means Ghirahim can’t be far behind. He hesitates, harsh sun glancing off the blade.

“Will he know?”

He will not.

This could be a boon, but it could be a distraction, too. If Link spends all his time obsessing over the demon who left him to fight Scaldera, then he isn’t focusing on what matters most. He isn’t focusing on his best friend, the Goddess Hylia herself made flesh.

Link was late, Impa had said.

It stung more than it should have, but also not enough.

He shouldn’t bother with this thread of thought. He should find a way to the Temple of Time, finally take his place at Zelda’s side, and become the hero Hylia marked him to be.

If only.

The combination of Link’s curiosity and dislike for Ghirahim wins out against his better judgment and Impa’s sharp words. He doesn’t want to be surprised by an enemy again, not after the waterfall, not after waking up with a sword at his throat. Link lifts the Goddess Sword and releases a breath. The sword pulses gently in his hand. He tests directions, twisting so the point of the blade cuts toward the greater desert, then toward the giant Triforce. The vibrations are slightly stronger near Zelda, but not enough for Link to worry. But the pulses grow weak again the more he turns the Goddess Sword away from it.

He bends his lips into a frown. “Where are you, Ghirahim?” he murmurs.

Link pauses, thoughts swirling. He lowers the sword’s point to the middle of the tangle of crumbling stone walls, close enough now to make out the ruined gaps. The sword vibrates harder, so Link walks, picking his way over dunes and around sandtraps, sneaking up on another technoblin and slashing it to dust before it can power on its club. It’s a cheap move, and the nagging thought that Ghirahim would roll his eyes at Link for making such a cowardly play rattles him.

There’s an old building tucked against a massive rock wall, but Link doesn’t have a taste for investigation today. He keeps walking, throwing loose stones to check for safe paths, dispatching small enemies and avoiding the one that lurk behind ancient pillars, their bodies hidden in sand. More cowardly plays, but he’s of a single mind, a single mission.

Link isn’t even tempted by the timeshift stones.

Link reaches the matrix of raised stone platforms what feels like an eternity later. Climbing atop one without slipping and falling into quicksand is no small feat, but once Link does, the full expanse of Lanayru unfolds before him. This section of desert is massive, but there’s even more beyond the Triforce, a sea of bone-bleached sand. The scent of dust carries on a hot breeze. Not an inkling of the lush landscape from the ancient glimpses in the timeshift stones remains. Everything green is dead and brown.

But Link has never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

The dunes sparkle golden beneath waves of gilded sunlight.

If only it weren’t so difficult to get out of his boots.

The Goddess Sword shakes violently as Link points it toward the ground, beating like a heart.

Link doesn’t decide to, but he gives chase.

He spends the better part of an hour finding the generators and powering them up. All three of them are scattered across the Triforce’s shadow. The wasted time frustrates him. He switches between dowsing for Zelda and dowsing for Ghirahim, equally relieved and worried when neither moves much. When at long last all three power sources are alive, Link climbs back on top of the stone walls. The conduit, however, is a mystery.

Master, a report. Fi’s voice chimes to life in his ear as she detachedly explains her observations about the generators’ locations and the key to cycling power where Link wants it. He slides the blade of his sword into the opening and twists, grateful for the newfound strength of his muscles as he sets each of the three rings where they’re meant to go, then steps back to watch in awe as a building rises up out of the ground.

However Ghirahim got down there, he’s sure to have noticed Link is following.

When the tremors finally subside, Link checks for Zelda and Ghirahim again. Zelda’s position is still beneath the Triforce in the distance.

But Ghirahim’s location underground has moved—much closer to Zelda than before.

Link tears through the Lanayru Mining Facility with a ferocity he didn’t know he possessed. It’s dark and stale underground, and one wrong move will send him plummeting into dark depths he cannot see the bottom of. The Gust Bellows are incredibly useful on his race through the facility, but the creeping anxiety of catching up with Ghirahim before he catches up with Zelda leaves him little room for admiration. Link is so engrossed with his task that he almost misses a strange object in the sand at his feet. But he doesn’t, and he slows just a touch, blinking at it.

Fi’s unbothered tone chimes tunelessly, Master, readings indicate—

But whatever she had to say next, Link never hears, because there’s a terrible keening sound and the ground shifts as piles of sand part and a massive scorpion-like monster claws out of the ground. Fire bites into Link’s arm, but it’s not until his body hits the wall that he realizes he’s been thrown. Something warm drips down his wrist. His ears are ringing. When his vision clears, he sees the monster again, two enormous claws inlaid with red eyes that match the third on its face.

Its eyes are the same as Scaldera’s. Another ambush, courtesy of the demon realm? And not even an introduction this time. No time to sit in his wounded pride—Link readies himself, wincing at the throb in his limb and grateful the claws didn’t snatch him on his sword arm.

Link sets his sights on the eye set into the claw closest to him and jumps, startled when the monster lifts it high over his head and brings it swiftly down. He avoids getting crushed, but only just. The claw winds him a second time from the glancing blow across his back, but Link scrambles away to regain his footing, lungs constricting, throat raw. Another blow comes from the second claw, and Link isn’t so lucky this time.

Unbelievable pressure forces him back to the ground, stars spinning around his head.

This is bad. He needs to regroup. He needs to think.

The next strike comes from the lightning-quick whip of the monster’s tail, but Link lifts his shield at the last moment, a guttural shout ripping from his chest. The sharp point of the knife-like stinger breaks his shield in two, but Link is alive, and the scorpion’s startled backward skitter gives him enough time to get his bearings. His arm throbs. His ribs ache. A tender spot on his back must already be starting to bruise. But Link presses on.

He doesn’t have time for this.

He can’t be late again.

The fight is a messy one. The scorpion’s patterns are erratic and indistinguishable, but little by little, Link lands hits of his own. Those heavy claws shake the ground when they pound against it, too many near misses to count. Link’s first hit in one of its eyes is punctuated by a gurgling scream. It’s a horrifying sound, but Link doesn’t have time. He jabs and dodges, each swing messier than the last until his form is all but erased by desperation. He stabs the second eye and the scorpion howls, burrowing itself into the sand to hide, but Link grabs for the Gust Bellows and refuses to let it get away.

The last shiny eye peers out from the dune the scorpion is trying to disappear into, the whirr of the Bellows ringing in Link’s ears, and he casts it aside, readies his blade, and surges forward. The Goddess Sword’s blade sinks into the jelly of the scorpion’s eye. It struggles for one terrible moment, goes limp, twitches, and turns to dust.

Link doesn’t celebrate his victory. He follows the path, body bruised and battered, left arm numb and cold and slicked with blood. The dash outside the Mining Facility is a blur of shape and color. Link rides a minecart across a valley that has no bottom, ascends ancient, dusty steps, winces as the touch of sunlight funnels into his eyes, but then the brightness clears and the Triforce is overhead and there’s one single bridge between him and—

“Zelda!” Link cries.

The sound of plucked harp strings cuts off and Zelda turns around, eyes scanning the courtyard warily. Impa stands beside her, ever vigilant. Zelda gasps. Link’s heart swells. He’s found her. He’s finally found her. Zelda lets out a laugh. They both start for the bridge.

A wall at Link’s left explodes, rock and stone crumbling apart in dusty chunks. Link stumbles, throws up an arm to shield his eyes. The dust hasn’t even settled before a figure sails from the newly formed gap in the wall, landing elegantly at the base of the bridge, barely a handful of strides from Link.

It’s Ghirahim.

Sword clutched in his gloved hand, Ghirahim sweeps his blade horizontally in the air, an eruption of gold and brown diamonds springing to life to block Link’s path to Zelda. He wastes no time dropping low, blade pointed forward, and cutting lightning quick across the bridge toward Link’s best friend.

“No!” Link shouts, but Impa is quick, too. She meets Ghirahim at the halfway point, an explosion of holy blue light bursting from her hands as she meets Ghirahim’s thrusts. He strikes, again and again, Impa’s blue shield flickering with every hit.

“Your Grace!” she roars. “Quickly, to the gate!”

Link hadn’t even noticed it, but now the Gate of Time is the only thing he can see. Zelda looks between Impa, the gate, and Link.

“Link,” Zelda calls across the chasm, drowned out by the clash of steel, “you’ll need this where you’re going!” She holds her harp into the air and golden strands of light wrap around it, lifting it into the air. It sails across the gap and into Link’s arms, still warm from Zelda’s grasp, and Link realizes this is as close to her as he’s going to get.

“Your Grace,” Impa says, “now!”

Ghirahim strikes true—the shield of light shatters and Impa flies back from the force of it. Link’s gaze snaps to Ghirahim’s face and a shiver of fear trickles across his skin. Ghirahim pupils dilate with joy, his ever-present smirk turning sharp, gleeful. He looks ecstatic. His master is within reach.

Link takes a running leap at the wall of diamonds, sailing over it with barely any room between his boots and the razor-sharp points. He lets out a battle cry as he swings the Goddess Sword toward Ghirahim’s head.

His blade meets naught but air. Link twists to look back toward the end of the bridge where Ghirahim is straightening, his smirk a little flat. A surge of rage grips Link’s entire frame and he faces Ghirahim dead on, daring him to try and hurt Zelda again.

“Link,” Impa says, soft.

“Am I late?” he asks.

There’s a pause. “No. Return to the old woman at the Sealed Grounds. She will tell you where you must go. You have my thanks, Link.”

Then Impa’s footsteps retreat toward the Gate of Time, and Zelda cries out, “I’ll see you again! This isn’t goodbye, I promise!”

Link dares one last look over his shoulder as the gate closes, but Impa and Zelda have already vanished. His heart aches.

Ghirahim’s smile is completely gone.

“You are destined to be a thorn in my side, aren’t you?” Ghirahim laughs. “Now you’ve done it. Weeks of careful planning, ruined by your clumsy meandering. I have no time for recreation, sky child, but know this: the next time we meet I will ensure you go deaf from the sound of your own screams. I should have reprimanded you last time, but instead I was… soft.”

Soft?

Malice gleams in Ghirahim’s black eyes. He lifts his sword toward Link. It feels like a promise. “I blame myself. I underestimated you. Inexperience, it seems, can be made up for with foolish courage.” He tilts his head, smooth curtain of his bangs sweeping aside. “What was your name?”

Link licks his lips, heartbeat running wild. “If you want my name, earn it.”

Ghirahim’s gaze slips to Link’s bloody arm. “I don’t fight bleeding children.”

“You look my age,” Link says.

Ghirahim does not dignify that with a response. Instead, he says, “I swear to you, sky child. Our next meeting will be excruciating.”

The space Ghirahim occupies is suddenly filled with diamonds, and when they fade, he’s gone.

Link collects the Goddess’s Harp where he left it on the ground and stares at the ruins of the Temple of Time. Without the purple glow of the Gate of Time, the courtyard is dark and empty. Zelda is gone, to some past or future Link cannot reach. Fi is silent inside her sword. Link is alone.

Soft, Ghirahim had said.

Link limps back to a safe place to call his loftwing, mind racing. They are undoubtedly enemies. But that night behind the waterfall they were something else, too. Something Link can’t name. Link climbs onto his loftwing and takes to the sky, and if he feels eyes watching him as he soars toward the clouds, he can’t help but think that feels like a promise, too.

Chapter Text

“Goddess alive, Link,” Luv exclaims, dropping her ladle back into the vat of red potion. “You look terrible! What in Hylia’s name are you up to these days? You’re not still getting beaten up by Groose, are you? Oh, he was always such a bully.”

The bazaar is bustling, even though closing time is in less than half an hour. Last minute shoppers getting ready for the weekend dance around each other. The rhythmic pounding of Gondo’s hammer on metal as he repairs Link’s shattered shield echoes throughout the tent. Link gives Luv a sheepish smile and says, “Groose has never beat me up, Luv, he’s not all that bad. I had a run in with some octorocks, is all.”

“The knights have got to do something about those island infestations.” Luv shakes her head and retrieves her lost ladle, accepting Link’s proffered bottle and filling it to the brim with potion. “Half price for that one, if you drink it right here in front of me. That arm of yours looks awful.”

Link obediently drinks his potion and pays for his refills, feeling much better already as he finishes his errands and makes a quick stop at the Item Check to take out a few bomb flowers he stored. Peatrice makes a casual fuss over his bloodied shirt, which results in her bullying Link into taking it off to be washed and mended. She rolls her eyes and berates him for his clumsiness, but her eyes follow his chest as he shimmies into a spare tunic.

Link doesn’t bother telling Peatrice that he has no idea when he’ll be back on Skyloft to collect his shirt. He’s stopping here long enough to fix his shield, get a decent night’s sleep, and then he’s off to the Sealed Grounds. Zelda’s harp is a light-but-comforting weight in his pack. He returns to the academy and tries to shake off the feeling that he’s a stranger in the only home he’s ever had. He passes Groose’s room, its door ajar. Groose is still standing by the window, muttering and swaying in pathetic little circles. In the months since Ghirahim’s tornado spirited Zelda to the surface, Groose has done little else but stand there and weep.

Link hesitates in the hall. The call of his bed is strong, but his heart gets in the way. “Groose?”

The muttering stops. Groose turns, his pompadour droopy. “Run into more trouble, hero?” he asks, so soft Link almost doesn’t hear him.

Link says, “Zelda is safe. I promise.”

Bizarrely, Groose returns, “I’ll show you. Sneaking around all the time. ‘Octorocks.’ Sure.”

“Get some sleep.” Link gently shuts Groose’s door, then goes to take his own advice.

The red potion works its magic overnight. Link’s injuries knit together and his aches disappear. It’s a chilly morning. Link switches Peatrice’s loaner tunic for another academy uniform shirt, sucks down a hot bowl of oats in the kitchen, and heads back to the bazaar to pick up his shield right as the doors open. Luv squints suspiciously at him as he makes his way to Gondo’s, but Link smiles sweetly at her and she minds her business. Shield repaired, potions filled, and wounds healed, Link races to the edge of Skyloft and revels in the exhilaration of falling. His whistle pierces the roar of wind and his loftwing soars toward him, scooping him up and taking off toward the opening in the clouds. Link urges her to fly higher and higher, wanting to fall more, to feel the air ripple around him and comb through his hair. As high up as he dares, he jumps, arms and legs fanned out, fingers slicing through the crossbreeze.

The speck of the Sealed Grounds grows wider and deeper as the ground grows closer. Link’s task is far from over, but up here, above everything, he can forget for just a moment who he’s meant to be.

The wind screams. The air is crisp. The screaming gets closer.

The screaming… gets closer?

Link twists his head to look above him. A black shape blocks out the sun, growing rapidly and forming features. It’s Groose, freefalling from the sky at an alarming pace toward Link, screeching his head off.

Groose screams.

Link screams.

Groose grabs for Link’s shoulders but slips all the way down his legs, extra weight dragging them toward the ground at a deadly velocity.

“HELP ME!” Groose shouts. “LINK, HELP!”

The sailcloth deploys with seconds to spare. Link and Groose drift lazily to the dirt, Link’s heart pounding in his skull.

“Oh Goddess, I almost died!” Groose rolls away from Link, struggling out from beneath the sailcloth. “I really could have died just then! Link, you have some explaining to—” Groose cuts off. Link rips the sailcloth off his head to see a few birds have landed on Groose’s leg, and he’s staring at them. “Birds? Tiny birds?”

He looks around the area.

“There’s so many trees? How are there—?”

Gorko picks a spectacular time to walk past holding his map, his large Goron body rumbling the earth with each step.

Groose points one shaking finger. “What the hell is THAT?”

Once Groose has calmed down and stopped flinching at the sight of Gorko, Link tells him about the surface, the clouds, Zelda and Impa. Groose’s entire body finally relaxes.

“Zelda’s really okay?” His round eyes are filled with beady little tears. “She’s really okay?”

Link can’t resist; he pats Groose’s arm. “She’s okay.”

A hiccup. “Oh. That’s such a weight off my shoulders. She’s okay. Wow.”

A few more sniffles and Groose is on his feet. “I’m gonna go talk to the old woman you said lives in the temple. She knows where Zelda is, right?”

“That’s what Impa told me.”

“What are we waiting for? She’s been out here for months, all alone, probably scared, cold, hungry.”

“I mean,” Link says, “Impa has been with her.”

“We need to find her and bring her back to Skyloft! And then I’ll ask her if our whole going-out thing is official or not.”

Link pauses on that. Groose’s obvious crush on Zelda aside, they aren’t dating. Link would know.

“Come on!” Groose takes off toward the temple like a bull on a rampage, kicking up dust on his way. Link huffs out a breath, shakes his head, and follows.

The old woman is less than amused with Groose. Muted sunlight filters through gaps in the temple’s ceiling and splashes across the floor in pools of creamy light. Groose’s hulking height beside the old woman’s hobbled form is such a comical sight, Link bites his lip to keep from laughing. They argue, Groose demanding explanations and the old woman sternly keeping her secrets. When she spots Link, she says, “Finally. A friend of yours? Please explain to him that he needs to step aside. My personal space is of the utmost importance to me.”

“You don’t get personal space while Zelda is out there all alone!”

“Groose,” Link says. “She’s on our side. Leave her alone.”

Groose leans against a pillar a little ways off, grumbling and swaying in circles dangerously similar to yesterday’s. The old woman nods at Link.

“You have something.”

The harp. Link takes it from his bag and holds it out in silent question. When the old woman says nothing, Link offers, “Impa told me that you would show me what to do next.”

Outside, the gentle twitter of tiny birds carries on the breeze. The old woman says, “Stand on the circle, please, Link. Strum the harp according to this tempo.”

The stone dais pulses with soft light. Link stands in the middle, gripping the harp in a sweaty hand. It’s harder than swinging a sword. He strums, in with the light, out with the light, over and over. Some ancient instinct, or maybe magic, takes over his hands, and a melody forms from the senseless notes, haunting and cold. When the song ends, a pillar rises up from the floor behind Link, covered in ancient runes and sigils. It fights against centuries of stillness, grinding stone on stone and sprinkling the temple with sparkling dust.

“That, Link,” the old woman says, “is the last remaining Gate of Time, and the only way to reach Zelda. But it is not open. You must get the power to open the gate, Link. This is your destiny as the Goddess’s chosen hero. This is your fate. You must—”

The temple quakes, pitching Link and Groose to the floor and toppling the old woman over. Link looks at the pillar, but the old woman gasps, “The seal. I did not think summoning the gate would weaken it. Link, hurry—you must go to the bottom of the pit outside! There is no time to explain!”

The shaking doesn’t stop. Link struggles to keep his balance on his race to the temple doors. He stumbles into cold sunlight. The birds are gone. At the bottom of the spiraled pit, something huge and scaled and black as nightmares is ripping itself from the soil, the imprisoning spike lodged in its head, and Link knows with solemn certainty that this is Ghirahim’s master.

“The Imprisoned must not reach the temple!” the old woman cries behind him. “Go, Link! He must not escape!”

Link inhales deep, filling his lungs with slowly putrefying air, and leaps into the pit, Goddess Sword drawn.

By the time the spike is driven back into the center of the pit, the sun has fallen, and the surface is cast in shadows. Link drops his arm by his side, chest heaving. The power that rushes through him after a Skyward Strike leaves him heavy with fatigue. His fingers are numb and his head is throbbing. Breath is hard to catch. Link lets gravity guide him to the ground and sits there, not thinking, not feeling.

That was too close. Link kept the Imprisoned back by the skin of his teeth. And this is the master, in a weakened form?

If the seal ever breaks, the world is doomed.

The next hour is a blur. Groose helps Link back inside the temple. He coaxes the red potion Link bought yesterday into his hands and helps Link tip it down his throat. His left leg and arm burn, one injury reopened and one fresh. The old woman tells him about the three Sacred Flames, the Goddess Sword’s unlocked power, and the conclusion of the Chosen Hero’s destiny.

Fi isn’t strong enough yet. By extension, Link isn’t either. He never was.

He doesn’t deserve the title of Hero.

It’s too dark to call his loftwing, but the old woman tells him that someone in Skyloft will point him in the direction of the flames. So Link beds down in the empty room off the main chamber, Groose snoring softly not ten feet from him, and does not sleep.

This battle nearly ended him. It was luck that kept him alive tonight, nothing else.

Something has to change.

It’s still black outside when Link slips from the temple and walks into Faron Woods. He isn’t sure where he’s going. Cricket nightsong drifts in gentle rhythms through the forest. A distant rush of water calls to him, twinkling sweetly. Fi doesn’t make conversation, of course. If someone were walking with him, they might. A sword is not a someone.

The moon is a sliver in the sky, not nearly bright enough to light the barely-trodden pathways of Faron Woods. Link follows them by memory, stepping slow and neat over fallen trees and around sleeping kikwis. The Ballad of the Goddess plays in his mind over and over again.

Link doesn’t mean to, but he ends up outside the waterfall cave, staring at the pool and knowing it’s not a matter of if he’ll go inside, but when. Link takes the hilt of his sword, hesitates. Somehow, he knows that if he does this, he can’t go back. But he thinks of the Imprisoned reaching the temple, an era of darkness unleashing across the world, Skyloft on fire and falling to the surface. He points the tip at the waterfall. The sword pulses like a racing heart. Link lowers it, lets the air leak from his chest, and slips between the rock wall and the waterfall.

Ghirahim is waiting for him. Elegance flows off him in waves. Arrogance, too. The strange and unsettling nature of his visage is commonplace to Link after all the time he’s spent picturing Ghirahim watching him, but that doesn’t stop him from letting his gaze linger. Ghirahim’s face is cold and sharp and cruel, depth of his black eyes uncanny, perfection of his spidersilk hair unnatural. It’s a cool night—gooseflesh pebbles across Ghirahim’s stomach. He’s not wearing his red cowl tonight, and Link traces each diamond of exposed skin with his eyes, looking for more evidence that cold affects demons, too. Ghirahim watches him silently.

Link does not need Fi to tell him the chances that Ghirahim is here to hurt him.

“You knew I’d come here,” Link says at last.

“An educated guess. Did you think I wouldn’t feel my master coming so close to an escape?”

He hadn’t thought about it. He was too busy surviving the fight.

“You know why I’m here,” Ghirahim continues. “Why are you, sky child?”

Link doesn’t have an answer, not really. “Did you send the scorpion yesterday?”

“Moldarach? She’s lived inside the facility for a millennium. Is she the reason you looked a mess?” His eyes slide down Link’s body as though crestfallen to see him no longer bleeding.

“I barely made it past her alive,” Link says.

“So quick to reveal your weaknesses. Are you so tragic a figure you cannot ignore the compulsion to share your shortcomings with your sworn enemy?”

“You didn’t come here as my enemy.”

Ghirahim’s laugh is as vicious as his blade. “I certainly didn’t come here as your friend.”

“You swore to me yesterday that our next meeting would be excruciating, but I’m not screaming for mercy yet.”

“This isn’t our next meeting. Those require fate. Tonight is entirely our choice.” Ghirahim tilts his head. Link is starting to think he doesn’t realize it gives away his curiosity. “I’m disappointed. Moldarach wasn’t so strong she should have been able to injure you as badly as you were. I don’t appreciate the gift I gave you going to waste, but you, it seems, have no regard for what a rare thing you were given. We will cross blades again, I promise you.”

“Zelda is gone,” Link says. “We watched her walk through the Gate of Time. You’ve lost.”

A flicker of white-hot rage sparks across Ghirahim’s face, the truth of Link’s words cracking through the casual ease of his front. But the fury melts back into a smile. “So long as you struggle to keep my master in his prison, there is always hope he will break free. You will never win against him. Not with your paltry skill. You fight like a clumsy lover—overeager and inexperienced. Moldarach nearly killed you. Pathetic.”

Ghirahim splays his arms theatrically wide, as if expecting a hug, chin tilting up to expose his throat.

“We will cross blades, but I have little interest in repeating myself. You were a delight to toy with in Skyview Temple, but having to face you again in a real fight will be boring, and you know how I detest being bored.” He shrugs, eyes shut, completely unbothered. His hubris grates at Link’s nerves. “Now, what do we do about that?”

Link steels himself, for either rejection or a sword in his gut, he doesn’t know. “You haven’t earned my name yet.”

Ghirahim’s eyes slip open. “I’ll admit to a little curiosity.”

“The price is another gift.”

“You’re bold to ask for something so precious. I should kill you for that, let you scream yourself mute through my exquisite, gruesome torture. It would be a chore to give you another gift like that, sky child. You are not a good student.”

“That’s why you’re earning my name. Nothing comes for free, Ghirahim.”

“If you think you can improve your swordplay fast enough to entertain me when next we fight, you are delightfully misguided. You are nothing more than an ignorant child, unworthy to hold the sword the goddess gave you, unprepared to face the might of my master, untrained and unhoned and worthless—”

“You said I had talent,” Link remembers in a startled burst.

Ghirahim’s mouth is open, but nothing comes out.

“Months ago, when you came to me here. You said ‘talent does not translate to skill.’”

“Of course it doesn’t.”

“But you admit I have talent? That I could be a great swordsman?”

“You are not a great swordsman.”

“But I can be. You said yourself we’re going to cross blades again. Don’t you want it to be entertaining? Don’t you want a challenge?”

“You,” Ghirahim says, “are insufferable. You will never best me, even if I waste my precious time filling your head with techniques. The power of your mortal goddess crumbles beneath the awesome weight of King Demise. It will not help you. This world is his.”

Link hasn’t heard Ghirahim say his master’s name aloud, and the sound of it shocks him. The name itself is tainted, rank with malice and ill intent. Demise’s name on Ghirahim’s lips is despair, loneliness, thousands of years of longing, and unflinching resolve. This desperate bid for improvement might not help. Maybe nothing will. But he has to try.

Link draws his sword, holds the blade out in invitation. “Do you want my name or not?”

Ghirahim considers. A soft shine glimmers from behind his teeth as his lips part and he drags his tongue against the corner of his mouth. Flecks from the waterfall land on his stomach, clinging to the skin. Link is exhausted, but it occurs to him in this moment that Ghirahim is, too. Demise is the kind of king that inspires millenia of loyalty from his subjects, and that is a very long time to be alone.

“Make no mistake,” Ghirahim says at last. “When this little dance of ours is over, my mercy ends. I will take my time killing you, and I will thoroughly enjoy every cut I slice into your flesh. Just make it interesting for me, will you? Now, sky child, I agree to hone you. Have I earned my prize?”

“Link,” he says. “My name is Link.”

Ghirahim’s head tilts again. “Link,” he says, slowly, savoringly, then again. “Link. Hylia’s handpicked lapdog.”

Link holds very still. He almost wants Ghirahim to say his name a third time, but also never again.

Ghirahim’s black sword materializes into his gloved hand. “Try not to die. That would be so horribly embarrassing for your very first lesson.”

Link plants his feet, and when Ghirahim surges toward him, he’s ready.

Chapter Text

Ghirahim is holding back.

Link knows it’s necessary with such an unbridgeable gap in their skill, but he can’t help feeling a little insulted nonetheless. Ghirahim’s posture is telling; he meets each of Link’s blows casually, one arm resting at his side, the other with a lazy grip on his sword hilt. Every muscle is loose and pliant across his body, his lips curled into a cool smile. But his eyes, trained on Link’s own, never blink.

Tonight, Link and Ghirahim are ankle-deep in the flooded forests of Faron Woods. Link has no idea where Ghirahim goes during the day, but he doesn’t believe for a moment that Ghirahim is in the dark about Link’s movements. When the sun is down and the surface is cast in waves of dark, however, their fragile truce begins. The flooding has been a nightmare to navigate, but Link’s destination is somewhere in the lake beyond the forest. The first sacred flame isn’t far, and knowing it lingers just outside his reach is maddening. Link takes his frustrations out during his lessons.

Link tries a jab, pictures Ghirahim as one of the logs in the Sparring Hall. Ghirahim deflects with a flick.

Link feints left but strikes right. Ghirahim doesn’t so much as blink as he blocks.

Link drops to a crouch to sweep Ghirahim’s feet out from under him. Ghirahim steps back, yawning.

“You could take this seriously.” Link fails to keep the edge out of his voice. Water splashes into his boots and soaks his socks, souring his mood further.

“I’ll take it seriously when you do,” Ghirahim replies breezily.

Link steps back, lungs tight with the shallow draw of his breath. “What did you just say?”

“My, you really do have issues with your ears, don’t you? You poor, sad child.”

Link slips the Goddess Sword into its sheath and struggles to stay calm. “I am taking this seriously.”

Ghirahim snorts. “Hardly. Look at you—already sheathed your sword over a few words. The worst insults are the ones that are true, aren’t they?”

A few months ago, Link never would never have turned his back to a monster like Ghirahim. He does so now, anger flushing up his body and making it rash-hot. The floodwater does nothing to cool his temper as he stomps away. Wet footsteps follow him.

“This is exactly what I mean—stomping away like a petulant infant. Turning your back to an enemy. I could have killed you a hundred times over.”

It’s an empty threat. Link and Ghirahim’s truce, although unspoken, exists between them like some kind of binding cord. Last night, Link stood at the bitter edge of Skyloft and held the Goddess Sword out at the sea of night-dyed clouds, sweeping the point across the entire sky until Fi’s vibrations pinpointed Ghirahim’s location. He’d been near the sealed grounds. Waiting, maybe, for Demise to attempt to break free of his bonds once more. A few nights before, Link had done the same thing and found Ghirahim in the same exact place. Link wonders how many nights since his master was sealed Ghirahim spends pining for his freedom.

Link lets his anger take him into a part of the forest he hasn’t explored. The area with the kikwis is flooded too badly to visit, but there are places even out here on the outskirts with deep drops filled to the brim with icy rainwater. He watches his step, but he has no real destination in mind.

“Some hero you’re shaping up to be, running away at the first hard truth said to you. Do you even know where you’re going?”

Ghirahim’s razor-sharp intuition slices Link’s ego all the way open, but he keeps walking.

“Tell me, Link, is all Hylian skin as thin as yours, or is that your own special burden as the goddess’s chosen? Do you lie awake at night and weep for every shortcoming you have? Are you so very pitiful that one harsh word is enough to unravel you?”

Link knows he can’t hurt Ghirahim. But he seizes his hilt and spins on him anyway, swings with enough force to hack a bokoblin in two.

Ghirahim catches the blade between his fingertips, grinning savagely. “Spirited. But amateur. You can do better.”

“This isn’t a game to me.”

“Everything is a game. We play to win, and right now, you’re losing. I’m not even to blame.”

Link can’t stand him. “You haven’t taught me anything! All I’ve done is throw myself at you over and over.”

“Fighting you is like watching new rings form on trees. I am not amused. Use your head.”

Link quashes his frustration before he takes another swing. This isn’t accomplishing anything. But everything is riddles and insults with Ghirahim. There must be something he’s waiting for. If he says Link isn’t learning because of his own fault, Ghirahim must believe it.

They’ve stopped on a slight incline, vine-infested trees dotting the landscape like the pimples on Strich’s face. Even in darkness, Ghirahim’s white hair shines like the moon itself, his diamond-patterned bodysuit ghostly and pale. The sheer audacity of wearing something that exposes half his skin to any loose blade leaves Link feeling overdressed in his chainmail shirt and knight uniform. Ghirahim doesn’t fear anything sharp.

Link readjusts his grip on the hilt. “Let go of my sword.”

Ghirahim does. “Are we done for the night?” he asks. “Or are you going to start trying?”

“I am trying.”

“Wrong. You’re allowing your inexperience to hold you back.” Ghirahim jabs a finger dangerously close to Link’s eye. “You are acutely aware when you face an opponent more skilled than you.” The finger pokes painfully into his chest. “You go on the defensive when you should be taking every available opening.” Now to Link’s hand, clutching the Goddess Sword. “It makes you look weak. It makes you look like you expect a negative outcome. Why would anyone take you seriously if you’ve already decided you’ve lost?”

The observation leaves Link hollow. He hadn’t realized it, but now that Ghirahim has given voice to his actions, Link knows he’s right. Words turn to ash in his mouth.

Ghirahim rolls his eyes. “Speechless. Of course. You wield your courage when it matters least. Night after night of you swinging that sword at me like you’re sleeping, always asleep. I’m sick of it. I’ve been much too charitable. Figure out what’s holding you back and stomp it out.”

Link opens his mouth to bite back, but he blinks and Ghirahim is gone. The flooded woodland is empty save for trees.

Link has never met someone with such a rotten attitude. He stomps anew up the hill until the water grows so thin it’s barely a trickle beneath his soaked boots. The night is still young, and now that he’s been abandoned by his evening plans, the next item of business is finding a place to bed down until it’s safe to call his loftwing. Link finds an old tree that smells strongly of sap and gives the vines wrapped around it a tug. They’re sturdy, and the branches are wide. He climbs, seething.

Even if Link is holding back, that doesn’t mean he’s not trying. He’s gotten so much better already. Bokoblins aren’t nearly the challenge they once were now that Link knows they all fight with the same four moves. Chu chus were never any real threat, but they don’t take him by surprise when they ooze up from the ground any longer. Ghirahim is not a bokoblin or a chu chu. Of course Link is on his guard with him. He’s a demon. He’s good.

Link settles on a wide branch. From his new vantage point he can see the distant shape of the enormous tree and the glimmer of moonlit water. Link worries his lower lip between his teeth and stares at it. He should be focusing on the first sacred flame, somewhere under that flood, waiting for him. He can’t open the second Gate of Time without it.

Link takes out Zelda’s harp. He strums tunelessly, watching the forest below. If someone else were the hero, would they be holding back? Would Ghirahim take Pipit seriously?

“Fi,” Link says, “how strong is Ghirahim?”

Fi sweeps from the sword, her glasslike face blank and emotionless. “I sense he has shown us only a fraction of his true power,” she says, detached as always.

Link’s heart sinks to his stomach. “Maybe he has a right to be as arrogant as he is.”

“Arrogance has no place on the battlefield,” says Fi. “Neither does fear.”

Link pauses. “Is that your opinion?”

“It is what is optimal for maximizing potential.”

He feels small and childish for asking it, but it doesn’t stop him from saying, “Do you ever worry you’re not… enough?”

“No,” says Fi.

Oh. Why did he think Fi, of all things, would give him an empathetic answer? Link plucks a harp string to fill the silence. It doesn’t work terribly well.

“You are confused,” says Fi.

“No, I’m—”

“I was made to be a tool for the goddess, and that is exactly my function. A sword is made of steel so it will not break. Hylia chose you as her hero for the same reason. Your question does not make sense.”

Link finds the sparking warmth in his chest and catches it, holds on to it. Fi’s bluntness can be cold at times, disconcerting, even. But she has never lied to Link. He runs his teeth over his lip again, plucking idly at the harp. The Ballad of the Goddess drifts across the flooded valley below. Link plays from memory, though there must be some kind of magic in the harp and the song; he never played much before, even when Zelda would urge him to learn a few chords and strengthen his fingers. The ballad comes out soft and sweet, nigh perfect.

Fi stays to listen—or at least, Link likes to think that’s what she’s doing. She floats in place, expressionless, pupilless eyes trained on Link’s face. Link shuts his eyes and continues to strum. Even at the edge of a flooded Faron Woods, the night is rich with sounds that would never exist on Skyloft. Instead of the flutter of paper windmills in the plaza, wind whispers across shallow puddles and paints invisible patterns in leafy trees. Instead of Pipit’s assured footsteps echoing down the path from the academy on his patrol, rhythmic tapping of a beak breaking bark raps from a distant treetop.

The surface would have been their home, if Demise hadn’t sought to rule it. Perhaps it still can be, once this is all over. Once Link puts the Goddess Sword in each of the sacred flames and forges the blade anew, once he’s resealed Demise in his eternal prison, once the dust has settled on this mission and Zelda is safe and the surface is too, maybe they can build a new kingdom.

Link hums along to the melody.

They can build a new Knight Academy and train twice as many hopefuls. Professor Owlan can study and categorize the giant mushrooms in the forest and the long-dead plants in Lanayru’s timeshift stones. Batreaux and Kukiel can go into the wilderness and play the scream-as-loud-as-you-can game, and there will not be a soul for them to disturb. The world is vast and wild and there are still so many places Link hasn’t explored, like the sea of sand beyond the Temple of Time or the mountains past Eldin Volcano or the rolling grassy meadows surrounding the Sealed Grounds. He’s even had the thought that he could find a loose timeshift stone and carry it with him, to see what other parts of the surface looked like thousands of years ago. Would he find the remnants of civilization before Hylia sent her children skyward? Would he see flowers and animals that have long since gone extinct? Or—a chilling thought—Demise himself, working to subjugate Hylians?

Link misses a note. He opens his eyes. Fi is still as stone, staring.

Link licks his lips. “What was the war like?”

“Which war are you referring to?” asks Fi.

Troubled there was more than one, Link clarifies, “The war to seal Demise.”

Fi is silent for a moment. “My database indicates it was grueling and difficult. The realm descended into chaos as the Imprisoned’s armies swept across the land in their conquest. The Demon King’s general led many assaults on key townships and political embassies, effectively cutting Hylians off from themselves and plunging society closer to destruction.”

Townships, embassies, politics—there’s hardly anything on the surface but wilderness and the skeletal remains of temples long since abandoned.

“How long ago was this?” Link asks.

“I do not possess an exact date,” says Fi, “but I estimate several thousand years.”

And after all this time, the seal keeping the darkness at bay is starting to crack. Images swim to the forefront of Link’s mind, obfuscating his vision and chilling his blood. Hoards of bokoblins brandishing crude swords, screeching and trampling across Skyloft. The goddess statue crumbling as a group of massive moblins slam a ghoulish battering ram into it, again and again. The bazaar, ablaze. Ghirahim, laughing in ecstasy, curved black blade dripping with blood.

That will not happen.

That cannot happen.

Link puts the harp away. Sometime between descending the tree and his feet touching the ground, Fi slips back into the sword. Maybe she can sense what he’s about to do. Maybe every action Link has taken or ever will take was predetermined millennia ago, when his spirit was marked before his birth. The water closes around Link’s boots as he goes back down the incline. The view of Faron slips from sight and the night deepens. When Link is shin-deep in flooding, he takes a breath, and wills his fear away.

It almost works.

“Ghirahim.”

For a beat, Link is alone. Then another. Link is about to give up, and then—a scattering of diamonds, gold and black and crimson. Ghirahim’s expression is flat and unamused, and entirely too close. He’s appeared with barely inches to spare between them. Intentional or not, Ghirahim doesn’t seem fazed, but Link’s hackles raise and his heartbeat speeds to a gallop. Danger radiates from Ghirahim in tangible waves. It takes all Link’s strength not to flinch, not to stumble.

Fi mentioned Demise had a general. There is only one person it could be.

Something catches Link’s eye, grinding his newfound revelation to a halt.

Eyelashes.

Painted dark, to blend in with the kohl drawn meticulously around wide eyes. Until now, Link thought Ghirahim didn’t have eyelashes at all. They must be white like his hair, beneath the makeup. Fine and thin. Delicate, where the rest of Ghirahim is all sharpness and lines. For a moment, Link is sure Ghirahim paints them to hide them, to shelter any part of him that could be perceived as soft, but that’s absurd; by Ghirahim’s own admission he is soft. Merciful.

Though that “mercy” has its limits.

“Well?” Ghirahim prompts when Link has stared a moment too long. “You called for me.”

You waited for me, Link doesn’t say.

“I assume you want to try again. Are you finally awake?”

“Yes,” Link says, reaching for his sword. “I finally am.”

Chapter Text

The Ancient Cistern stinks of watery mildew and the sweetness of lilies. Link has been in and out of the water so many times his fingers are permanently pruned. He wants a hot bath, badly. At the same time he never wants to be wet again. At this point he’d settle for a quick dry with the gust bellows and a bed in Pipit’s mother’s house, dust be damned.

The last few days have been a blur. Despite Link’s urging, Groose refused to return to Skyloft and has been working on some kind of secret project he’s very proud of. The few times Link has stopped by the sealed grounds to check on the Imprisoned, Groose has been sawing through ludicrous amounts of wood and guffawing quietly to himself near the pit.

The Silent Realm was another matter entirely.

Dark. Cold. Terrifying. The pieces of Link’s spirit vessel burned hot in his hands as he scooped them up, but only for a moment before the heat faded and the guardians awoke. Seeing the forest made unfamiliar by the nature of the Silent Realm left a heaviness in his heart. But at last, Link proved his worth. The sensation of a spirit being forced back into an empty body was not a pleasant one, but Link would take it over eternally pruney fingers and rotting, snarling bokoblins.

Reaching the stairs and drip-drying for a few minutes is a huge relief. Panting, Link points the Goddess Sword straight up the shaft of the stairwell, and Fi’s insistent pulsing is welcome news. Almost there. The first sacred flame is within reach. He spends a minute or two catching his breath, exhausted from the full-body exercise that comes with hour after hour of nonstop swimming.

Master. Fi’s voice. Readings indicate Demon Lord Ghirahim is beyond the door.

Link’s eyes snap toward it. Ghirahim? Here? “What time is it, Fi?”

It is one o’clock in the afternoon.

There’s no set schedule for their lessons. Link will spend a night on the surface and Ghirahim will appear and that’s that. But the sun is always down, and Ghirahim never comes to Link when he’s progressing his quest. Which means Ghirahim is here as his foe. He couldn’t have found out what Link is doing, could he? He can’t possibly know there’s a second Gate of Time, that Link is working to open it.

Their lessons flash through Link’s mind. He can’t quite use a whole hand to count them. For the most part, they’ve been frustrating and leave Link with a lingering sense of uselessness. This will be the first time since their strange little truce began that they’re meeting outside the bounds of ceasefire.

Link pushes the door open, not sure what to expect.

Ghirahim is sitting atop a shiny brass head, nearly identical in shape to the enormous head that makes up the middle of the cistern. He’s posing, the bastard, one leg propped up, his chin in his hand. He’s wearing the crimson cowl today, annoying, fabulous, and notably dry.

“Oh, Link,” Ghirahim begins conversationally, “there you are. This is a strange place indeed for us to run into each other, isn’t it? So very… pedestrian. Not a fan of the decor, personally, but what can you do?”

Link keeps tension in his body, not sure what he should be ready for but ready for anything.

Ghirahim leans back, exposing a sliver of stomach half-covered by the cowl. “Oh dear, you don’t know why I’m here! You poor, sweet child.”

The annoyance that is growing steadily more prominent each time Link is in Ghirahim’s presence flares to life. “You look my same age,” Link says, aware he’s made this point before and fully expecting Ghirahim to ignore it again.

“I continue my search for ways to revive the demon king,” Ghirahim says, “and you continue—whatever it is you do. You must think you’re accomplishing something, breaking into a place as old as this. Let me tell you, Link: ever since your darling friend slipped from my fingers at the Gate of Time I’ve been frustrated. Angry, even. I’ve spent a long time trying to break my master from his prison. And to get so close, to have victory in the palm of my hand, only to have my efforts thwarted and swept aside—well. Anyone would go a little mad.”

Link reaches for his sword.

“This is perfect, though,” Ghirahim says, a note of wistfulness in his tone. “You’re here, I’m here, and I seem to recall I promised you that on our next meeting propelled by fate instead of choice, I would make you deaf with the sound of your own screams.” His head tilts. Curiosity. “Part of me wonders how you’ll fare, too. I suppose I can find out later when I return from my pressing business. It’ll either be Koloktos’s broken corpse on the ground or yours, and then I’ll have my answer.”

He wiggles his fingers.

“Toodle-oo.”

Diamonds.

The brass thing—Koloktos—shivers. Creaks. Matching parts strewn across the room roll of their own accord toward the head, assembling in eerie mockery of Lanayru’s mining robots. Only once fully made, Koloktos has six arms and is holding two double-sided, crescent-shaped blades.

“Fi,” Link shouts, drawing his sword.

This “Ancient Automaton” defends the Ancient Cistern and eliminates intruders, says Fi. The cursed energy supply Ghirahim provided to this contraption has both corrupted and given it power far beyond its conventional limits.

Not good.

“Any weaknesses?” Link asks, keeping his knees bent.

Fi is silent for a moment. The red, orb-shaped cores embedded in its torso and joints offer it limited stability. Koloktos is ancient. It is barely being held together.

A humongous brass arm from Koloktos’s middle set crashes into the ground, shattering the tile at Link’s feet and missing his toes by an inch. The red orb at its joint has a narrow window for hits, and Link wastes no time catapulting himself forward to strike it.

A flash of something silver and Fi’s muted warning of, Master, and Link drops to his belly with less than a breath to spare as one of the crescent blades sings through the air above his head. He rolls onto his back to dodge another heavy blow from an arm, the pulsing orb in Koloktos’s chest clearly visible from this angle.

Link fights to stand, tile dust on his lips, a coughing fit threatening to stage a coup in his lungs. With six arms at its disposal, Koloktos is impossible. Link waits for an attack, twists out of the way then leaps for the joint, but a hard blow catches him right at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Pain rips through his torso, his knees crashing into sharp tile shards, eyes watering. Link bites his lip so hard he tastes copper. He’ll never reach a joint like this, and with all its arms active, he can’t get close enough to the orb in its chest to strike.

Koloktos was once a guardian for the cistern’s sacred flame, now corrupted by demonic energy. This wouldn’t have been an easy fight without the edge of Ghirahim’s dark curse. With it, the fight feels impossible.

Ghirahim meant for this to be a test, maybe. For all his threats of torturing Link to death, he hasn’t hurt Link himself yet. Curiosity for Link’s unhoned talents, or indifference?

Link needs a new strategy. Think. He needs to strike the weak point in the chest, but the arms keep him away. To get rid of the arms, he has to hit the joints, but he can’t get close enough to slice at them.

The whip.

Koloktos throws both double-sided blades. They spin toward Link and he manages to deflect one and sidestep the other, but his relief at the automaton becoming unarmed is short lived. It reaches behind itself and produces a fresh set. Link jumps at the pause in combat to wrestle his newest gadget out of his bag. The whip had been useful in the cistern for traveling large distances and striking smaller foes. If he can’t get close enough to reach the joints, the whip will do it for him.

A sharp pang throbs in his shoulder. Link clenches his teeth and refuses to take his gaze off Koloktos, waiting for his opening. It reaches into the air and swings an arm forward. Link surges out of the way and spins on his heel, whip clutched in his fist. He locks on to the red joint midway up the brass and flicks the whip forward. The end wraps around the orb, Link yanks forcefully, and the whole arm falls apart.

A triumphant shout echoes through the chamber. Link dismantles Koloktos one arm at a time until there’s no threat to him standing in its space. He stabs the orb, which has a disturbingly similar texture to flesh.

A horrible screech of metal rips across Link’s eardrums. He stumbles away, palms flat against his ears, Goddess Sword clattering to the broken ground. Koloktos’s arms move back toward it as if magnetized, reassembling the pieces as the chamber shakes. Arms reattached, it pushes off the floor and wiggles free of its pedestal, growing taller, taller. It has legs. It’s mobile. And when it reaches all six arms behind its back, they each return clutching a scimitar the same size of Link.

Link dives for Fi, rolling out of the way just in time to avoid three blades cutting through the tile like butter. Link tries for the whip to rip the arms off again, but with the length of the blades he’s just out of reach. His shoulder smarts again, sharper, this time. Link ignores it and dances around Koloktos until it makes a swing that lodges too deep into the floor. The whip reaches the closest joint this time, and the arm clatters down.

The scimitar slips from gripless brass fingers and slides. It’s then Link notices a cage has formed around Koloktos’s heart. Fi’s not strong enough to smash through bars like that without the flames. But maybe…

Link sheathes Fi on a whim and snatches the fallen scimitar, shocked by its solid weight. No time—Koloktos attacks again, three swords coming down at once, Link tripping out of the way and twisting painfully to swing the scimitar at the joints, lined up in a perfect row. All three arms on its left come off at once. The force of wielding the scimitar rips a new ache into Link’s shoulder, so strong he struggles not to drop to his knees.

He has to end this, now.

Koloktos has two arms left, but Link is feeling a little reckless. He clenches his teeth, grinds his heels into the floor, and dashes forward. The thick blade hits the cage right on its curve and the bars crack, the heart-like orb exposed for one final strike. Link stabs, arms aching, nerves throbbing, a white-hot line slicing down his thigh to match the one he bit into his lip as Koloktos suffers its death throes.

It falls apart, unhinges at the neck and waist, pieces thundering to Link’s feet in a metallic symphony. Broken apart, a black cloud bursts from the empty shell and vaporizes as suddenly as it appeared. Quiet settles over the chamber.

Link does fall to his knees, then. He couldn’t stay upright if he wanted to.

You are injured, says Fi. I advise a red potion as quickly as possible.

Link’s right thigh is a bloody mess. His trousers are split vertically from the knee up, a deep, bubbling gash gushing red. Oh. That’s bad. Link reaches for his bag, but he can’t feel his fingers anymore. He’s cold, too, which is strange because he was so hot just a moment ago.

Master.

Link pulls at the top of his bag a few times until it’s open enough to slip a hand inside, but everything feels the same, and there are dark spots growing wider and blacker across his line of sight. His last red potion is in here somewhere. He’ll find it. Link scoops for it, but his fingers feel cold and nothing else.

“Master.”

“I’ll find it,” Link says, but he can’t hear himself. The world tilts and Link does, too. He’s very tired. Maybe a quick nap will help, and then he’ll get to the sacred flame and all this will be over soon. Very soon.

“Help him,” says Fi.

Who does Link need to help? He doesn’t know, and maybe he never will, because his eyes slide shut and the darkness puts him to sleep.

Chapter Text

Link does not recognize the room.

Eyes wide open, he categorizes a few things as the haze of sleep evaporates and his mind sharpens. First, the ceiling is inlaid with half-moon gold plating, arranged in a ripple effect, as if the entire thing is a calm lake disturbed by a single droplet of water. Second, Link’s neck is stiff. It takes incredible effort to lift his head and take in more of the unfamiliar room, and more still to keep from panicking. The room is huge and the bed Link is lying on is triple the size of his own.

Lattice work cuts shapes into the walls, sparkling dust motes revealing the intricate paths of light filtering into the room from the left. The light is strange and pale, too silver to be sunlight, too pink to be moonlight. The bedcover is a heavy pelt of some kind of coarse fur. Link’s entire body protests his first attempt to sit up, little forks of lightning shoot across his nerves. He grits his teeth and leverages his body weight with his palms, coming to rest with his back against the headboard.

Link looks down.

His chest is bare and mottled with purple bruises. The junction where his shoulder meets his neck is tender. His lower lip is numb on one side, and his thigh is the worst of all. It’s gnawing, awful pain, uncomfortably warm from the knee up, pulsing in time with his rapidly speeding heart, each beat a knife in his muscle.

Link tenderly peels back the pelt and balks. He’s naked. Nearly—his underwear clings delicately to his hips, but his legs are exposed all the way to his toes, save for the white linen bandage wrapped around his right thigh. It’s a neat job, each strip parallel to the last. Link turns his head to take in the rest of the room, winces at his neck twinges. A bedside table hosts a half-full carafe of water. The floor is a mosaic of white, beige, and tan tiles set in sweeping arcs. There’s a door opposite the bed, sheer curtains hanging from the ceiling all the way down, softening the view through the lattice work.

This can’t be Skyloft.

Link’s never seen a building comparable to this room on any of the sky islands. A well-maintained temple on the surface, maybe? A part of the Ancient Cistern that hasn’t fallen prey to time? But the light making patterns on the floor spells a different story, and there’s some unnamed quality to the air that feels… different.

“Fi,” Link says, voice scratchy, “where are we?”

Fi does not answer.

In fact, the Goddess Sword is nowhere to be seen. Link’s bag, his shield, his wallet, everything is gone.

Link peeks over the massive bed’s edge as if she’ll be hiding underneath it. “Fi?” He stumbles to his feet and nearly collapses from the weight of standing on his bad leg, eyes stinging as they sweep the corners of the room. “Fi!”

“She’s fine, hero,” says a lilting voice. “You will be reunited before long.”

Ghirahim, although not present moments before, leans against one of the walls, a mocking smile on his lips. His arms wrap loosely around his waist, one pale shoulder lifted in a half-laugh. No cowl, today, every diamond of skin exposed to Link’s gaze. Link must have hit his head when he lost consciousness in the cistern because he’s having an exceptionally difficult time keeping his eyes on Ghirahim’s.

“Give her to me.”

“If you think you’re strong enough to fetch her, by all means. She’s in the foyer.”

Link takes one step and crumples. Pain is a blinding white light filling every inch of his body, agony radiating in blistering waves from his thigh.

“Oopsy daisy.” The weight crushing in on Link lifts—no, he’s being lifted. “Honestly, Link, you should know better. Your kind is so fragile, it’s frankly embarrassing.”

Link presses against both fabric and skin, and his head is spinning, everything hurts, he’s so confused. Ghirahim’s arms are iron around Link’s back and under his knees. Ghirahim is pleasantly cool to the touch, smells of faintly spiced cologne, and carries Link like he weighs nothing.

Link is horrified. “Put me down!”

“If you insist.”

Link’s back hits something soft—the bed—and the wave of pain ebbs to a dull ache.

Pieces begin slow assembly in his mind; the extravagant surroundings, the clean bandage, the half-full carafe of water. Ghirahim must have—but he wouldn’t, why would he—but he must have—

“You can’t possibly be passing out again.” A white hand waves in front of Link’s face. “Hello? Stay with me, please, this continued sleeping is horrifically boring.”

Link asks, “How long has it been?”

“Nearly four days. I knew you were weak, but I didn’t know you were brainless. Rushing an enemy armed twice as heavily as you. Ridiculous.” Ghirahim sits gracefully on the bed and Link starts to suspect he truly has passed out. “You can speak, you can walk, you can swing a sword, but you can’t think. You understand this is your own fault, yes?”

“Are you really lecturing me on my swordplay? Right now?”

Ghirahim scoffs. “When else? You bested Koloktos at the cost of yourself, which is no victory. Do you know how embarrassing that is? My pride is on the line.”

Link is dumbfounded. “Your pride. And I’m the ridiculous one?”

Ghirahim’s expression cools. “I’m not the one with the gash in his thigh.”

Link puts death in his glare. He opens his mouth to ask why Ghirahim helped him, but the words don’t come out. Four days. Link’s bandages are clean. They had to have been changed at least once. And his state of undress— “I want my clothes.”

Ghirahim belly laughs. “They won’t do you much good now. I threw them away.”

“You threw them away ?”

“Clearly the battles waged on Skyloft are akin to toddlers batting at keese with sticks. You’ve never administered first aid to someone, have you? Never seen an injury worse than a scraped knee? Maybe a burn from a stovetop? Your first papercut must have been devastating.”

Link counts backward from ten and convinces himself not to strangle Ghirahim. “What did you do with them?”

“Clothing gets in the way when trying to staunch deadly bleeds. You’d rather I left you to die?”

“I thought you wanted me in agony.”

“Oh I do, sky child. You’re forgetting something—you and I are destined to cross blades again. The quality of your screams while bleeding out from Koloktos will be nothing compared to the sweetness of invoking them myself. Whatever sounds were wrought from you in the cistern were” —he hesitates— “disappointing.”

There’s some kind of hidden quality to Ghirahim’s tone that Link can’t unravel, some strange twist to his mouth that looks suspiciously like a frown. Why did you help me, Link doesn’t ask. It’s not because Ghirahim needs him alive for their next clash. Link’s not sure he wants to know. He’s not sure he can stand not knowing, either.

A fresh pulse of discomfort brings Link’s attention back to his thigh. “My bag?”

“Also the foyer.”

“I should have a red potion in there. Give it to me and I can be out of your way.”

Ghirahim sighs wistfully. “If only. Your bottle broke into pieces. I’m afraid you’re healing the way Hylia intended. You’ll have to ask nicely if you want to fetch more—you won’t be able to leave the demon realm without me.”

Link chokes on air. “The—Ghirahim, where are we?”

Ghirahim fixes Link with a stare. “Your comprehension proficiency is truly astounding.”

The demon realm. The demon realm? The bed. The gilded ceiling and the indulgent mosaic flooring. The shape of the lattice work in the walls are diamonds, for Hylia’s sake.

This is Ghirahim’s home.

And Link is in his bed.

And Link is naked.

“Why did you bring me here?” Link hisses.

“You have such an adorably terrible way of thanking me.” Ghirahim examines his nails. “I’ll drop you off right now if you’re feeling ungrateful. Happy to get the stench of Hylian out of my sheets.”

Link can’t ride his loftwing in this condition. Without his thigh to help himself balance and his shoulder too tender to hold the sailcloth, he’ll plummet to his death, and with no red potion, the best thing to do is wait until he can at least walk without falling over. A day or two, at the most. If Ghirahim wanted Link dead, he would be already.

“Just bring me Fi,” Link says.

Ghirahim bursts into laughter again, tossing his head so far back that his bangs move completely out of his face, and Link can see the little black diamond on his cheekbone. “If you want her, get her yourself. Oh, by the way, Link, I’ve finally figured out why your swordsmanship will never improve.”

Seething, Link says, “Please, Lord Ghirahim, enlighten me.”

Ghirahim says, “You fight like you have nothing to lose.”

And then he’s gone.

It takes Link far too long to wrestle himself to the doorway, the pelt tucked around his waist for some semblance of modesty. Putting any weight on his leg at all sends shards of ice and Eldin’s fire through him. He leans heavily on his good leg and takes tender, quick steps with the other. The bedroom opens into a long hallway that withers his heart. Link hasn’t put any thought into where Ghirahim goes when he’s not acting in his master’s name, but baffles the mind that he has his own home.

Then again, a creature as vain as the Demon Lord obviously has his own space, especially if he’s been awaiting his master’s return for thousands of years. Link curses under his breath as he shuffles along the hallway, one hand pressed flat to the wall for balance. Damn Ghirahim. The demon realm is completely uncharted territory. Link is bursting with questions. Creatures like Scaldera and Moldarach were from the demon realm. What other horrors await outside these walls?

Link trusts Ghirahim as much as he’d trust Demise himself, but he wouldn’t have brought Link here, treated his wounds—changed the dressings, even, based on how clean they look—only to kill him.

Order of business: Find Fi. Heal enough to ride his loftwing. Get the hell back to Skyloft.

At the entry to what must be the foyer, Link stops.

The sacred flame.

He never strengthened Fi.

Link can’t hold back his groan as he limps into the room, aching for a red potion.

The foyer is an open-air room that resembles a courtyard more than anything. The floor is more mosaic work, but great slashes of crimson break up the tans and whites. Lavish sofas with plush cushions arrange the space into something out of one of Zelda’s romance novels. The silvery-pink light is stronger here with one wall missing entirely, and as Link turns to take in the view, he forgets to breathe.

The demon realm is an eerie parody of the Silent Realm. Everything is awash in shades of blue and gray. Flickers of pinkish light float in the air like fireflies, brightening, dimming, brightening, dimming. There are trees and flowers and ghostly pools of shallow water. The foyer of Ghirahim’s home opens to a sprawling hill that descends into what looks like dozens of skylofts put together. Buildings, roads, homes. Hundreds of demons. Thousands.

Link feels sick.

A gentle chime breaks his trance. The Goddess Sword is propped against an end table, Link’s bag and shield beside it. He limps closer, grips the handle, a sound of relief punching from his gut. “Fi?”

Yes, Master?

Thank the goddess. “I thought I lost you.”

There’s a pause. You have not recovered.

“My red potion broke.” He squints at his bag. “Supposedly. Do you know where we are?”

This is the demon realm. Home to servants of Demon King Demise. This realm exists in a different plane from the one you occupy. We are not welcome here.

Keeping his grip on the sword as tight as he can, Link shuffles to the nearest sofa and sinks into it, grateful to take pressure off his leg. “It looks like the Silent Realm,” he says. “Pinker, I guess.”

The Silent Realm and the demon realm are similar in that they are considered sacred spaces for their collective gods.

That doesn’t make sense. The Silent Realm is for Hylia, obviously. But the demon realm? Unless… “Do demons consider Demise their god?”

Yes, says Fi.

The weight of Link’s task presses a little heavier on his shoulders. He shouldn’t be here. The wrongness of it is like a splinter he can’t dig out. Link glances back at the view. He’s never seen civilization on this scale. If one can even call demons civilized.

“Breathtaking, isn’t it?”

Ghirahim sits daintily beside him and Link jumps.

“The city,” Ghirahim clarifies. “It’s inspired by how your precious surface once looked. Albeit I made some vast improvements. I pride myself on design, you know. I’ve shaped this realm in my master’s absence, but once he is free and the world is his, this place will be obsolete.”

Link keeps his hands on the sword like Ghirahim will take it away from him. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

Ghirahim looks at Link like he’s stupid. “It is the only idea. Serving my master is my purpose. My reason for existing.”

The thought leaves a lump in Link’s throat. He swallows it away. Link remembers dowsing for Ghirahim and finding him by the sealed grounds night after night after night. “A world cast in eternal darkness doesn’t sound good to me.”

“My master’s darkness is magnificent. Strength is what will shape the future, and his is unyielding.”

“You’re very loyal,” Link says, and wishes desperately he hadn’t. He’s teetering at the edge of some kind of revelation and afraid to look.

“Of course I am. Demise is my king. I have been at his side from the beginning.”

Link chews on his lip, stops when he bites on the unhealed tear. “Thousands of years is a long time to wait for someone.”

Ghirahim doesn’t answer immediately. “It’s worth every moment,” he says. “You would tremble to behold half the deeds I’ve done in my master’s name, a fraction of the enemies I’ve felled for his cause.”

“You were his general. In the war.”

“And in all the wars to come.” Ghirahim’s expression goes uncharacteristically soft. “He does not need me. But I will be beside him nonetheless.”

“You miss him,” Link realizes aloud.

A hand clenches a death grip around Link’s throat. Sharp nails bite into his skin, cool pressure promising his end, and the only thing Link can think is that this is the first time Ghirahim has touched him. He’s not wearing his gloves.

“Never,” Ghirahim says, low and dangerous, “speak on matters you do not understand again. Your torment will last eons. You will beg for the end long before I will be merciful enough to give it to you.”

Coughs wrack Link’s body as air rushes back into his lungs. Once he’s blinked the tears from his eyes he finds the space of mind to be annoyed. Ghirahim has returned to admiring the view of his city with little fanfare, crossing one long leg over the other, anger cooled like that. Link refrains from rolling his eyes at the dramatics. Ghirahim’s expression while speaking about Demise is familiar, but Link can’t put his finger on what it reminds him of.

“You may recover here,” Ghirahim says after a few minutes of stony silence. “Don’t leave the estate. You and I have an understanding, but I’m afraid my underlings would rip you apart if they knew who you are. They aren’t cultured enough to understand our final fight is destined, and I’d hate to have my favorite toy broken before I’m done playing.”

“Your favorite toy?” Link blurts, regret as instant as embarrassment.

Ghirahim catches his gaze, holds it. “If anything is going to kill you in this little dance of ours, Goddess’s Chosen Hero, it’s me. Unlike you, I fight like I have everything to lose.”

Link can’t help but feel that Ghirahim has revealed something incredibly personal as he watches him walk away. Something Ghirahim has maybe never admitted to anyone. Anyone save, perhaps, his master. Link is holding an array of puzzle pieces in his hands, but doesn’t see how they fit together. He watches the city for a while, hoping things will make sense.

The idea of going back to sleep in Ghirahim’s bed is mortifying enough that Link searches the house for somewhere else to rest. His whole body is heavy, his mind sluggish with pain. There’s another room down a different hall that has more sofas and, unlike the open-air foyer, has four walls. Link curls up on it, Goddess Sword tucked against his side. He wraps the pelt around his shoulders, vaguely wondering if Ghirahim is going to keep him nude the whole time he’s here. Finally, the silvery pink light starts to turn navy, and Link drifts off.

It’s on the precipice of sleep, slowly tumbling over the edge into the abyss, that he remembers:

Ghirahim’s expression was the same as Karane’s when she looks at Pipit.

Chapter Text

Ghirahim’s house has no kitchen.

Link spends a good portion of the morning trudging about looking for food before he gives in and starts looking for his host instead. But Ghirahim is not in the bedroom. Ghirahim is not in the foyer. Ghirahim is not in the hallway nor the garden of silvery plants nor anywhere. The demon realm is warmer than Link likes, but his continued state of undress is an issue to be solved only second to not starving to death, so standing with naught but animal fur around his waist, Link draws the Goddess Sword and dowses for Ghirahim.

Oddly, though, he’s nowhere. Link points the sword in every direction he can rotate his arm, but Ghirahim just… isn’t. Frowning, he stares at the sword like it could be broken.

A report, Master, interrupts Fi. Ghirahim has returned to the Hylian realm.

“He left me here?” Panic and anger are Link’s best friends of late. He limps to the sofa and sits heavily, reeling. “He’s coming back, right?”

It is likely.

Wonderful. Ghirahim is probably lurking by the sealed grounds again, hoping against hope his king will rise from the pit. The thought is uncomfortable in a unique way that Link can’t name. He tries to shrug it off. “I need to eat, Fi. I need to heal. I need to get out of here and take us back to the cistern so we can use the first sacred flame.” He sets her aside and lets his face fall into his hands, exhausted through to every bone. “There’s still so much to do. I need to find the other two flames. I need to train harder if I have any chance of finding Zelda. I need to become the hero Hylia wants me to be.”

Fi is silent a long time. I sense there are provisions somewhere in the building. You may dowse for them.

Link gets to his feet. His leg hurts less than yesterday, but not by much. Link takes Fi and points her straight out. A faint pulsing sends tremors up his arm. He follows the pattern through the room he slept in and past a small modest library filled with books written in a language Link has never seen. He pauses while passing the library—there’s a sword hanging on the wall above an empty fireplace. It’s almost identical to Ghirahim’s black blade, but this one has a single red gem set in the hilt. Link moves on.

The provisions are in a room he hadn’t seen on his first walkabout. At first glance it’s a smaller version of the Sparring Hall. Weapon racks host all manner of daggers, polearms, hammers, and swords. There are dummies that are disturbingly Hylian-shaped, slashed to pieces. Although the room is neat and clean, it doesn’t look like it’s been used in quite some time.

There’s a small table in the middle of the room, so out of place Link eyes it suspiciously. He sheaths his sword and peeks at the contents of the “provisions” and is pleasantly surprised. And then slightly disturbed.

It’s a bowl of pumpkin soup. Link has spent his entire life soaring across the skies after class to fetch dinner at the Lumpy Pumpkin. He recognizes the aroma, the chunky consistency, the little dollop of cream on top. The bowl is steaming.

The second thing on the table is some kind of folded garment, but Link is too suspicious to be relieved. The third is a note.

Link,

You snore louder than an Eldin earthquake.

G

That’s it. The entirety of Ghirahim’s words for him. He’s even done some fancy swirl on his G that has Link seeing red. Ridiculous. Ghirahim is ridiculous. This is stupid. Everything is so, so absurd.

Master, says Fi, are you well?

Link is laughing. Doubled over, clutching his sides, collapses to his bottom when his leg gives out. He laughs harder despite the tenderness of his ribs.

This entire situation is preposterous. Ghirahim is fetching Link soup while he’s under the weather, and Link is sleeping in his spare room like a houseguest. Like they’re boys having a sleepover on the weekend. Like they’re friends. Link tries to calm down, but he takes one look at the tendrils of steam rising from his famously quick-cooling soup and bursts anew into cackles. A tear streams down his cheek. By the time Link has eased the rolling, bouncing notes of his glee to warbling giggles, the soup has gone cold, but he eats it anyway.

It’s a taste of home he’s forgotten in such a short span of time. It reminds him of the academy. Afternoons spent wondering when he’d ever catch up to Pipit. Nights on the surface doubting that he was the right choice, the right hero. He misses lazy weekend evenings with his carving knife. He misses climbing to the top of the goddess statue and watching the sun rise above the clouds. He misses Zelda.

Link wipes another tear from his cheek. Then a third.

Four-day ache in his belly eased, Link unfolds the clothes and isn’t sure what he’s looking at. Does his head go here? Where does he put his arms? Is this… is this the whole thing? All of it?

He’d show less skin if he stayed naked. Surely Ghirahim has something more modest? Surely Ghirahim has anything else at all?

Link wrestles the bottoms on, grimacing at the hemline. The shirt—a generous term—is a little more difficult to figure out. He takes it off twice, positive he’s wearing it wrong. There’s a mirror in the foyer, tucked against the wall. Link makes his slow trek one step at a time, using the Goddess Sword as support to take some of the weight off his leg.

Link’s reflection is absurd.

The shorts expose the entire length of Link’s thighs save half a handspan near the junction of his hips, but even that meager strip of fabric is besieged by dozens of little cutouts in Ghirahim’s favorite shape. The waistline is scalloped and comes to a stop just short of his belly button. Necklines are a suggestion more than a rule in Ghirahim’s closet; the top is held on by a single band of fabric that wraps around the back of Link’s neck, leaving both shoulders and a decent section of his collarbones bare. Mid-abdomen, the front splits. Link rotates his torso and it flutters open, exposing a thin section of his midriff.

This is so embarrassing. Link would never wear something like this.

What does this look like on Ghirahim?

He’s taller than Link by a decent amount. What constitutes shorts on Link would be nothing more than briefs on Ghirahim. And his torso being as long as it is would allow for a much greater midriff. The split would start right under Ghirahim’s breastbone, triangulate his abdomen, maybe even draw attention to the little knobs at the tops of his hips. So much skin, open for anyone to see, to admire, because Ghirahim loves admiration almost as much as he loves Demise.

The legs, though—would Ghirahim really leave them without decoration? His favorite bodysuit, while spanning the length of him, still shows plenty of skin. Link has traced the diamonds a dozen times. Maybe Ghirahim would add something else. Maybe Link should ask him.

A shape stirs in the mirror over Link’s shoulder, Ghirahim returning from the open wall that leads to the city. Equal parts annoyed and curious about the “clothes,” Link forces his lips into a flat line as he turns toward his host.

“This is too much,” he says. “You can’t tell me you have nothing else for me to—”

Link stops dead.

Ghirahim steps into the foyer. But everything about him is wrong. The usual coolness of his skin has deepened to a dusty charcoal. Every strand of hair on his head shines with an uncanny silver luster, his diamond bodysuit dyed deepest black, his lips gray and unsmiling. He is a monochrome palette of shadow shades. But Ghirahim’s wide, watchful eyes are flares of red.

“What’s this?” The voice is wrong. Deeper. Colder. Ghirahim takes a step closer. Link is frozen. “A stray keese. How curious.”

This is not Ghirahim.

“A Hylian?” Not-Ghirahim intones. “It’s been millennia since last my blade tasted your kind’s flesh.”

“Who are you?” Link demands.

The creature wearing Ghirahim’s skin takes another step. “That is no business of yours. But who you are, little bat, is a much more interesting question.” They draw a sword from their hip. It’s wide and short, nicked in a thousand places along the edge. A sword in such rough shape would take a hundred hacks to actually kill something, and every blow would be agonizing.

Link lifts the Goddess Sword, a warning. The creature doesn’t so much as blink.

“I have a theory,” they say. “You’re a thief. An admirer. A degenerate.” Link must look as confused as he feels, because the creature clarifies, “A pervert. Wearing the master of the house’s clothes when he is not home.”

Heat rashes up Link’s neck. “I’m—”

“Trespassers do not interrupt,” they say, cutting him off. Their broken sword reflects dull light. “And I understand, to a degree. He is the ideal. Of every creature eager to give up their very lives in our master’s name, King Demise has only ever given his time to one single demon. You are curious what the Demon King covets. It is only natural. But you will die, regardless. None will defile this place.”

They lift their weapon and Link readies himself for a fight to the death, for his final breaths, but there’s an explosion of colorful shapes and Ghirahim—the real Ghirahim—is gripping the tip of the creature’s ruined sword.

“Come now, Phantom,” Ghirahim says. “That’s no way to treat my guest.”

“Phantom” steps swiftly away and sheathes their sword, leaning into a bow. “Lord Ghirahim.”

“You know I hate it when you do this,” Ghirahim says, gesturing at his own shadowed reflection. “I wear my face best. Change. My patience wears thin.”

Phantom immediately shrinks, skin bubbling and turning to goo, reshaping before Link’s eyes into a shadowy lizalfos, black-scaled and crimson-eyed. “This Hylian is under your protection? In what capacity?”

Ghirahim laughs, a musical, twinkling sound. “He is my pet. He entertains me.”

Pet. The word rattles around in Link’s skull, threatening to make his head explode, but there’s no time to dissect what’s happening because Phantom is saying, “Apologies, my lord. I did not know this” —red pupils slip from Link’s exposed navel to his toes— “thing belonged to you.”

“He’s harmless, believe me. The sword I allow him makes him feel better. To what do I owe the pleasure, Phantom?”

Phantom rises, points a midnight claw toward the city. “We are restless. The seal weakens. How much longer must we wait?”

Ghirahim glances at Link. “Let’s not have such droll discussions in front of our lessers. Come to the library, we can talk there.” To Link, he says, “Sit, pet.”

Link finds the nearest sofa and sits.

Ghirahim purrs, “Good boy.”

Heat flares across Link’s face again, confusion reigning supreme.

The smallest twitch spasms in Ghirahim’s cheek. He stares at Link for one, two, seconds. Then he spins on his heel and exits the room, Phantom in his shadow.

Link waits. So much has happened in such a short time, there’s hardly any room left in Link’s head to categorize these newest interactions. He looks at the hem of his tiny little pants. What the hell is he doing here?

“Fi,” Link says, “who was that?”

Fi takes an extra beat before she responds. Phantom, a shapeshifter who hails from the demon realm. They can take on any visage. I do not possess any more data on them.

Link doesn’t like the sound of that.

He sits and worries and waits. The pumpkin soup sloshes uneasily in his stomach. He has to play the role of a pet, not the chosen hero of the goddess. It should be humiliating, and to a point, it is. It’s also… liberating. To be someone else. To pull a con on one of Ghirahim’s own underlings. A secret for the two of them.

It’s almost like Ghirahim is standing against Demise, instead of against Link. A dangerous thought. Link tries not to pursue it, can’t.

Ghirahim would be such a valuable ally, if his loyalties changed.

He could spar with the knight candidates at the academy.

Wander the bazaar and roll his eyes at Sparrot’s fortune telling.

Have tea with Batreaux, thrill the children with scary stories, find a loftwing and soar through the skies like Link has spent his whole life doing. Fall with him. See the world from high above. Forget about his master.

Reality returns to Link in stages. Ghirahim, on Skyloft? Never. Not with his violent nature. Not while Demise remains imprisoned and thirsty for absolute power. Link has an idea what Ghirahim’s relationship with Demise is at its core, and he isn’t sure how he feels about it. Ghirahim’s undying loyalty makes a little more sense, but the thought is troubling.

He does not need me, Ghirahim had said, but I will be beside him nonetheless.

As much as Link has tried to deny it, he’s formed something more than an uneasy truce with Ghirahim. A friendship. Almost. An understanding?

Hylia, this is all so confusing. If only Link knew why Ghirahim saved his life, it might make the answer clear. But he can’t, can’t bear to know. But he can’t stand the uncertainty, either.

At last, footsteps in the hall. Ghirahim and Phantom return, and the high arch on Ghirahim’s hairless brow screams of discontent.

“My lord,” Phantom starts.

“You are dismissed.” Ghirahim stalks toward his rooms, pauses for but a moment beside Link’s sofa. “I have words for you. Stay.” He disappears, leaving Link and Phantom alone.

Link turns toward Phantom. Their glowing red eyes are locked on Link’s, but they say nothing. Link rests his hand on Fi’s hilt, just in case.

“It won’t help you,” they say. “The sword. Lord Ghirahim allows you to have it because it makes you feel better. You know not whom you face.”

If they mean Ghirahim or themself, Link doesn’t know. Either way, he isn’t underestimating anyone.

“Silent,” Phantom says. “Good. You will have a place in King Demise’s world. He always liked when Hylians knew their place.”

Link grinds his teeth.

“Still. How curious, that Lord Ghirahim would deign to take a Hylian as a pet. You must be exquisite in bed.”

Link does not flinch, but it is a near thing.

Phantom’s eyes slip to the Goddess Sword. “Curious craftsmanship. Where did you get it?”

“Lord Ghirahim dismissed you.”

The faintest smile twitches across their mouth, revealing a row of pearlescent, sharp teeth. “You may be protected under the general, little keese.” They transform, bubble and shift and grow and shape, until Link is looking at his own image, reflected back at him in black, gray, and vivid crimson. A Dark Link. “But you would still do well to mind your manners.”

Link is cold all over even long after Phantom has left.

Ghirahim flounces back into the foyer with little ceremony and tosses something to him—Link catches it.

“A red potion,” he says, surprised.

“Watching you mope about like a kicked kikwi is aggravating. Drink it.”

Link squints at the bottle.

“It’s not poisoned, sky child, drink the damn thing.” Ghirahim rolls his eyes. “After Koloktos it’s clear you need extra coaching. For what improvements you’ve made, you’ve suffered just as much bullheadedness. I thought I made my expectations for our final fight clear.”

Entertainment. A challenge. But during his fight with Koloktos, Link was exactly where Ghirahim wanted him, broken and bleeding. And now he’s here, a red potion in his hands. Link is beginning to doubt Ghirahim means most of what he says. But he’s been wrong before.

“Quickly, now,” Ghirahim snaps, “I’m losing my patience.”

Link uncorks the bottle and tips the potion past his lips. It starts working immediately, tingling warmth spreading through his veins to the broken parts of his body. The bite on his lip seals shut quick, but the bruising across his chest and the gash in his thigh will take longer. The pain starts to fade immediately. A sigh of relief rushes from him.

“Wonderful.” Ghirahim’s iron grip wraps around Link’s upper arm. “Time to go, then.”

“Time to—”

The house turns inside out, a rush of color filling Link’s vision, a hook in the back of his navel yanking him through realms. In a blink, he’s standing in the Ancient Cistern, Koloktos’s brass exoskeleton scattered across the floor at his feet.

“Never do that again,” Link says.

“So dramatic.” Ghirahim lets go of Link’s arm. “You’ll be healed in hours. You can fare on your own from here, yes?”

Link takes a cautionary step, but has to dig the Goddess Sword’s tip into the tile to stop himself from falling on his face.

Ghirahim sighs and tosses his hair. “What a burden you are turning out to be. You’re headed to the final chamber, yes?”

Ghirahim wraps an arm around Link’s waist. So much of their bodies are touching. “This outfit is absurd,” Link tells him as they walk together toward the door. Link’s bare thigh brushes against the diamonds of Ghirahim’s skin.

“It looks better on me, I’ll admit. You’re so very small.”

“You didn’t have anything else to lend me?” The stone vanishes in its frame. Ghirahim’s fingers curl around Link’s hip, gloveless and cool.

“Count yourself lucky I lent you clothes at all.” They shuffle inside. “I could have kept you naked. For my own enjoyment, of course.”

Link’s heart leaps to his throat. “More threats of torture?”

Ghirahim only grins.

The final chamber is dark and flameless. A pedestal lies at the top of the room, the symbol of the goddess resting beneath it. Link unsticks himself from Ghirahim’s side, sure he imagines the scrape of Ghirahim’s nails on his waist as he pulls away. Link suppresses a shiver, feeling suddenly quite dizzy, and stands before the pedestal. He exhales, raises the Goddess Sword toward the sky, and releases a powerful skyward strike onto the symbol. It spins and spins, glowing iridescent purple. There’s a breath, two, and brilliant emerald flames burst to life.

“Farore’s Flame.” Ghirahim’s voice floats from behind Link, but he doesn’t approach. “In all the millennia I’ve roamed this land, I’ve never seen it.”

Link can’t help himself. He glances back at Ghirahim, expecting an expression of contempt. Instead Ghirahim is thoughtful. Quiet. Transfixed, even. His dark eyes are locked on the sacred flame.

Link turns his shoulders toward him. “Ghirahim.”

Ghirahim does not answer.

Link says, louder, “Ghirahim. What’s wrong?”

Ghirahim is quiet a moment longer. “I thought… Nothing. Finish your business.”

Fi sweeps from the Goddess Sword as if summoned. Her glasslike face is serene and unbothered. She has no care that Ghirahim is here. “Master,” says Fi, “raise your sword.”

Link tears his eyes from Ghirahim and presents his blade. The sacred flame trembles. All at once, ball after ball of green flame leaps from the pedestal and into the Goddess Sword, enveloping it, wreathing it. The fire doesn’t burn him, despite it rushing from point to hilt and pulsing like its alive. Colors fade and the flame evaporates, and the sword in Link’s hand is different from before. The blade is longer. The edge is sharper. The weight of it fits better in his palm.

Emboldened, Link twirls his sword in a flurry of swings, reveling at how smoothly it cuts through air, how light and powerful it is. This is just a single sacred flame?

Link holds the Goddess Sword out to admire it one more time, breathless.

Something is glowing on the back of his hand.

The Triforce.

“Better,” Ghirahim’s voice says, too close to Link’s ear. “Though it pains me to see you wielding a blade like this. Is this what you were doing here?”

Link spins, hiding his hand behind his back, heart thundering.

Ghirahim frowns. “We’re reverting to secrecy now, are we? Link. After everything we’ve been through?”

“Thank you for the potion,” Link says. “You should go.”

“And here I thought we’d made so much progress. I look forward to your next lesson; now that you have a tool befitting your talent you’re bound to improve at last. Maybe the next brittle robot won’t nearly kill you.”

Irritated, Link snaps, “Why did you save my life, Ghirahim?”

Ghirahim’s smile disintegrates.

“You didn’t have to. You could have left me here and I would be out of your way. One less obstacle to your master’s freedom. One step closer to the word of darkness he wants. So why?”

Ghirahim says, “Fi asked nicely.”

Diamonds, before Link can ask more.

It takes the better part of an hour to get out of the cistern and back to the forest. The flooding has seeped into the ground, turning everything to mud. The red potion works through him with each step, strengthening his limbs, knitting his wounds together. By the time he reaches the sealed grounds his limp is almost gone and the gnawing heat in his gash has cooled.

Groose spots him from the temple, waves and shouts and races up to meet Link, grinning and puffing his chest. “Link! Wait until you see the progress I’ve made on—” Groose halts. “Whoa. Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, Link. What the hell are you wearing?”

Link says, “I have no idea,” but he isn’t sure which question he’s answered.

Chapter Text

Skyloft is asleep, but Link isn’t.

The only sounds beyond the whistle of wind are Fledge’s quiet grunts as he does push ups in the adjacent room. Link hasn’t spent a full day on Skyloft in weeks, but the red potion took a while to fix all his wounds, and after learning a new portion of the Song of the Hero on Zelda’s harp, he was desperate for a break. One night turned into two, and two turned into five. Resting like this feels indulgent. Selfish. But when Link tries to sleep, he sees one of two things: himself in Phantom’s shadowy image, or Ghirahim’s smile vanishing from his face.

Link gave up on lying in bed an hour ago. He sits at his little desk, carving knife in hand, and tries not to think about how he should be holding a sword instead. Whittling was a hobby Link took up when his parents were still alive, before he joined the Knight Academy and moved into the dormitories full time. He doesn’t remember his parents, but he remembers the way wood shavings feel when they slice off a larger block, the resistance of a dull edge on hardwood, the shape of a figurine half-finished in his palm.

Link isn’t sure what he’s whittling. It’s probably a loftwing, but the beak is too short and the wings are too sharp. Frowning, he swipes a few times at the base, stares at his work. Now that he’s looking at it, it’s some kind of cross between a loftwing and Batreaux. There’s a small pile of crystals in Link’s bag he’s been meaning to drop off with Batreaux for a few days. Now is as good a time as any.

Link sets the carving aside and pulls on his boots.

Skyloft is a soft, quiet thing once the sun has set. The air is cool and the shadows long. Pipit is on his nighttime patrol. From across the academy yard he waves at Link, and Link waves back. The walk to the cemetery is a short one. Now that he’s traveled the surface and seen the expanse of the world, everything on Skyloft is so much smaller. Link is grateful for the rest, but suffocated by it, too. No one here really understands the toll Link’s quest is taking on him, in part because Zelda’s father swore him to secrecy, and in part because Link is the only one who has lived it. Even Groose stays tucked safely away at the sealed grounds with the old woman.

In fact, if Link thinks about it, the only person who has been with him through all of this has been—

Link stomps his feet to loose a clinging sky stag beetle from the toe of his boot. The thought shakes away with the bug.

Batreaux weeps when Link presents him with the crystals.

“These are wonderful,” Batreaux cries, wiping fat tears from his eyes. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I just know I’m close to becoming human, I know it!”

Link lifts to his toes to pat Batreaux’s shoulder. “Happy to help.”

“I can picture it now: making friends with the gentlefolk of Skyloft, inviting my closest confidants over for tea, perhaps finding my own loftwing on which to soar through the skies.” Batreaux turns a little, presenting his wings. “These things only scare people. It’ll be so nice to not frighten everyone.”

“You don’t frighten me,” Link says.

“Oh, Link. You’re so kind. But you’re a special sort. Humans and demons have chronically misunderstood each other.” Batreaux flashes Link a smile, a somewhat horrifying thing to look at, though full of heart. “But it won’t matter soon. I’m almost there.”

Link promises to keep looking for crystals and begins the walk back to his room. His steps are lighter on his way up the hill, his heart warmer. Batreaux’s goal of becoming human is in sight.

He whittles a little longer, shaping the strange block in his hand to be more bat-like, removes the almost-beak, fashioning some semblance of Batreaux’s face and form. Link turns the carving over in his palm and stares at the wings. He begins the slow, careful work of carving them off.

The second Silent Realm is just as dark and strange as the first. Link’s spirit, freshly ripped from his physical body, adjusts in stages as he opens his eyes and sees Lanayru Desert’s eerie counterpart. The platform keeps him safe, for the time being. Link stands, stacking one knob of his spine at a time, turning in a slow circle. The tears are scattered over the sand and on top of crumbled walls and beside silent, waiting guardians. Their skull-like masks glow with garish blue light. Link’s rest in the physical world seems to have done good for his spirit form, too. He’s alert, ready for anything, prepared to continue his quest.

He scans the ghostly desert for tears. There’s one, atop the wall. Another, right beside a silent guardian. A third, suspended a little too high in the air. Some he can’t see, and some he’s not sure how he’ll reach. The demon realm trickles into his mind as he observes his surroundings, the strangeness of it, the bubbling, shifting form of Phantom’s face as it morphed into Link’s own.

Focus.

He has a job to do.

Link takes a breath and steps off the glowing scallop of the platform onto dark sand. The greenish glow bursts into streaks of orange gold, the guardians waking with a start. Puppets on a string, jostled limbs and clipped movements. Link dashes from rock to sand and finds to his dismay he starts to sink. A burst of speed lifts his boots as the first tear gets closer, closer, until he grips it in his hand, the heat of it radiating through his gloves to warm his palm.

The Silent Realm goes back to blues and grays.

Collecting the tears is easier this time, if only because he’s done this before, even if the places he finds them are more difficult to reach. He’s panting by the time he’s scaled a half-crumbled wall to secure his fourth tear, but if his physical body is far away and his spirit is here, is he really out of breath at all? Is this burn in his thighs real, or what he thinks he should be feeling?

The next tear is close, but guarded by a masked specter sweeping the desert for intruders. Link times its patrol to seize the tear when it looks the other way, and heads to the next.

Link hasn’t seen Ghirahim in a few days. Not since the Farore’s Flame. He’d be delighted to come across Link’s body right now, locked in its trance.

Link takes the sixth tear and moves on.

Maybe he’ll even be waiting for Link to wake up, some biting quip prepared to poke fun at Link’s helplessness, to lord Ghirahim’s unceasing mercy over his head.

The seventh and eighth are close too, and Link makes quick work of scooping them up.

Ghirahim had said he couldn’t wait for their next lesson. Perhaps Link should practice. Take him by surprise.

His time lapses searching for the next tear, so he puts speed into his legs and sprints across loose sand, hyper aware of the guardians closing in on him. There’s one, suspended up high. He pumps his arms harder and kicks off a knee-height rock, sailing through the air with his hand stretched overhead. A flare of warmth as the tear lands in his palm, then he’s clutching naught but wind.

Link makes quick work of the rest of the tears, pacing himself until there’s one left. It’s on top of the mining facility building, peeking out from the lip of the roof. Getting there will take some time, and the seconds before the guardians wake tick down, down. Sand collapses inward beneath his feet, dragging him to the desert’s belly as he runs. Link rips his boots from the ground, reaching a rocky outcropping and leaping up, rough stone biting into his fingers as he pulls himself onto the first ledge. No time to spare. Link finds a part of the wall around the back of the building that’s crumbled inward enough for him to climb, and then he’s on the roof, the vastness of the Silent Realm laid out before him.

It’s breathtaking, in a way. This is Hylia’s realm, though she lives on in a mortal body. Two realms, both made for their collective gods. There are entire cities in the demon realm, thronged with citizens awaiting their king’s return. Here, there are the guardians. Suspended in eternal sleep, waiting for the Hero. Hylia asks a lot from her subjects.

A sword is made of steel so it will not break. Hylia chose you as her hero for the same reason.

Link exhales. He takes the last tear, tiny oscillations of energy shooting tremors up his arm.

Link climbs down the mining facility exterior and back to the platform to leave the Silent Realm. He doesn’t rush. He’ll never come back here again. There’s only so much time. He’d like to take a breather, soak in the sights, let his mind wander. But there’s never any time. He has to learn the Song of the Hero, improve his swordplay, gather more crystals for Batreaux, open the second gate of time. Use the sacred flames, stop the Imprisoned, save the world. Link is almost back to the exit when he spies something smooth and dull peeking from behind a wall.

A timeshift stone.

Link stops. The stone is out of place here. This realm isn’t physical on the same level Link’s world is. What would a timeshift stone show in a place that’s acted like a tomb from the beginning of time? He has a few moments left, and curiosity has always been his failing. Link hops across a small pocket of sinking sand and drives the tip of his boot into the stone. It lights up violet, distorted by the Silent Realm’s brackish color palette. A bloom of lush grass and flowers expands around the stone in a circular pocket of greenery. The wall the stone hides behind is whole once again, painted in bold strokes of red. Beyond the ancient circumference is the desert, silent and imposing.

A guardian holds silent vigil in the pocket of green. It’s tall and wide, adorned in silver armor, holding a wicked sharp broadsword between its hands. Link watches it. The guardian doesn’t move an inch, obediently awaiting the chosen hero.

Link gets the sense his life was destined to never be his own.

What will happen to these guardians once Link leaves? Will they stay here forever, frozen? Will they stop existing altogether?

And what will happen to Link once his quest is done?

He shakes the thought off, disturbed. After a moment of deliberation, Link leaves the timeshift stone activated, steps onto the platform, and returns to his body.

It takes Link ten days to find the ship. Two more to untwist its waterlogged, rotting passages. Fi gives him dispassionate direction. There are keese, technoblins, skeleton pirates wielding deadly blades. After nearly being pierced by a rain of arrows crossing the deck, Link barricades himself in a small room on the first floor of the ship’s underbelly to catch his breath. He’s so close to the flame. The sun is nearly down and the light of the sand sea’s stars too faint to safely traverse the ship. He has to wait for morning.

There is no comfortable place to sleep in this cramped cargo room. The space is largely crowded with boxes and rusty harpoons. Link chooses a corner as far from the sharp metal as he can get, glumly resigned to waking up with a sore back. He settles sitting upright, no room to stretch his whole body out. He watches the light die through the small porthole, sleepiness creeping into his eyelids and dreams heavying his head. Link hasn’t slept on the surface in a few weeks, he realizes. Every evening, he calls his loftwing and goes back to the academy to sleep, careful of the unknown dangers lurking in the sand sea after dark. His training has helped prepare him for the enemies he’s faced on the ship, but Link can’t deny the fights are getting tougher. He should train harder. The battles are bound to get worse, not better.

Ghirahim might appear tonight.

Link’s eyes fly open at the thought. As the days trickle into weeks, Link and Ghirahim’s strange few days in the demon realm fall farther away. Link hasn’t seen him since the sacred flame. Hasn’t heard so much as a whisper of his smug voice on the wind. But could Ghirahim find him on an invisible ship that sails the sand sea and refuses to be caught?

It’s not a good idea to let Ghirahim in too closely on Link’s plans. If Ghirahim realizes Link is visiting all the sacred flames, he may catch on to Link’s goal of opening the second gate of time.

Ghirahim is not your ally, a voice whispers in his mind. It sounds like Zelda’s.

Best to leave him out of this.

Link shuts his eyes.

The image of Ghirahim waiting in the forest for his master springs into clarity. Gazing at the pit, watching for a single tremor in the soil, a moment of weakness in the seal. Another image; Ghirahim, sitting on the sofa in his foyer, staring blankly out at the city he built that will one day be abandoned. Centuries of hard work, all for the reward of a kind word from his king.

“Ghirahim.”

Link whispers the name before he can think not to.

“Come to me.”

Link waits. He doesn’t dare open his eyes. The fear that Ghirahim won’t appear grows by the second, a feeling of dread he doesn’t fully understand uncurling in his gut like smoke. Link wants him here, doesn’t want him waiting by an empty pit for a master Ghirahim has done everything for, can’t explain why he hates the very idea of it. Phantom had said Demise has only ever given his time to one demon. With an army charging to their deaths in your name, and no care given to the foot soldiers, can the care he showed Ghirahim have been worthy of him? Does the loyalty go both ways?

Link knows it doesn’t. He knows. Demise is evil, but Ghirahim is—

Complicated.

Not good. But not all bad, either.

A shuffle. Link’s eyes open lightning-quick, but Ghirahim is not here. He can’t stand it any longer. Link draws his sword. “Fi, find Ghirahim.” The pulsing is incredibly faint. It’s barely there at all. “Where is that?”

That is the direction of Faron Woods, says Fi. There is a 98% likelihood Ghirahim is currently near the sealed grounds.

Link’s heart sinks. He doesn’t want Ghirahim to wait for Demise. He wants Ghirahim here, on this ship, sitting in this tiny cargo hold.

With him.

“Ghirahim,” Link tries again, stronger this time.

Ghirahim never appears, and Link doesn’t sleep.

Chapter Text

Eldin Volcano is as fiercely temperamental as ever, and by the time Link makes it inside the Fire Sanctuary, he’s dizzy from the heat. It’s cooler inside, and especially on the lifted walkways around the volcano’s back, but the damage has been done. Link drank the last from his waterskin an hour ago, and the dewy plants with fat droplets are so sickly sweet he can’t manage more than half a swallow. The goddess’s most recent gift—the fireshield earrings—sway gently from his earlobes as he struggles not to match their movements. They stop him from catching fire, but they do little to dull the temperature.

Even so, he pushes on.

Din’s flame is so close. The last of what he needs to finish the Goddess Sword and open the gate, to see Zelda, to end this whole, impossible task and go back to how things should be. Reclaiming the surface and starting a new era, a new world. That singular mission drives him forward, even with his head filled with fluff and his feet unsteady. Link traverses the sanctuary, dispatching enemies with difficulty, narrowly missing more than a few blades. He should rest, come back later. When his mind is clear. But the promise of the final flame is too large a relief. He’ll rest once the sword has bathed in the fire.

The weight of expectation is crushing him. Link can hardly breathe. Failure is not an option, not even a thought. He is Hylia’s chosen hero, and he cannot let her down.

At long last, Link is fitting the key into the final door, panting with the effort to stay upright, a growl of frustration deep in his chest when the blocky abstraction just won’t fit.

Master. Fi’s voice.

“Yeah?”

She sweeps into physical form, a vision of untarnished blue. “Ghirahim is in the inner sanctum beyond the door.”

Link’s chest squeezes. The key fits somehow, dust and hard-shelled insects falling to the ground, the latter skittering away. Link stumbles into the room, finding a moment of lucid clarity from his dizziness at last as Ghirahim comes into view, his back to Link, red cowl draped majestically from his shoulders down to his calves. The doors boom shut behind him.

Turn around, Link doesn’t say. I haven’t seen you in weeks.

Ghirahim turns. He wears a pleasant, catlike smile, his one visible eye unfocused, as if Link has interrupted him in deep thought. “Oh, hello there, Link. I see you’re still among the living.”

“Ghirahim,” Link says, then finds he doesn’t know what to follow it up with. It’s been so long? I wondered where you were? I’ve been thinking about you?

Ghirahim turns back toward the wall, head tilted. “You know, Link, you and I have spent some time together. Our goals differ. Complete opposites, frankly, but our spirits have found alignment, unlikely as it is. Trust is a rarity for me, truth be told, but I know I can be honest with you. Do you see?”

A single gloved finger points up at the wall. Link unsuccessfully blinks the haze from his eyes and gazes at the mural painted on the chamber walls. It swims into focus as Ghirahim continues his speech.

“I admit after the stunt the goddess’s dog pulled at the gate of time—what was her name again? Impa?—I was upset. The thought of your darling friend slipping forever from my grasp… Well, it was more than I could bear.”

The image on the wall starts to sharpen, and a cool dread settles over Link. There are two depictions of the gate of time, plain as day. Ghirahim spins to face Link again, that chilly smile etched into his face.

“While you skipped across the world doing whatever it is you do, I’ve been searching. For a way to reopen the gate. That girl is vital to the resurrection of my master, instrumental in my lifelong goal. I couldn’t give up simply because I faced a setback. The last two thousand years have been nothing but setbacks. I am my master’s champion; I adapt.” Ghirahim flings his arms to the side, presenting the mural with theatrical flare. “Behold! I was beaten down after weeks of fruitless searching when I recalled your trip to Farore’s Flame. Where better to find what I was looking for but in a place the goddess sanctioned herself? And look at this, Link. These murals suggest the existence of a second gate of time.”

Link recognizes the sharpness of Ghirahim’s tone, now. It’s not excitement. It’s anger, thinly disguised.

“You are a tricky one, aren’t you?” Ghirahim shakes his head, chuckles. “But we are still allowed our secrets, aren’t we, Link? I can’t rightfully be cross with you. One night in my bed does not a confidant make. I am aware of this. But see, I allowed my tenderness to get in the way of my judgment. I believed we had an” —he hesitates— “understanding. More the fool, me.”

Understanding? Because of their unspoken truce? Because of one silver night behind a waterfall, hidden from both friend and foe? Or because Ghirahim saved his life and refuses to tell him why?

“ Because I know I can trust you, Link, it would be remiss for me not to be honest, to tell you that the time for our blades to clash has come. Because, you see, we are not just bound by destiny to fight. No, no. You and I are tied together by a string of fate. I’ve spent months agonizing over the nature of it, wondering what this bond could mean between mortal enemies who enjoy each other’s company. But it isn’t just written that we will fight. It’s our destiny.”

Link is too dizzy to process this, heat stroke muddling Ghirahim’s words and turning his thoughts to mush.

“However,” Ghirahim says thoughtfully, “I admit reluctance. Sparing your life has become somewhat of a guilty pleasure. Our lessons are a break in the mundanity of millennia of nothing but shit. I've grown fond of you." Ghirahim lets out a little laugh, as if bashful. "How careless of me. So I offer a solution, one I do so hope you’ll be open to. Tell me where the second gate of time is.”

Link recoils. “No.”

Ghirahim stares, the curve of his lips gone completely flat. Link sees something in Ghirahim’s eyes that hasn’t been present in months: malice. Ghirahim turns just so, lifts his arms. The crimson cowl evaporates into sparkling diamond, baring his smooth gray skin.

“I must warn you, Link. Your punishment for your insolence is long overdue, and I will not go easy on you this time. We’re not sparring like children, after all.”

In a flash, his white gloves are replaced with a deep, wretched black. But even through the shapes swimming in his head, Link can see these are no gloves.

“Lovely, aren’t they?” Ghirahim says. “I know I’m the object of envy of many, though the way your eyes wander is more than simple jealousy. All the better to ask you. Doesn’t their shape just leave you… breathless?”

It does, a little. In part because of the powerful yearning in Link’s chest, and in equal measure the dread of the fight to come. “Ghirahim,” Link says, low, “I don’t want to do this.”

Ghirahim pauses, his head turned a fraction, the curtain of his hair parting to reveal a network of thorny black lines that bleed into his cheek, down his chest, peeking out from the diamonds in his bodysuit. “You don’t want to do what?”

He steps forward, a predator stalking prey.

“You think you have a choice for what we do, Link? Bound by the thread of fate as we are?”

“Please,” Link says.

Another step. “Does my beauty intimidate you? My perfect form? Perhaps you know that our clash is doomed to be your end, stunning as I am in every aspect. Or perhaps you’re upset for another reason. A deeper reason. Last chance. Tell me where to find the gate, or I will soak the thread of fate that binds us crimson with your blood.”

Link draws his sword, helpless, lost. “Ghirahim,” he begs.

“You appeal to my pathos. But you forget that among my numerous qualities, the one I lack is mercy.”

How can that be, Link thinks, when Ghirahim has shown him mercy again and again? But there’s no time to ponder, because Ghirahim advances with the confidence of an army, two black swords materializing in his hands. Link recognizes them—one he has fought Link with before, the other displayed in the library of his home. No time, no time. Ghirahim slices downward. Link blocks with barely a breath to spare, an ice-cold bead of sweat cutting a line down his face. Strength he didn’t know he possessed rushes through his limbs, invigorating him to push the blades away.

Ghirahim strikes like a snake, calm and unbothered, while Link flounders. He feels one wrong step from collapsing, the vertigo nauseating, the unshakable heat that clings to his skin unbearable.

A flash of red glances across Link’s vision at the same moment a sharp edge slices into his cheek. Sobered by the pain, Link scrambles backward, away from Ghirahim’s relentless onslaught. A halo of black darts hover in the space between them. This, Link can handle. He’s outsmarted them before. His cheek stings hot but the darts are spinning toward him, the red glow merging into a deathly circle. Link flourishes his blade in the same pattern, ready to knock them all to the ground.

Something pierces his left arm. Link shouts, surprised, the echo of Ghirahim’s laughter bouncing off the walls. The darts changed direction. How can they do that? How can it be that Ghirahim is even stronger than Link thought? The blades, again, spinning toward him. Deflect, step back. Parry, move in for a strike. Blocked. Ghirahim laughs. He’s toying with Link. He’s enjoying this. Link doesn’t want to fight. Doesn’t want to hurt Ghirahim. His arm hurts. His cheek is on fire. His heart pumps ice into his body.

Duck, swing, miss.

Clash, cut, swipe.

Black fingers grip the Goddess Sword. Link rips the blade free. He will never let Ghirahim take Fi from him again.

Ghirahim approaches lazily, a cruel smile on his face. At ease, always at ease, while Link shatters to pieces. He shouldn’t have thought things would be different. He shouldn’t have believed whatever time they’ve spent together would mean something to a demon. He’s too dizzy. Unsteady. He has to fight back. He has to get to Zelda.

Fight back. Fight hard.

Lunge; a glancing scrape against Ghirahim’s side. Contact at last. Ghirahim’s smile is gone again. He spins and brings his blades down and Link twists out of the way, timing it perfectly so that he has a clear path to Ghirahim’s back, but the Demon Lord is faster. Their blades meet again. Louder, harder, the clang of metal ringing in Link’s head.

A sword is made of steel so it will not break. A sword is made of steel so it will not break. A sword is made of steel so it will not break. A sword—

An animalistic snarl laced with pain jolts Link back to awareness. The grisly image swims into view. Blood oozes from Ghirahim's shoulder where the Goddess Sword is buried, evaporating into tiny diamonds before it hits the floor. Link nearly lets go of the hilt, but Ghirahim is abruptly crouched at the other end of the chamber, clutching his wound, teeth bared. There is no trace of the teasing whimsy he always keeps swirling on the surface. Red seeps between his fingers.

A hook caught in Link’s gut lurches painfully. “Ghirahim—”

“You insolent whelp,” Ghirahim snarls, shivers waterfalling down Link’s back. “You sniveling brat. You’re not even standing straight. It shouldn’t matter how powerful your sword is, you’re nothing. Worse than nothing, a human. A human child.”

Link says, wearily, “We look the same age.”

“Silence!”

At last, the fog starts to clear from Link’s mind. He stares at Ghirahim, his adrenaline dimming.

Ghirahim doesn’t seem to notice. “You have awakened a wrath that will burn for eons. This I swear, Link, no matter how long it takes, I will drag you into an eternity of torment!”

“And my ears will bleed from the sound of my own screams,” Link says. “Yes, yes. Are you embarrassed?”

A rigidness lends itself to every part of Ghirahim. It’s in his posture, in his expression, in his air. “How,” he says, “how dare you?”

“You were angry when I struggled against Moldarach because your reputation was on the line and your name on my swordsmanship. Now you’re upset because I managed to graze you while dizzy?”

“I could kill you where you stand, you filthy scamp!”

Link says, “You could. You won’t.”

The rigidity, again. As if Link cut him a second time. For several, tense seconds, they stare at each other. A sweep of blue exits the Goddess Sword.

“Master,” says Fi, “the sun has set. You have little time remaining to safely call your loftwing.”

A spell breaks—or maybe is cast. Unspoken, they both relax. Link sheaths his sword and reaches into his pack. Experience has taught him he needs to keep more than a few red potions on hand. He tosses one to Ghirahim, who catches it instinctively, stares at it like it’s poison. Link uncorks his own and tips it down his throat in one smooth motion. Heat spreads across the lacerations as they start to heal.

“Well, drink it,” Link says.

Ghirahim exhales slowly. “I do not need your pity.”

“It’s not pity I’m giving you.”

After a pause, Ghirahim says, “The sun saved you tonight. You got lucky.”

“I know.”

“After that insult I would have killed you.”

“I know.”

“You,” Ghirahim says, “are infuriating.”

Link smiles. “I know.”

The black web of lines fade from Ghirahim’s face and body, his arms bleeding back to their cool gray hue. He’s gloveless, flexing his fingers as if to loosen his frustration. Link remembers those fingers closing around his throat.

“You underestimated me based on my condition,” Link says. “You should know better.”

The ridge where Ghirahim’s brow would be lifts, a fine line creasing into his forehead. “How amusing. The sky child, playing at being the teacher. Why would I waste energy on an opponent who wobbles where he stands?”

“How’s your shoulder?” Link asks, and manages to keep most of his snark out of his voice.

“Healing already, without your potions. Take it back, you’ll need it for when I run you through later.”

Link takes the bottle. Their fingers brush, but the moment is too brief to categorize before Ghirahim pulls away. He really is healing already. The wound on his shoulder isn’t bleeding anymore. A heavy silence settles over them like dust drifting to the ground.

“You’ve been busy,” Ghirahim says. “Not interested in making time for your lessons?”

“I didn’t realize you missed me that much,” Link says.

Ghirahim lets out a sharp laugh. “Your arrogance would almost be impressive if it weren't so horribly misplaced.”

Ghirahim’s skin is at once whole. Link stares at the perfect curve of his shoulder, the soft-looking flesh that he knows is hard as diamonds. They’re standing close. Something’s caught in Link’s throat. He wets his lips. “I called for you. You didn’t come.”

Link will not look at whatever face Ghirahim is making. He won’t. “What do you mean, you called for me?”

“In the sand sea. I called your name.”

A pause. “Of course I didn’t come, you catastrophic imbecile,” Ghirahim says. “I haven’t been anywhere near there in months. Surely you don’t think I can hear you across leagues of wilderness? What kind of fairy tale nonsense do they teach you on Skyloft? It’s a wonder any of you Hylians survive past infancy.”

The tips of Link’s ears burn. Teach him to expect a tender moment from a demon. He needs air but his lungs won’t cooperate. “I can’t tonight, anyway. I’m here for a reason.”

“Yes, to craft your sword into something worthy enough to open the gate of time.” Hard fingers grip Link’s chin, tilting his nose until their eyes meet. Link really can't breathe. “The location of said gate being a secret, of course. Link. You’re sure I can’t convince you to tell me? What I have planned for your adorable friend won’t hurt her much.”

It’s a tease, but the wrong move. Link swats Ghirahim’s hand away. “I’ll kill you if you ever touch Zelda.”

“And he grows claws at last,” Ghirahim murmurs. The softness in his eyes is not fond, exactly. But it’s certainly not mocking. “It seems those flames are doing some good for more than just your sword.”

They are. Link can feel it. The flames are reforging the Goddess Sword, making it into an entirely new, powerful weapon. A blade that will fight back the Imprisoned. “Ghirahim,” Link says, “you would have won today if the sun hadn’t gone down. The heat got to me. A few more minutes and I would have been at your mercy.”

Ghirahim's lips part softly. “An intriguing thought.”

Link tries not to flush. He isn’t sure he succeeds. “What I’m trying to say is, you would have won. But when we fight next, the victory is mine.”

“Not just claws,” Ghirahim says. “Teeth, too. We’re overdue for a… friendly spar. Don’t worry, Hero. I’ll stay close by so I can come when you call me next.”

“I’m headed to the inner chamber,” Link says, hoping Ghirahim won’t go. “You could come with me. Watch the final reforge.”

“Eager to keep me around?” Ghirahim chuckles. “I’ll pass. The sacred flames aren’t made for creatures like me.”

“I will, then?” Link says, cursing the desperate edge in his voice. “See you soon?”

Ghirahim watches him. Grins. Link is utterly breathless. "Oh," Ghirahim says, “undoubtedly.”

Chapter Text

Din’s Flame is a garish ruby that casts horrifying shadows across the walls of the innermost sanctum. Link watches it dance for a few long moments, absorbed in the silence of solitude.

“Master,” says Fi, “place the Goddess Sword into the flames.”

Now that Ghirahim is gone, Link is alone again. But really, Link has been alone since the tornado ripped Zelda from him. He’s found friendship in unlikely places on his quest—the kikwis, the mogmas, even Groose—but the hours after Zelda’s disappearance turned into days, then weeks. It’s been months, now. The second-long glances he’s caught of her have not been enough to fill the hole she left in his chest. Not too far from half a year since last they spoke, the key to seeing his best friend is right in front of his eyes. All he must do is bathe the Goddess Sword in the final sacred flame, and he will be worthy at last to open the gate of time.

So why is he hesitating?

“Master,” repeats Fi, “place the Goddess Sword into the flames.”

Old doubt, sickeningly familiar, trickles into Link’s limbs. Surely the hero would have no hesitation. Surely the hero would have found Zelda already. Would Pipit have completed this quest long ago? Would anyone else?

“You are troubled,” says Fi.

Link swallows. “Just thinking.” He slips the blade between two flickers of fire, but the fires comes to greet him, hungry for the sword. No, for Fi. It bursts around her, absorbing her into a writhing ball. The fire darts around the chamber, bouncing from one wall to the next until at last it splashes at Link’s feet, Fi in its center. She looks up at him, down one one knee, her expression betraying nothing. No pain, no fear, no concern. A sword is made of steel so it will not break, and a sword is not a person. Link holds the Goddess Sword out again, proffering the long, sharp edge. The fire breaks into parts, zipping into the blade, scorching the metal. It smells of summer, sun-dried fruits and sweetened ice treats, edged with the acrid tang of coal.

When all the flames are spent, Link watches in awe as the sword’s metal changes from its dulled steely blue to a pure, unfettered white. Energy crackles from it, rippling over Link in wave after wave of holy light.

Link twirls it, perfect song of metal slicing through every part of him. The sword is perfect. Flawless. Its weight fits comfortably in Link’s palm, the blade thrumming with power. Who is he to doubt Hylia’s will? With a sword like this Link could beat back the darkest villains, the most corrupted of fiends.

A glow, on the back of his hand. This happened with Farore’s Flame. Nayru’s, too. At last with Din, the image of the Triforce is complete. Link stares at it, in awe of its light.

“Fi,” Link says, at the same moment her voice chimes in his mind.

Master, there is a disturbance at the sealed grounds. We must return immediately.

Link goes cold. He sheaths his new, brilliant sword, his destiny, and makes for the exterior. Once hot air hits his face, the canyons far below alight with pulsing orange, he puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles. The volume of it pierces distant peaks, several small flocks of birds taking to the sky in fright as his crimson loftwing soars down from above, cawing. Nervous sounds. It’s getting too dark to fly.

“Just one trip,” Link promises, swinging his leg over the loftwing’s back. “Get me as close as you can.”

He’d forgotten the exhilaration of soaring, but there’s no time to admire it. The flight from Eldin Volcano to the sealed grounds is not a short one; the surface is enormous, inconveniently so when there’s somewhere to be. The horizon is a brushstroke of navy and coral, jagged mountains then dense forests. Twilight descends in a blink, the ground below him an ocean of black. Link’s loftwing caws nervously. It’s getting too late.

“I’ll get off here,” he says over the wind’s roar. “Thank you.”

Master, I do not advise—

But Link is falling, arms thrown wide, descending like a knife into the dark. The last breath of color winks out and Link freefalls, hurtling toward a ground he cannot see, heart thumping in his chest. He’s somewhere above Faron Woods, though it’s impossible to tell which part. Link squints, trying to make out how fast the surface is rushing up to meet him, but there’s no discernable way to measure the distance. This is why he doesn’t fly at night. There’s no torch that would survive the fall down, no cities like Ghirahim’s to light the world below, no way at all to tell if he’s one second too late to deploy his sailcloth. But he can’t risk a slow float down, either.

Abruptly, the trees are far too close.

Deploy your sailcloth, says Fi, but Link is already unfolding it, breathing hard, sure he had a few more moments. The woods slope downhill. Sailcloth splayed, air catches the ridge and Link jolts to an ungraceful drift, boots brushing a little too hard against treetops, but in the next moment the ground drops much, much farther out beneath him. He’s above the pit. But even in the dark, it looks wrong. Full.

A rattled, grating roar vibrates through Link from below, echoing across the forest.

The Imprisoned has escaped.

The roar cuts to a chilling gurgle as an explosion lights up the pit, outlining the Imprisoned in fiery red. A bomb flower?

“Ha ha!” a familiar voice cries from the end of the pit closest to the temple. “That’s right! I don’t care how beefy you are, bud—you’re gonna stumble under the might of the Groosenator!”

Groose’s secret project. His eyes adjusting to the light, Link squints at the Imprisoned, fallen on one of the spiraled paths leading to the temple. He has arms where he didn’t before, massive cylinders of impossible might and weight. Link is almost right above him, an ache settling into his biceps from the rough deployment, heart still beating like it wants to burst.

“Groose!” Link cries.

A ridiculous pompadour peeks up from behind a shadowed structure. “Link?”

“Keep it up! I can’t do this without you!”

A pause. “Damn right you can’t! Get that Imprisoned-thingy’s spike! You want another rain of fire, just shout!”

The Imprisoned’s shape is clear now, the dulled glimpse of silver where his massive head lies on the ground clear. Link steers the cloth to the left, sucks in a putrid lungful of air, and lets go of the sailcloth, reaching for the hilt of his sword.

Later, exhausted, breathing hard, bleeding from a shallow cut on his calf, but victorious, Link lifts the Goddess Sword toward the sky, waits until it fills with holy purple light, and strikes downward to reseal the imprisoning spike.

The walk up the spiral path is a long one, the nighttime shadows deep. Groose meets him with a quarter of the way to go, beaming stupidly. “You make a pretty good assistant, Link, duh huh huh,” Groose half-chuckles. “Good thing I finished the Groosenator before Old Nasty woke up again. Did you finish doing the thingy with your sword?”

“Yeah,” Link says. “I’m going to open the gate.”

Groose’s eyes are immediately wet. “And you’ll find Zelda?”

“I hope so.”

Groose sniffs. “I miss her. Ugh. I was gonna ask her to go to the Lumpy Pumpkin after the Wing Ceremony. She loves the desserts there, you know.”

Link did know that, but he hadn’t realized Groose did too. “You still can,” Link says. “Let’s open that damn thing and get her back.”

The old woman is not relieved to see Link after so many weeks away, but she isn’t indifferent, either. “You’ve done it, then?” she asks, her wobbly voice made louder by the decrepit temple’s open space.

Link holds out the sword in silent answer.

“Then it is time. Do not fear, Link. The reunion you have fought so hard for lies just beyond the door. Go.”

Link stands on the raised platform. A Skyward Strike, and the stone morphs and twists, the gate of time flickering to life before him. It’s much larger up close than it looked from the Mining Facility. A pearlescent, translucent amethyst, it spins and stops like a gear shifting spokes. It even smells like spring, like new grass and budding lavender.

Link nods at Groose. “Want to come?”

Groose’s grin softens. “Oh,” he says, “um. Nah. I think I’ll hang out here. That stupid monster doesn’t know when to quit. One of us has gotta stay out here to keep the world from crumbling to bits. Might as well be me. And someone needs to look after the old girl.” Groose begins the long walk to the doors that lead to the pit, maybe to tend to the Groosenator, and keep his silent vigil on the Imprisoned. He stops, turning his head not quite past his shoulder. “Hey. When you see Zelda, tell her I said, ‘What’s up?’”

Groose pushes through the doors, the darkness outside enveloping him, until he’s vanished.

Link approaches the gate. Fingertips graze the surface, which is almost like water. Smooth and cold. The center vanishes into a black portal, jaws of the gate extending infinitely into the void, twisting and churning in mechanical movements. He can’t wait any longer. He runs.

Inside the gate, there’s nothing. No scent, no wind. It’s oppressively, unnaturally still. Link’s boots make no sound at all as he runs through the curved tunnel. He runs for hours. He runs for only moments. The other end of the gate appears, a perfect image of the temple he just left. Link bursts from the gate and sound and air returns in a rush of sensation.

Impa stands at the bottom of the platform, graceful always.

“Link,” she says. “At last. I’ve been expecting you. You’re not late, in case you were curious.”

“It’s good to see you,” Link says, surprised to find it’s true. This is the woman who has been looking after his best friend. “Where’s Zelda?”

“Not far. You and I must speak first.” Impa crosses her long, slender arms around her waist, white braid swinging softly by her cheek. “This is the Temple of Hylia, built long before your time. Here, the Goddess Hylia has only just sealed away Demise and sent her children skyward. That is your home, Skyloft. You have shown remarkable courage and guile, shedding blood for the person you look to defend. Your deeds have not gone unnoticed. I was wrong to judge you. You must have many questions, Link. But for now, go beyond those doors. She’s waiting.”

Link can hardly breathe. He ascends the stairs to the doors, always closed to him in the future, slips between the opened space and there, bathed in a pillar of golden, glorious light, is her.

Zelda.

His goddess, his friend.

“Link,” she says, in that soft way of hers, and it sounds so sad. “You’ve come a long way.”

Words stick in his throat. His waterline burns. He takes a step toward her.

“I imagine Fi told you everything,” Zelda continues. “That I’m the goddess reborn in mortal flesh. That you’re the chosen hero Hylia—that I —picked to be my champion.”

He nods, still unable to speak. Somehow, he knows. He knows what she’s going to say.

Zelda looks toward the fissure in the temple ceiling, the light illuminating her. “In this time, the Demon King Demise has at last been sealed after a grueling battle. But once Impa took me here, I realized the truth: the seal will not hold. It’s why Hylia sacrificed her immortality and her powers. It’s why she created Fi to guide you. Besides Hylia, there were other gods. You’ve seen the Triforce—it is an ultimate, sacred power, only able to be unlocked by one who possesses courage, wisdom, and power. Demise sought to take the Triforce for himself, and in doing so laid waste to the land. He must never be allowed to have it, Link. It grants the holder’s deepest desire.”

The Triforce. Link has seen it. Appearing in pieces on the back of his hand, on the desert skyline, tucked away and etched into ancient stone, drawn in faded paintings. He thought it a symbol of Hylia. Not an ancient power that could change the world.

Zelda looks at him once more. “You are the only person who can claim the Triforce and stop Demise. I knew it, millennia ago. I know it now. I would have no one else for my hero. Kneel, Link.”

He kneels, wordless, hot tears cutting tracks down his cheeks. Zelda holds a hand out to him and he takes it, overcome by the weight of his destiny. Zelda lets out a soft breath. “Valiant hero, one who possesses courage, wisdom, and power. You have embodied each of these aspects in your quest to find this place, and for your loyalty, I bestow upon you my blessing. May it give both you and your sword the strength to drive back the abomination that threatens these lands!”

The soft, white-gold glow of the Triforce burns into the back of his hand again. Whole, at last. Link and Zelda stare at it.

“There,” Zelda murmurs. “Proof you are the hero of legend. Stand now. Draw your sword.”

Link does, and the guard splays wide and glorious, the symbol of the Triforce etching before his eyes into the white metal of the blade. At last, its final form.

“That,” Zelda says, “is now the Master Sword. It was forged long ago for your hand alone. Within it is the power to drive back the demon.”

She slips away from him once again, one moment there, the next across the room. Her back to Link, she heaves a heavy, silent sigh.

“I owe you an apology. The one who can wield the Triforce’s supreme power is one who has an unbreakable spirit. Hylia knew—no, I knew—that if Zelda was in danger, you would stop at nothing to save her—me. I used you. Link. I am so sorry. But I wouldn’t change anything I have done, if it means winning the war against Demise at last.”

Zelda turns, and Link is not the only one who is crying.

“I must remain here, in deep slumber, to hold the seal imprisoning Demise. When he is vanquished, I may awaken at last.”

A shock of brilliant light erupts around her, like a beacon of fire. Link runs to her, not ready to let go, but the surface of the light is hard like stone, and Zelda is trapped inside.

I was always the one to wake you up when we were kids, her voice sounds, floating in and out of the physical world. Will you do me a favor, sleepyhead? When Demise is gone, will you wake me up?

“Zelda,” Link says, choked. “Zelda, Groose says ‘What’s up?’”

He swears she smiles, but the light fades, and the sleeping Zelda encased in crystal looks at peace. Something else catches his eye through the blur of tears; another kind of crystal. The kind Batreaux would want, shimmering softly at his feet.

Zelda is grateful for the news.

Link returns home. It doesn’t take too long to find the next part of his task. Finish learning the Song of the Hero and unlock the Triforce. The dragons will have the pieces of the song. Link needs to travel back to the forest, the desert, the mountain. Over and over, round and round. There’s no end to this.

The Triforce is hidden on Skyloft, and Link wishes with fierce abandon it would just reveal itself to him. All those things Zelda said about his destiny, about Link being the only one who can claim the power. Link believes her. But he doesn’t believe in himself.

The feeling of inadequacy chases him all through the morning and afternoon, doubt growing like weeds in his heart. Link climbs the goddess statue and sits on the little platform so that he can see the ocean of clouds beyond Skyloft’s edge. He turns the Master Sword over in his hands, taking in each new detail.

“Fi,” Link says at last.

Fi appears. “Yes, Master.”

He swallows. “All those things Zelda said about me. That I’ve claimed each aspect of the Triforce. Could she be wrong?”

Fi is silent for a moment. She is rarely silent after a question has been asked. “It is possible,” says Fi at last. “The Goddess Hylia is infallible, but in her mortal form, Zelda is not. Though it is unlikely.”

Link lets out a long breath. “She believes in me. But what if I…”

He trails off, and Fi says nothing.

Link tightens his grip on the hilt, hard enough his fingers tingle. “What if someone else was a better choice?”

“We have spoken about this,” says Fi.

“I know.”

A sword is made of steel. Right now, Link feels made of glass. Zelda’s loss is too raw. He’s so confused. He wishes someone else could be the hero. Wishes he was strong enough not to doubt. Wishes he felt the part he’s been cast to play. Link slips the Master Sword back into its scabbard and stands.

“I’m going to visit Batreaux. I have a crystal for him.”

Batreaux is, as always, delighted to receive company. Link politely refuses his offer of tea and holds out the crystal from Zelda.

“Oh my,” Batreaux says with a gasp. “Oh my, my, my. Is that what I think it is? This one feels different somehow, more… potent. Oh dear, Link, do you think this will be it? The last thing I need to finally be human?”

“I think so,” Link admits. “This crystal is special.”

Batreaux’s scary eyes are filled with tears. Everyone is crying today. “How can I ever repay you?”

“Live a good life,” Link says, and places the crystal into Batreaux’s overlarge hands.

“Something is happening, I can feel it. I’m—oh dear!”

A poof of violet smoke. Link watches in astonishment as a figure emerges from the dense cloud. It worked. Batreaux is—

Well, he looks the same. But gone are the large, leathery wings. Gone are the twisted, orange horns. The hue of his eyes has changed from yellow to white, his skin from an ashen indigo to a pale peach. Batreaux is human.

“Goodness!” Batreaux cries. “How do I look? Link? Do I look un-scary?”

“Very,” Link lies gently. “You look like a Hylian.”

Batreaux lets out an ear-shattering wail, the foundation of his little hut trembling. “I knew I would be human one day! I knew it! Oh, how can I ever thank you enough? You’re a hero, Link!”

Link flinches, but Batreaux doesn’t notice. He stays a while longer, pats Batreaux’s back to congratulate him, wishes him well. It’s been a long day. Link hasn’t slept much. But he finds himself climbing the ladder back to Skyloft’s cemetery, wandering to the island’s edge, and letting himself freefall toward the surface.

Once again, nighttime approaches. There’s enough light in the sky to make his way safely to the ground, but Link doesn’t bother to call his loftwing. He lets the wind take him, his body going numb with cold as he slips through the dense layer of clouds and comes out on the other end with dew on his chin.

Link is Hylia’s Chosen Hero.

The Hero of Legend.

The one who will seal Demise.

The one for whom the Master Sword was crafted.

He can be those things, even if he doesn’t believe he is. All he needs is one person to believe in him, one person to prove his worth to. And there is one thing Link has improved on more than anything, one singular skill he is confident in. He knows the perfect way to prove that, at least, to himself.

And to Ghirahim.

The sailcloth guides Link gracefully to the ground. He’s never been in this area before. It’s rocky and thick with tall trees. The air tastes like rain. This isn’t Faron Woods, not exactly. The forest there is thin and bright. This place is secret, dark, sacred. The height of the trees rivals that of the goddess statue, but they’re razor-thin. Link folds the cloth and tucks it into his pack as the last of the sunlight fades to blue. He draws the Master Sword. Doesn’t even have to tell Fi what he’s scrying for.

The hilt pulses like a heartbeat. Close enough to hear, Link wagers.

He lowers the blade. “Ghirahim.”

Usually, Ghirahim makes Link wait. A small act of rebellion. Tonight, he appears in his shower of diamonds in seconds. The very sight of him is a balm to a wound Link didn’t know he had. Not even Hylia knows what her champion has endured during his quest to fulfill her will. But Ghirahim does. It’s like coming home.

“There you are,” Ghirahim purrs. “I’ve been waiting.”

Link says, “So have I.”

Chapter Text

The forest canopy is not thick like the one in Faron Woods. The needle-like trees give grace for moonlight aplenty from the waxing celestial body up above. Not quite the silver splendor of the full moon, but the whitish beams that filter through branches are enough to see by.

Link tests his footing in rocky soil and finds to his dismay it crumbles beneath his boots. Not the best traction for a swordfight.

“Stalling?” Ghirahim tsks. “Typical Hylian behavior. At least you know you’re outmatched.”

Link doesn’t take the bait. He’s spent enough time with Ghirahim’s insults to know to ignore them. Besides, the gap between Ghirahim and Link’s skill with blades grows narrower by the day, and after their fight at the sacred flame, Ghirahim must know it. Link glances up at Ghirahim and smiles softly, then goes back to testing his footing on the loose ground.

“I am curious to see how you do without heat stroke muddling your senses,” Ghirahim continues. He’s standing roughly ten paces downhill. It’s a gentle slope, only noticeable when Link observes the forest as a whole. There’s an energy to the air here, charged with nameless mysteries. Link drinks in a fresh breath, the scent of pine filling his lungs. “How will the chosen hero do with a mind as sharp as his new blade?”

“Pretty well, I think,” Link says.

Ghirahim’s smile is etched in stone. “Confidence. It’s a good look on you.”

Link clears his throat, feeling a little warm.

“The weapon makes the soldier,” Ghirahim says. “I would see your upgrade. You may not know this about me, Link, but I consider myself something of an expert when it comes to swords. Show me.”

Link draws the Master Sword. The blade sings as it exits the sheath, white metal aglow in patches of moonlight. It’s a little longer than before, perfectly balanced, expertly weighted. Link twirls the sword a few times, the soft whoosh of air cleaving around the edge sounding across the forest.

“Praise be given where praise is due,” Ghirahim says. “It’s lovely. You’re finally using a sword that’s almost worthy of you.”

Bemused, Link says, “Almost? You’re hard to please.”

“Oh, I’m not saying this out of petty jealousy or simple insults. I mean it when I say it’s almost worthy. For all immediate appearances it’s nearly perfect, but there’s something…” Ghirahim pauses. Chews on his thought. “Incomplete.”

“And I suppose you know what it is?”

Ghirahim laughs. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

Link frowns. “How do you propose we—”

Diamonds, empty space, and the Master Sword is plucked from Link’s hand. Much closer than he was a moment ago, Ghirahim holds it aloft. “Now, let me get a good look—”

Ghirahim’s pupils shrink, his lips parted in a silent gasp, and in no more time than it takes to blink, Ghirahim practically throws the sword at the ground and shrinks back.

It all happens so fast, Link doesn’t understand what went wrong.

“That sword. What the hell is in those flames?”

Link picks up the Master Sword. Ghirahim, a safe distance away, holds his hand behind him like he’s been burned. Maybe he has. “She has Hylia’s blessing. The blade is filled with a holy light that demons revile. Even you, I guess.”

“Revile?” Ghirahim laughs, harsh and disjointed. “Another one of the goddess’s tricks. Enough talk. It’s time for your lesson.”

“Wait.” Link sheaths the blade again. His heart thumps at a quickened pace. “I, uh.”

“What now?”

Link swallows. “I wanted to… It’s been so long since we saw each other. At night, I mean. When you’re not trying to kill me.”

“An oversight I will consider remedying.”

Nerves make finding the words hard. Link flexes his fingers. This is dumb. Ghirahim isn’t even going to like it. “I have something for you.”

“An eternity of anticipation?” Ghirahim says boredly.

Link reaches into his pocket, feeling the ridges of the rupee-sized item bite into his palm. He takes it out and opens his hand to Ghirahim before he can change his mind, presenting one singular fireshield earring. “For you,” he says. “I only need one to keep the heat off.”

Ghirahim’s eyes slip to Link’s bare right earlobe. “What trickery is this?”

“Not a trick. A present. I see how much care you put into your jewelry and accessories, and I just—I thought it would suit you.”

It was a thought that came to him in the middle of the night, how the orange lacquer of the fireshield earrings would look complimentary against Ghirahim’s ashen skin. He cuts a stunning figure in color.

Ghirahim stares at the earring a moment longer. “A hand me down?” But there’s a tremor in his voice, barely stronger than the shifting of rock beneath Link’s shoes. “Couldn’t even get me something new? I suppose I might as well take it. I don’t need shielding from fire, though. You do know that, yes?”

“I know. I just thought you’d like the color.”

“It’s not horrendous,” Ghirahim allows, plucking the earring from Link’s hand. He holds it into a moonbeam, turning it left, right, examining it. “I suppose orange would suit my color palette better than blue.”

Ghirahim unclasps the blue gem from his ear in one swift motion, slipping the fireshield earring in its place. He flicks it, hums.

“Well then, sky child. How do I look?”

“Good,” Link says truthfully, other words turned to goop in his mouth.

They watch each other for several moments. Ghirahim opens his mouth, hesitates. “To think Hylia’s lapdog is the second person to give a gift to the great Demon Lord, Ghirahim. That string of fate has twisted around us strangely, hasn’t it?”

“You’ve only received two gifts? In your whole life?” This rare piece of truth from Ghirahim is as disarming as it is tragic, but the smile on Ghirahim’s painted lips tells Link that he doesn’t see it as such.

“Please, as if your paltry bit of jewelry could compare to the splendor of a gift from my master.” Ghirahim laughs, arms crossed easily over his chest. Link traces Ghirahim’s hand as it flits back up to touch his new earring.

Link speaks around the lump in his throat. “A gift from the demon king must have been a mighty one. Especially for his general.”

“Of course it was. As beautiful and elegant as anything.” Ghirahim throws an arm out wide, a black sword materializing into his grip. Link recognizes it. It’s the sword that was on display in Ghirahim’s home, and the one he fought Link with most recently. Too precious to wield unless needed. “Stunning, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Link admits. The sword, curved and obsidian black, is as mysterious as it is attractive. Link is no smith, but after witnessing the Goddess Sword reforge into the Master Sword, he’s come to appreciate the finer details of an excellent blade. Ghirahim’s gifted sword is thin, sleek, needlelike. Perfect for him.

“It’s one of a kind.” Ghirahim twirls it. It doesn’t make a sound, silent as an empty room. “Fashioned from my own flesh.”

Link must have misheard. “What?”

“Demise and I stood victorious after having taken the southern half of the continent.” Ghirahim gazes with what looks akin to love in his gleaming eyes at the curve of metal. “It was a gruesome battle. I must have cleaved a thousand soldiers in two on my way through their ranks. Midway through my master’s conquest, nothing short of a massacre would do, nothing less than overwhelming, total victory.” His gaze snaps to Link. “You’ve had the displeasure of meeting Phantom.”

Link suppresses a shudder at their memory.

“They’re my second in command. Higher ranked than any other demon alive—save myself. Even so, with that much power under their name, my master chose to reward me. We stood atop a hill, looking down on the valley that has now become sand and dust. At the height of his power, Demise was breathtaking. Raw strength. You’ve never seen his equal.”

Link has never heard Ghirahim speak about Demise quite like this. It’s like a bucket of Lanayru Ants has been dumped onto his naked body, his limbs frozen in place. Each new word is a fresh pair of legs skittering over him.

“Oh, but Demise is magnificent, Link,” Ghirahim says. “To have all of his attention? The most powerful being in the world? Ecstasy.”

Link tries to swallow, can’t.

“We stood upon the hill, gazing out across the carnage I wrought in his name. He told me he had something to aid in the next fight, to increase my strength and become worthy of being his general. Then he tore  a rib from my chest.”

Link recoils, horrified.

“The pain was intoxicating. And as Demise held my bone, dripping with my blood, it bent to his will, fashioning itself into this very blade.” Ghirahim’s eyes are soft. “A gift fit for a king.”

Link tries to keep his voice level. “Did he say it was a gift?”

Ghirahim looks at him blankly. “What else could it have been?”

Torture. Subjugation. A reminder, after witnessing Ghirahim’s prowess on the battlefield, of who held the surface by the throat. Perhaps Ghirahim's skill rivals Demise's. Link sees the abuse plain as day. To rip out a rib? With his bare hand? To force Ghirahim to watch as Demise stole a piece of him, and orchestrated gratitude for returning it? For turning violence into kindness?

“What—what other gifts has he given you?” Link asks.

The sword vanishes and Ghirahim says, “There were no others.”

None? Link thought Phantom said Demise paid Ghirahim more heed than he did anyone else. And that heed began and stopped at mutilation. Link feels sick. He sees Ghirahim in a new light—not the evil, twisted spector who has haunted his quest, but as a victim to the worst being who has ever lived, consumed by the idea that being Demise’s right-hand man somehow meant Ghirahim had worth to him. And, he realizes, that's all Ghirahim wants. To be worthy. But Link knows the truth. No one and nothing has ever held any worth to Demise. Nothing ever will.

Ghirahim’s fingers reach toward the earring again, brushing the spiked ridge. “This is acceptable,” he says. “For the second gift I’ve been given.”

Link wills his throat to unstick. “It’s not a tool to make you stronger,” he says. “You don’t need the power it has, and it won’t aid you in any way. But you can think of it as thanks.”

“Thanks?” Ghirahim’s lilt is amused. “For what?”

“For everything you’ve done for me.”

The smile melts flat. Ghirahim is stone-still.

“You’ve gone out of your way to strengthen my skills and improve my swordplay,” Link says. “You saved my life when it would have been easier to watch me bleed. You stayed your blade when letting it fly free could have eliminated your one obstacle to reviving your master. You brought me soup,” Link adds. “I wouldn’t have gotten this far without you. Thank you.”

There are more words, but they don’t come. It doesn’t matter. He’s said the truth of it.

Emotion trickles into Ghirahim’s expression. Confusion, mainly. “Well,” he says, voice rough, “I could hardly have our final battle be boring, though we’re some time away from it yet. But enough chatter; you owe me a dance, Link, and I’m ready to collect. Do your worst.”

They take their places fifteen paces apart, Master Sword in Link’s hand, Ghirahim’s manipulated rib in his. It seems there will be no more stealing of Link’s blade from under his nose, not now that the very touch of it repulses Ghirahim. It’s an advantage Link fully plans to utilize as he and Ghirahim begin to circle one another, eyes locked.

Watch your opponent’s movements. Don’t be too obvious where you plan to strike. Be light on your feet. Be strong. Firm. Swift. And, Link recalls perhaps the most important lesson Ghirahim has taught him, fight like you have everything to lose.

Ghirahim strikes first. Link sees the split-second before he teleports across the gap; a single thin diamond, materializing before the others. Link blocks Ghirahim’s swing with one of his own, pushing on the hilt and forcing a stumble. Ghirahim’s whole body is tilted toward his left, so Link locks his eyes on Ghirahim’s face and doesn’t look away. Link lunges and Ghirahim makes to parry the strike aimed between his eyes, but Link keeps low to the ground and spins, smacking the flat edge of the Master Sword to Ghirahim’s waist.

Ghirahim rolls his eyes. “Don’t insult me by padding your blade. I’m not a kikwi.”

Link hits him on the other side with the flat edge, too. Ghirahim doesn’t find it amusing.

Link feels different. Perhaps the influence of Zelda’s blessing on the Master Sword has turned him into the hero he’s meant to be. Perhaps it’s seeing the orange earring swinging from Ghirahim’s ear and feeling it's weight on his own. Link is filled with light. He keeps his footwork in good form, glad he tested the soil when Ghirahim’s heel slips and he lets out a curse when Link taps the flat side of the Master Sword to his shoulder.

“You absolute brat,” Ghirahim growls, heatless. He sweeps his free hand through his hair, and Link doesn’t miss the way he lets his thumb brush against the earring yet again. The idea Ghirahim is secretly pleased with his gift is like a bolt of lightning in Link’s limbs, and he attacks again, energy renewed.

Metal meets metal. Sparks fly from a glancing slide off the sharp end of Ghirahim’s sword against a rock, turning the pale light red for a moment. The Master Sword’s sweet melody rings through the air, in time to the pounding of Link’s heart and the even draw of his breath. Ghirahim gets the next win. Cool, hard steel taps hard on Link’s thigh. The flat edge. Link meets Ghirahim’s grin with his own.

It’s a dance, of sorts. Beauty and peace and exhilaration all in one. They may not be equals yet, but it’s clearer than ever the gap has shrunk. One leap, and Link will meet Ghirahim on the other side.

He feints left and catches Ghirahim on the right, a laugh tumbling from his mouth as he digs his fingers into Ghirahim’s cool shoulder and they fall backward into a spongy bed of pine.

Link tosses a knee over Ghirahim’s hips, presses the flat edge of the Master Sword to Ghirahim’s throat, and is triumphant at last.

“Yield,” he says. “I have you.”

Ghirahim's genuine surprise is a touch of delight on his lips that turns wicked, the way it always does when he’s planning something outrageous. “Oh, perhaps, hero,” Ghirahim says. “But how long until you lose your edge?”

Link is about to ask what he means when Ghirahim’s lips part and his tongue—the one that haunted Link’s nightmares for days after their first meeting—slithers into the space between them and licks a hot, wet stripe up the side of Link’s face.

A scare tactic. Something meant to throw him off. But the shock that accompanied the length of Ghirahim’s tongue is not so mind-numbing the second time. Two can play this game.

Link asks, "How long until you lose yours?"

He leans forward until the heat of his own breath ghosts across his face when it bounces off Ghirahim, the press of the Master Sword between their chests. He’s too low to reach Ghirahim’s cheek without adjusting, so he drags his tongue up the side of Ghirahim’s neck instead, and only somewhat comes to his senses at the noise Ghirahim makes.

It’s a small, choked sound.

Link pulls back, expecting horror and disgust in Ghirahim’s eyes. Instead he sees… shock. Heat. Most startling of all, uncertainty. Link’s grip on the Master Sword loosens. Carefully, he sets it aside. The full expanse of Ghirahim’s throat is lovely, without the blade blocking it. Long and bare, muscle cording beneath the skin. He tasted the faintest bit salty, like flecks of the sea. Link can’t look away. Link wants to feel Ghirahim’s pulse under his tongue. Link is out of his mind.

The rough fabric of Link’s shirt tugs against his back, pressure on his shoulder blades. Ghirahim’s hand, fisted in the front of Link’s shirt, tugs again, his gaze unblinking.

Slowly, carefully, Link lowers his head.

The second press of Link’s mouth to Ghirahim’s throat feels like sin. He should not be doing this. But Goddess, he wants to.

Something is waking up inside of him.

Link draws little circles against Ghirahim’s skin with the tip of his tongue. Darkness obscures his vision as he lets his eyelids slide shut. Salt, again, barely there, a fine mist. The faint scent of cologne, floral and musky. Soil pressing into Link’s knee as he pushes closer, his torso flush against Ghirahim’s stomach. Link hasn’t kissed anyone in a long time, so his first few brushes of lip against Ghirahim’s throat are experimental, cautious. Link doesn’t know what to do with his hands so he digs his fingers into the rocks.

Link has spent most of his time from the age of puberty on ignoring the moments he let his eyes linger on Pipit or Professor Owlan, preferring instead to spend his time soaring through the skies dreaming of his wing ceremony. Link enjoys the attention he gets from Peatrice, even though he has no real interest in pursuing her. And there have been countless rumors and speculations about his relationship with Zelda since they were small. But while Link has been physically close to a handful people in the last few years, he’s never done anything quite like this.

He’s out of his mind. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, or why. Just that he wants to. Wants another noise out of Ghirahim’s mouth, another way to shock him.

Link parts his lips, air rattling from his lungs, abandons all thought, and scrapes his teeth over Ghirahim’s skin.

“Come on,” Ghirahim hisses, hot breath hitting Link’s ear, another yank on his shirt. “If you’re going to bite me then bite me. You can do better than that.”

Link bites.

“Harder.”

Harder.

Ghirahim shudders.

There is not a thought in Link's head. He soothes the indents his teeth leave behind with his tongue, kisses up the muscle in Ghirahim’s throat, sucks at the underside of his jaw. Heat rushes through him. Fingers tingle where they clutch at earth, heart pounding in his chest, blood boiling, roaring. Ghirahim is so beautiful. Otherworldly. Link has been looking at him for months and refusing to acknowledge it because Ghirahim is also his enemy, the servant of the creature Link must destroy, an agent of the darkness that would bring the world to ruin for nothing more than a kind word from his master. But right now, Ghirahim is just a boy who looks Link’s same age, clutching at Link’s shirt and whispering provocations, ammunition. Link doesn’t hear a word, only notes that the tone stays vaguely taunting, as if this is another lesson and Link is an amateur with no hope of improvement.

But, Ghirahim started this as a means to distract Link from his victory. This is a battle of another kind. Link drops his head low, to the point where Ghirahim’s neck connects to his shoulder, and sinks his teeth into the flesh, sucks and licks until Ghirahim’s free hand flies up to seize Link’s shoulder, another sound of unnameable quality stuttering past his lips.

“There,” Link murmurs into Ghirahim. “I wanted to hear that.”

Nails bite into Link’s muscle. The pain is clarifying. Some of the swirling fog in his brain settles. Link blinks down at Ghirahim, whose chest is rising and falling at a rapid pace, his mouth open and drawing harsh breath, his expression a mix of confusion and alarm. Link must not look any better. Ghirahim swallows, panting.

Ghirahim is flustered. Beside himself. Link’s world flips upside down. Warmth cascades low in his belly. He’s gone too far. This is more than another fight, another competition between them. This is dangerously close to something real, something intimate.

Maybe it still could be.

Link settles his gaze on Ghirahim’s lips. Goddess, but he wants it to be real. He shouldn’t. Can’t. Swordplay lessons with his enemy is one thing. But this…

Link swallows. “Tell me you don’t want me to kiss you. Tell me you don’t. And I won’t.”

Ghirahim goes very still.

They’re so close. Their breath mixes in the space between them. Moonlight dapples across their shapes, pale and white. There is no one in the world watching them. It would be so easy to lean down. But Link waits. A full ten seconds passes in agonizing listlessness.

“To the victor go the spoils,” Ghirahim says at last. “I yield.”

Diamonds.

Link’s torso thuds onto rocky forest soil. The rest of the night is long, cold, and quiet.

Chapter Text

“Goddess alive, Link,” Luv exclaims, one hand on her hip and the other stirring a massive green pot of stamina potion. “You need more potions? What in Hylia’s name are you doing out there?”

Link tries to look sheepish. “A bit of this and that.”

Luv’s unamused stare is what Link imagines a mother’s would be like, but so are the words that follow. “I hope you’re being careful. We all miss Zelda, but I’m sure she’ll be home from her trip soon.”

Zelda is thirteen thousand feet below them, sleeping in glass. She won’t come home until Link finishes his quest. The familiar pang of solitary pricks his chest. Link gives Luv his best smile. “I’m being careful. Thank you.”

Bottles refilled, Link weaves between patrons and picks up his freshly mended shield from Gondo, buys a new crop of bombs, and exchanges some items with Peatrice (as well as finally getting his mended shirt back) when Peatrice says, “What time can you come over for dinner, sweetie?”

Link drops his slingshot. “Huh?”

Peatrice giggles. “Dinner. You have to ask Dad for permission before you propose.”

“I’m—” Link looks over his shoulder for an escape. Batreaux is on the other side of the stuffy bazaar, laughing loudly with a few people. He’s made fast friends, despite his unique appearance. “Peatrice, I’m not sure I—well, I’m really sorry but I don’t—I think we, uh—”

Peatrice giggles again, but this one is less saccharine. It sounds genuine. “Relax, Link. I’m teasing. I know you’re not into girls.”

“You do?” Link asks, relieved. “Wait, how do you know—I mean, I’ve never said—”

“I’m observant. I think Fledge has a little crush on you, if you’re interested.”

Link says wearily, “Fledge has a little crush on everyone.”

Peatrice giggles a third time, leans against her counter and sets her chin in her hand, eyes sparkling. “True. But not everyone leaves Skyloft for days at a time and comes back having gained twenty pounds of muscle. You know you look crazy good, right? Maybe my own knight will come along soon.”

Link’s ears are hot. “I don’t look that different.”

“Ugh, don’t do that. Look in a mirror once in a while. You look good. You’ve filled out. That uniform suits you, and I mean that. Not interested in Fledge? Someone else on your mind? Who’s the lucky guy?”

Link’s whole face is hot. “Peatrice, it’s not like that.”

“Say that when you’re not blushing.” She pats his arm. “Okay, I’ve tortured you enough. Be safe out there, yeah? You mean a lot to everyone here.”

Link has the sneaking suspicion Luv has rallied the bazaar business owners for the sake of chastising him, which is oddly endearing. Since his quest to find Zelda began, Link has connected with Skyloft in a way he never thought was possible. Not before he was given the Goddess Sword and named the chosen hero.

Link shakes the thought away before it can turn dark with doubt. Focus. He’s so close to the end.

Link procured part of the Song of the Hero easily from Faron. She was eager to give it, actually, but still forced Link to swim around and collect individual notes for the score like a damn errand boy. Eldin, he hopes, will be easier. After everything Link has done, he deserves to have one part of this task be simple.

Clouds swirl below him as Link’s loftwing glides through the sky. It’s a nice day. Good weather. He’s rested and ready for more. So close to the end. So, so close. Link drinks in clean air, wind combing through his hair, rippling beneath his clothes. He will never not love this feeling. Above the gap that leads down to the volcano, Link pats his loftwing on the neck, smiling at its gentle caw, and leaps.

The sensation of temperature changing from cool to blistering is one that surprises him every time. It wraps around him as he plunges through clouds. It’s dark today. Rivers of sluggish lava glow like veins of fire far below. Ash the size of snowflakes swirl in superheated cross breezes. Something isn’t right. Link deploys his sailcloth, anxious for his feet to touch the ground.

The earth splits apart.

Rumbling, thickening ash and glowing embers. A horrible sound, like the world is shaking apart. Link twists in time to see the crater atop Eldin Volcano explode in a rain of molten rock.

“Fi!” Link shouts over the noise. “What do I do?”

Words, but he can’t hear them. A shower of jagged boulders flies right toward him, some as large as he is. There’s a lake of magma below his feet, the wind only pushing him farther over it. Panic, like none he’s felt. Death by the blade he would take any day to boiling in lava. He has to figure this out, has to move, to—

Darkness.

When Link wakes, the night is black as pitch. Hours, he thinks. He’s been out for hours. A milky film covers his eyes, lashes crusted at the corners. He rubs them clean and takes stock of his injuries. The back of his skull throbs horribly. His hip and back are tender, painful to move. Every joint in his body aches. The volcano erupted. He’s lucky he was close enough to the ground that he didn’t break over the rocks, or fall into a pit of lava and melt. The touch of death is a chill, uneasy thing. Link shivers and gets his bearings.

It’s late. Or maybe with how thickly ash has coated the heavens, it’s early. No way to tell.

“Fi,” Link says, “what time is it?”

This is not the first time after waking up from a deep state of unconsciousness that Fi hasn’t answered Link. But last time, he was in a bed. This time, he’s lying on his belly on a stone floor, solid rock walls on either side of him, a gate blocking the only exit. A cage. He’s in a cage.

“Shit,” Link murmurs. “Fi? Are you here?”

She’s not. In fact, there’s nothing in this tiny cell save Link and his knight uniform. His bag is gone. His wallet. His bombs. The beetle, clawshot, everything.

“Shit,” he murmurs again. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Link drags himself into a sitting position, wincing at the soreness radiating through his back. The round shape of a bokoblin hovers outside the cell door. Guarding him. Damn volcano. Nothing can be simple, can it? He can’t just collect the Song of the Hero and be on his way, no. He has to be knocked out by flying rocks and wake up in a cell. Once he gets to his feet he tests the walls. Impassible. He rattles the makeshift gate, only to have the bokoblin shriek and smack his fingers with the hilt of his sword. Link glares at it and rubs the pain out.

High up the wall is a slit of open rock where a sliver of sky peers down at him. It’s three grown men tall. No way to reach it. Link stares at it for a few minutes, tests a small outcropping with the tip of his shoe, only to have it crumble flat. Link lets out a heavy breath, backs all the way up against the gate, and takes a running leap. He doesn’t even make it halfway up the wall and, when he lands, the throbbing in his skull worsens. It’s so intense he doubles over and dry heaves, guts wringing themselves inside his belly. Nothing in there to throw up, at least. His throat is parched and scratchy. He may have swallowed smoke.

Every part of him smarts. It’s a miracle he survived the fall. Link did not come this far only to rot. He gets back to his feet. Back pressed against the bars. Breath shaky in his screaming lungs. Runs. Jumps. Falls, a second time.

The bokoblin shrieks at him again, banging his sword against the gate. A warning. They haven’t killed Link yet. Where have they taken his things? Why are they keeping him alive? Think. He has to calm down. Link sits to catch his breath. One guard. No gear save his chainmail shirt for protection. Maybe he can lure the bokoblin inside, use the element of surprise to steal his weapon. The thought of using any blade other than the Master Sword is an uncomfortable one, but needs must. Okay. He’ll fake being ill. But maybe the bokoblin will simply watch him suffer.

“Psst. Hey. Mister.”

A mogma head is sticking out of the ground. Link jumps.

“Can’t stay long. Those freaks are wreaking havoc all over the mountain. Figured you could use these.” The mogma dips below ground and resurfaces, tossing a pair of mogma mitts at Link’s feet.

“Thank you,” Link whispers.

“Give ‘em hell for us, Link. Gotta go—my nose says there’s treasure they’re hidin’.”

As suddenly as he appeared, the mogma is gone. Link deftly slips the mitts behind his back to hide them from view and counts to one hundred. It’s painful, waiting for his window. But if he’s not careful and his guard raises the alarm, whatever fate awaits Link may come swifter than he’s ready for. Minutes pass. The bokoblin’s shadowed head bobs. It’s falling asleep.

Not believing his luck, Link dons the mitts and works on widening the hole left behind by the mogma. Making friends with them was the right move, it seems. A lesson he’ll take to heart.

Link digs downward until he finds a narrow tunnel system. He hates going underground. Didn’t like it before, doesn’t like it now. It’s so claustrophobic in these dark, dry caverns, but they’re his only chance at getting out of here. He crawls, knees sore from loose stone. A sigh of relief tumbles from his lips when he finds an upward shaft at last. He sends a silent prayer of thanks for mogma kind and ascends.

Outside his rocky prison is chaos.

Eldin Volcano’s eruption disturbed more than just Link; bokoblins swarm the mountainside. New sentry lookout towers have been erected, bright spotlights sweeping across ash-covered pathways, more guards patrolling in pairs in the distance. Link tears himself from the opening and rolls behind a rock wall just as a spotlight passes over, pulse thundering.

A lazy river of lava meanders a short drop and slow death to his left. His hiding place is a shallow dip into the cliffside, bokoblin guards wandering the pathway at the top. The sentry tower’s spotlight keeps a tight circle. Getting caught in the beam will mean death, if those bokoblins have arrows. The timing has to be perfect. Link takes a deep breath.

A hand rests on his shoulder and a voice whispers into his ear, “Lost, are you?”

Link starts so badly he nearly tumbles off the ledge and into the lava. That same hand turns iron-hard and pulls him back, a second gripping his waist until Link sits heavy on a lap, chuckling ringing through his head.

“Ghirahim!” Link hisses.

“You share similarities to a flighty keese. So easy to startle.”

Link retreats from Ghirahim’s lap, fights against the heat sweeping up his neck that has nothing to do with lava. Ghirahim’s grin is a sight to behold. “Don’t sneak up on me like that! Hylia, you nearly got me killed.”

“If only,” Ghirahim laments. “You look a mess. How’d you get in this sorry state?”

“The eruption. I was flying down when it happened. I think a stray rock knocked me out.”

“And you actually allowed yourself to be parted from your blade? For shame.”

The spotlight nears. Link shrinks backward behind his fragile cover, his back pressing flush to Ghirahim’s chest. Don’t think about their last lesson. Don’t think about their last lesson. A sword is made of stone—no, sand—no, steel. Goddess, he’s a mess.

“I’m working on it,” Link murmurs. “I woke up in a bokoblin prison underground. I think they have my gear. And Fi.”

“Unless she fell into a river and melted,” Ghirahim says, easy as anything.

Link feels sick. Like he’ll throw up again. No. What if she—but he can’t have lost her. But he was over the lake when he passed out. His strap could have snapped and Fi fallen into the smelting, boiling stone. What if she’s—what if—

“Link.” Pressure on his arm. Grounding.

He’s dizzy from holding his breath in his panic. Link sucks in air, but it’s not enough to get the volcano to stop swaying.

“Oh, you poor, foolish creature. It was a jest. Fi is fine. I sense her.”

“You… you do?”

Ghirahim’s presence is a solid weight against Link’s back. “Yes. So calm down.”

“I thought—” Link swallows.

Ghirahim helps Link to his feet, brushing gray ash from his shoulders. “Don’t crumble to pieces now, mighty warrior. I still have use for you.”

His tone is a touch suggestive. Goddess, but it’s hot on this mountain. Link fights against the shame that threatens to consume him and peeks back at the sentry tower’s spotlight. Later. They can talk about what happened last time later. “I need to get my things. If the bokoblins have them, I have to get them back. Where are they?”

“Why should I know?”

Link sends a disbelieving look over his shoulder.

Ghirahim crosses his arms. “I can’t sense the precise location of everything you own, Link. I have better things to do than be your personal fetch boy.”

“Don’t bokoblins technically work for you?”

“In a manner of speaking. They’re loyal to the demon king, so they’re loyal to me.”

“So you should know where they put prisoners' confiscated belongings. Can’t you ask for them back?”

“I’d be overjoyed,” Ghirahim says flatly. “I’ve always wanted to reveal an illicit, unsanctioned truce with my enemy to the foot soldiers who serve me. I can’t see any negative consequences involved, can you?”

Link turns back to the tower. “Ass.”

A low chuckle. “I’m as much of a stowaway as you, tonight. I’ll get you to Fi. Secretly.”

That dangerous thought, again: Ghirahim standing with the light. Against Demise. Standing by Link’s side. He pictures it clearer than ever. Link waits for the spotlight to pass and the sentry to face away and bolts from his hiding place, racing across a narrow lip of dirt to sink behind the next bit of cover. Everything glows red and orange. Ghirahim appears beside him in his trademark shape.

“So limiting, to have to walk. How do you stand it?”

“Hush.”

The next opening is faster to come. Link picks his way across the volcano’s base, staying in shadow and listening for enemies. It’s a massive relief when Link finds the first stash of his things. The whip isn’t much, but it’s better than nothing at all.

“My, my, my,” Ghirahim says. “What’s that for?”

“I said hush.”

Piece by piece, Link’s items are assembled. It’s easier to sneak about than he thought it would be, though no less nerve wracking. Link sets all his gear into his recovered pack, ticking off a list in his head.

“My beetle.” He squints against the black and red landscape. “It’s still missing.”

There—a small chest atop a tall cliff, the lazy river bubbling below. A guard stands in front of it, the dim shape of a spear in its hands. A weak spot on the ground at the base of the cliff. Link sighs. It’ll be a long, dirty climb upward. He’ll have to make quick work of the bokoblin. Link tugs a mogma mitt onto one hand.

“What in the world are you doing?”

“I have to use the mogma tunnels to get up there. You don’t have to come.”

Ghirahim stares at the top of the cliff, disgust oozing from him in waves. “The mogma tunnels? Absolutely not. No, no, no. I’ll take care of it.”

“How—”

Ghirahim grabs Link’s arm and they are abruptly atop the cliff, diamonds fading from view. Ghirahim lifts a foot and taps the bokoblin guard’s chest, just enough to send it screeching toward its death in the river below. “Oopsie,” Ghirahim lilts. “I’m tired of sneaking around like a rat. Get your beetle and I’ll take us to Fi. Then we can get off this damned mountain.”

Link doesn’t argue. He’ll come back to meet with Eldin once the eruption has calmed down. A few days should be fine. Zelda would understand. He can’t be the hero who saves the world if he melts to death.

Link tucks the beetle into his pack and reaches for Ghirahim, their hands somehow slipping together. Link blinks, and the next thing he knows, it’s dark again. A cave, of some kind. The ceiling is cracked open, orangish light illuminating the spot where the Master Sword is stuck, point first, in the ground. Perfectly unharmed. Link sends silent thanks to the heavens that Fi fell here, where no one could touch her, and steps forward to claim his sword.

He grasps the hilt and pulls. The blade sings free.

Welcome back, Master. Cool and detached as always.

Link finds he doesn’t mind. “Same to you, Fi.”

You are injured. I recommend rest as soon as possible. There is a 66% possibility of detection if you stay here.

“We’ll wait it out somewhere else, then.” Link glances up to find Ghirahim where he left him partially obscured in the cavern’s shadows, a small crease between his brow bones. Ghirahim can’t hear Fi’s voice unless she’s outside the blade. He hadn’t realized. Link sheathes the sword. “We’ll get caught if we stay here. I can’t go back to Skyloft this late. Take us somewhere safe?”

Wordlessly, Ghirahim holds out a hand.

The volcano spins out of view. One moment Link is choking on smoke and the next he’s inhaling lungfuls of clean, forest air. The silted heat of the volcano’s blood lifts, too, leaving him in such a rush his teeth chatter. A rushing noise wraps around him like a blanket of ice. The disorientation fades, slowly. Three teleportations in a row is a few too many. Flecks of something cold his his face, and Link stifles a gasp at what he sees.

Their waterfall.

Ghirahim brought him to their waterfall.

The cave is peaceful. No thick fog of black covers Faron Woods, so moonlight ripples across the curtain of water, bright and warm and silver. The moon is full again, just like it was the night Ghirahim came for him here. It’s been over half a year since then. It feels like a lifetime.

Link sits against the cave wall with a sigh, aches and pains catching up to him. Ghirahim settles beside him. “We made it,” Link says. “It’s like another world here. Do you think the mountain will be like that for long?”

“No longer than a week. A few days, if you’re lucky. You’ll be back about your business soon.”

“And what business did you have there?”

“Tut tut. I didn’t ask for your business.”

Which means Ghirahim was there for him. Link swallows, his throat still raw. “How did you find me?”

Ghirahim doesn’t answer.

“Ghirahim?”

The silence is more comfortable than it should be. That should scare Link. “The string,” Ghirahim says at last. “I followed it to you. It hadn’t moved in hours.”

“It's something you can actually see?”

Ghirahim’s eyes are soft, focused on something in the empty space between them. There’s a tiny smudge of soot on his jaw. “Sometimes. It’s thin as spider silk. In the right light, I can catch a crimson glare. Like it’s reflecting the sun, even during night. A red string. A fate string.”

And he followed it to Link. To save him.

“Is that how you knew where Fi was, too?”

“Fi and I share a destiny that yet eludes me,” Ghirahim admits. “The string that binds us isn’t the same hue as the one that binds me to you.”

Link’s heart skips a beat, but Ghirahim doesn’t seem to notice his wording.

“There are others. Threads that appear in the palest hours of sunrise, visible only for moments before they slip from my sight again. Threads I can’t find the other end of.”

“Have you always been able to see them?”

“Yes,” Ghirahim says. “I used them to find my path forward. To find victory. Allies. Enemies.” A spell breaks. Ghirahim blinks, a new awareness in his gaze. He shoots Link an accusatory glance. “Good at making me spill my guts, aren’t you? I hadn’t meant to share any of that.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Of course you are. I spent a long time wondering who would be on the other end of this string. This delicate spider’s silk thread that looked as though it may snap in a breeze. To think, it was you all along. Across millennia. You may not see the string. But perhaps you were also searching for the other end.”

A lump, in his throat. Goddess.

Ghirahim’s gaze meets Link’s. “You’ve ash all over your face.”

“So do you,” Link returns, and laughs a little when Ghirahim’s expression twists into one of displeasure. “It’s not much. I’ll get it.”

Link lets the pad of his thumb linger on the knob of Ghirahim’s jaw, memories of their last sparring match flowing into his body, filling it with fire. Ghirahim’s chest is unnaturally still. Link brushes the soot away, and keeps brushing. The fireshield earring sways on Ghirahim’s ear as he tilts his cheek into Link’s palm. Link traces the curve of Ghirahim’s jaw, touch feather-light, breath shallow. He drags his finger around the inside of the earring, gaze softening as he takes in the hue of orange against gray skin.

“It really does look good on you,” Link murmurs.

“I know.” A pause. They are a breath apart. “Green is a decent color on you,” he continues. “But blue would bring out your eyes. It’d be a shame to keep them muted forever, when their natural color is so striking.”

Link tries not to smile, his conversation with Peatrice reminding him that of all Link’s physical attributes Ghirahim could have commented on, he chose this. “Like my eyes, do you?”

“I’ve always appreciated beautiful things,” Ghirahim says. “Don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Link maintains eye contact. “I do.”

The next pause lasts a dozen breaths. The hint of uncertainty is on Ghirahim’s face again, that fundamental confusion that speaks to a lifetime of mistreatment. All that Ghirahim’s unceasing loyalty has shown him was violence. Abuse, neglect, manipulation. Demise is truly a demon. Ghirahim doesn’t know tenderness because it has never been extended to him. Link presses his palm to Ghirahim’s cheek again, drawing his face close. Their breath mixes. The scent of cologne washes over him. Link waits.

“See something you like?” Ghirahim asks. His tone is flirtatious, but the tremble in his voice can’t be disguised. They both know it’s there, Ghirahim’s control on the conversation slipping. He’s good at deflecting, but not with an open wound. And the wounds Demise left on him have never healed.

“Yes,” Link says.

Ghirahim stares at him. Searching for a lie. At last, he says, “I know how I look. I know I’m beautiful, and different, and alluring. It’s only natural that you’d want me. It’s easy to mistake feelings of lust for—”

Link says fondly, “Shut up,” and wraps his arms around Ghirahim’s waist, drawing them both to the cave floor. Link tucks himself into Ghirahim’s side, presses his nose into Ghirahim’s throat and breathes deep. Body heat radiates between them. Ghirahim is stiff on his back, but Link hugs him tighter, eyes shut tight. Holds him. Wills him to understand.

This is so much more than lust.

Minutes pass. Each second is agonizing, a lifetime packed into a blink. A shaky exhale beneath him. Ghirahim’s arms encircle Link, his touch light and hesitant. Link’s heart swells.

In the morning Ghirahim is gone, but Link wakes to a red cowl draped over his shoulders, keeping out the cold.

Chapter Text

“Master,” says Fi, “the fourth and final Silent Realm is ready for you on Skyloft.”

Not what Link expected. He lowers his harp, the final part of the Song of the Hero tucked safely into a corner of his mind. Notes strung together at last, the tune comes together in a way that isn’t disjointed or patchy. Link has been waiting for this moment. Finality. But there’s still one more thing to do. One more thing, and this will be over.

The Thunderhead is always odd to Link whenever he visits. Such a small, enclosed section of sky tucked behind a massive dome of thick, swirling cloud. Levias drifts away, his duty fulfilled. Yet another piece on Hylia’s board. Wind ripples across the Thunderhead in sharp bursts, carrying the fresh scent of rain, tugging at loose parts of Link’s clothes where he stands on one of the ancient sky islands. It’s nearing dusk.

“Is that it?” Link asks. “One more Silent Realm, and the Triforce is mine?”

“Correct,” says Fi.

And with the supreme power in Link’s hand, the Imprisoned will be sealed forever.

A faint thought, that he should tell Ghirahim. Link shakes it away.

Link tucks his harp away, brings his fingers to his lips, and whistles. It splits the sky in two. His loftwing soars toward him, a blur of brilliant crimson. Link leaps from the edge of the island, catching his loftwing on the way down. They spin out from the Thunderhead, wind changing from tight spirals to gentle gusts, rain scent changing to warm, spiced spring. It’s a short flight. Not like the trips across the surface. The Lanayru Mining Facility is bigger than Skyloft. Everything is, and soon, he’ll be dropping below the clouds to build homes and bakeries and new academies. Not to hunt for things that are always just out of reach.

It’s really almost over. Isn’t it?

Link lands in the square near the Light Tower. He doesn’t have to ask Fi where the Silent Realm’s portal is, because the moment his boots touch the ground it glows to life, laced edges of pearlescent light.

“I didn’t think there’d be one here,” Link says.

Fi appears at his side again. “The Skyloft Silent Realm has existed since Hylia sent her children skyward. It is new, compared to the Silent Realms of Faron, Eldin, and Lanayru.”

People mill about, not far. Children catching bugs. An elderly man resting on a bench with his face turned sunward. Patrons entering and exiting the bazaar. Life goes on as normal, as it always does here. Nothing changes on Skyloft. Uneasiness settles in his gut.

“Have I not proven myself yet? I have the Song of the Hero.”

“I do not understand your question,” says Fi.

A flicker of irritation grates at Link’s skin. Round and round he goes. What else will he have to do, once this task is done? How many tears does he need to collect before his spirit is strong enough to gain the goddess’s trust? He has Zelda’s. Why not Hylia’s?

“Do you wish to rest before you proceed?” asks Fi.

“No.” Link readies his harp. Thin calluses formed on his fingertips weeks ago, after the constant plucking of strings irritated them enough. Music isn’t a hobby Link ever would have pursued without the need for it, but he’s been surprised by how much he enjoys it. Music calms him. Zelda’s harp fits in his hand almost as naturally as a sword does and, when he plays, he feels closer to her. Link strums, melody flowing from the harp in waves. The platform’s light grows and dims to the rhythm until the whole circle is alight.

Link steps into the middle, readying the Master Sword. He holds the tip over the center, hesitates, and plunges the blade into stone.

His spirit’s exodus from his body is as violent as ever. Skyloft explodes in grays and blues, the shapes of people Link has known all his life dissolving before his eyes. Link looks around his home. There are no guardians. No tears, either. Are they all on the back half of the island? The entire realm is still as stone. Link laments, not for the first time, that Fi can’t join him in here. She’s been the most useful tool the goddess has given him. Part of him is a little lost without her.

One last thing, and the Triforce is his. One last thing, and Demise is gone.

Link steps off the platform.

Skyloft is on fire.

Were it not for the eerie greenish tint, he would think it real. His heart leaps to his throat regardless, pulse quickening. The bazaar is a raging pool of orange flame. The homes on the southeast side of the island are blanketed in plumes of billowing, black smoke. Screams, in the distance. Bodies, at his feet, dulled eyes and bloodied necks. Bodies he recognizes.

Fledge. Karane. Cawlin.

Goddess. What nightmare is this?

Link feels for a beat against Karane’s neck, but she’s stone cold and doesn’t react when he rolls her to her back. Dead. This is a test, Link reminds himself, against the bile in this throat. This isn’t real. There’s a reason for this. There has to be a reason.

Link drags his palm down Karane’s face to shut her eyes, dismayed to see blood on his hands. It isn’t real.

Shouting on his right. Link races across the courtyard to the cemetery, where townsfolk carrying torches and swords back Batreaux up against a tree, jeering. He’s a demon again, leathery wings closed tight in terror, yellowed eyes beaded with tears. The mob yells the foulest insults Link has ever heard, words that make him flinch.

“Please,” Batreaux begs. “I’m your friend. I want to be one of you! I’m no threat!”

“No threat?” The mob leader is Knight Commander Eagus, dressed in full knight regalia. “This is all because of you,” Eagus snarls, brandishing his sword, years of experience packing strength into his limbs. “Everything is because of you damn demons! You think you were ever our friend? That we saw you as an equal?”

The mob laughs.

Batreaux shakes his head, wordless.

“Go back to where you came from, hellspawn.”

“No!” Batreaux cries, lifting his arms to shield himself, Eagus’s sword slicing toward him.

“Stop!” Link shouts.

The blade hits flesh in a spray of blood, and in the next blink they’re all gone.

Disturbed, Link stares at the empty space until he cannot wait any longer, and continues onward.

A little up the road by the lake, snarling. A large, lumpy shape lies lifelessly by the water. A dead loftwing. Lying on its back, a wing bent at an unnatural angle, eyes glassy. The sounds are stronger here. Link steps in a wide circle around the bird until he sees the small creature with its face buried in a gaping wound in the loftwing’s side. Eating it. Ripping apart its flesh. It’s a remlit.

“Mia,” Link calls, throat tight.

Mia turns, feathers caught in her mouth, tail bushy and wild. She snarls, feral and hungry. Dark, shiny liquid drips from sharpened teeth, claws glinting and ready. She lunges for him. Link stumbles back, refusing the impulse to kick her. Then Mia is gone, and the loftwing’s half-eaten corpse too. A scattering of violet feathers catches fire.

Onward.

Black swarms of keese congregate in the air. Angry storm clouds fighting against howling wind. Knights on their mounts with swords in hand fly out to meet them. Link watches as one by one the riders fall from their birds, the mass of keese descending on them like flies to pick apart the bones. Utter defeat.

Why is he seeing this? The bodies of his friends, people he respects committing murder, once-peaceful creatures twisted with hate, blood and screams and death. The whole island is on fire, ablaze with sweltering heat. The flames grow hotter as time passes. Link wanders, chasing ghostly cries that lead nowhere, a cold, cruel laugh echoing distant glee. There are no guardians to avoid. No tears to collect. Only these grisly, violent images.

The Knight Academy is the only building that is untouched. He sees it from the bazaar, now a pile of ash, blackened figures of bodies trapped beneath smoldering rubble, arms reaching upward to safety. The doors on the upper level of the academy are open wide, inviting him in. He goes.

Professor Owlan lies against his door, a deep, red wound slashed across his chest. He’s not breathing. Link swallows and looks away.

There’s a reason for this.

Stritch’s voice, laced with terror, pleading to be spared. Link dashes down the stairs and throws open his door. The pleading vanishes instantly, but the room is covered in dripping, clotted blood. No body.

There’s a reason for this.

A weak cough from behind him, a voice he knows saying, “Link?”

Pipit.

Link whirls around, crossing the hall in two strides, dropping to his knees beside his friend. Pipit is pale as snow. His tunic is wet and red.

There has to be a fucking reason for this.

“Pipit,” Link breathes. “How did this happen?”

Pipit shakes his head. “It hasn’t. Not yet.”

“How do I help you?”

“You aren’t listening,” Pipit says. “This is your future, Link. Everything you know on fire and all your loved ones dead. And it’s going to be your fault.”

Link goes cold. “Why?”

An easy, lazy lilt says, “Because of me, of course.”

Link spins around, getting to his feet in an instant. Ghirahim holds a long black sword in one hand, the end leaking blood. It’s splashed across his face, his chest, caught in little beadlets in his perfect hair. He looks wild, rabid, gleeful. His grin is hungry and cold.

“It’s your fault for putting your trust in me,” Ghirahim continues. “You should have known better. You thought six months of secret, moonlit meetings could possibly compare to thousands of years serving one master? Your paltry schoolboy affections are pathetic.”

What the hell is the reason for this?

Link glances back at Pipit only to find the sword Demise ripped from Ghirahim’s chest plunged into Pipit’s heart, like it was there the whole time. Pipit coughs up mouthfuls of red, struggling for breath. He meets Link’s gaze, hatred in his eyes burning brighter than the whole island.

“Traitor,” Pipit says.

Link is ice.

Ghirahim hums. “You know, it’s almost disappointing how easy it is to manipulate you. You’re such simple creatures, you Hylians. So eager to be part of a cause greater than you. What does it matter if the cause is mine? Demise is merciful to those who accept his rule. Forgiving, even. You led me here, Link. The least you can do is open the seal and release my master.”

“This is a test,” Link says. “It’s not real.”

“Not yet, no. But it will be. You are one teeny, tiny mistake from unleashing hell on all you hold dear.” Ghirahim reaches out and drags a finger down Link’s chest, stopping at his waist. “Including me.”

Pipit clutches at his neck, gurgling. It sounds so real.

“Don’t make that face, Link.” Ghirahim holds out a hand, hip popped, the very picture of ease. “You knew you’d have to choose between us one day. This is the price. Isn’t it worth it?”

“No!”

“So you say. I know better. There’s a killer inside you, waiting to come out. How many creatures have you felled to get to where you are? How much blood stains your blade in the name of your goddess? You’re no better than us. We kill to get what we want. Kill to take what we need. So do you. At the end of all the bloodshed, there’s me. The prize you’ve been wanting for.”

“I don’t want this,” Link says.

Ghirahim laughs. “Lies do not become you, sky child. I know how you hunger for me, how your eyes follow where I go, how your tongue craves the taste of my flesh. You’re the only one beside Demise who has tasted me. Did you know that?”

Link feels sick.

“But he is a brutal lover,” Ghirahim says on a sigh. “Relentless in his search for release.”

“Stop it.”

“Demise took exactly what he wanted. And goddess, it hurt so badly to be taken like that, open and bleeding. But it felt so good.”

“Stop,” Link says again.

“You really think your callow embrace can match being bedded by my one and only king? The weight of him as he pushed inside me? The rawness of my throat from screams of pleasure and pain?”

“You’re not real.”

“Neither are you.” Ghirahim points his sword at Link, rancor in his eyes. “You’re nothing. Just a child. Too weak to fight Demise, too clumsy to bed me, too pitiful to save your friends. That’s all you will ever be. Your destiny is to be crushed, unless you make your choice. Me, or them.”

Those can’t be his only options. This fiery, bloody hell, or Ghirahim? Skyloft and the man he—No, this can’t be it. Link shakes his head. “You can’t ask me to choose.”

“I am,” Ghirahim says tersely, “asking you.”

Pipit’s gurgling quiets and his struggle ends. Link can’t turn to look. He won’t.

“Come on, hero. Make your choice.”

There is no way for him to win. “No.”

Ghirahim shakes his head. “Fool.” And he brings his blade down in a swift arc toward Link’s heart.

The sword approaches as if in slow motion. Link lets it. He won’t let Ghirahim hurt someone else, and he won’t hurt Ghirahim. Link lets his eyes slide shut and accepts the bite of his blade.

It doesn’t come.

Link opens his eyes to one last image. He’s outside, standing under blue sunlight before the goddess statue, Zelda in white robes standing before him. She looks a little older. Closer to adulthood. Taller. More at peace. The stench of smoke is gone. Everything is light and green and bright. The only sound is that of birdsong. Zelda is glowing.

“A sword is made of steel so it will not break,” she says. “I chose you, Link, for the same reason. Your heart is stronger than any metal.”

This isn’t Zelda, not as he knows her now. This is Hylia.

“You’ve made it, brave hero,” says Hylia, her voice like summertime. “This is where you shall find the Triforce. I hid it here long ago, and long has it awaited you. The power to seal this world’s ultimate evil is yours.”

“That’s—that’s it?” Link hardly believes it. “This is the end?”

Hylia smiles. “This is the end.”

“But what was the test?” Link asks. Resentment bubbles in his gut, try as he might to quell it. The images of his friends’ broken bodies flash before his eyes, Pipit’s chin slicked with blood as he stared hatefully up at Link.

Traitor.

“It was a test of your own making,” says Hylia. “I had no hand in selecting the trials you faced here. Only in creating the space.”

Link doesn’t understand. “So who… who chose the test?”

“You, Link,” says Hylia. “What you saw here was the manifestation of your deepest fears. But you would not be standing before me now if you did not overcome them.”

He isn’t so sure.

“Go,” says Hylia. “Bring peace to the world and herald forth a new era. You are the only one who can.”

Hylia vanishes. The goddess statue too. He’s falling through endless darkness, cool and quiet, then he’s blinking into a sunset in the square, hands shaking around the Master Sword’s hilt, air rattling in his lungs. The Silent Realm is gone for good. There is no blood seeped into stone. No bodies littering the streets. Buildings are intact. Children leap at insects, brandishing nets. Pipit strolls across the bridge leading from his mother’s house, munching on an apple. Link swallows the acid bubbling up his throat and breathes. Calm down. It wasn’t real. It was a test, and he passed. He passed.

Link legs give out beneath him when he tries to stand. That was awful. Goddess, that was terrible. Nightmarish images brand into his brain forever. Link knows right then and there he will never be free of what he saw. Even if they were illusions, even if it was his own mind concocting these pictures for the sake of his quest. Some things cannot be unseen. Some things haunt you forever.

Link stays on the ground and breathes. Fi doesn’t say a word. She offers no comfort, no assurances. Why would she? Link’s emotional state is not her divine mission. A sword is not a person.

In the distance, the goddess statue keeps silent vigil over Skyloft. The Triforce is there, waiting for him. Link has reforged his blade in the three sacred flames, opened the Gate of Time, collected each note of the Song of the Hero, vanquished every foe he has crossed blades with. Proven himself, time and time again. All he has to do is stand. Walk up the hill. Reach out his hand. The world will be saved. Maybe then he’ll finally feel like a hero.

Stand.

Walk.

Reach.

His quest will be over. Perhaps, by extension, his purpose, too.

“Get up,” Link growls, eyes locked on the statue. It looks impossibly far. In another world. Another life. “Get up and finish this. Get up.”

Traitor, Pipit’s ghostly voice echoes on the breeze.

Chapter Text

He stalls.

Link spends the night in his bed at the academy. In the morning he flies to the Lumpy Pumpkin for breakfast, collects some bugs for Stritch, trains with his fellow candidates in the Sparring Hall in the afternoon. He joins Batreaux, Kukiel, and her parents for dinner, and trains with Fledge after the sun sets. At midnight, he lies awake and stares at the ceiling.

Then he does it all again.

One day becomes two. Two becomes a week. Link sleeps in his bed. Patrols with Pipit. Fixes gadgets with Gondo. Shows Fledge a better way to dodge a thrust. Spars with Eagus. Plays the harp at the Lumpy Pumpkin. Sits on the bridge with Mia until the sun goes down.

Every morning, Link faces the goddess statue and promises himself that he’ll walk up the hill. He’s never broken so many promises. When they cross paths in the academy halls, Headmaster Gaepora watches him with curious eyes. Link doesn’t talk to him. Doesn’t want him to know the war is already won, even though Link hasn’t finished the fight. Doesn’t want him to know Link is a coward.

He’s not… ready. He can’t explain it. Link isn’t ready to move on, and he has no idea what’s holding him back.

Liar.

“Master,” says Fi.

Link jumps. He’s sitting at a table in the bazaar, people watching. It’s well into the afternoon on the eighth day since Skyloft’s Silent Realm, and Fi hasn’t spoken once. Now she’s here in all her crystalline glory, hovering before him like a cerulean goddess.

“W-what is it?”

“A disturbance at the sealed grounds,” she says. “There is a 100% likelihood the Imprisoned is attempting to break free.”

Link knocks Gondo over in his rush to get outside. Scrap metal goes flying, a cacophony of ugly noise throwing the bazaar into temporary chaos. Gondo yells, “Hey!” but Link doesn’t stop to help him pick up the clutter. There’s nothing more important than getting to the surface as soon as possible. Link tips over Skyloft’s edge and surrenders to gravity. His loftwing heeds his piercing whistle, swooping toward him with impressive speed. Together they split the sky, Link urging his bird to fly with haste.

Three times, the Imprisoned has tried to escape his cage. Three times, Link will beat him back.

A thick miasma of black and purple fog covers the sealed grounds. A stench like rotted meat and sour berries assaults Link’s senses. Ash and rancid rain coat his tongue. Evil hangs in the air. The Imprisoned is climbing out of the bottom of the pit when Link arrives. Groose rushes from the temple doors, pitches to the ground when the Imprisoned roars and the earth quakes beneath his feet. Link leaps from his loftwing and lands on the highest ridge beside Groose.

“You ready?” Link cries above the noise.

“Your timing is something else!” Groose shouts, grinning. “Let’s blast that thing back to hell!”

They bump fists.

Link’s swordplay is the strongest it’s ever been, and yet this battle against the Imprisoned is just shy of impossible. The monster’s size has always presented a unique challenge. When it grew arms, another issue still. This time, it flies. Right into the air, heading straight for the temple, a dark ring edged with glowing orange hanging above its head.

Out of breath and shocked into stillness, Link watches as the Imprisoned floats higher, higher. If it reaches the temple, it’s all over. Link could have ended it a week ago. He didn’t. Because he’s selfish. A coward.

A flash of heat and explosion of red twenty feet to Link’s left snap him out of it. A colorful string of swears bellows from above. Link dashes to the nearest updraft and throws the sailcloth out, riding the pressurized burst of wind all the way to the Groosenator. Groose is distraught, face red and eyes wet.

“I’m out of bomb flowers,” he says. “I don’t know how to stop it. Link, it’s almost here.”

The Imprisoned’s ugly head grows closer. They’re almost at eye level. This is Link’s fault. “Shoot me over,” Link says.

“Uh, what?”

“Shoot me at it,” Link says again. “Aim for the spike. If we can’t force it back with bombs, I’ll slash it back.”

“You’re crazy,” Groose says. “Get in.”

Link’s heart thumps hard and heavy as he climbs into the Groosenator’s basket, bracing himself against the sides, Master Sword clutched in his hand.

“Sending you off in three! Two—”

Link doesn’t hear the “one.” He cuts through the sky, wind chafing his cheeks, eyes stinging. The Master Sword is heavy in his hand, fingers aching for how hard he clutches the hilt, the Imprisoned coming closer, closer. Link lifts the blade high, sucks in a lungful of miasma and smoke and electricity, and roars. He brings the Master Sword down on the spike, the Imprisoned dwarfing him, a mass of black, scaled armor and rows of dripping yellowed teeth.

And then it’s over.

Link blinks back to awareness, unsure how much time has passed. His heart gallops in his chest. The Imprisoned is nowhere to be seen, but his spike hovers above the seal at Link’s feet. He’s breathing hard, chest heaving, wondering when he got down here. His palms are slick with sweat inside his gloves. He can’t calm down.

It takes two tries to properly summon a skyward strike, and the instant the Imprisoning spike is lodged firmly in the seal, Link begins the long, slow walk up the path to the temple.

He feels terrible. Physically. Mentally.

His fault.

The Imprisoned could have ended the world.

His fault.

When Link finally reached the top, his thighs ache almost as much as his heart. Groose says something to him. He doesn’t hear it.

He wants Ghirahim.

“I’m okay,” Link says. A lie.

He glances down the lip of the ledge, toward the silver spike stuck in the ground. It doesn’t look secure. It looks like it could slip right back into the air, black wings, rotting teeth, and all. The slightest breeze could rip the seal right open.

“Link, did you hear me?”

Link blinks back to Groose’s face. He looks worried. “Sorry. What did you say?”

Groose hesitates. “I don’t wanna freak you out or anything, but the earthquakes have been happening more. That thing slept for thousands of years and now it’s woken up three times. You might not be here, next time. And I—” Groose stops, his eyes wet. “I can’t do this without you. I’m not a hero like you are. Are you any closer to finding the triforce?”

Goddess. Link’s guilt tears him asunder, but the cold flames of determination follow close behind. He has been so selfish. This has to end.

“Yes,” Link tells him. “It’ll be over soon.”

Link doesn’t need to dowse for Ghirahim. His master just attempted to break free; Ghirahim will be nearby.

A cool tendril of dread coils itself in Link’s gut as he follows the ridge of the forested cliff to its precipice. It’s still daylight—the truce isn’t in effect. Link is not afraid, not about the potential of a fight. No. He is afraid of the end.

It was never going to last.

As Link climbs higher, step after step up the rocky slope, a burn settles into his lower body, his heart pounding with the effort to keep his breathing steady, the view of the sealed grounds unfolding below. He can see everything from up here, with sunlight spilling into the pit. Wind tugs at the loose parts of Link’s tunic, chainmail clinking softly as he hikes. A little silver glint marks the sealing spike. It’s so tiny, so insignificant from up here.

The angle of the cliff starts leveling.

Master. Fi. Ghirahim is ahead. It is still daylight.

“I know, Fi,” Link says.

She does not speak again.

Ghirahim is lounging on a flat rock, pointed end hanging a significant amount over the cliff’s edge. Under the full magnificence of the sun, Ghirahim’s skin is a warm gray, the lines of his stomach visible even from far back, the fireshield earring a brilliant orange on his ear. The white curtain of his hair is perfect, bangs covering one eye, the other locked in firm contemplation on the pit. Ghirahim sits in such a way one of his legs dangles off the jut of the rock, the rest of his weight leaned back on his hands. Ghirahim does not turn toward Link when he approaches. He doesn’t acknowledge him at all, though he would have known Link was coming. Can Ghirahim see that red string no matter where Link is?

Link sits beside him.

Together, they avoid it.

It won’t be dark for hours. Link sits, and waits, and thinks. Until he can’t stand it. Until he’s gone over every way he could say it so many times that none of them have any meaning, words have lost all significance, and the only thing grounding him is that damn spike in the ground and the promise of the end of the world.

Link takes Ghirahim’s hand.

“Well, then.” Amusement lilts Ghirahim’s voice. If Link didn’t know him better, he’d believe the cheer was authentic. “Is this my consolation prize?”

Link meets his gaze. Ghirahim is radiant. Link’s heart is one massive bruise. “If you could see your master trying to escape from here, why didn’t you help him?”

Ghirahim huffs but doesn’t look away. “No need to jump straight into the hard questions. Would you believe that with the frequency with which he attempts to break free, a day is soon on the horizon that he won’t need my help?”

Link does believe it, though it doesn’t answer his question. He has more of those than ever.

Ghirahim’s fingers wind around Link’s, and he holds tight enough for Link’s to tingle. Link’s gaze drops to Ghirahim’s side. With his other hand, he reaches across the gap, and presses his fingers into the fabric of Ghirahim’s bodysuit. “Is this where he took your rib from?”

A pause. “A little lower.”

Link presses his fingers lower. “Here?”

“There. But you won’t find a scar. I heal too quickly for my wounds to take.”

No, there will be no scar on Ghirahim’s flesh. But on his heart?

“You made that fight look easy,” Ghirahim continues. “There may be hope for you yet.”

“Ghirahim.”

“You’re still not even close to the level you could be, of course. We’d need a hundred more years to—”

“I’m going to defeat Demise.”

Ghirahim pulls his hand away. “You did not say that as a hypothetical.” Twittering birdsong drifts from distant trees. “You’ve finished, then? Whatever it is you’ve been doing. With the flames. With your sword. The Gate of Time?”

Link squeezes his fist around air. “You know I can’t answer that.”

“No, you can’t. You’ve been far too generous already, even though we’re at war, you and I. I can’t help but notice it’s not the moon presiding over us, today. Is this your way of telling me this is over?”

Goddess, but he doesn’t want to. “Demise will ruin the world. The same way he ruined you.”

Ghirahim goes very still. “Watch your tongue.”

“You are loyal to someone who hurt you. On purpose.” Emboldened, Link presses the whole of his palm to Ghirahim’s missing rib, noting the catch in his chest. “That sword wasn’t a gift, Ghirahim. It’s your shackle. He forced you to feel grateful for giving you something you already had.”

“He’s my master,” Ghirahim says.

“He’s your prison.”

Ghirahim is on his feet in a blink, backing away from the edge, his face twisted in a complex matrix of pain. “You came here to end us, didn’t you? So do it. We’ll go back to being strangers, back to fighting, to blood, to death. Get it over with.”

But he can’t.

“Ghirahim,” Link breathes, getting to his feet and closing the gap. “Leave him.”

Naked shock wipes across Ghirahim’s face. “What?”

“You’re amazing,” Link says. “Strong, smart, merciful. No one knows the surface as well as you do. Demise has your loyalty and that’s exactly why he doesn’t deserve it. You’ve spent so long in the dark that you think it’s all you can have, but look at you; you’re incredible in the light.”

Ghirahim has never been praised like this. His cracks have been showing for weeks, but now they’re on display, his scars and fears too. What does Ghirahim want more than to be seen?

“You stand here every night waiting for a monster. For someone who doesn't care. Leave him in the ground, Ghirahim.”

Ghirahim’s lower lip trembles. “You’re asking me to abandon my king.”

Link’s heartbeat threatens to shake him apart. “I came here to say goodbye. But I can’t. I won’t.”

“Why?”

Link lowers his voice. “You know why, Ghirahim.”

Ghirahim reaches out, fingers tangling in Link’s tunic, eyes on fire. A new emotion beckons behind the shock, the vague remnants of horror. Hope. “Say it,” he demands. “I need to hear it.”

“I want you.”

Ghirahim’s fist quakes.

“I want you with me every second, not just in the moonlight. I want to win this war and build a home on the surface and live there with you. I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want our lessons to never end, to give you gifts because you deserve them, so I can show you every single day how tight a hold you have on me.”

“How tight a hold,” Ghirahim says, “I have on you?”

“I’m already yours. I have been for a long time.”

Ghirahim’s chest heaves. Once, twice. “Thousands of years of dedication. Countless nights of devotion. And you unraveled all of it in months.” He pauses. "No one has ever been mine."

Link cups Ghirahim’s cheek with one palm, his skin on fire. “Tell me you don’t feel the same, and I'll leave. Tell me you don’t want me, too.”

Ghirahim says, “It’d be a lie.”

Link lifts up onto his toes to meet him.

Ghirahim’s kiss tastes like longing. Link tangles his free hand into Ghirahim’s hair, silken strands winding around each knuckle like vines, tugging Ghirahim closer. Ghirahim kisses back just as softly, his fist in Link’s tunic, his other hand curling around the base of Link’s skull. His touch is so incredibly gentle, like Link is fragile. But it’s Ghirahim who must be handled with care. Who would have thought?

They pull apart for a moment, Ghirahim’s eyes searching. Like he’s waiting for Link to change his mind, giving him one last chance to back away.

Link kisses him again, a sigh of relief slipping from Ghirahim’s lips. There is a tree Link would very much like to set him against. He does, pushing Ghirahim forward with his chest until back touches bark and Link can press closer, kiss him more, working Ghirahim’s mouth warm and open.

Link puts every ounce of his feelings into the kiss. Every stolen glance, every half-remembered dream, every moment he wished Ghirahim could be his instead of Demise’s. Ghirahim returns it all with surprising tenderness, until each pass of their lips is a whisper and each beat of their hearts anchors them.

It is so, so sweet. When Link draws back, Ghirahim keeps him close, rests his forehead to Link’s, shares his breath. Link’s heart is going to burst.

“I’ve wanted that for a long time,” Link says.

A breathy laugh escapes Ghirahim’s lips. He strokes a finger down Link’s cheek. “From the moment you saw me, I expect. I know the effect I have on men like you. It was only a matter of time before you were falling at my feet.”

Link bonks their heads together, giddy. “Your ego is big as ever.”

Link has no idea what they’re doing. Link an amateur, Ghirahim stepping off his designated path for the first time in his life. He can hardly believe this is really happening, Ghirahim tangled in his arms, his taste on Link's tongue. All Link can think about is what comes next. “There’s so much I want to show you, Ghirahim. So much I want to do.”

“You know,” Ghirahim says, brushing Link’s bangs from his eyes, “I’ve been to the sky, but never to Skyloft. I’ve traveled to every corner of the world but yours.”

“I can show you where I grew up. My room at the academy. The figurines I carve. You can train with me at the sparring hall in the mornings. Come to the Lumpy Pumpkin in the evenings.”

It sounds simple. It sounds idealistic. Ghirahim exhales as though he wants nothing else. “It’ll be a terrible shock, won’t it? You coming home with a demon on your arm instead of some nice Hylian boy. I’ve spent millenia fighting against your kind. You need to prepare for the possibility that they’ll ostracize you alongside me.”

Link shakes his head, leaning into Ghirahim’s touch. “They won’t. Not when they see what I see.”

“It could take me years to earn their trust. Once a demon always a demon.”

Link laughs at that, his heart and head filled with kisses, drunk off this proximity. How can Ghirahim be in his arms and Link still aches for him? “Mm, but I have a way around that, too.”

“Oh, do you, hero?”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve already turned one demon into a human. It’s surprisingly easy. You don’t need to worry.”

Ghirahim doesn’t respond, and Link opens his eyes just as Ghirahim’s finger slips from his cheek.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Link promises, remembering belatedly that Ghirahim has never shied away from pain. “It’s fast. It’s just a few seconds—”

 “You want to make me human?”

“You don’t have to worry about Demise retaliating against you. He’ll be gone.”

Something is wrong. Ghirahim withdraws, his face carefully blank. “You cannot be serious.”

“I mean it,” says Link. “Once I’ve taken care of it, he can’t come back.”

Ghirahim stares at him. And stares. His mouth falls open, kiss-swollen and tempting. “Fool me once, shame on me.”

Link doesn’t know what to say.

“You think,” Ghirahim begins, “there is a single thing about me that you relish authentically? You aren't even aware of the fantasy you’ve spent months constructing, are you? I should have known. I should have known.”

“Ghirahim—”

“ Lord Ghirahim,” he snaps.

Link recoils, stung. Ghirahim’s softness is gone. Hot, venomous hatred is what remains. Link doesn’t understand.

“These last months since I ripped Zelda from your arms must have been lonely, indeed,” Ghirahim says. “Do any of your precious Hylians on Skyloft know what you’ve sacrificed to find her? Or has the only constant in your life been me? Don’t answer,” he barks, and Link shuts his mouth. “You say you want me. What a joke.”

“I do want you,” Link says, and Ghirahim laughs.

“You want a Hylian-shaped trophy. You want something pretty you can take home that won’t make the children scream or the remlits bite. That isn’t me, Link.”

Link is starting to understand, but Ghirahim spells it out for him, anyway.

“I’m a demon. That will never change. It is my nature, my design, my identity, and if you try to strip that from me, I will kill you."

Ghirahim’s lingering taste fades with each ticking second. Link can see Skyloft, ablaze and splattered with blood. Mia’s teeth ripping apart a feathered corpse. Knight Commander Eagus and his mob, swinging dripping swords toward Batreaux’s throat. Pipit, a blade in his chest, betrayal in his eyes, staring Link down.

Traitor.

"So?" Ghirahim extends his arms wide, mocking, a cruel smile on his swollen lips. "Still want to take me home, fangs and all?”

“I don’t understand,” Link says, “why you’d want to be a demon.”

Ghirahim’s expression shutters. The silence that follows cannot be more than a few seconds, but it feels like a lifetime. Link doesn’t see the shove coming—he’s bracing himself on the jut of the rock, acutely aware of the drop right behind him, Ghirahim at once seething in white-hot rage.

“If I am to be a trophy either way, I will be a trophy for my king. A steadfast tool, his to manipulate, to shape to suit his desires, to fell his enemies. For all the things Demise has required of me, he has never asked that I be anything other than who I am. You have crossed a line that cannot be uncrossed. You have awakened a malice that will torment you for every lifetime to come.”

How did it go so wrong? “Ghirahim,” Link says, stumbling forward.

“Our truce ends now, Chosen Hero.” Ghirahim extends one bare arm, finger pointing sharply at Link’s heart. “Play whatever card you’ve been hiding. Swing that shiny new sword. Do your worst. It won’t matter. When I revive Demise, I will plunge my blade into your gut and laugh as you scream. And when the light begins to fade from your eyes, when you beg for mercy? I will have none left to give.”

Stunned, Link stares as Ghirahim fights to slow the heaving of his chest. He looks angry. He looks murderous. Link has ruined it. Everything. The softness Ghirahim has let slip through over the last year has disintegrated completely. This is different from his other threats. He means it.

“Don’t do this,” Link begs. “Please.”

Ghirahim lowers his hand. His bangs sway in the breeze. The Imprisoned’s seal weakens with each hateful breath.

“Fuck you, Link,” Ghirahim says. “For making me think pretty thoughts. This is where they end.”

Chapter Text

For all else he has done, Ghirahim has never been kissed.

Had never. Until Link.

Ghirahim tears apart a forest no living soul has set foot in for centuries, ripping it to shreds the same size as his wounded pride. His skin hardens into diamonds and his fingers dig into rock and root, ripping them from dirt and razing the earth. Destruction is good. Familiar. Heated hazes of violence and blood flecking on his face are his oldest friends, some of the first memories he has. Ghirahim hates, and he destroys.

Sex is not something that can pair with other forms of intimacy. It exists in a category all on its own, for as long as Ghirahim can remember. It’s been that way from the first time Demise sat with his thighs spread wide upon his throne and quietly commanded, “Kneel.”

Ghirahim had been so eager to please his master. He kneeled, again and again, as many times as Demise bid. Over the decades, their bloody crusade felling city after city, kneeling turned to bending himself over the arm of the throne. That turned into his face, painfully smashed against a pile of furs, Demise’s large hand an immovable weight on the back of Ghirahim’s neck.

Oh, and Ghirahim loved it.

Ghirahim loved it even during the many times he did not reach completion, though his king always did. It didn’t matter that their pleasure was not mutual, that he could feel his body stitching back together after being fucked bloody, that sometimes Demise would hold Ghirahim’s face so tight against the furs, air became a distant memory. Demise especially enjoyed when Ghirahim couldn’t breathe, be it from his hands around Ghirahim’s neck or his cock down his throat.

And Ghirahim loved it.

It has been years since Ghirahim last felt his master’s touch, but there are some things you never forget no matter how much time has passed. Demise took Ghirahim’s rib, and Demise took Ghirahim’s body, and Demise took Ghirahim’s loyalty. Demise always took what he wanted, and Ghirahim always gave it.

Ghirahim turns to destroying a grove of white aspens, his heart pounding and his head spinning. His hands are raw from being scraped against rough bark but it doesn’t matter. Ghirahim summons his blades, clutches the one that was once his rib extra tight, and slashes through trunks like they’re ribbons.

Ghirahim has known from the first moment he gained consciousness that he had two uses:

As a blade, and as a warm body.

Link would look at him sometimes. A soft look. It didn’t make sense; no one looked at Ghirahim like that. He is used to heat, lust—envy, in Phantom’s case. The moment Ghirahim realized Link wanted him the same way Demise did, all the variables in their strange relationship clicked into place.

Sex cannot pair with other forms of intimacy. So in the moments Link’s gaze turned from sweet to longing, when his eyes roamed the dips and valleys of Ghirahim’s skin… The night in the moonlit forest, when Link’s tongue dragged hot and wet up Ghirahim’s throat…

Ghirahim encouraged it. Wanted it.

Link’s mouth was delicious. No one had ever touched him like that, for Ghirahim’s pleasure alone. It was intoxicating. Thrilling. He wanted more. And then—

Tell me you don’t want me to kiss you. Tell me you don’t. And I won’t.

Ghirahim pauses his violent ministrations to examine this moment anew.

Those words changed something inside of him. A request for permission, for chance to say no. He thought Link wanted him as more than just a pretty thing to warm his bed. That had been the moment Ghirahim thought maybe, just maybe, someone could feel that way about him.

He should have known better.

Ghirahim is… fond of Link. Was fond. Now, the fire in his gut is one of malice. His rage is exquisite. His fury absolute. Because Link tricked Ghirahim. Link lied. Link manipulated him, because he never wanted Ghirahim’s heart at all, maybe not even his body, and Ghirahim is a fool for thinking someone could love—

The fireshield earring is unclasped in his hand, fist threatening to crush it to dust. Ghirahim tries to close his fingers, squeeze. Destroy. He trembles instead, unable to do even this, and hates himself more than he ever hated the Chosen Hero.

Ghirahim burns with shame as he clasps the earring back into place.

He is a weapon. He is invisible. He is nothing.

But at least in Demise’s service, Ghirahim will always know his exact worth.

A mighty rumbling cracks across the world. Ghirahim spins, but sees nothing. The ground is still. This threat is coming from above.

The forest vanishes. He reappears on the lip of Eldin Volcano, heat an instant, sweltering wave. The bokoblin camps have thinned since the eruption on Ghirahim’s orders, redistributed across the surface. The rumbling sound has stopped, Ghirahim craning his neck skyward and, between a gap in thick plumes of smoke, he sees it.

Skyloft is falling.

Heat turns to cool, pine-scented air as Ghirahim appears at his vantage point overseeing the sealed grounds. Red becomes green, the darkness of cloud cover switching so quickly to the brilliance of sunlight that Ghirahim squints, throws up a hand to shield his eyes, almost misses the moment the massive slab of stone smashes right into the pit.

Ghirahim pitches to the ground. The very earth roars as it shakes. A wall of pale dust bursts into the air and rushes toward him like a tidal wave, eating miles of forest in seconds.

A thread—a thick, black cord, the second one Ghirahim ever saw—materializes in his line of sight and snaps in two.

The seal shatters and whatever was trapped inside is obliterated. Ghirahim’s rib rips from his abdomen, stone slams against his knees, someone shoves his nose so hard into the floor it breaks, blood gushing down his chin, pleasure at war with pain, and someone is screaming, begging for mercy, begging for more, and it’s him, he’s done this before.

Ghirahim feels Demise die.

Abruptly, it stops.

The memories, the quaking, the dust.

It is done.

And Ghirahim is nothing.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, the ghost of his master’s touch shivering one last time across his skin. Ghirahim isn’t sure he likes it. Threads fade in and out of  sight, some bright, some dull. Demise’s is untethered. Ghirahim cannot see it anymore. But he sees Link’s.

It bounces, floats, moves, as if caught in a breeze. Celebrating his victory.

The worst part of it, Ghirahim thinks, is that Link doesn’t understand how perfectly he has ruined him. Ghirahim hates him for it. He made Link a promise, and he intends to keep it.

He follows the thread.

The massive piece of Skyloft has fit into the pit like a glove. The doors to the temple are ajar. Ghirahim slips beside them and looks through. There are more threads, reaching into the temple from Ghirahim’s chest. Link’s he knows. But there is one for the big oaf with stupid hair, who has just started blubbering like a fool. There is one for the old woman, too involved in the moment to notice the threat. There is one for Fi, sheathed silently on Link’s back, and Ghirahim has spent months wondering what fate he could possibly share with her.

The spirit maiden’s is a translucent, shimmering gold. It holds steady as Link guides her by the hand to the oaf and the old woman. But there is something even more interesting than these new threads of fate with unknown ends. It is a large wheel turning one knob at a time in the temple’s center, pearlescent, purple. Ghirahim almost laughs. It was right under his nose.

The second Gate of Time.

Reunions are sickening. Zelda is brilliant and sunny and Link looks happy in a way he never has before. The oafish fool weeps openly and the old woman watches in silent approval. Ghirahim readies a surge of energy to cut their happiness to shreds so they feel what he feels. But he hesitates.

Surely Fi knows Ghirahim is here. And yet she hasn’t told Link.

Has Ghirahim fallen so far from grace so as to not be registered as a threat?

The anger is back, contempt a hot, boiling monster rushing through Ghirahim’s veins, and as Link and Zelda reach for each other he brings a crack of power down between them so strong they cry out and fall, diamonds shimmering in the gap. Ghirahim laughs.

“This is so very touching,” he says, “but I’m afraid it’s time for it to end.”

Ghirahim materializes beside Zelda, weakened from her slumber, lying on the temple floor. He lifts a hand. She floats into the air, caught in the current of his power. He locks that power over her, binds her. She submits so easily.

“Ghirahim,” Link says, staring like he doesn’t believe it.

“You’ve done well to keep your plans from me, Hero,” Ghirahim says, resting Zelda over his shoulder. She doesn’t even try to break free. “So adorably determined to ruin my entire fucking life. And how close you came. But while my master has perished in this age, in the past he yet lives.”

Link’s blue eyes flick to the Gate of Time, horror etching into the lines of his face. “No—”

“I am taking the spirit maiden to revive him. I do so hope you’ve said your goodbyes.”

Horror becomes bitter violence in an instant, Link clawing his nails into stone to get to his feet, Master Sword at once in hand. If there is one thing Ghirahim hates more than Link, it is that damn sword.

Ghirahim should kill him. He could do it now. It would only take a second, and all of this would be over. Demise will have won. But Ghirahim could not even crush an earring.

Ghirahim unclenches his teeth and says, “I don’t even have time to grind my heel into a worm like you.”

Ghirahim appears in front of the gate, the fool and the old woman standing guard. Ghirahim kicks them aside and the gate opens, a black, twisting portal extending endlessly before him to where his master awaits.

“Ghirahim!” Link roars.

Ghirahim steps into the Gate of Time and does not look back. There is nothing inside. No light, no wind, no sound. Zelda stirs on his shoulder.

“Ghirahim,” she says softly.

“Hush, little goddess. I need your strength to revive Demise.”

Zelda says nothing else. She should be struggling. Hylia’s power and light are in her somewhere, and she isn’t using them, and Ghirahim doesn’t know why. It unsettles him.

“You know,” he says, “you picked a worthy hero. A shame he corrupts so easily.”

Zelda’s breathing is quiet but labored.

“He really did raze the surface to find you. You must be quite proud. But, how proud would you be to learn how he begged for me? I didn’t even have to try. He let me taste him so easily. Gave in so sweetly. And no matter who touches him after this, it will be me he feels.”

Zelda says, “You will regret hurting him.”

Ghirahim hisses, “He hurt me first. You’ve been asleep for a thousand years, goddess, you cannot begin to imagine what I have gone through, the blood and sweat I have shed to get to this moment.”

The golden thread anchoring Ghirahim’s chest to Zelda’s flickers. Ghirahim doesn’t spare a thought for the fate that connects them. It will come to an end soon.

The sealed grounds are dark and the skies tumultuous when they come out of the other side of the gate. The pit is empty, the sealing spike releasing faint pulses of energy. A thick, black cord rips into existence, binding Ghirahim to his master. This thread is stronger than before. Heavier. It feels like stepping into the dark. Ghirahim bleeds Zelda’s spirit from her body without pause. She cries out, body floating parallel to the ground. He takes them to the bottom of the pit, places a hand atop the silver sealing spike. It is cold to the touch.

“I have almost succeeded, Master,” Ghirahim murmurs. “I am your loyal servant. Your weapon to wield.” He turns to Zelda and tucks his arms behind his back to hide the trembling in his hands. “Well then, spirit maiden. Any last words?”

Zelda struggles to speak around her life force draining into the ground. She pants, eyes screwed shut, sweat beading in her hairline. “I forgive you,” she breathes at last.

Ghirahim is rooted to the earth. His tongue is a numb weight in his mouth.

A silken flash of red draws his attention to the top of the pit. Link emerges from the gate of time, murder in his eyes, Master Sword in hand. What was it Link said to him, once? I’ll kill you if you ever touch Zelda.

He hopes Link is the sort to keep his promises.

Ghirahim forces his lips to curl into a cold, cruel smile he cannot feel.

This is better. This, he knows.

Hatred is more familiar to him than love.

Chapter Text

The bokoblins are endless.

Link slashes at them, one after the other, again, again, again. He is in a race against time to reach the bottom of the pit. Diamond gates hard as iron block the edges, casting a pale yellow glow on the ground. Link kills one bokoblin and another takes its place. Link kills that one, and three more surround him. He cuts through them and cuts through them and there is no end, his progress slowed to a crawl, hot blood spraying through the air with each strike of the Master Sword.

Link’s heart is in so much pain he cannot feel anything else. Somehow, he never expected this from Ghirahim. That was his first mistake.

He can still feel Ghirahim’s lips pressed against his, the weight of his chest on Link’s, the devastating gentleness of his kiss. Link blinks away the sting from his eyes and cuts a bokoblin in two. The fighting is easy. Bokoblins pose no threat, their swordplay nowhere the level Link’s has reached, their crude swings unpracticed and random. Link deflects and parries, stabs and cuts, bloodies and maims.

It’s easy.

Anger is a good motivator.

The winding spiral into the pit is long and steep. Link is used to running up it, not down. Before he knows it, he’s chopped a screeching bokoblin in two, its body dissolving to reveal the end. Zelda’s face is pale, her eyes shut, mouth slack. Her chest rises and falls shallowly. Ghirahim’s hands are above her floating body, black, spidery lines spreading like cracking ice over his skin. Whatever technique he is performing is invisible to Link’s eye, but the effects on Zelda are clear. She is a step from death’s door. Ghirahim looks up from his work. The hatred in his gaze knocks the air from Link’s lungs.

“Cut through my armies. Kill my soldiers. Stomp on my life’s work. And you have my tutelage to thank for how far you’ve come. I have indulged you long enough.”

“Let her go,” Link says. He doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s half-ragged between grief and fury.

“Or what? You’ll kill me?” Ghirahim laughs. “This was always our final destination, don’t you see? There was never going to be a happy ending. Just us, at the end of each other’s blades.”

Link points the Master Sword at the jewel on Ghirahim’s chest. “Draw your sword,” Link says.

A day ago, he might have begged Ghirahim not to do this. But Link cannot afford to be ruled by his attachment any longer. This goes beyond whatever they might have felt for each other. This goes beyond one single kiss. There is so much left to lose.

Ghirahim’s lips curl into a smirk. A platform of diamonds bursts into existence under Link’s feet, solid and thrumming. It lifts upward, dragging Link and Ghirahim with it, wind rushing through fabric and hair. It stops far above the pit, Zelda higher still. A pained cry slips from her mouth, her whole being aglow with Hylia’s golden light.

“I was a fool to allow you to live,” Ghirahim says. “A fool to let my guard down. You were a guilty pleasure, sky child, one I can no longer afford.”

Link’s stomach flips.

The gray of Ghirahim’s skin turns charcoal and as shiny as river rocks, the entire surface of his body hardening far beyond its conventional means. Yet another form, another sliver of himself he’s kept hidden.

Master, readings indicate Lord Ghirahim’s power has increased significantly, says Fi, but Link didn’t need her to tell him; he can feel it. The air is charged and sparking, Link’s blood pumping ice-cold through his veins. The diamond platform is transparent; Link swallows, keeps his attention steadfastly on Ghirahim, doesn’t look down. A black storm brews overhead.

 “You have not ruined me as perfectly as you planned.” Ghirahim crosses his arms over his chest, head thrown back. “I am more than you ever dreamed. I am more than what you would have reduced me to. I am my master’s weapon, one without feeling, without mercy!”

A flare of writhing black, a flash of dark steel, Ghirahim changing—

A sword.

The blade is wide and heavy, edge as thick as the pad of a thumb. It’s gone again in a blink, this glass-like Ghirahim in its place, and every part of Link is screaming.

Ghirahim is a sword.

Ghirahim is Demise’s sword, the same way Fi is Link’s.

A sword is not a someone—

A sword is made of steel so it will not—

If I am to be a trophy either way, I will be a trophy for my—

To think, it was you all along. Across millennia—

Everything is a game—

Unlike you, I fight like I have everything to lose—

Traitor.

Link lunges, betrayal rushing hot through his blood. A trick, from the beginning. A ploy, to get Link to lower his guard, to spill his guts, to forget his mission. Ghirahim is his master’s sword, and now he has intimate knowledge of how Link fights, his weaknesses, how to best him. Ghirahim knows Link looks where he plans to strike and that he doesn’t stop to think. He knows Link’s spins don’t rotate him a perfect 360 degrees, that he favors his right thigh ever since Koloktos turned it into a bloody mess.

None of this was real.

Metal screams on metal as their swords clash. Ghirahim wields his rib blade, teeth bared, eyes white. He doesn’t look human, much less a demon. He looks like a tool. Link drops low and drags the Master Sword parallel to the diamond platform, but even the blessed edge isn’t strong enough to nick the black stone of Ghirahim’s skin.

Ghirahim lifts an arm in the air and slashes down, down, over and over, Link’s arms screaming with the effort to withstand his blows. Link stumbles back, heel of his boot tipping over the platform’s edge. Cold fear sharpens his senses and Link throws his weight forward, flips around and slashes until Ghirahim loses his balance.

He plummets.

It should kill him, but there is another platform materializing to break Ghirahim’s fall. Ghirahim’s black slams into it so hard Link’s teeth ache. Link shoots a glance at Zelda, hovering overhead, her golden light dimming with each passing second. Realization is instant.

For this to stop, Ghirahim has to die.

Link takes a running leap off the edge, the Master Sword's brilliant white metal gleaming as he falls. He drives the point into Ghirahim’s chest, straight through the diamond that has changed from bright crimson to dull gray.

Ghirahim snarls. The Master Sword sinks. And keeps sinking. Link struggles against gravity to yank it free. By the time he straightens back out, Ghirahim is on his feet, a blur of metallic flashes in the space between them. Their blades grind together, clang and clash.

“I will make you regret ever having been born,” Ghirahim says, each word a world-ending wound across the universe.

Link ducks a slash that should have taken his head off and throws all his weight into his next swing. The Master Sword bounces off Ghirahim’s body with a twang. But Link knows the strategy now, knows that it is not a sharp edge that will end the threat, but a long fall and a moment of stunned inaction. The denser Ghirahim’s body, the more devastating his fall.

Ghirahim continues his assault, a glancing blow on Link’s upper arm, a small slice on his side, shallow little cuts that sting but are bearable. As the seconds tick into minutes, a deep ache settling into his muscles from exertion, Link starts to realize that, challenging as this is, it is not impossible. He’s keeping up with Ghirahim, landing as many hits as he takes. No, landing more.

Link has surpassed him.

Pride and misery mix with the flavor of Ghirahim’s betrayal still on his lips. Link worked for this, practiced and bled and killed for this. There are hundreds of dead bokoblins between where he started and this moment, dozens of otherworldly fiends, ancient and evil entities ripped apart by his blade. Link has shaped himself into the warrior Hylia knew he would become. It doesn’t matter that Ghirahim knows Link’s swordplay as intimately as he knows his own—this is a battle of will, and Link will not lose.

Link pushes Ghirahim to the platform’s edge again, arcing into the air before Ghirahim has even hit the next level. Surprise, on Ghirahim’s face—realization. He knows Link has won. Link drives the Master Sword through the jewel on Ghirahim’s chest. Ghirahim cries out.

It is a sound laced with pain that extends far beyond the physical. As if Link has cut his very soul. It is not the sound of someone who relishes agony, loves it, embraces it as gospel. Instinct stumbles Link backward to give Ghirahim air, his white-hot anger evaporating in a powerful rush that leaves him reeling. Wind spirals around them from below, scenery drifting; the platform is falling. Link braces himself for impact. Diamonds scatter. Rock and dirt grind into his shoulder. But Ghirahim is forcing himself to his feet, a gaping hole in his chest where the jewel just was, his body heaving with the effort to breathe. Fractals of orange light seep from the smooth stone of his skin.

Ghirahim is breaking apart.

Link ignores the throbbing in his shoulder and stands. “Ghirahim,” he says.

Ghirahim lets out a half-realized cry and slices his sword downward. Link deflects, side-steps. Does not return the attack. Ghirahim’s breath is choppy, labored, the texture of his body abruptly brittle as the cracks spread and the orange light from deep inside him casts an eerie glow on the pit. He swings again, another desperate sound at the end of his blade.

Link never meant anything to Ghirahim. He knows that now. It should be all the reason Link needs to end this. To kill him the same way he killed all those bokoblins. It should be enough. “Ghirahim, stop.”

Ghirahim springs forward. Link drops the Master Sword completely and grabs his wrist, squeezes. Ghirahim’s rib hits the dirt. “No,” Ghirahim says on a gasp. “This is not over. I will not admit defeat. Not to you.”

Link swallows. “You’re only killing yourself faster.”

“A dream come true for you,” Ghirahim snaps, but the bite in his voice is edged with... what is it? Anguish? Whatever holy light resides within the Master Sword has taken its toll. “You have no idea of the suffering I’ve—”

Ghirahim stops.

“You know nothing of loyalty,” he continues. “Nothing of what it means to give your very existence to a cause. I was made for Demise. Forged for him. I am his sword. I am the blade that cuts apart his enemies and shapes his empires. I’ve given him everything I have ever had. He will see that. He will. ”

Link should kill him. He knows it is the only answer. He tightens his hold.

“Let Zelda go,” Link says. Ghirahim’s knees hit the dirt. Link follows him down, eyes stinging. “Please.”

Ghirahim says, feather-soft, “It’s too late."

“What?”

“While we fought, my ritual continued, and now it is complete. My master is here.”

Blackness envelops them.

It is a dark, cool mist, thicker than wood smoke, a miasma of unbearable stench. Sulfur, mud, rot. A crimson glow geminates from the dark and Link jerks away, smoke clinging to his face, a spike of horror shooting up his spine as the Imprisoned emerges in the mist from seemingly nowhere, massive and scaled. The Imprisoned lifts its head, white breath drifting from its open maw. High in the air, a burst of golden light spills from Zelda’s body, a waterfall of divine energy cascading into the Imprisoned, absorbing between its scales and in its mouth as it lets out a world-shattering roar.

Glowing purple waves of light melt into the atmosphere, swirling and spinning, a cyclone of pure energy interlaced with jet-black bolts of lightning. Cracks of thunder and whistles of wind beat against Link’s ears, a wave of heat reaching a fever pitch, debris caught in the maelstrom, laughter echoing in whatever spaces are left.

Link feels the world shifting, time rewriting itself, any source of goodness and light snuffed beneath the oppressive weight of this unending blackness. He sees the end of the world. He sees the end of time.

The cyclone fades. Smoke thins to vapor, paling from the rich pigment of night to cool, pearlescent gray. The laughter and scream of wind and rumble of earth settles into something unnaturally still. Link lowers his hands.

A figure, in the mist. It is shaped like a man but hulking, densely muscular, twice the size of any grown Hylian. Slowly, the figure stands, straightening his spine knob by knob. His skin is dark gray, wide arms covered by the Imprisoned’s black scales. Bare-chested, he tilts his face to the sky, a red the color of Eldin’s lava setting the long strands of his hair ablaze.

Ghirahim stands, the weight and heat of his body pulling away from Link. He places a hand over the diamond-shaped hole in his chest and bows.

“Welcome back to us, Master,” Ghirahim says.

There are two thousand years of meaning in those five words. Link feels every second of them tick between the three of them.

Demise’s pitless gaze is fixed on his own large hand. He flexes his fingers, expression nearly curious. Like he is waking up from a long dream.

Demise throws out his hand, a pulse of invisible energy rocketing across the pit. Ghirahim’s surprise catches in his throat, his body seizing, Link’s attention jolting from Demise at last. Rigid as stone, Ghirahim lifts off the ground, levitating with either arm outstretched. The void in his chest erupts with light, a dark, black shape emerging inch by inch from his flesh. It can be nothing but the hilt of a sword.

For several seconds, Link can only stare at Ghirahim, who stares at the weapon tearing into existence from his heart. His expression has wiped clean with shock, his eyes wide and unblinking, and Link doesn’t understand what is happening until the sword is fully unsheathed, zipping across the distance from Ghirahim into his master’s waiting hand.

Ghirahim begins to glow.

A single choked-off laugh slips from his lips.

And he shatters into diamonds.

The pieces of him streamline into the jagged blade, the light of his soul fades, and every corner of the sealed grounds goes quiet. Demise regards his sword in silent contemplation, as if inspecting it for damages after so long apart. His sword? But it isn’t a sword.

It’s Ghirahim. Demise’s most loyal follower, eternally devoted, singularly minded. Ghirahim fought tooth and nail to free him, was so sure he would be acknowledged at last.

Demise hadn’t spared him a single word.

“So you are the chosen knight of the goddess.” Demise’s voice is like a lake with no bottom. It slips around Link, a shroud of cool silk, chills him to his bones. “Intriguing. This mortal bag of flesh she inhabits now pales in comparison to the grandeur of her true form. To think, she lowered herself so far. And for what?”

“Zelda!”

Groose’s voice. Link snaps out of his trance to spy Groose’s red swoop of hair racing down the pit’s spiral, a white flash of Zelda’s dress as she falls. The angle is too severe—both Zelda and Gross tumble out of sight on a ledge far above.

“She’s okay!” Groose cries, but the vise on Link’s heart doesn’t relax. “I have her!”

Demise has eyes only for Link. “You would stand against me, at the beginning of my new world? Curious. It is rare a human does not cower at the sight of me.”

The Master Sword rests patiently on the ground. Link picks it up, braces himself.

Demise blinks lazily. “A powerful weapon for a small man. Do you even know how to swing that sword? Is it courage that makes you face me? Or overconfidence?”

Link doesn’t answer.

A portal opens beneath Demise’s feet. It feels like an ending.

“A fight, then. Join me when you are ready, and we will see who between us will inherit the world.”

Demise vanishes into the portal but Link doesn’t wait. He strides across the pit.

“Master,” says Fi, abruptly sweeping from the Master Sword in her typical crystalline blue, “analysis indicates if you step into this realm there is a 0% chance you will return unless you vanquish your foe.”

Link steps into it anyway, the last sound Ghirahim made echoing in his head.

Good luck, says Fi.

The battle is taxing beyond comprehension.

Link has been fighting for close to an hour already, but Demise has just awoken from a deep slumber. Demise’s strikes tremble with power. Link’s knees go weak on the first clash of their swords. But he pushes back. The realm Demise has made for them is nothing like the Silent Realm, or even the realm his demons live in. It is a pocket of never-ending horizon, a shallow ocean of clear water. Storm clouds gather above as they fight. Pale blue lightning strikes the ground, again and again.

Demise is not invincible—the Master Sword cuts through his flesh and he bleeds black, but it doesn’t seem to matter. For every drop he sheds, Link matches it. A slice across his calf, a burning line of fire on his bicep, a lash of agony breaking over his skin. Link does not give up. He grips the Master Sword tighter, Fi’s voice giving him detached, emotionless commands he executes without thought, muscle memory driving him forward as he throws himself as Demise relentlessly.

Link has fought in low levels of water before. In Faron woods, when the whole region was flooded. Ghirahim angrily corrected his footwork then, showed him how best to keep his ground with waterlogged boots. Are you finally awake? He'd asked Link that. Link adjusts his weight and surges toward Demise with all the strength he has, the Master Sword pointing skyward, a lightning rod for the explosion of deafening thunder that breaks across his ears. The blade sheaths in a cloak of white-blue sparks. Link sucks all the air he can into his battered lungs and lets it all out as he unleashes a skyward strike on his enemy, charged not only with lightning, but with all the holy energy of Hylia, and all the determination Link has felt in his life.

This ends now.

Demise takes a staggering step back. Link tenses. Combined, their breathing is harsh. The physical toll being in constant motion has on a body is familiar to Link. He’s lived it, every day for the last six months. Suffered through endlessly sore limbs and tender flesh. Grown from it, too. Become stronger. Better. Link once had the thought, he remembers now, that Demise stole Ghirahim’s rib to cut him off at the knees because Ghirahim’s skill matched Demise’s own, if not surpassed it. But Link has defeated them both.

Demise stabs this blade into the ground with a roar of pure rage. A beat passes, then two. The sword scatters into glittering black dust.

No, Link tries to say, and, Ghirahim, but he is too shocked to form the words in his mouth.

“You,” Demise snarls. “What are you?"

Link doesn’t hear him, trying and failing to tear himself away from the voice in his mind telling him Ghirahim is gone gone gone.

"You fight like a demon yet you look like a man. Listen well, boy. My hate never perishes. It will be reborn anew, again and again, in a cycle with no end. You, and your goddess, and any who share your spirit will be trapped in an endless blood-soaked ocean of death. And always awaiting you at the end of that dark void will be me.”

Demise laughs.

“I bind you to this curse. I will rise again.”

Demise dies with the uneasy howl of an entire herd of animals tumbling from a cliff—cacophonous, then silent. His body turns to smoke even as he claws at the air one last time, as if it will stop his end. And then he is wind.

The Master Sword emits a pure white light. Link moves on instinct. He holds the blade out, and the remnants of smoke race toward it like loftwings across the sky.

I have confirmed the eradication of the demon king. The last vestiges of Demise’s consciousness have been absorbed inside the Master Sword.

“Where’s Ghirahim?” Link asks.

But he knows the answer.

Fi is silent for a moment.

Your task is complete, Master, is all she has to say.

Chapter Text

When a few gentle knocks sound through the dark of Link’s room, he knows it is Zelda.

There was a time, over a year ago now, where she would have let herself in, or had her loftwing peek through the window to startle him awake. They were more familiar then, he supposes. They knew each other. Closer to friends than what they are now: goddess and champion.

Link’s faint hope Zelda will think he is still asleep and go away melts when her voice drifts softly through the wood.

“Link. I need to speak with you.”

Link expels a long, soundless breath. He climbs out of bed as if he weighs ten thousand tons, pastes a smile on his face, and opens the door.

“Zelda,” he says.

Zelda’s own smile is faint. “Good morning, sleepy head.”

They walk around Skyloft at a leisurely pace. The morning is late, activity bustling across the island, children’s laughter mixed with the mechanical whir of Beedle’s shop as it drifts overhead. Blue butterflies flutter around softly colored flowers, a sweet-smelling breeze wrapping around their bodies in warm strokes of air. Groose lingers twenty paces back. He’s barely left Zelda’s side since she returned to them six months ago. Link has caught them, once or twice, in moments where they think they are alone, gazing into each other’s eyes, their fingertips brushing against each other’s on the banister as they climb the stairs of the academy, the softness of Groose’s voice and in his smile as he greets her each morning.

Link isn’t sure how he missed Zelda’s feelings for Groose. They’ve been watching each other for months, maybe even years. He wonders if it’s official. He wonders if Zelda would tell him if it already were.

You didn’t tell her about Ghirahim, his own voice whispers traitorously in his mind.

Link brushes it aside. The smile is effortless. Another tool to fool the people he loves. He’s become very good at it; he almost believes it himself.

“Fledge and his team are doing very well on the surface,” Zelda says at last. They pass by Skyloft’s cemetery. She trails a hand over the headstones, gazing at the names of long-dead Hylians as if she knew them. Perhaps, in her way, she did. “The kikwis and mogmas have been very helpful in mapping out areas for our first settlements. He found an old temple last week, actually. He thinks it might have been a city once, fallen underground. He wants to excavate it.”

“He’ll do great,” Link says. He watches the distant shapes of knights on loftwings, soaring across the sky.

“I want you to help him.”

Link blinks. Zelda’s whole frame is tense. She’s looking at him as if she expects him to refuse, as if she came here ready for a fight. And why should she expect any differently?

Aside from one or two unavoidable trips to show Fledge, who is newly knighted, the hazards of Eldin Volcano or the scorching, monster-riddled landscape of Lanayru Desert, Link has not returned to the surface once. The few times he has gone, he stayed only as long as was absolutely necessary. Because when the sun begins to set and twilight sweeps across the sky, he can hear that choked-off laugh, can feel the pressure of lips on his, the safety of night blackened by the betrayal of a man he cannot get out of his head even after six fucking months—

“Of course,” Link says.

Zelda relaxes fractionally. “Your experience is invaluable,” she says. “Fledge is wonderful—he’s changed so much, is so confident, now—but you know the surface. You’ve spent the most time there.”

“Technically, you’re the one who has spent the most time there,” Link says, and immediately fills with cold dread. Zelda’s thousand-year slumber changed her in ways neither of them are comfortable examining yet. Somewhere in that suspended void, she stopped being Zelda, and started being…

Something else.

She is still Zelda, of course. But the parts of her that are Zelda and the parts of her that are Hylia are wound so tightly together they cannot be detangled. She is not the only one who changed.

Zelda’s only reaction to Link’s words are, “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

Silence is both a relief and a horror. There used to never be silence between them. They talked about everything and nothing. Now, they don’t talk at all.

“Are you all right, Link?” Zelda asks.

Her gaze is on him, heavy and unwavering. Her bangs have grown out, swept aside to show more of her eyes. There is wisdom beyond her years etched into the angles of her too-young face, a concern that could be for Link. Or for her champion.

Link says, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Fi,” says Link.

Fi doesn’t answer, and Link remembers.

She isn’t here anymore.

“You say something?” Fledge’s voice, echoing from around a stone corner in the darkened temple hall.

It’s freezing down here. The temple and the mass of ancient structures even deeper in the earth are cast in perpetual darkness and cold. Both Link and Fledge have had to double up on their layers to keep warm, but even after just a few days of exploring the crumbling city, it has been worth it. There are homes down here. Libraries filled with brittle books written in languages no one can read. Dried-up fountains carved with painted symbols. Barracks littered with swords and glaives so old their edges are dull as table knives.

It’s proof, that there was life down here, before Demise. There were people. They can live on the surface again.

“It’s nothing,” Link calls. An ache that feels similar to loss pulses in his chest. There’s a symbol on the wall in front of him, gleaming in his torchlight, that looks important.

Link fumbles for his sketchbook in his pack and juts out the basic shape of it on a free page, charcoal coating his fingertips. He’ll show it to Zelda when he goes back to Skyloft next week, though the chances of Hylia knowing anything at the moment Link needs her to is low.

Calling for Fi had been instinctual. Even if her database of knowledge couldn’t pull at its meaning, she might have known something to tell him.

He misses her.

Fi was a sword, not a someone.

And yet.

Saying goodbye to Fi had been… painful. Surprisingly so. There was one being, beyond Ghirahim, it turned out, who had spent more time with him on his quest than anyone. He had thought Fi emotionless. Without personality. A blank slate, programmed by Hylia during the war to assist her hero, and nothing more.

But, in those last moments, after asking Link to release her, after he plunged the Master Sword into its stony sheath and felt the solid weight of the blade fade from his fingertips for the last time, she had called to him.

Link, she said. She had never called him by his name before. I do not have the capability to understand the human spirit. It is not the task for which Hylia made me. My consciousness prepares to sleep within the Master Sword forever. I have completed my function, and you yours. I will not be with you on your next journey. Even so. I wish you luck. You are made of steel, and you will not break.

And then, Farewell, Master Link.

And she was gone. The threat was vanquished and Link had no reason to hold the Master Sword again. He left Fi behind, feeling as though he had just lost a friend, and returned to his room at the academy to sleep. He has a new sword, of course. It doesn’t feel right. None of them do.

There are moments, in the foggiest seconds between dreams and morning, where he feels the weight of it at his side, the steady pulse of holy energy radiating across his skin like a thousand volts of white-hot lightning. And then he wakes up, and Fi isn’t there, and Link has finished his task.

It’s hard to believe Fi is just gone. In those final seconds she felt more real than anyone he had ever met. She felt like a someone. Ghirahim had been a someone, and he was the same as her. Perhaps it was never that Fi was blank and cold. Perhaps she was just… herself.

Both the people he went on this journey for are gone. Fi is eternally asleep inside the Master Sword, never to wake, and Ghirahim is—

He makes himself think it.

Dead.

Ghirahim is dead.

The narrow walls of the temple close in on him at once, a twilight he cannot see crushing him into pulp, air stiff and frigid in his lungs. Link gasps. His head spins. Knees hit hard ground. Someone shouts his name, but everything sounds like it’s underwater. His vision goes black. His skin is numb. Strong hands haul him up, dragging him through the temple. Link comes back to himself in snatches, moonlight spilling into the swamp-like landscape he and Fledge’s team have camped in. Fledge’s face comes into focus, worry chiseled into the set of his brow.

“Link!” he cries. His palm rubs a soothing track up and down Link’s back. They’re both kneeling in mud by the remains of a campfire. The rest of the team will still be inside, mapping the halls and cataloging the buildings and their purposes. None of them have slept much. “Goddess, are you okay?”

Link still cannot breathe, because his mind is back in place and he remembers, in a sick rush, that he killed Ghirahim, that despite the betrayal, he would have liked to hold him once last time if Ghirahim would have let him, but he can’t, Ghirahim isn’t here, Ghirahim is gone, Ghirahim is dead and it’s Link’s fault.

He hates Ghirahim for reducing him to this.

“Breathe,” Fledge says. “Breathe, Link. You’re okay. I’m right here.”

“I’m—” Link stops short of saying “okay.” He isn’t. He’s crumbling to pieces.

Fledge kneels with him in the muck for what feels like hours, stroking his back, murmuring reassurances, until Link can think again. Fledge pulls Link to his feet and leads him into one of the tents, sits him on the cot, and comes back a minute later with a mug of water. Link holds it in his hands and stares at it. What is he meant to do with this?

“Zelda was right,” Fledge says. Link looks at him. “Something’s wrong with you.”

Link flinches. He knows what Fledge means. Link barely sleeps. He doesn’t eat. He spends hours a day swinging a sword that is not his, to keep his muscles used to the labor, but he’s lost weight and strength anyway. And he’s tried to fool them all with a smile. The idea that Zelda has talked to Fledge about this is unnerving. Intrusive. Link is not all right, but he doesn’t want everyone knowing his business.

No one knows the reason. No one knows what Ghirahim was to him, even if it was a lie. No one understands that every time night falls, Link lies awake and stares at the sky, waiting for Ghirahim to come to him.

“Lots of memories,” Link says at last.

Fledge sinks into the cot beside him. Their knees are touching. “I wish I knew what happened to you down here,” Fledge admits after a long silence. “I was so concerned with myself the whole time you were looking for Zelda. All I wanted was to be as strong as you. I could have helped.”

“No one could have stopped what happened,” Link tells him, and it’s the truth. “This was my task. You completed yours.” He adds, “You’re stronger than you realize, Fledge. And I don’t just mean from all those push ups.”

Their eyes meet. Link smiles at him, digging his fingers into the rough earthenware of his mug. He wants it to be sincere. He wants Fledge to believe him.

Fledge’s lips are parted slightly, his gaze uncertain. “You haven’t been the same since you came back.”

“No,” Link agrees. He has changed in innumerable ways. He is both stronger and weaker than he was before. He both embraces and shuns the eternal ache in his heart. He is proud of what he has done. He hates himself for it. “But sometimes change is good. Sometimes, change is necessary for the greater good. I may not be the same. But we have the surface, now. That’s worth everything.”

“Aren’t you tired?” Fledge asks.

Link says, “Yes. But this? This feels like rest. And you’re here; I know I can trust you to pick up the pieces.”

Fledge kisses him. Link blinks into it, surprised. Fledge has a little crush on you, Peatrice told him months ago. This can be easy. Link hesitates. He kisses back, once, twice. It’s not unpleasant. He’s still working out how far to take this, but it’s Fledge who pulls away, cheeks flushed a delicate plum.

“You don’t feel that way about me,” he says slowly, as if realizing it himself.

He wants to. Link isn’t the only one who has transformed over the last year. Fledge has grown a few inches taller, has filled out in a way Link’s eyes would have clung to once. They’re both a little closer to men than boys, the roundness of youth traded for masculine cuts of cheekbone and jaw, and the importance of their tasks has matured them in ways the others their age are still reaching for. Zelda has Groose, who has spent time on the surface. Link could have Fledge.

Fledge is twice the man anyone ever expected him to be. He is confident and strong, but still so achingly sweet. It would be easy.

“I could,” Link answers. “I can get there. I can—”

“But you won’t,” Fledge interrupts kindly. “It’s okay, Link. You deserve to be honest with yourself, and I deserve better than waiting for something you’ll never be ready to give me.”

The words hollow him out.

“We’ll stay friends,” Fledge finishes, and there is not even a hint of a waver in his voice. “I like being your friend. But, and don’t take this the wrong way, maybe you could call your loftwing? I know it’s late, but I think you should spend the night at home. Until you feel better. Tell Zelda it’s your captain’s orders.” He smiles a genuine, warm smile. “Okay?”

Link soars through an ocean of stars.

He thinks about Fi, about Zelda, about Fledge and Ghirahim and Demise’s cold, hateful stare. The nighttime air is crisp and scentless. Wind ripples the folds of his layered shirts. He should go back to Skyloft. He should tell Zelda that he’s falling apart, that the calm face he’s shown her the last six months has been a facade. Instead, he urges his loftwing to the Temple of Time.

Impa is awake and waiting for him when he walks in through the doors. She is shriveled and ancient, a paragon of devotion to her goddess that rivals Ghirahim’s devotion to his king.

“There you are,” Impa says, as if she’s been expecting him. “I’ve laid a bedroll out for you by the tree. Take all the time you need. Sleep here tonight.”

Link wants to ask, “How did you know I was coming?” and maybe Impa knows it, because she adds, unbidden, “I feel it reach for you, sometimes.”

Link is adrift. He hugs Impa. She stiffens in surprise, but pats his back in a matronly gesture and ushers him up the steps to the Master Sword’s resting place.

Six months ago, Link plunged the blade into its stone sheath and bid a friend goodbye. He knows Fi is gone, locked in eternal slumber, her divine purpose fulfilled. But perhaps she can still hear him in there.

Link sits on the top step, legs folded under him, and stares at the sword. It is part of him, even if it isn’t his, anymore. Link is bound to it. He cannot see the strings. He doesn’t know why Ghirahim could. But he can feel the invisible cord anchoring him to the Master Sword, wrapped tight around his heart, calling him back, calling him home.

“I don’t know what to do now,” Link admits quietly.

His voice dissolves in the stillness of the temple air, a secret for him and whoever may be listening.

“I don’t know if Demise’s curse means anything. I don’t know if you can even hear this.”

He remembers the guardian in the Silent Realm, left behind by Hylia, their purpose spent. Remembers wondering if he shared a similar fate.

“I want it all to mean something,” he says, and isn’t sure what he’s talking about. His sacrifice? The blackness that creeps into his nightmares to startle him awake with a shout on his lips? Ghirahim’s betrayal? His death? “I want it to mean something,” Link says, “for me.”

The temple is a silent world wreathed in ancient energies without name. The fate of the world was decided here, twice. The end of time reversed, the power yanked back into the light’s hands. The Demon King vanquished at last.

“I think I loved him,” Link says. Fi would know, more than anyone. She would never judge him for it. “I would give anything to see him again, even though he deceived me. Even though it was a ploy to use my skills against me. I know it was a lie. But then why do I keep thinking he had every chance to kill me, and didn’t?”

A thought Link has had a thousand times since the pit. The fireshield earring glinting against Ghirahim’s skin, the anguish in his voice, the way his heart was not in any of the strikes he made against Link.

Why?

Link stares at the Master Sword, resting in stone. He reaches for the hilt.

The blade sings free. The shape of it is so familiar, so right, Link’s body shudders. Fi is at rest. She asked to be released, and Link let her go. This sword is not his anymore.

It’s a foolish thought. Impossible. Link knows the outcome before the words have even fully formed on his lips, but he holds the Master Sword aloft and says, “Show me Ghirahim.”

Nothing.

He knew there wouldn’t be. Link’s arms lowers to his side, a gaping hole ripping through his chest, gnawing ever outward. And then—

A pulse.

Weak and unendingly faint.

Link’s heart rate triples, his breath coming to him fast and shallow again. He squeezes his fist around the hilt. His imagination?

No. It’s real—the pulse thrums impossibly soft in his hand. Ghirahim is—he’s—Ghirahim is alive. He’s alive! Link points the blade outward. The pulse does not increase in intensity no matter the direction he thrusts it, no matter if he aims it straight at the sky or deep into the earth. But this is proof. It is certainty. Ghirahim is alive, and Link would give anything to see him one last time, to ask him if it truly meant nothing, after all.

“Well, then,” Impa’s voice crackles behind Link. He swings to face her. She watches him with the faintest of smiles on her lips. “It seems your destiny is not spent yet, hero. A word of advice—go to sleep. You are no use to anyone half-dead.”

“Yes,” Link says, barely feeling the words, “yes. Okay.”

“Keep it,” Impa adds when Link hesitates to put the Master Sword back in the stone. “It was forged for you.”

Link lies on his bedroll with the Master Sword tucked against this body. He holds it as if he is its sheath, as if his flesh could protect it from harm. Thoughts rush through his mind in a cyclone of possibilities, hope a devastating ghost of a kiss on his lips. He shuts his eyes at last to the memory of Ghirahim’s clear laughter, the sparkle of mirth in his eyes, the way his finger stroked down Link’s cheek.

Link will sleep, for now.

But in the morning, he will set out. He will search the whole world over if he must. He will find Ghirahim.

Tomorrow.

Chapter Text

THE HERO OF TIME

The Temple of Time is a quiet, heavy place. Link has never been outside Kokiri Forest, never seen buildings like this, never been so unsure as to what shape his life will take.

The temple has an energy about it that Link doesn’t fully understand; it’s an undercurrent of power, of promise. Of destiny. But at nine years old, Link’s understanding of things like destiny and fate are vague.

The last few days have taken him from the lush woods of his home to the depths of Hyrule Lake, and the belly of Death Mountain. Standing now in the entryway of the temple, Link clutches his ocarina and stares wide-eyed at the sacred hall. Courage comes to him in stages, first steadied breath, next in cool determination, until at last his small legs carry him to the back wall where the plaque awaits, the shapes etched into it a perfect match for the jewels hanging heavy in his pocket. He slots them into place one by one, holding his breath. Then, he lifts the ocarina to his lips.

The Song of Time sings through the room, echoing in the rafters, heavier than it’s ever sounded before.

The wall rumbles, dropping to reveal a secret chamber in the back of the temple, a single stream of light from the high window beaming directly onto—

A sword.

Sheathed in a bed of stone.

Link has never seen it before. But somehow, it feels so familiar. Like a dream he had when he was very small.

Link steps into the chamber, gaze locked on his destiny, and reaches for the hilt.

Seven years of slumber later, Link examines the blade inside the Water Temple. His heavy boots make for awkward walking, but they’re imperative to stop him from floating upward when so many of the temple’s passageways are flooded. He perches on a ledge on the center column of the temple, one leg dangling over the side, tektites skittering about the surface of the water one level down. It’s a long drop to the water, and an even longer, slow sink to the temple floor.

Link catches his breath, allowing himself a moment of respite. It’s a beautiful sword. The blade is made of pure white metal. A faint heat emanates from it, like a wisp of desert. It sings when he slices through the air. It fits perfectly in his hand, though Link knows the sword itself is too ancient to have been made especially for him. This task he has found himself assigned to is strange and dangerous. But Princess Zelda had given it to him, all those years ago, as she fled from Ganondorf in the rain, her smooth blue ocarina tossed into Link’s willing hands.

He has rested enough. Link gets to his feet, sheathes the Master Sword, takes a deep breath, and leaps, sinking all the way to the temple floor.

Later, when the twisting passageways have exhausted him, Link approaches a door he has not yet managed to open, gratified when it slides upward at last. Link steps through the frame and jumps when the door slams shut behind him, so close the cut of wind whips across the back of his neck. Link glances at the door, but the room steals his attention.

It is an endless, pre-dawn horizon. The floor is covered in several inches of shimmering water. Link tests his footing against the ground. Another door is off in the distance, waiting. A lone, blackened tree grows from a shallow sandbar between them.

The room does not feel right. The air is changed. Heavy. Dense.

Link has learned to proceed with caution when a door locks behind him, but he wants to get out of this frustrating temple, so he picks his way across the otherworldly landscape, the slosh of stirring water under his boots the only sound. Link passes the tree, shakes off the unease that creeps over him, and crosses the rest of the distance to the door.

It’s locked, too.

Link huffs, heel grinding as he turns.

There is something by the tree.

Whatever it is, it stands motionless, facing him. Link slowly draws his sword. He steps closer, cold dread growing within him as the figure takes shape. It’s him. A perfect replica, from the curve of his cheek to the length of his limbs. The figure wears the same clothes. The same hat. It even has the same earring. It is an identical shadow of Link, made of darkness itself, but its eyes are crimson and knowing.

Link braces himself for battle, not willing to admit even to himself that he is disquieted.

“Look who it is,” the thing that is not him says, in a voice that is a deep, wrong replica of his own. “It has been a very long time, little keese.”

“What are you?” Link asks, because he cannot ask who they are. He knows they are not himself.

Shadow-Link tilts their head, glowing crimson eyes as blank as their face. “Don’t remember? No matter. Your resistance ends here.”

The fight is as bizarre as it is harrowing. Shadow-Link’s movements are a marionette of his own. Link strikes forward, and so does the creature. Link steps left, and so do they. They do not offer explanations, comforts, insults. They say nothing else at all. Link beats them back, again and again, the Master Sword slicing through half-solid darkness until at last, the thing falls into the watery floor and is gone. The door on the other side of the room unlocks. Link lets it open for him, breathing hard. He turns to look at the strange room one last time, as if the creature will be standing there, staring at him. They are not there, but the sensation of being watched takes hours to fade.

Link doesn’t think he killed them.

He doesn’t think they can die.

Time passes. Ganondorf is defeated. Princess Zelda is saved.

Sometimes, in the years that follow, Link thinks he can see a shadowed reflection of himself in Hylia Lake on his long strolls at sunset. Once or twice, he has rubbed his eyes at the mirror in his washroom only to find, for the space of a single breath, that his corneas are the crimson of blood.

Link sits at his desk in the castle barracks, making his way through stacks of neglected paperwork Her Majesty finally came after him to finish. Zelda knows Link is wasted behind a desk. He needs to be out there, sword in hand, burn in his muscles. But, he supposes, paperwork is important too.

It has been over a decade since Link saw the queer, twisted image of himself in reflected glimpses, and years since he even thought of that strange enemy from his youth, when the world was in danger and all could be lost.

He thinks of them now, hand pausing over a leave form awaiting his signature.

“Weird,” Link murmurs, unsettled by the memory.

They had said something to him, then. Something that, to this day, all these years later, doesn’t make sense. 

It has been a very long time, little keese.

THE LEGENDARY HERO

The Dark World is a sick reflection of Hyrule filled with half-mad beasts hungry for flesh. Caution is Link’s best ally as he picks across the landscape, sticking to heavily wooded areas and tall mountainous walls, staying as out of sight as he can. Link knows he’s young to carry a burden like this. His uncle often told Link stories of his father, a Knight of Hyrule, of the honorable blood that runs in Link’s veins. But Link doesn’t think his long-dead father had much in the way of world-ending responsibilities when he was fourteen.

It feels unfair, in many ways, that this should be Link’s destiny.

The puzzles, he means.

Link is sick of puzzles. Done with them. Even the thought of one more problem to solve makes him ill. But the more he fights, and the closer he comes to confronting Agahnim—Ganon—whoever he is—the more anxious he is for things to be easy. Just once.

Perhaps, if it had been Link’s father who managed to find and draw the Master Sword from its resting place in the Lost Woods, he would have been a better sport about all this. Perhaps if Link were a few years older, it wouldn’t bother him as much. But his father never laid eyes on the damn sword, and Link is four-fucking-teen, and he has a bad attitude, yes.

And yet.

Sometimes, in the moments he is the most focused on his quest, he swears he can feel a connection between him and the sword.

It is a fleeting thing, fragile and impossible to grasp at will. But there is a rightness to the way the hilt fits in his hand. It is a sword made for a grown warrior, not a boy who is barely a teenager. But the blade isn’t too heavy that it throws off his balance. It isn’t awkward to swing around. It isn’t uncooperative with his movements at all.

It’s moments like those when Link thinks maybe, just maybe, destiny is not such a bad thing.

Up to his neck in stupid puzzles, Link doesn’t think about the implications of the name “Turtle Rock,” which is the last place he has to go before he can fight Agahnim—Ganon—whatever. Link is anxious to prove himself and tired of having to stop and think about how he should shove giant vases the size of his uncle around so as to avoid being murdered by a hail of arrows. He’s ready to prove he was the right choice for this, that whatever barely-there thing he has binding him to the Master Sword is somehow enough. Enough for who? For what? He isn’t sure.

“Turtle Rock,” he thinks, because the outside of the dungeon kind of looks like a giant turtle. As it turns out, “Turtle Rock” is thus named for the rock-like, turtle-shaped monster that arrives to kill him within the inner sanctum.

A turtle with three heads.

That breathes fire.

And ice.

Link is nearly crushed to death underfoot a dozen times. He’s panting with effort by the time he figures out how to even hurt the damn thing. Fire rod on its fire head, hack and slash. Ice rod on its ice head, slash some more. He has never faced a foe like this, and when he thinks the turtle is close to crumbling at last, it subverts his expectations and breaks into three mobile death-comets instead. The puzzles never end.

“Fi, report!” Link cries, then nearly freezes, because why did he say that? He doesn’t even know what a Fi is.

A sliver of something, then—a stirring of energy from the Master Sword. Link stares at the blade. Bad idea; the ice comet smashes into Link’s chest and winds him very, very spectacularly. He’s lucky it doesn’t kill him. But it does give him an idea to look for another weak spot, because that dozen-ton glob of wintery stone hurt quietly badly, and if Link has learned anything on this journey, it’s that everything has a weak spot.

With the pieces of the Turtle Monster scattered at his feet and Link triumphant, he takes a moment to stare at the Master Sword anew. The last kidnapped maiden—Princess Zelda herself—awaits him just beyond. He should hurry to release her from the crystal in which she’s been trapped. But Link takes a moment to consider his sword.

Link had never killed anything bigger than a house spider before this. It still isn’t comfortable, ending something, even if it’s out to end him. He’s felt alone for most of this. But the Master Sword has been… helpful. It isn’t a person, not even close, it’s a lump of blessed metal with a wicked bite. But.

“Thank you,” he tells it.

The sword does not answer him, of course.

A rush of molten embarrassment boils Link from the inside out. He sheathes the damn thing and struts into the next chamber to free Princess Zelda.

Thirty years pass.

Link makes the trip to the Lost Woods once or twice a decade. This year, he goes in spring. Link has kept in shape as best he can. He’s left the academy in good hands for the few weeks he needs to retrace his wayward steps, remembering all the while.

When Link sees the Master Sword again, that feeling comes back.

The connectedness.

The faint stirrings of destiny, even though his fight has been won for years.

Even so. Link sets his palm on the smooth pommel, stares at the blade in silence, and wonders why he can’t shake the idea that, one day, he will draw it again.

THE HERO OF THE ESSENCES

Holodrum is a strange land. It’s bleak on a good day and downright treacherous on most. The swamps riddled with wickedly sharp driftwood from long-dead trees and the witches who zip through the air to steal his rupees are only some of Link’s problems. But Din needs him, and he will rescue her and stop the chaos of the seasons. This is the task given to him by Princess Zelda.

At long last, General Onox’s castle is in reach. Link climbs the last, black hill, muscles in his thighs screaming for rest. It’s snowing, though moments ago summer heat threatened to scorch him dry. He clutches the Master Sword in his hand, panting with effort, squinting against the onslaught of icy crystals stinging at his eyes.

Less than a year ago, Link was celebrating by the fire as Din danced for him, a mischievous curl to her smile, poppy-red ponytail swaying along with her movements. He had never met anyone like Din. Never stepped foot outside Hyrule, until the Triforce summoned him to Holodrum and tasked him to save it.

Then the general came, and ripped off Din’s mask that falsified her as a simple dancer. And the seasons collided.

Link drives the tip of the Master Sword into the black sand, a snarl ripping from his throat as he uses the last of his strength to pull himself onto level ground, the walls of the castle not far now. The snow is gone in a blink, replaced by hundreds of forks of white lightning. This place is cursed, even without the disarray Din’s absence as Oracle of Seasons has caused. That such a task should be his destiny, to save the world, was something he dared not even dream in his wildest childhood fantasies. But this year, these last months, the horrors he has faced and the reality of blood and war, have hardened him.

You are too soft, Link, his uncle used to say. You care for everyone, and that is not only your weakness, but your greatest boon.

Link stares at the Master Sword, panting. Rest. Just for a moment. He’s no use to Din if Onox slays him where he stands.

He is too soft.

How can he be, Link thinks, when he was chosen for this? By his goddess? Link may be soft, but a sword is made of steel so it will not break, and Link was chosen for the same—

Link’s thoughts come up short.

No. That’s not right. It was the Triforce that summoned him to Holodrum to save Din, not a goddess. He isn’t sure where that thought came from. Isn’t sure why he can’t forget it. Link steadies his breathing, clears his mind, and goes inside the castle.

General Onox is the most dangerous opponent Link has fought.

His armor is thick. His mace and chain are impossibly dense. He is massively tall and broad-chested. His footsteps threaten to shake his palace apart.

Link fights like a wild man. He has learned much over the course of his task, but there is a lightness to his footwork and a strength to his thrusts that Link knows, instinctually, he has never been taught. Link is a seventeen year old shop boy with no formal training. Why me? He has asked himself this a hundred times. There is nothing special about him. There is no reason the fate of an entire nation should rest on his shoulders.

And yet, somehow, he wins.

General Onox lies in a pool of his own blood. Black. Sticky. Air rattles through the vents of his helmet. He sounds horrible. Din, trapped in the clear blue crystal the color of the ocean, sleeps soundly, unmoving, waiting for Link to end it. Link grips the Master Sword a little tighter, thinks of every creature he has killed to get here, and thinks, Just one more.

“You think you’ve bested me,” Onox says.

Link stills.

“You think,” Onox continues, “that this is the end. But there is no end, chosen hero. I will not die today. I will go home, to my king, to bide my time until he bids me rise again.”

“Your king?” Link asks, regrets it.

Onox chuckles. Massive, gloved hands reach for his helmet. “As we speak, Princess Zelda is being prepared as a sacrifice. Her death will mean my king’s return.”

“Ganon,” Link breathes.

“No, little keese.” The helmet pulls away. The creature underneath is not General Onox. They are a parody of him in inverse, skin like inky shadow, eyes of pure blood. “You know his true name.”

Link says, “ Demise, ” but he has never heard the name, he shouldn’t know it, terror spikes through him, his hand quakes around the Master Sword’s hilt, he has done this before, he has done this before—

THE HERO OF TWILIGHT

Link has heard the stories of skeletal specters. Of children who wander too deep into the woods and never come out.

The stalfos is a head taller than Link, an eye glowing from the shadowed depth of its helmet. It clutches a horrible, thick blade in its bony hand. Its rib cage moves, inward, outward, in mockery of breath. But how can it breathe if it’s dead?

A moment ago, Link was facing a golden wolf, fangs bared, hot breath ribboning out from its maw. And now the forest is gone, lush greenery replaced by endless white mist, the phantom presence of a castle far in the distance. Link has very limited, extremely fresh experience with other realms. But he knows this is one.

The stalfos takes a step toward him, bones clacking.

Link stumbles back.

The stalfos pauses. And then it speaks. “Fear will not serve you, Hero in Waiting. It is courage you must now take, at the curtain of twilight.”

Link finds his voice on the second try. “What?”

“I would pass on the techniques of the sword I have kept secret for many aeons, to support you in your quest. Do you accept?”

“You—” Link is stunned. “You want to teach me… how to fight?”

The stalfos says, “Do you accept?”

Link is a slow learner. The stalfos has a total of seven sword techniques to show him, but something in Link’s molecules was altered when he turned into a wolf. Something in his very matter is different. He’s clumsy with a blade, fat-fingered, heavy-footed. The stalfos is a patient teacher, for reasons that make no sense to Link. He still half-expects the stalfos to go mad with bloodlust and kill him during a sparring match, but it never happens.

Their lessons are scattered. Link returns to the stalfos in moments not entirely of his choosing, and only ever when his shadowy teacher thinks Link is ready. Link learns footwork. He learns proper form. He learns how to do spin attacks for hard, powerful blows, how to utilize space to his advantage, how to get out of being surrounded by enemies.

Link thinks, in brief moments, that these lessons are familiar. As if he’s had them before. But he knows he hasn’t. It’s even more odd because, when he steps outside the white, misty realm and back into his world, he forgets about the stalfos entirely.

And then, at long last, Link receives a new blade.

The next time the golden wolf appears before Link, he is ready for the white mist. Eager for how his new sword might inspire his technique. Link draws the Master Sword, marveling not for the first time how it fits perfectly in his hand, and readies himself to learn.

The gold wolf melts away in a shimmer of illusion. The stalfos stares at Link with dead, empty eyes. “You have the sword,” it says.

Link holds it out, surprised the stalfos noticed his change of blade. “This?”

The stalfos is silent for a long while. “That is a blade that has passed between very few hands, Hero in Waiting. It is more than just a sword. It is the blade that banishes the darkness. It is Evil’s Bane. It has the blessing of Hylia herself. Do you know what that makes you?”

Link does not.

The stalfos says, “Cursed.”

“The Master Sword?”

“No. You.”

Awareness prickles unpleasantly at the base of Link’s spine. This is the first time he has heard of it but somehow, Link has always known. The curse exists outside his awareness at all times but, in moments like these, passing between realms where the veil is thinnest, he can feel it following him. A shadow he cannot shake. One that has dogged his footsteps for centuries.

To be aware of it now is a shock of freezing water on his skin.

“How did you know that?” Link asks.

“I know because I was once you.” The stalfos comes closer. Bones rattle as it walks. It smells faintly of death.

“I was the hero once. Ten thousand years ago, now. Maybe longer. I held that same blade and banished the evil that threatened Hyrule. But it is an evil with roots that grow deeper than you can imagine. No matter how much you dig, it cannot be uprooted. It grows back. It is the same evil you fight now.”

“Ganondorf?” Link asks, the name wrong on his tongue. No. Not Ganondorf. Someone older. Someone worse.

 “Listen to me. This has happened before. It will continue to happen, again and again. It is a cycle from which you cannot escape.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Link argues.

“You’re thinking in circular terms. This is a linear recurrence. You are trapped, chained to this destiny, bound to it.”

Without another word, the stalfos that was once a hero strikes. Link barely manages to deflect the swing of its sword, the clang of metal on metal a scream in his ears. It sounds like a choked-off laugh.

Link employs all the tactics the shade of the hero has taught him, but it isn’t long until Link realizes the difference between their skill. The Hero’s Shade has an unthinkable number of lifetimes of experience. Link is only seventeen.

The Hero’s Shade lunges at him. Steel bites into his thigh, a glancing blow, but all the air leaves Link’s lungs in a rush. Not his thigh. It hasn’t been the same since Koloktos—

The thought dissolves and Link’s back hits the ground hard, the Hero’s Shade hovering above. Link cannot allow himself to remain vulnerable like this, and it’s just like the time Moldarach knocked him over with her claw—

The thought turns to smoke. Link gets to his feet, reeling, sure the Hero’s Shade means to actually kill him. It swings at him, a blow that would chop him in half, and Link’s mind is a field of mud screaming at him to take action. Link drops the Master Sword, some unknowable instinct throwing his hand into the air. He catches the tip of the Shade’s sword in his fingertips and yanks it from its grip.

Someone has done that to Link, though he can’t imagine when, because it hasn’t actually happened. He kicks the Shade in the center of its chest. Bones crash against armor as it falls onto its back. Link leaps into the air to finish it, the Shade’s sword in hand, point hooked downward.

A demon with skin like volcanic glass lies on a glowing platform below. Link plunges to meet him, his blade ready to shatter the gray jewel in his chest.

This has happened before.

Link falters, toe of his boot hitting the ground wrong, his shoulder crashing to white nothingness. The Shade stares at Link from where it fell, but does not move.

This has happened before.

“Get out of my head,” Link whispers.

“You must try to remember. There’s no other way to break the curse.”

Link stares at the Shade, but it is no longer a stalfos. It’s him. Older, sadder. Pale stubble dusts its jaw. Fine lines press into the corners of his eyes. Then the illusion is gone, and it is a monster made of bone and dust. Link can see the demon again, but he looks different. Softer. Smiling. Goddess, Link would give anything to see him smile like that again. The demon was so beautiful when he smiled, but now he’s dead, and it’s Link’s fault.

No, Link thinks, there was a pulse.

Link was going to find him. Did he? He woke in the morning and said goodbye to Impa— who is Impa? —and hopped on his loftwing— what is a loftwing? —and flew around the skies, searching for a stronger signal. He had to see the demon again, Link didn’t care if he was hated, didn’t care if the demon would try to kill him the moment they reunited. Link had to try, he had to try, he had to try—

“It’s coming back to you,” the Shade says, “isn’t it?”

“Stop it,” Link says, abruptly in two places at once. He is in this white misty realm and soaring through the skies that were once his home. No, not his; another Link’s.

“We aren’t supposed to remember but you must. We’ve suffered enough, and if you don’t try, it’s only going to happen again.”

“Leave me alone,” Link snaps, voice rising.

“Link,” the Shade says, “you’ve done this before.”

“Get out of my head,” Link says. “Get out of my head! Get out of my head, get out of my head, get out of my head, get out of my head, get out of my— ”

THE HERO OF WINDS

Link lies on the deck of the King of Red Lions with a stalk of wheat grass in his teeth and the Master Sword casually strewn across his stomach. It’s a lovely day. There are no clouds in the sky. The waves are sweet and tender. The gulls that like to steal his lunch haven’t bothered him. He hasn’t had any run-ins with pirates for days. It’s just him, his ship, and the open sea.

Link chews on the end of the stalk, twisting his tongue around his teeth in thoughtful contemplation. He had a very strange dream last night.

Link is twelve, so all his dreams are very strange, but this one significantly so.

He was himself, but older. Sneaking against the backdrop of an actively erupting mountain. Link had never seen so much land in one place in his life. He could feel the scorching heat of the mountain’s oozing lifeblood, could smell the stench of burning rock. It was… vivid. And Older Him was picking his way in the dark, avoiding spotlights from ugly little red things with sharp pikes.

And there was someone with him.

Link doesn’t remember the other person much now that the haze of sleep has faded from his mind and his dream has reached the inevitable stage of half-remembered. Link switches the stalk to the opposite corner of his mouth, scowling at the perfect blue sky.

He thinks the guy with him had been cute. In a weird way. About the same age as Older Link. Wearing an outfit that showed so much skin, any adult would be scandalized to know Link’s imagination had conjured it. The weirdo had very shiny white hair, wide dark eyes, and lots of jewelry. Gaudy, maybe, but presentable. And he’d looked at Dream Link as though he found him amusing. Or maybe like he hated Dream Link’s guts.

He can’t remember.

Whatever.

Link turns on his side, not bothering to soften the Master Sword clatter to the King of Red Lions’s deck, and lets sunlight soak into his skin to warm him.

Having a crush on someone who doesn’t exist is stupid, anyway.

THE HERO OF THE WILD

Open your eyes.

Link.

Open your eyes.

Link wakes with a gasp. For a single, terrible moment, he is all of his lives at once. He is every birth; every death; every long, slow descent into madness from memories that belonged to him but were not his own.

“Ghirahim,” Link gasps, before the sensation and the memories fades, crumbling to dust, and Link realizes he has no idea who that is.

Chapter Text

The wild is much more dangerous at night.

Link’s shirt is old, scratchy, far too short, and it leaves a sizable gap for foliage to rub against the skin of his stomach as he creeps through underbrush. Close to a week has passed since Link woke in the strange blue chamber with no memories, no direction, and only the ghost of a trapped princess whispering in his head. When Link closes his eyes at night, trying to remember something, anything, he sees only this: the maleficious violent-crimson miasma of Calamity Ganon circling distant Hyrule Castle, daring him to try his luck.

A moblin lifts its head up the path, blinking sleepily at the otherwise empty field. Link sinks lower into the tall grass, annoyed when long dewy stalks tickle his stomach. He needs to get a longer shirt. Moblins rarely camp alone, in Link’s admittedly limited experience, but a quick survey of the area hadn’t shown any bokoblins or monsters or other kinds. The moblin lets out a huff and flops back to the grass, snoring in seconds.

It smells like a trap.

Link clutches his sword tightly. It’s horribly rusted, which is not ideal, but it’s all he has. He ran out of arrows yesterday. These monsters are everywhere, Link badly needs a bath, he had nothing but unseasoned roasted nuts to eat for lunch, and he is tired of it.

Link holds his breath and makes careful steps toward the moblin, eyes peeled for crunchable sticks underfoot. He does not need a repeat of his first evening out of the chamber. Thank goddess he’s off that plateau, at least. Iron arrowheads glint on the moblin’s cloth belt, and Link really needs them. He’s already tried picking a honeycomb off a tree with his bare hands and is not keen to relive the experience.

The moblin smells strongly of spoiled fish the closer Link gets. He wrinkles his nose but keeps his breathing steady. The moblin’s campfire sparks weakly, nearly spent. Link keeps his sword at the ready, bites his lip, and reaches for the bundle of arrows on the moblin’s waist.

It wakes with a snort, blinks blearily at Link, then leaps to its feet, abruptly twice Link’s height and very much awake. Link shrinks back, but it’s too late—the moblin rips a horn from a pouch on its back, puts it to his lips, and blows. Screeches rip from the night like the cries of angry birds, bokoblins melting from bushes and from behind thick-trunked trees, out for blood.

Oops.

Link hasn’t much in the way of self-preservation. He hadn’t meant to fight this camp at all. All he wanted was arrows.

Too late now. Link lunges for the massive moblin first, because the bokoblins are still running around looking for spears to pick up off the ground. He thwacks the moblin in the side with his sword, proud of the power and speed of his swing, certain it will be a one-hit kill and Link will be free to pick up the arrows.

The sword shatters on impact.

Link’s smile drops.

The moblin stares stupidly down at him and laughs.

Link runs.

He dashes as fast as he can from the protective circle of flickering flame light, making what he hopes is a convincing escape into the wilds of the field, but the bokoblins follow him. Link’s shirt rides even higher up his belly, a sharply-edged stalk of tall grass leaving an actual thin cut on his ribs. Link grimaces and keeps up his frantic pace. He now has a few rocks and a bow with no arrows to defend himself. Great.

There is a small stream up ahead that gleams silver in the moonlight. Link breaks for it, heavy footfalls behind him, the grunts and whoops of bokoblins screeching in his ears. If the water is deep enough, they won’t follow him. Ice shocks up his legs and hips as Link slips into the stream—river, his mind corrects unhelpfully—but there is no time to rethink. He plunges into it, up to his neck in seconds, gasps in a breath and starts to shiver. Link works his arms and legs to carry him across.

His stamina is shit, but thankfully, the river isn’t very wide, and when he’s on the other side he turns to make sure he hasn’t been followed. At least four bokoblins stand on the opposite bank, howling and jumping up and down in rage. One of them nocks an arrow, and Link is running again. Something whips past his face, far too close a call, but thirty seconds later Link is so far away only a divine feat would harm him.

A tree so large it boggles the mind holds silent vigil amidst a grove up the curve of the hill. Link scurries up the bark. He has good luck with trees like this. They almost always have a nice, flat platform at the top of the trunk with adequate coverage from prying eyes from leaf-lush branches.

Jackpot.

A smooth, empty space with perfect cover awaits Link. He hoists himself into it, lamenting the state of his stamina once more, and catches his breath.

It’s only when his heart rate has slowed and his mind has let go of its death grip on terror that he realizes he could have used the Sheikah Slate to warp to safety.

A harsh laugh barks from Link’s throat. He flops onto his back and throws an arm over his eyes. He’s not cut out for this. Link doesn’t even remember who he is, much less the skill and ability he supposedly possessed as the Princess of Hyrule’s champion.

Not for the first time, Link wonders if Zelda has the right person.

“Now that was just embarrassing,” someone says right in Link’s ear.

Link startles, barely stops himself from rolling into the hook of the branches at the trunk’s edge, and flips around to face his attacker.

The man is unlike anyone Link has seen before. Unlike the few travelers Link has met on the road, this man has a complexion the color of forming storm clouds, misty gray and perfectly smooth. A silky curtain of white hair hangs at a diagonal line down his face, covering one of his wide, black eyes. His outfit is obscene. Tight against his frame, diamond-shaped windows showing off teases of skin, nothing left to the imagination.

Link is scared, and his mouth is dry, and it is a troubling combination.

The man chuckles. “Look at you,” he says. “Like a frightened child.”

Link’s response is immediate and unplanned: “You look my same age.”

There’s an edge to the man’s gaze—it sharpens, but in mirth or anger, Link doesn’t know. “Lord Ghirahim,” the man says.

“You must have me confused with someone else—”

“ I’m Lord Ghirahim, you pathetic imbecile,” Ghirahim says.

“Oh.” Link adds, after a long, awkward pause, “I’m Link.”

Ghirahim says, “I know.”

Link has the distinct impression he is at a vast disadvantage. He is unarmed, surprised, and unsure why this is happening. This Lord Ghirahim doesn’t look as though he intends to attack, but if he did, Link wouldn’t stand a chance. Running with the Sheikah Slate might be his only option.

Ghirahim scoffs. “I can practically see the gears turning in your head. I mean you no harm. At least,” he adds, “not tonight.”

“You know me?” Link asks. It seems the safest question.

“Unfortunately. And much better than I’d like.”

But if Link has been asleep for one hundred years— “How old are you?”

Ghirahim hums. “Around your same age. If you take it all into consideration, that is.”

It is an answer that doesn’t make sense to Link, but perhaps he is asking the wrong questions. Link doesn’t fully believe Ghirahim means him no harm. There is an aura about him, one of danger and mania. The longer Link stares at him, dappled in moonbeams, the more Link sees the restless energy stirring right beneath his surface. Ghirahim sits with his back to a large branch, one leg out long and the other crossed at-ease atop it, but he twitches his foot impatiently, gloved fingertips drumming against his thigh.

“In a hurry?” Link asks.

“In a manner of speaking. It’s been some time since I’ve seen you. Even longer since I’ve—” Ghirahim stops himself from saying more. “You need a sword,” he continues. “Preferably one that won’t crack at the first swing. Watching you run away from a camp of bokoblins of all things is painful. You’re better than this.”

Link’s confusion mounts in multiples of three. This is a very odd conversation. Ghirahim is a very odd man. “Why are you here?” Link asks.

Ghirahim’s foot stops bouncing. “You never change, do you?”

Link’s head is going to explode. “What?”

“Listen to me very carefully, Link. I, Lord Ghirahim, have deigned to come to you and provide you with crucial knowledge to assist you on your quest. These brittle blades you find strewn about Hyrule are not worthy of a fraction of the skill you possess. I don’t care what you think you ought to be doing or where you were headed before this. Your goal, your only goal, is to make your way through the Lost Woods and find your sword.”

Link sets aside the compliment buried somewhere in the mountain of insults and asks, “My sword?”

“The one in your possession before your ill-advised nap.”

Something comes back to Link. A flicker of memory. It is there and gone so fast, the shape of it melts like snow in his hands. But it had been Ghirahim’s face. It’s the first thing Link has remembered from before his long slumber, and it should not set his heart racing the way it does. The memory was nothing and it was useless. But… “Were we friends?” Link asks. “Before?”

Ghirahim looks at him, his one visible eye dark and still. “We have been many things. Friends was never one of them.”

“Then what do you care if I go get my sword?”

“I have my own agenda.”

“This sounds like you’re leading me into a trap,” Link notes dryly.

“It is absolutely a trap,” Ghirahim agrees. “The question is, will you step into it blindly, simply because I’ve asked?”

Link finds with terrifying certainty that he will. His lack of fear should bother him far more than it does. Link’s life before waking up in the chamber is a blank void of black matter. One full week without so much as a notion of familiarity, but Ghirahim appears out of thin air and Link is sure they knew each other?

“I don’t—” Link pauses. “Why did you come here?”

Ghirahim stares for the space of two heartbeats. “You called me. When you woke.”

Had he? Link doesn’t remember. The disorientation had been so strong it churned his stomach. “But it’s been a week. I don’t understand.”

“It took me a moment to find my way.”

Link has the vague sensation that this reunion is unraveling at its seams, that this is not at all how it should have gone. Link should know everything. He should know if he’s meant to greet Ghirahim with a slap on the back or a strong shove out of the tree. But he doesn’t, and Ghirahim is clearly not in the mood to make Link’s life easier.

“Ghirahim—”

“ Lord Ghirahim. We are not on friendly terms.”

Link tries to stop his upper lip curling but isn’t sure he manages it. “I’m not calling you that.”

“No, you never were respectful of one’s identity.” Bitterness cuts through the words.

“Look,” Link says. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t even know who I am. I need something, anything more than a because I said so. Can you do that for me?”

Ghirahim contemplates. He’s very handsome with silver splashed across his skin, a little orange earring on one lobe. The sight makes Link’s heart stutter in his chest. At last, Ghirahim says, “The Master Sword is that which seals the darkness. Regardless of which side I am on, besting an unarmed child does not make for a victory. I made you a promise once, that I would make you scream so sweetly you would beg for my mercy. I intend to honor it.”

Link hears the words without really understanding them. He drinks in Ghirahim’s expression, his presence, his aura. Ghirahim watches Link just as intently. The intensity of his gaze matches his words in an unexpected way, but not one of violence. Ghirahim inhales slowly.

“Lost Woods. Quick as you can.”

Ghirahim vanishes in a flash of gold and black diamonds. Link sinks heavily to the bark.

Link meant to go north to the Lost Woods immediately. Truly he did. But there were shrines to visit. Tall cliffs to scale and watch the sunset from. Crisp, clear pools of water wriggling with brightly-scaled fish begging to be caught. Sap-covered forests ruled by boars to hunt. Hyrule is a vast, rich land bursting with more wonder than one man can possibly see in a lifetime. But Link thinks he may try.

It’s minutes from dawn. The climb up Hebra Mountain was incredibly dangerous and bitterly cold, and not Link’s brightest idea in the dark. Thigh and glute muscles burning, he grunts as he hoists himself up the last ledge, heat from his torch flickering as little embers spark off it and vanish in a gentle fall of snowflakes. Pre-dawn is a rich indigo turning faintly gold against the mountainous horizon on the other side of Hyrule. Pinpricks of white dot the sky, twinkling and shimmering. To his south, the massive bird-shaped machine Vah Medoh circles endlessly. The sun peeks over the jagged maw of the eastern horizon. Link lets out one long, slow breath that turns to frost on his lips.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Link jumps.

Ghirahim’s hair is whiter than the snow, a red cowl wrapped elegantly around his shoulders, arms crossed tight against his chest. He was not here a moment ago, but now he stands beside Link with his gaze welded to the sunrise.

Eyelashes, Link’s mind supplies helpfully. Ghirahim’s are long and painted black.

“It’s you.”

Ghirahim rolls his eyes. “Yes, it’s me. Congratulations, you are fortunate enough to breathe my air. Consider yourself blessed.”

Link has tried over the last weeks to remember Ghirahim and come up blank. There is nothing in Link’s past but an endlessly black pit. Looking at Ghirahim now, the pit’s insistence on existing grates badly on Link’s nerves. The answer is right there, just out of sight. All Link has to do is reach for it. He asks, “What did I do to make you angry at me, before?”

Ghirahim’s gaze snaps to Link’s face. “Did your hundred years of sleep addle your poor, fragile brain to the point that you cannot focus on what matters most? Oh, Link. You are a tragedy, aren’t you? I’d pity you if you deserved it.”

“I should only ask you questions you’re prepared to answer, is that it? We don’t have to talk about it if you aren’t ready.”

A sharp laugh. “I didn’t come here to hash out the intricacies of our history. You’re stalling. The Lost Woods are that way.”

Link doesn’t follow the finger Ghirahim jabs over his shoulder. He keeps his gaze on the annoyed clench of Ghirahim’s jaw and says, “You seem to be very invested in how I spend my time.”

“‘Invested?’ Do you find purpose in making my life difficult? What am I saying; of course you do. You need a proper sword. Not whatever this malformed lump of metal is.”

Ghirahim pinches the naked blade of Link’s claymore. It’s heavy and difficult to wield, but after only a few days of swinging it, the muscles in Link’s arms have fractured and begun to restitch into something stronger. He was once, he assumes, in much better shape. Link bats Ghirahim’s hand away. The sunrise gleams a little more golden. “I don’t trust you,” Link tells him.

“Nor should you, but that is beside the point.” Ghirahim observes Link. Really observes him. His black eyes are endless. He takes a breath. “I cannot return your memories to you. That is something you must do yourself. But I haven’t attacked you. All it would take to end your miserable life is a gentle shove off a cliff. I’ve allowed you your life thus far. Is that not enough for now?”

“The issue,” Link says, “is that I think you’re lying.”

Ghirahim goes very still. “And what, precisely, is it you think I am lying about?”

“Us,” Link says. Ghirahim does not flinch, but his eyes darken and Link knows he’s hit a sore spot. “Until I know what we were to each other, I won’t go look for the sword. You don’t have to tell me why you want me to get it. But I can tell this is more than just a grudge.”

“A very strong grudge,” Ghirahim corrects.

“Ghirahim.”

A pause. Ghirahim doesn’t give ground easily, Link thinks, but stops short. That is something Link has no reason to know. It doesn’t diminish the victory when Ghirahim grits out, “There was a time, brief though it may have been, where we were reluctant allies. Trust me. Retrieving your blade should be your top priority.”

Link asks, “Whose side are you on?”

“Use your imagination.”

“You’re not making a very convincing case.”

Ghirahim’s smile grows teeth. “No faith, Link?”

“You literally told me getting the sword would be a trap,” Link says with as little humor as he can manage.

Ghirahim says cordially, “And you agreed to walk into it.”

The sun is fully risen now. Link’s fist tightens around his torch, fire too-hot on his front. He doesn’t sense danger from Ghirahim. He hadn’t before, and he doesn’t now. But he doesn’t sense good will, either. Fascinating though Ghirahim is, and tempting though it may be to explore their past from before Link’s slumber, the clock is ticking. Link doesn’t know how long Zelda can hold back the Calamity on her own. He has miles and miles of country to cross to even begin his path to Hyrule Castle, and hundreds and hundreds of hours of exercise until he feels physically ready for the fight.

“Can you show me something that will help me remember, if you won’t tell me who we were to each other?” Link asks.

Ghirahim is silent a long time, gazing at Link without blinking. He doesn't visibly hesitate, but there is a storm in his eyes that speaks to indecision. His lips part. “Travel south. There is a stable near the entrance of the Gerudo Wasteland. Stop there.”

Link hasn't been to the Gerudo Wasteland. At least not in the last hundred years. But he does know it is very far away. Link says, “I can head out right now.”

Ghirahim’s lips quirk. “So eager. Go, then. You’re wasting my time.”

Link says, “Thank—” but there is an explosion of diamonds, a stiff, arctic breeze, and Link is standing at the summit of Hebra Mountain alone.

Chapter Text

Link wakes from a nightmare in which a massive, scaled beast swallows Hyrule whole.

Sweat beads on his neck. The night is still black as pitch. There is no way of knowing how long has passed since he fell asleep.

Link lies on his side, joints locked, heart racing. The monster from his dream had teeth and arms and wings. Every step quaked the earth. It was trying to climb out of the pit. Must not let it reach the temple. The only thought in Link’s mind. Dreams are strange things. Over the course of his weeklong trip south, Link has suffered through a fair few. This was the worst. As his heart rate slows and warmth trickles into his limbs, Link lets out a breath and reaches down to rub the knots from his right thigh.

Only there are none.

Link blinks into the night, fighting to stay awake, and thinks, I must have hurt it once. He’s certain of it. The idea of putting his full weight on his right leg makes him cringe, but Link has had no issues with it. His long slumber must have healed whatever ailed him.

It’s a tiny, insignificant portion of his past, but Link holds it close and examines it like a prize. This knowledge—that Link once suffered an injury to his thigh so bad his muscles remember the hurt—is the first thing Link has remembered. The moment is nearly reverent. Link rubs his thumb into his quad muscle to coax out more details. None come.

He doesn’t know how it was injured. Doesn’t know how long it took to heal. Doesn’t know for how long the idea of aggravating the injury rankled his nerves. But he hardly cares, because it’s something.

Excitement courses through Link and he sits up. The ashes of his fire are still glowing a soft orange. The buttery scent of the dinner he made clings to his clothes. It can’t have been more than a handful of hours since he went to sleep, but there’s no chance of a full night of rest, now. The Gerudo Wasteland is a half-day’s journey on foot, a quarter that if he can manage to catch a horse. Link doesn’t know who he is, but he knows he’s going to see Ghirahim again. Soon.

Ghirahim is an enigma. His tongue is as sharp as an arrowhead, but the threat behind his words is light. He does not like Link, but Link doesn’t think Ghirahim hates him, either. Link wants answers. For them to have a conversation not locked behind riddles and reluctance.

Link cleans up his camp and leaves the little cave he’d marked for the night. The roads all over Hyrule are goddess-sent, as far as Link is concerned. Not many bokoblin camps are brave enough to set up next to well-traveled roads, and Link has even run into a traveling salesfolk or two who were more than happy to trade the opals he’s found for fish and herbs and arrows.

Link is on the road for about an hour when dawn breaks. Chilly morning air grows steadily warmer, until the sun is fully out and the temperature soars. Link does not get lucky enough to find a horse, but after half a month walking all over Hyrule, the exertion is welcome and hardly bothers him at all. Grasslands turn to rocky canyons, soil to rock and sand, rivers to weathered grooves in sandstone. The stable comes into sight at last in the early afternoon.

Link is ravenous.

He checks in, plucks every single mushroom he can find from the canyon walls, and dumps them into a cooking pot with a generous knob of goat butter and salt. The aroma of it waters his mouth, belly rumbling so loud the stable master’s young niece glances at him in alarm, the other travelers gazing hopefully at Link’s lunch. When the mushrooms are perfect and so fragrant Link might die from hunger, he piles them onto a borrowed plate and readies himself for his first bite.

The plate vanishes from his hands in a shower of gold and black diamonds.

Link’s fists clench on air. “Ghirahim.”

Diamonds, again. Ghirahim appears beside him, standing, his hip at eye-level. Link’s lunch is in his hands. He examines it, humming. “A little rudimentary. It looks filling, if nothing else.”

Link holds up a hand. “Give it back. I’m hungry.”

“You’re wasting time.”

“I just got here. I walked half the night, I’m starving.”

Ghirahim drops the plate into Link’s palm with a scoff. “Your lack of a sense of urgency is disturbing. Here I am, going out of my way to help you, despite the fact I owe you nothing. And you dare take a break for sustenance?”

Link’s lips curl at the corners despite his annoyance. “You’re fun. Sure we weren’t friends?”

“Positive,” Ghirahim deadpans. “Eat your fungus. Head into the desert and go north along the cliffs for the highlands. There will be a cave guarded by a pack of lizalfos. Try not to die.”

Link frowns. “What do I do when I get to the cave?”

Ghirahim gives Link a look. “Stand outside it and wait until you die of natural causes.”

Link pops a mushroom into his mouth. “No need to be a jerk.”

Ghirahim says, “The Hero of Hyrule. Spirits help us all.”

Ghirahim vanishes in the time it takes Link to blink. He chews with purpose, his ill feelings toward Ghirahim back in full force, but the mushrooms have gone tasteless. Link exits the canyons begins his trek north. His boots sink into orange-gold sand. There’s grit between his toes already. The sun is a bright jewel rising higher against the pale blue sky. The first bead of sweat rolls down Link’s back after a half hour. He sheds his travel cloak and stuffs it into his pack, rolls up the sleeves of his tunic. It helps for a few minutes, until the sun is overhead in earnest, and Link is boiling alive.

He tilts a mouthful of cold water from his waterskin down his throat. The desert in front of him wiggles in shapeless patterns. There is no shade from the highland cliff faces. Link is starting to think there may be no cave at all when he spots the burnt-red scales of a fire-breath lizalfos, talons curled around a bow. There’s another one patrolling a sloping dune far ahead, and a third poking at a voltfruit hanging from its vine with a spear.

Link drops into a crouch and draws his newest blade—a rusty traveler’s sword. The claymore broke a few nights ago at a very inopportune moment, whilst Link was surrounded by angry bokoblins. He’d had to use the Sheikah Slate to teleport back to the nearest tower, retracting his progress south by at least two hours. Perhaps Ghirahim is on to something. Perhaps a sword made of sturdier stuff is something to put higher on the priority list.

The cave mouth is cut into the cliff face a few steps behind the first lizalfos, shaded and narrow. The lizalfos patroller starts heading back in Link’s direction. There’s no more time, so he sneaks forward, heels grinding into sand, then sprints the last five paces toward his first enemy.

The lizalfos screeches, drops its bow. Link slashes it clean across the ribs, steps through with his right foot, then uses the power of his rotation to drive the sharp edge into its body and knock it flat.

Link allows himself a moment to be pleasantly surprised. Momentum isn’t a tool he’s thought much on, nor something he’s practiced, but it felt almost natural. Muscle memory, perhaps? The lizalfos with the spear is fully fascinated by the voltfruit and hasn’t noticed him, but the one patrolling is zipping forward with incredible speed, mouth open and neon-pigmented tongue drawn back. It’s too fast—the tongue shoots out and stabs into Link’s gut. He grunts and stumbles back, clutches at the wound on his belly. The heat makes his head swim as he readies his sword and charges. It takes three thwacks with his blade to dispatch the patroller. Link spins on his heel before its body has hit the sand, ready for the third.

The final lizalfos is still poking at the voltfruit. It hasn’t noticed Link at all. Link slips his sword into the makeshift scabbard on his back and eyes it distrustfully for a moment. The voltfruit springs free from its cactus and rolls down the dune at last. The lizalfos screeches and runs for it, claws open.

Link thinks of his mushrooms. He lets the lizalfos live.

The temperature of the cave is much cooler than the now-scorching wasteland. Link twists around narrow passageways, applying pressure to his belly as best he can. It’s a shallow wound, barely bleeding. Hurts like hell, though. A fissure runs along the ceiling, high overhead, casting muted light onto the passageway. The throat opens into a wide chamber filled with razor sharp rocks. Link grinds his boot into a mound of them to test his footing. His balance holds, but there are two dark doorways forward, and no light down either. Link examines both options for several long, silent seconds.

“Stand outside and wait to die,” Link utters, and picks a path.

Darkness swallows him in seconds. The ceiling fissure ends in the chamber, so Link puts a palm on the cave wall and uses texture to guide him forward. The ground slopes downward abruptly. Link’s knees burn from the effort to keep his footsteps short. That same irrational fear that he’ll put too much weight on his right leg creeps under his skin. The passage curves into a spiral and the temperature dips even more. A draft caresses the back of his neck. Link shivers and fishes his cloak from his pack.

Down, down.

Farther, deeper.

He must have chosen the wrong way. How long has he been walking? How long will it take to go all the way back to the desert? Link’s thumb brushes the Sheikah Slate at his hip and he holds it up. The light from the screen is a poor illuminant, but the shape of the tunnel forms in its glow. The map is a scrambled mess of glitching pixels. He taps experimentally on a clipped icon, but nothing happens. There’s nothing to do, and Link trusts Ghirahim far more than is wise for a stranger who has self-admitted to be walking Link into a trap. Link continues anyway.

Eventually the slope levels and the neck of the passage widens. The wound on his belly aches. Link’s skin is clammy and chilled. He burrows into his cloak, breath misting at his lips. The passage opens abruptly into a massive, black chamber, light from the Sheikah Slate far too faint to penetrate the encroaching darkness. It could be fifteen paces long. It could be a thousand.

Link takes a tentative step inside. Another. A solid shape forms ahead, rounded at the top and chest-height. Link braces himself for another fight, a tremor of fear running down his spine at the nightmare of what creatures may lurk this far underground. But it isn’t a monster.

It’s a stone.

Link stops a handspan away. The stone is smooth and glasslike, expertly crafted into a teardrop shape. A brass base rooted to the ground rests below it, covered in cobwebs. There is a design etched into the widest part of the stone. Link squints at it, lips drawn downward. Oh. It’s sharper, more angled, but the design is unmistakably a variation of the Sheikah symbol. Link compares it to the rounder version on the back of the Sheikah Slate and doesn’t know which is older.

Link clips the slate at his hip and the light from the screen snuffs out. For a few breathless moments, there is nothing but silence and complete black. Link raps a finger against the stone. A chime, toneless. A rush of vibrant, vivid colors. An entire world blooms from the stone in layers of shape and pigment and sound. Link takes a startled step backward, boot grinding into grass instead of sandstone. A rush of clean, fresh air clears out the oppressive miasma. The cave’s ceiling splits in two to reveal a brilliant sapphire sky dotted with clouds.

The cavern lingers far in the distance, where the illusion of rolling grassy fields and summertime skies ends. Link touches his fingers to the buds at his feet. Tender, dewy, cool. Real. This isn’t some dream or shadow—it’s real grass, a real sky, even with the edges of the cave visible far off.

How is this possible?

“It’s a timeshift stone,” says Ghirahim’s voice behind him. “One of the last. The others have crumbled to dust or been destroyed.”

Link doesn’t take his eyes off the bright scene, even as Ghirahim steps beside him. “What is it?”

“A little slice of the past. It isn’t a memory, not exactly, and it isn’t a trick. It is this place, exactly as it was, long ago. The timeshift stones used to be all over Lanayru, when it was a desert.”

This startles Link into glancing at Ghirahim. “Lanayru is a rainforest.”

“It is now.”

A little flock of tiny blue birds with white bellies explodes into the sky. Link watches as they flutter and sing to the other edge, vanishing as they reach the boundary between past and cave. His heart aches. The idea that Lanayru was once a desert and the Gerudo Wasteland was once a dreamy grassland are juxtaposed in Link’s mind. It must have been a very long time ago.

“How did you know this was here?” Link asks.

Ghirahim says, “You have a talent for asking the wrong questions.”

Annoyed, Link takes a few steps deeper into the pocket of the past. A field like this, to end up so far underground, must have been covered by any number of cataclysmic natural disasters. He can feel heat from the sun on his skin, even as the edges of the cavern loom at the corners of the pocket. The effect is a little mind-numbing. Link says, “What’s my history with timeshift stones?”

“You’ve come across them before. Traveling through time is a rarity not many get to grasp in their lifetimes. This is the only method.”

Link frowns. “That’s not true. I’ve used the Ocarina of Time to—”

Link’s mind turns to sand.

Time is meaningless and made of nothing. He is nothing. Another iteration of a story that has been told a hundred times. The ending never changes.

When Link regains consciousness, it’s with his cheek pressed to cold stone. A fire crackles from a torch held by a gloved hand. Link blinks sand from his eyes and follows the arm to Ghirahim’s torso. He’s staring at Link, completely silent, seated beside him on the ground with his knees drawn to his chest and the empty black of the cavern around them. The timeshift stone has been turned off.

Something glints against Ghirahim’s earlobe and Link, half-asleep with no notion of how long he was out or what even happened, is struck with a memory.

“I gave that to you,” he says. “The earring.”

Ghirahim’s gaze sharpens.

“I did, didn’t I? I used to have the other half of the pair.” He no longer possesses it, obviously. Link may not know who he is, but he knows what a gesture like that would mean. “I gave it to you,” Link says, “and it was the second gift you’d ever received.”

“That’s the memory you chose to uncover?” Ghirahim leans back against a palm, one of his bent legs straightening on the ground in leisurely nonchalance. “I didn’t plan for that, I’ll have you know. I had little reason to think this would work at all. What else have you remembered?”

A deep, profound sadness, that Ghirahim had only ever been given one other gift. From whom? What was the gift? He can’t recall. Link wants the last hundred years to unfold for him like a book. His to freely leaf through, to recall what he needs at whim. It has barely been a month since he woke and the void in his memory gnaws ever harder at his mind.

Link lifts himself from the ground. His breath mists at his lips. Ghirahim’s pupils track Link’s movements, latching onto Link’s hand as it stretches out, crossing the distance between them, finally locking onto Link’s eyes as Link’s fingers caress the orange earring.

The fireshield earring, Link remembers.

“What am I, to you?” Link asks, then adds, “Because I think I know.”

Ghirahim says, “I am exactly what you need me to be, and never what you want. No amount of time will change that. You want to know if I meant something to you? If I was your lover? Allow me to give you the hard truth: It doesn’t matter. The past is written in stone. I am here because I need something from you, and you need a sword. If you must have a label, then consider me your reluctant ally. I didn’t choose you, and you certainly didn’t choose me, either. Pick yourself off the ground, go back to the desert, and go northeast to the Lost Woods immediately. Whatever fragments of memories you uncover along the way are yours to keep.”

Link’s heart twists in his chest. “You kept the earring,” he says.

Ghirahim’s stillness would read as boredom to anyone who doesn’t know him well. Technically, Link doesn’t know him at all, but he knows that this particular blank look means he has rendered Ghirahim speechless. It is an addicting feeling. Link tugs his fingers over the jewelry and onto Ghirahim’s earlobe. He rubs the flesh there, a heat starting to burn low in his gut. Ghirahim’s lips part.

“I’ll go to the Lost Woods. I’ll get my sword. And I’m going to have my memories back when I do,” Link promises.

“Do what you must. It doesn’t concern me.”

Link feels himself smile. “Liar.”

“No, sky child,” Ghirahim says, and it is a nickname Link doesn’t know but makes him ache. “The only liar here is you.”

Chapter Text

The morning begins with a gray, textured sky, so Link knows today will be wet.

He’s two days out of the wasteland and barely a fraction of the way to his destination, but he is disinclined to rush. He promised Ghirahim he would go to the Lost Woods, yes. But Link also promised he would have his memories back before then.

Easier said than done.

Link catches a bass from a small lake and rekindles his dead fire to roast it, stomach grumbling. Gathering storm clouds swirl menacingly overhead. He shoots worried glances at the sky as he eats his breakfast. He won’t make much progress in a rainstorm, and Ghirahim has proved unpredictable enough that Link has no idea when he might deign to appear before him for the purpose of chastisement. What is taking so long, Hero? Can’t find your way north without someone to hold your hand? Are you still waking up from that ridiculous nap?

It should disturb Link that Ghirahim’s voice springs into his mind with perfect accuracy. He finds himself forcing a smirk flat instead, quite pleased with his ability to mimic Ghirahim’s mannerisms in what Link believes to be an accurate depiction. No sooner has Link finished packing than the sky opens up with a wave of rain that pelts his campsite with a vengeance, the horizon a watery wash of dark blue.

The ground turns soggy instantly, and Link pulls his hood over his head to keep water from his eyes. The rainfall starts firm and grows firmer. Link keeps his footsteps light and quick. White mist forms at his lips. The scent of earth and grass fill his nose. His boot slips in mud and his knee gives out—Link slaps a hand to the ground to stop from falling on his face, but brown sludge coats his palm and lower front of his trousers.

What a mess, Ghirahim’s voice chides in Link’s head. How embarrassing to be bested by mud, of all things.

Link’s smile flattens, then curves downward entirely when he examines the implications that he would care if Ghirahim thinks he looks messy.

Link knows there was something between them, a hundred years ago. Something locked behind the wall of his memories, shaped like the fireshield earring on Ghirahim’s ear. But there is not something between them now.

Link stands, wipes the mud on his palm in a patch of long grass, grimacing when it sneaks into his gloves from the finger cutoffs. Today is not a good one. He’s filthy, distracted, soaked with rain, and the frustration bubbles in his gut like a slow-burning flame. It shouldn’t be this hard. Link finds a shallow cave opening a little farther up the road and gives up on making progress before midday. With any luck the storm will pass quickly.

The storm does not pass quickly.

Link washes the mud off his hand and trousers in a shallow stream that cuts through the cave, uses a bundle of dry twigs and crisped leaves to start a fire, and lies on his back to stare at crevices in the ceiling. He eats far too many apples for lunch, then wonders if Ghirahim has eaten lunch, then wonders if Ghirahim likes apples, then throws the cores into the fire in a fit of rebellion. The last thing Link needs is to worry over Ghirahim’s lunch preferences.

Apples don’t quite hit the spot, especially on a cold, rainy day, and Link longs for a bowl of something hot. Like a steaming bowl of pumpkin soup.

Lying on his back in his underthings while his trousers take an age to dry, Link freezes.

Pumpkin soup.

He’s eaten that before.

Hasn’t he?

The memory flickers like a blade glinting in sunlight just outside his peripherals—Link snatches at it, desperate to absorb all of it he can, because anything he can remember is precious. Link is rewarded with an immediate sense of deja vu. In part, this is because he is nearly naked, and the memory that returns to him—eating pumpkin soup also nearly naked—evolves into a strong sense of his near-nakedness having been in Ghirahim’s house.

Clothing gets in the way when trying to staunch deadly bleeds. You’d rather I left you to die?

The cracks in the cave ceiling start to drip. Link starts, cool drops of invading rainwater rolling down his chest. He wipes them away and sits in a drop-free zone, turns to glare at the weather for interrupting his reverie.

There is a figure standing at the mouth of the cave, watching.

Link flinches, heart leaping to his throat.

The figure is a bokoblin, but it looks… wrong. Instead of red or blue skin, their complexion is stitched with shadow. Two eyes glow ruby red from their face, intelligent in a way Link has never known a bokoblin to be. They are holding a sword covered in nicks and scratches, brittle and abused and far too large for their body. Brown rust stains the dulled edge. A flash of light as a gap opens in the clouds, the rain haloing their ghastly shape.

“Hello, little keese,” they say.

Link knows this creature. He has met them before. “Phantom,” says Link.

It should be more of a shock when Phantom’s form shifts into that of a young Hylian woman’s, but it isn’t. Link’s memory is frustratingly empty—like the moment he realized Ghirahim had been someone to him, but couldn’t remember why, the same can be said for Phantom. They mean something to his past. But what?

Phantom taps the blunt side of their ruined blade to their new shoulder. In this form, they are the slightest bit taller than Link, dressed in black trousers and a travel cloak, long white hair falling down their back. “You know my name, yet you don’t recognize this shape?” they ask. “Curious. Tell me. What are you doing here?”

Link’s spear is on the other side of his campfire. Cold prickles on bare skin. His heart thunders in his chest. He keeps his face neutral. “Can I get dressed before we have this heart to heart?”

Phantom gestures wordlessly at Link’s half-dry trousers with a feminine hand.

The damp fabric clings uncomfortably to his thighs and a strand of hair slips from its tie. Link doesn’t reach for his cloak or pick up his spear, but he does stand closer to them, putting the fire between himself and Phantom.

“How do I know you?” Link asks.

Phantom lifts a finger. “I asked you a question first. What are you doing here?”

“Escaping the rain,” Link answers truthfully.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Then be more specific. How do I know you?”

Phantom’s lips quirk. Their posture is lazy, but their stance is wide, one foot slightly behind the other. Battle-ready. “You don’t, not really. We’ve met a handful of times over the years and you never know me. The oldest version of you did.”

Link stares at them. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Phantom replies, “Then be more specific.”

Link doesn’t think Phantom is here to kill him, but gets the sense they absolutely will if given the chance. Hatred burns in their pitless, ruby eyes. “Why are you here, then?”

Phantom extends an arm. “To see you, of course. I won’t say I’ve missed you—you are the herald of doom in most cases. But this time will be different.”

Despite Phantom’s feminine form, their voice is deep and dry, and Link clenches his teeth to stop himself from betraying how unsettled it makes him. “This time?”

“The curse,” Phantom says, “this endless, rolling wheel of shit. Year after year, life after life. You are lucky you don’t have to be conscious for every waking second of it. But I've been working while you've been sleeping; it won’t matter once my master takes the castle and kills the spirit maiden.”

“Calamity Ganon is your master?” Link asks.

Phantom tuts. “Sad, to see what the curse has done to you. Time immemorial, crammed into one soul. Perhaps it’s a good thing you don’t remember your past yet—the rest of you all went mad, in the end.”

Link is more confused than ever, but he knows when he is being mocked. “Tell me what you want,” he says, “and I can see about giving it to you.”

“You banished from this world would be ideal,” Phantom says, “but my master would be cross with me. What I want is to know why you are traveling north when the castle” —they point a gray finger toward Hyrule’s heart— “is that way.”

Link is weighing if he should answer or not when Phantom loses patience, black boots on their borrowed form digging into dry cave dirt.

“You’ve forgotten about Zelda after all, is that it? Is that why this form does not affect you? Is your brain so addled from all the times you’ve reawakened that you can no longer grasp why you aren’t dead?”

Link blinks. Zelda? Reawakened? There is too much here that does not align with what Link knows to be true, but the more he stares at Phantom, the clearer it is—the shape they’ve borrowed is Princess Zelda’s. Link knows her, somehow, beyond the distant voice she used to wake him from his slumber, beyond her plea for Link to destroy the calamity. He was her knight. He was her friend.

Zelda’s visage in Phantom’s coloring with their sneering features is abruptly disturbing. Link loses his patience for games. “I’m going north to destroy your master,” Link says. “I have a stop along the way.”

Phantom’s lips split in a wide, slow smile. “The Master Sword.”

“How—”

“I am well acquainted with that accursed blade. I’ve even tasted her steel a time or two—not that you’d remember. Tell me, does the spirit of the blade yet slumber?”

Fi, Link remembers immediately, grippingly, her name a beacon of fire in an otherwise black void. A memory slams into him like a moblin’s club.

Fi, expressionless in crystalline blue, sweeping from the sword on Link’s back. Fi, gliding on one leg across a shallow pool of water as she sings. Fi, reciting percentages of survival with no emotion. Fi, telling Link goodbye. These memories aren’t like the other vague impressions he’s received so far. These memories are like dreams. Link sees them. Hears them. Feels them. Link’s head is still a vast expanse of nothingness, but he knows with fierce certainty—

Fi is his sword.

When was the last time Link saw her? A hundred years ago, before he fell asleep? Surely not longer than that, he relied too much on her not to keep her close. How did she get all the way to the Lost Woods? Hadn’t Link put her to rest in the Temple of Time? But the Temple of Time was one of the first places Link went after waking, and it looked different—felt different—he’s so confused—

“I asked you a question,” Phantom says, and Link snaps to the present.

“I,” Link stammers, “I don’t know.”

Phantom raises their brow. “You don’t know.”

“The spirit of the sword—” Goddess, his head hurts. “I have to go get it, I just have to, Ghirahim said—”

“Ghirahim?” Phantom cuts in, voice sharp. “Lord Ghirahim?”

Link’s teeth snap closed. His gut clenches horribly. He should have kept his mouth shut.

Phantom points their ruined blade at Link’s heart. “You’ve seen that ridiculous demon? Answer me.”

And Link wants to say no, but Phantom called Ghirahim a demon, and Link both knew that Ghirahim is a demon and is shocked by it. It makes him sad. Why wouldn't he just let Link— "Yes," Link says."

Phantom’s blood moon eyes narrow unnervingly on Zelda’s face, anger roiling across her—their?—features. “The demon general yet lives?” Phantom asks, and at once their whole body twists, contorts, shapes itself into a sick black, white, and gray nightmare of Ghirahim's body. And how? How are they doing this? How is Phantom one moment a bokoblin, Zelda in the next, and Ghirahim a breath later?

Another memory, a voice in an emotionless tone so familiar it makes him ache.

Phantom, a shapeshifter who hails from the demon realm. They can take on any visage. I do not possess any more data on them.

“Interesting,” Phantom says when Link doesn’t answer. “I admit this is a surprise. I’ve not seen the general in… quite some time, one could say. Tell me, please. Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Link says.

“Come now. I only want a friendly chat.”

“I don’t,” Link insists. “I barely know who I am and what my life is, how would I know Ghirahim’s every move? He comes to me when he wants.”

Phantom stares, and it’s Ghirahim’s body and Ghirahim’s face but Phantom’s darkness. Link hates it. Hates them. The warning bells that started pealing in his head when Phantom first appeared have not quieted, and Link longs to pick up his spear and stab them with it. But if Ghirahim is a demon, so is Phantom. And the Master Sword is the blade that demons revile. He couldn’t kill Phantom with just a spear.

“True,” Phantom concedes at last, relaxing their arm, their sword dropping at their side. “Ghirahim would not allow himself to be contained. Not if my master wasn’t the one holding his leash. Would that the general had the good sense to die when he was meant to. A shame.”

Phantom lifts their hand and the broken sword dematerializes, sheathed in whatever supernatural darkness cloaks them. Their form shifts one last time, bends and bubbles and breaks. Ghirahim melts away. Another young woman stands where they were, but this one is not Zelda. She looks familiar, however, and Link’s skull is splitting open with the effort to place her tall, wiry frame and single braid of hair.

“Go get your sword, little keese,” Phantom says. “You’ll need it. For as long as you can stand to wield it, that is.”

Phantom doesn’t turn and walk away. They don’t open a portal and step through it. One moment they’re there, and the next they simply aren’t.

At least when Ghirahim leaves, there are diamonds.

Fi, Link remembers abruptly. Goddess, Fi. She’s waiting for Link in those woods, has been for a hundred years. He needs to get to her. Has to. Link struggles into the rest of his still-wet gear, heedless of the rain, and races into the storm.

North.

The Lost Woods are north.

Chapter Text

Pink sunset light casts diamonds through gaps in branches, and Link watches Fi as she floats in unbothered, emotionless blue, eternally calm and forever in control.

Link tilts his head, considering her. “Do you ever worry?” he asks. “That you’re not… Enough.”

“You have no reason to worry, Master,” says Fi.

“But I do,” Link admits, the words tasting like iron on his tongue. “I worry I’ll fail. I worry I can’t help Zelda. I worry she’ll be hurt, that the Imprisoned will escape, that the world will end. That it will be my fault.”

“A sword is made of steel so it will not break,” says Fi. “Hylia chose you as her hero for the same reason.”

And Link can feel that these are words he’s heard before, that they used to give him comfort. That they used to be his reason to keep going, because he, if nothing else, was Hylia’s Chosen Hero. But even if a sword cannot break, what good is it after lifetimes of war, of blood, of scratches and nicks and chips? Link feels a little like that, now, battered and small, but unable to stop.

“I miss you.”

Fi’s blank, crystal face goes soft in a way he’s never seen, her smooth lips pulling into a tender smile. “This is a human function I would not have understood, before my service to you. I understand it better now I have had the opportunity to collect data. I would say I miss you as well, Master Link. But my task is complete.”

Link tears his eyes from her face and looks to the sunset, because he cannot stand to look at Fi a moment longer. A void swirls endlessly in the pit of his stomach, gnawing at his edges. “I’m coming to find you,” he tells her. “Don’t tell me I can’t.”

“I will not tell you what you cannot do, Master Link.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Link snaps, “like I’m a—a child. I need your help, Fi. I can’t do this alone.”

Fi is silent long enough Link gives in, looks at her again. The serenity of her aura is back, that impossible-to-break strength in her steady gaze. “You can do anything, Master Link,” says Fi. “And it is not because of what Hylia chose you for. This, too, you shall overcome. With me, or without me. So long as you hold the Master Sword, you will never be alone.”

And Fi floats toward him, presses ice-cold lips to his forehead, and Link opens his eyes to a burned out fort and a fire long-dead. There is no Fi. There is no tree. There is no sunset.

Link’s heart squeezes. The tears come, then. A hundred years’ worth. Link tucks himself into his cloak and curls in on himself and sobs into his hand.

He remembers Fi, now, remembers the way the Master Sword felt in his hand, the way the Sacred Flames danced around her as they forged the blade she slumbers in. But the memories are confused by details that don’t align with the things Link knows to be true. He remembers the dais of the Temple of Time where he laid Fi to rest. But now the sword sleeps in the Lost Woods. He remembers searching for Fi along the treacherous slopes of Death Mountain after an eruption, but it is an eruption he can’t convince himself really happened. He remembers her detached voice offering him statistics and probabilities he surely never used when he was Zelda’s champion.

Link doesn’t understand. None of this makes sense. The only thing he knows with absolute certainty is that the Lost Woods is less than a day’s travel away, and that he will have answers when he retrieves his sword.

Link sniffs, wipes his eyes and nose, and gets to his feet.

The wild horse he managed to catch yesterday afternoon has been contentedly munching on grass and is happy to let Link hop onto her back. The morning is new, a misty fog hanging low over the moore, swirling in faint stirrings of breeze. Sunlight teases the horizon, and Link is struck, as he guides the horse over the rolling hills, by how vast the world is. Despair is quickly replaced by wonder, his lungs filling with fresh air, the floral scent of wildflowers and heady perfume of wet earth surrounding him.

There are more horses, galloping across the field, spooking at the sight of Link. His mare falters in her trot, hoofing at the ground nervously. Link leans forward and pats her neck.

“It’s okay, girl,” he murmurs, and nudges her side with his heel.

The mare snorts and resumes her trot. Mist thickens ahead, what little white light from dawn there is darkening as clouds take shape overhead. Link groans inwardly at the thought of more rain. His sense of time is a little off—waking up after a hundred years will do that to a man—but he’s positive it’s meant to be almost summer in Hyrule. He’s tired of being wet, of soggy soil, of flash floods that fill his boots with enough water to drown a fish. Once he’s gotten Fi back, he’s going east. Surely it doesn’t rain as much in—

The mare halts dead, whinnying and rearing on her hind legs. Link grabs a fistful of her mane to stop himself from slipping off her back, says, “Whoa, whoa, girl,” as her front legs slam down.

Three horses with dappled white and gold coats gallop from a thick leaf of mist, mud flying from their hooves, breath escaping their mouths in little clouds. A fourth horse stands much farther up the moore, unmoving. The fog is suddenly dense and chilled. Link’s stomach flips uneasily, the massive field reduced to a maze of mist. Link hesitates, pats the mare’s neck again.

“It’s okay,” Link says. “Just some fog.”

The horse up ahead turns to face him. A flash of something yellow cuts through swirls of white. Link frowns, squinting. A sound, something familiar, a whoosh, the yellow flash growing closer, closer—

“Link, move!” Ghirahim’s voice shouts behind him, but it’s too late.

An arrow lodges itself into Link’s shoulder, slicing through cloak and skin, followed by a ripping hot wave of electricity that buzzes down to his toes. A neigh, the world turning upside down, a thunderous crash to wet grass. When Link comes to—has it been one second or one hundred?—his mare has sped off and Ghirahim is there, yelling into his ear, words that form as though underwater.

“Get up, it’s a lynel! It will kill you if you don’t kill it first!”

Lynel. Link knows what those are. He’s fought them before. Ghirahim is shouting, lovely cheeks flushed a tender shade of plumb, but he doesn’t help Link to his feet. Doesn’t summon those two black swords Link knows he has. But Link’s brain is scrambled and he barely knows what’s happening. Lynel. The shape of it slices through fog at alarming speed, hooking a bow onto its back and withdrawing a red-tipped axe as big as he is. Galloping toward him. Intent to kill.

Shit.

Link is on his feet, white heat lancing through his shoulder as he grapples for his rusty broadsword. He leaps to the side in time to avoid the would-be-deadly swing of the lynel’s massive axe, but his muscles aren’t cooperating, tingling from electricity, and he lands flat on his chest. The shaft of the arrow snaps off, leaving the metal tip to dig deep into Link’s flesh. He gasps, eyes watering, but there’s no time.

“It’s coming back,” Ghirahim snaps, draped in that silly red cowl, not a hair out of place in its perfect asymmetrical cut. Link is up and ready this time, feeling trickling back into his fingers, the wound in his shoulder bright with pain.

Instinct is an old friend. Link slides a boot back, braces himself, broadsword clasped tight in his palms. The lynel, blue-mained and snarling with animalistic rage, completes a wide turn and comes at Link full-sprint, hooves pounding ruined grass, mist sweeping out of its wake. Link twists, lets physics guide him, power behind his swing as he slices a deep gash into its hide. The lynel keens, collapsing to its front knees, axe dug into mud for support.

Link strikes, again and again, stabs and slashes. The lynel is up again before long, across the moore in a heartbeat, nocking another arrow that rains sparks on its arc across the sky toward him.

Link thinks he’ll dodge this one. But his boot slips, the skies burst open, and the second arrow gets him, too. All Link feels is the electric lick of fire on his skin, the way his muscles seize in place, pain, pain, pain. And then it’s over, and there’s an arrow sticking out of his ribs, and the front of his tunic is red.

“Wake up,” Ghirahim hisses. “You're better than this. You’ve taken down enemies five times the size of this malformed brute. I watched you bring the world-ender to its knees, Link, and you’re going to let this bottom feeder best you? Don’t you dare make me wait for you again. If you die here, all this was for nothing!”

The broadsword sparks in Link’s hand. Again. The lynel is galloping toward him, murder in its eyes, mist nipping at its heels and white streaming from its nostrils. Blood rolls thick and hot down Link’s chest, his stomach. Thunder, in the distance. A far fork of yellow lightning. An idea.

Master, says a phantom voice that sounds painfully like Fi’s, I advise a different course of action. The chances of this maneuver succeeding are thirteen percent.

He’s had worse.

The broadsword sparks a third time and Link rears back, elbow high and blade aimed, then heaves it forward with a yell. It sails out of his hand, sings through the air, force of it scattering the last of the fog as the tip lodges itself into the lynel’s heart at the same moment a bolt of lightning strikes the metal. Sound crashes in Link’s ears. Everything turns white. His head aches.

When Link’s vision clears, the lynel is already turning to dust, smoking, collapsed, a ring of blackened grass haloing it. Link’s knees give out, but Ghirahim is there to catch him. A memory comes back to him.

“You saved my life,” Link says, hyper aware of each ache. “After Koloktos. You never told me why. I don’t remember that fight, but I remember you. Waking up afterwards.” He adds, frowning, “Did you make me walk around naked?”

Ghirahim rolls his pretty eyes. “Hold still. I need to get you out of the rain.”

A flash of diamonds, a lurch in his bones, and Link is blinking into what appears to be the inside of a stable. This one is empty, nary a soul to gasp at their abrupt materialization. Rain cascades onto the roof and surrounding ground. They haven’t gone far. Ghirahim lays Link out on one of the many straw-stuffed mattresses, zero pity in his eyes as Link hisses in discomfort.

“You fool.” Ghirahim unclasps his cowl and drapes it over Link’s legs. “What a sad shade of the warrior you once were. I admit that last move was effective, though absurdly risky, parting yourself from your only weapon like that. What in all the realms possessed you to do that?”

“Instinct.” Link grunts as Ghirahim presses on his stomach. “And, I guess, I heard Fi. For a moment. How I used to. I know she wasn’t really there.”

Ghirahim’s pause is so small, Link almost misses it. He snaps his fingers. A washtub of steaming water and pile of clean towels appears on the bedside table. “Remember her, do you? And what did Fi have to say?”

“Said I should do something else.”

Ghirahim scoffs, and it’s tinged with hubris. “I could have told you as much.”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

“You have two arrows in you. You’re not back in my life a month and already causing me problems.”

Ghirahim reaches for the shaft of the arrow in Link’s ribs and Link flinches, grips Ghirahim’s hand in his own. “Careful.”

“Unhand me, you ridiculous simpleton, or I’ll kill you before your brewing infection gets to it.”

Link lets his fingertips linger on the back of Ghirahim’s hand. Judging by the knowing look in Ghirahim’s gaze, he is not impressed. Ghirahim drags a nail down the front of Link’s tunic, cleaving it in two. Link should have expected this, but he grimaces anyway. He doesn’t own much in the way of spare outfits these days. Ghirahim has incredible focus—his eyes never stray from the wounds. He examines the broken-off arrow first, fingers brushing over Link’s bare shoulder in a way that makes him shiver.

“I can take this one out without trouble,” Ghirahim says. “The one in your ribs will be the problem. I’m not sure if it’s pierced any organs, but it’s bleeding too much for my liking. Hold still.”

Link tries, but the flare of fire that jolts through him is too much. He thrashes, once, regrets it, then Ghirahim is holding the shock arrow head in his bloodied hand and Goddess, that thing looks worse than he thought. It’s a miracle it didn’t rip him apart. Ghirahim presses a towel to Link’s shoulder, hard.

“Hold this here,” he instructs, but there are raindrops clinging to his throat and Link would rather look at those. Muted light casts shadows across the hollow of Ghirahim’s cheeks, the slant of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw. “I’ll have to widen the wound to get the arrow head out.”

“Widen the wound? Just pull it out.”

“I can’t just ‘pull it out’ you tragedy of a Hylian, I need to see if it’s pierced anything vital. If I rid you of it without caution, you could bleed out in minutes, and it will not be pleasant.”

Link’s head thumps to the pillow. “Things with you never are.”

A small knife materializes in Ghirahim’s bloodied hand. Link twists his fists into the quilt underneath him, forcing air into his chest as Ghirahim slices into the already-throbbing wound.

“So you do have your weapons,” Link grits out.

Ghirahim gingerly sets the knife on the bedside table and blots at fresh blood with a towel. “Obviously.”

“You could have helped. With the lynel.”

“And deny myself the ecstasy of your pain?”

But Ghirahim has a little crease between his eyes, where his brows would meet had he any. Raindrops glisten on gray skin. Link swallows. “You don’t fool me.”

Ghirahim’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer. New heat rips through Link’s skin. He moans weakly. It hurts so much. After an eternity, Ghirahim says, “Luck favors you today, hero. All your organs remain intact. Brace yourself—I’m taking this damned thing out.”

Link thinks he passes out for a minute, but when the sharp edge of his wounds begins to turn to muted twinges, he focuses on his breath. Air is good. He needs it. It clears his head. The next thing Link knows, something cool is tipping down his throat. He swallows on instinct, then blinks at Ghirahim, who cleans blood from his hands in the washtub.

Link licks his lips. “What was that?”

“A potion. Not many people who know the old recipes left. That brew will fix you up faster than any of your foul mushroom concoctions.” Ghirahim’s hair is a curtain of white, and soft as silk between Link’s fingers as he traces the length of a strand. Ghirahim goes still. Black eyes snap to Link’s face. “And what do you think you are doing?”

“Not sure,” Link admits. His head feels like it’s floating. He’s not sure how much blood he lost. “You’re just so beautiful.”

Ghirahim’s eyes flash.

Link touches his palm to the curve of Ghirahim’s cheek. “I’m a little confused,” he says. “My memories are coming back, but they seem more like dreams. The details don’t match. I wish” —he swallows— “things were different.”

“What a notion.”

Link cards his fingers around Ghirahim’s jaw and into his hair. Ghirahim’s eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat, and Link basks in his triumph. “I hurt you,” he says. “I wish I hadn’t. Tell me what I did so I can make it up to you.”

“You’re distracted. The Master Sword should be your priority.”

“It should,” Link agrees, but he must have heat in his gaze, because Ghirahim blinks at him, something like understanding stirring on his face. His lips part the barest amount. Link is certain he’s kissed him before, wishes that was one of the memories that has returned to him so far. Link winds his fingers deeper into Ghirahim’s hair, the fireshield earring brushing Link’s naked wrist.

“Link,” Ghirahim warns, low, dangerous.

“Ghirahim.” Link amends, feeling brilliant, “ Lord Ghirahim.”

“You wretch,” Ghirahim says, but he’s closer than he was before, and Link could rise up and meet him, could close the distance between them as easily as anything. But there’s hesitancy in the deepest parts of Ghirahim’s wide, dark eyes. Fear.

Link inhales. “Tell me you don’t want me to kiss you,” he says. “Tell me you don’t. And I won’t.”

Ghirahim stops breathing. He is fighting something. Link waits him out. Loses track of the seconds as they pass. Outside, a distant rumble of thunder, the din of raindrops easing. The storm is passing.

“Damn you, Link,” Ghirahim says, but it’s soft and heatless. “I will not let you do this to me again.”

It’s answer enough.

Link’s hand slips from Ghirahim’s hair. The distance between them grows once more, inch by painful inch, and Link recalls, then, what he’d remembered during his encounter with Phantom. That Ghirahim is a demon.

The void in Link’s head ensures he has no context for how difficult an issue that is to overcome, but it must have been bad. It must have, if Ghirahim can stand to pull away from Link after the moment they shared. Even though Link knows, now, that whatever this thing between them is runs just as deep on Ghirahim’s side.

I will not let you do this to me again.

Link shuts his eyes so he won’t have to watch Ghirahim disappear. He waits, waits, waits.

“After you get the sword.” Ghirahim’s voice, quiet. “After you have it. If you remember everything then. We will talk.”

It is not a promise. But it’s something.

Link is content to let that be the end of it, but a memory shears into existence in his skull, lighting up the void with its intensity, it’s importance. “The string,” Link says, urgent, sitting upright despite the agonizing throb of protest in his gut. “Ghirahim, can you still see our string?”

But Ghirahim, of course, is gone.

Chapter Text

The Lost Woods look nothing how Link remembers them, and that is perhaps what finally breaks him.

Link stands at the entrance, an old stone archway ahead, a flickering torch beyond that. Fog clings thickly to distant branches and shrubs, enshrouding the lake-bordered island in a curtain of mystery. Whispers, from within. Hushed voices that feel the way ice frosting on skin does. Warning him away.

The last thing Link wants to do is pass through the arch and step into the woods. The green tunic he’d bought off a traveling merchant fits strangely across his newly-healed chest. Fabric itches his torso and arms. Bare branches gnash together in a stale wind like teeth, ready to chew him up. He is rooted to the earth. But something inside the forest is calling to him. Not in words. He hears it all the same, an unnamed gravity drawing him in, wrapping him in its arms.

The Lost Woods didn’t use to look like this. There used to be bridges; tunnels carved from ancient, fallen trees; homes with forest folk with acorn caps for roofs; weathered blue, red, and white boards nailed to distant trees for target practice. Where are the ghostly lullabies played on ocarinas that drift from vine-laiden canopies? Where are the corners of the forest haunted by the souls of children who lost their way? Where are the pools of mossy water with gleaming rupees at the bottom?

A hundred years is a long time.

But these differences are… substantial.

The thin prick of confusion Link is increasingly more aware of sharpens. But if he stands here forever, he will never have answers. He consults the Sheikah Slate, but the map is glitched and impossible to read. He’ll have to find his own way to the forest’s heart, then. Link lets out a breath, picks up an abandoned torch from where it leans against the arch, and makes his way to the flame. Fire catches easily on the dried end of the torch, warmth flicking over his face. The whispers seem to grow louder and quieter at once. Unease settles in his heart.

He can do this.

Link steps into the mist and—

THE HERO OF WINDS

—onto the deck of a ship.

The King of Red Lions is a little small for him, these days, now that he’s a man. Twelve-year-old Link had no trouble lying across the deck for an afternoon nap with room to spare. But what felt like a grand vessel to his childhood self is more accurately a sailboat now he’s grown. Salty sea air ripples across the endlessly wide ocean, cool breeze stirring the hem of Link’s tunic. Gulls caw overhead, circling like the eye of a storm.

Link had that dream again.

The one he’s had since he was a boy.

The man in Link's dream is always a treat to see, even if he doesn’t exist. Gray of skin and black of eyes, diamond-patterned suit clinging to each hard line of his body. Link dreams about him at least once a year. It’s something he looks forward to, other dreams a vague disappointment compared to the handsome white-haired man with a sharp smile and sharper blades. Link’s dreams often include an older version of himself, too. Only now he’s older than both his Dream Self and the Dream Man.

Link’s twenties were kind to him. The ocean got smaller and smaller as more land emerged from the sea. There were places aplenty to explore. New things to try. Strange people to meet. Ancient artifacts to discover. Link is leaving that era behind him, now. Ready to settle down. Find a nice lad to marry, maybe.

And he’s tried. Truly.

But every tumble he’s had, no matter how good, was never quite enough. Every date and courtship he’s attempted, every kiss he’s pressed against a willing mouth, every caress has not sated him.

Link has all but given up, finding himself thinking more and more of the person from his dreams.

Standing on the deck of his ship now, newly thirty, Link stares at the endless horizon of blue and lets out a humorless chuckle. He’s in love with a man who doesn’t exist. Isn’t that senseless? Link sighs and draws the Master Sword from his back, giving it a few practice swings to ease his frustration with physical labor.

In all his time dreaming of his beautiful, imaginary man, Link has never once known his name.

Ridiculous.

THE HERO OF THE WILD

Link gasps as his consciousness slams back into his body, wringing air from his lungs as the torch drops to the ground. He stumbles backward, hands trembling, skull throbbing.

What was that?

What the hell was that?

Awareness returns to him sharply as his surroundings reform—the entrance to the Lost Woods, stone archway just ahead, a fire illuminating white fog beyond. No, he—he was just there, by the fire. He’d stepped into the woods. Hadn’t he?

Something pulses unrelentingly in his chest. Cool sweat beads across his forehead. Link’s hand remembers the shape of the Master Sword as if it has just been yanked from his grip. He does not want to do this alone. The only reason he’s doing this at all is because of—

“Ghirahim,” Link calls, softly.

Link waits. Ghirahim does not appear. For someone who has made a point of appearing at the least opportune moments, his absence is suspicious.

The details of the vision fade as rapidly as they assaulted him, until Link is clutching at the strands like loose threads carding through the gaps in his fingers. After twenty seconds, all he can recall is a red sailboat and vague notions of lips on his throat that should have belonged to someone else. A trick? A distorted memory from before he fell asleep? Something else entirely?

Disquieted, Link scoops up the fallen torch and approaches the flame past the stone archway. He hesitates, steps into the mist and—

THE HERO OF TWILIGHT

—they don’t let him out of the house.

Link is not mad.

He’s not.

He’s as sane as he’s always been, it’s everyone else who have lost their minds. Why don’t they understand that Link has things he must do? The demon from his memory is out there, somewhere, waiting for him. There was a pulse, don’t they understand?

“There was a pulse,” Link mutters into his pillow.

Darkness casts an unnatural shroud over the interior of the room. The cell. It presses down on Link, holds him in place, forces him to examine the deepest sections of his mind. He’s been here too long to know the date. Someone brings his meals, which he barely eats. Someone comes to wash his bedding and smile at him nervously. Link’s chin and jaw are scratchy with stubble, but since he tried to convince one of the maids with his razor to let him outside, Princess Zelda doesn’t let him shave anymore. Not on his own, at least.

The worst thing is that they took his sword.

Returned it, they said, it’s safe and sound where it is, far away from Link.

Why do they think he’s a danger?

All he wants. All the fucking wants is to look for the demon.

Link hasn’t spoken with the Shade in Goddess knows how long. The Shade, who is a stalfos, who is also him, the only creature in the realms who knows that Link is clear of mind. The memories come to him like balls of tangled yarn, impossible to unravel but easy to hold, to dig his fingers into like moles in dirt. He has done this before. So many times. Again, again, round and round, never ending, safe and sound. He laughs. It sounds like a sigh. Link sits up, peeling his cheek from the pillow to stare at the black interior of his empty prison shaped like a home.

“I am not insane,” Link says, to no one. “I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I’ve done this before. I’ve done this before. I’ve done this before. I’ve done this—”

A knock, on his door.

Link is on his feet and reaching for his sword, only it isn’t there. His arm aches. His whole body aches.

“Link?”

Zelda’s voice. His dearest friend. His princess. The goddess herself. Zelda has been so many things to Link, so many times. It's bad luck that this time, however, she is his jailor.

Link slams a fist to wood, gratified at the little gasp it illicits. “You did this to me,” he says. “This is all because of you. Because you decided to choose me as your damned hero. Didn’t you say, that first time, that you picked me because you knew I would do anything for you? Do you feel a fraction of the guilt you should?”

A long silence, then, quietly, “Link, you’re not well—”

“I hate you,” Link says, words like a jagged blade. “I never want to see you again. I want out of here. If it wasn’t for you, if it wasn’t for you, he and I, we’d—” But Link’s mind is turning to sand and, the demon, what was his name? Goddess, he doesn’t remember. But he’s out there, somewhere, and Link must find him. There was a pulse. He can feel him, damn it.

“I wish I could change what has been done to you,” Zelda’s voice says at last. “You do not deserve this fate. If there were a way to make you well again—”

“I am not insane,” Link says, then, “I’ve done this before. The next me, you can’t let him remember all of this, it will break him the way it broke the rest of us. Don’t you understand? No one will listen to me, this is going to happen again, why won’t anyone do anything to stop it, it’s happening again, again, again, I am not insane, I am—”

THE HERO OF THE WILD

“— not insane.”

Link stands before the stone archway, torch in hand, fire flickering in the mist beyond. Words slice to ribbons on his tongue. Teeth clack shut, a wave of dizziness rolls over him. Skeletal branches of the Lost Woods sway menacingly. Link yanks himself to the side of the path and vomits into the brush, muscles aquiver.

What is happening to him?

The older version of him on the ship was a dream, it had to have been. But this new vision didn’t feel like a dream at all. It felt like a memory.

But when, between his duties as Champion of Hyrule, would he have time to be locked away, hidden from the world like an unsightly, mangy street dog? Is this the true reason Link was made to slumber for one hundred years? Because, despite his insistence in the memory, he had gone mad?

Link’s legs tremble like a newborn fawn when he gets to his feet. Grass burns in a smoking circle from where he dropped the torch. He stomps it out and picks up the handle, holds it limply. Whispers stir around him. Beckoning him in again. There is nothing he wants less. There is nothing he wants more.

“Ghirahim?” Link tries again. He knows better than to expect anything, but his absence still stings.

It takes Link far too long to steel his nerves. At last, he squares his shoulders, paces through the stone archway, past the fire. He steps into the mist and—

THE HERO OF THE ESSENCES

—away from Din, who won’t leave him alone.

“Link,” she cries, a shard of hurt in the word, but Link doesn’t care.

“Shut up,” he tells her. Perhaps he should not speak so crassly to the Oracle of Seasons herself, but she is more than that to him now. Closer to a sister, maybe, if Link has ever had one of those.

“Listen to me,” Din pleads, telltale jangle of her bangles rattling as she tries to catch up to him. But Link has longer legs and is taller than her, at last, even if that hasn’t left him very tall at all. “Please, Link, believe me. I didn’t know.”

Link stops and, because he is twenty and feeling petty, withdraws the Rod of Seasons, flicks it once. The heavens crack open and a flurry of snow dumps over them. Din’s poppy red ponytail is sparkling with flakes in an instant. She snaps her fingers and the sun returns. Just like that.

“I didn’t let you keep that so you could misuse its power,” she says.

“What does it matter?” Link stuffs the rod back into his pack, throws his hands in the air. “Once General Onox’s successor sacrifices Princess Zelda, the king of demons will return, and the world will be lost, but how will it affect me? I’ll just come back, and come back again, and again, what kind of fucking life is this?”

Grass rustles in the field around them. Din touches his arm. “I swear to you,” she says, “I have no knowledge of this curse. This is the work of an ancient evil.”

Link does not think the demon king’s name, even though he knows it.

Since the moment it came to him years ago, he has been able to focus on little else.

A shudder rocks him, grips his soul. He can feel the curse even now, can feel the way the memories he tries so hard to keep away gnaw at his mind, taking it apart bite by bite. Consuming him. It has been three years since Link defeated who he thought was General Onox, before the creature took off its helm to reveal the black and white specter underneath, with eyes of crimson. Eyes he is sure he has seen before. You think you’ve bested me, they had said, as they lay in a pool of their own blood. And it was true. Link thought he had.

He knows better now.

All he can do is pretend the other memories—the other lives—don’t exist, or they will drive him to ruin. But what does it matter if they do?

Demise will find him in every lifetime.

THE HERO OF THE WILD

Demise.

Link collapses to his knees, stone archway just ahead, flame glowing beyond. The forest’s whispers crawl inside his skull. Blood pumps hot through his veins. Demise’s name skitters over his brain like a hoard of ants.

Demise, Demise, Demise, but he has never heard the name, he shouldn’t know it, terror spikes through him. Is this who Phantom meant? The creature from—Link refuses to call it a memory—from whatever that vision was must have been Phantom. Link has seen how they change their shape at will. But this can’t have been from before Link slept. He doesn’t know who Din is, has never had a rod that controlled the seasons, no matter how familiar it felt in his hand.

Other lifetimes.

Can it be?

No.

He won’t accept it. He cannot.

Link abandons the torch and charges through the stone arch, past the flame light, steps into the mist and—

THE LEGENDARY HERO

—up to the Master Sword’s resting place. The Lost Woods haven’t changed, and neither has his blade. This is the place he found it and left it, all those decades ago.

Link is an old man, now. Academy abandoned, friends left behind, relations severed. The memories came to him slowly, over the course of his twilight years. They ate at him until there was nothing left. His mind is long gone. It is anyone’s guess if he will wake up as the Link he was born as or one of the others. They blend together after a time.

The sword is the only thing that makes sense to him anymore.

Link stood here, once, some forty years ago, his palm on the Master Sword’s pommel, that feeling of connectedness tethering him to the last piece of sanity he possesses. He had thought, then, that he would draw this blade again one day.

Now he knows it will never be in this lifetime.

The worst part isn’t the memories. It isn’t having grown old and feeble, of remembering how it felt to die the first time, or the slow transformation of his natural body to petrified spirit and bone the second. It isn’t waking up as one of a dozen other Links, of the endless flashes of pain from injuries he’s never had. It isn’t even the fact that Link knows he had someone special to him once. A man, beautiful and vain, sarcastic and terrible and wonderful.

The worst thing is that, even after all this time, after all these memories, Link cannot remember his name.

THE HERO OF THE WILD

The stone archway is ahead, the fire just beyond, and Link wipes at tears he doesn’t remember shedding, steps through the arch, past the fire, into the mist and—

THE HERO OF TIME

—he doesn’t move. Not anymore.

Link’s life has been a strange thing. He was a child, then a man, then a child again. Growing up normally after having lived as an adult is strange enough. But it was the memory of that ghostly enemy from his youth that was the beginning of the end for him. The creature had worn Link’s face and said to him, It has been a very long time, little keese.

It took decades for that to break him. But it did.

Link’s mind split in two. He was riding across Hyrule on Eponia’s back and soaring through the skies on his crimson loftwing at the same time. It was like that for weeks, stumbling around the castle, every room a chamber of a long-forgotten temple, every candle bursting into an ancient image of a colored Sacred Flame.

Queen Zelda worried for him. Link didn’t want her to. He wanted his sword, and little else.

But the Master Sword rests in the Temple of Time, where he left it in both lifetimes. Link went, of course, played the door open with his ocarina, grasped the sword by its hilt, felt like he was home at last. But then he remembered Fi. His guardian from the first time, a friend he only knew he had once she was gone.

Fi had asked Link to let her rest.

He had already agreed.

And what a damn fool he was, to have let her go.

Link couldn’t stay after that. Part of him was conscious that this was the first time his soul had been yanked back into a body, the first time the curse gripped his essence and refused to let go. Link isn’t sure what is more terrifying: knowing he will have to go through this again, or knowing there is nothing he can do to stop it.

So Link went back to the Lost Woods, where he was raised. The children of the forest didn’t know him when he visited as a young man, so they don’t know him as an older one, either. His old home is far too small for him, overgrown with weeds, vines, twisting branches of the tree it was carved from. The Forest Temple is where he loses his mind at last, Saria’s Song singing from every corner, that cheerful, bright melody racing through his body, forcing him to dance.

It is easy to forget he shouldn’t wander in the woods after that.

It is easy to forget what happens to those who do not come out of the forest.

He sits in a clearing with his back to a tree older than his first lifetime and does not stand up again. It takes months. Decades. Hundreds of years. No one has ever been sane enough to tell the story of what becoming a stalfos is like. His flesh decays. Magic binds his bones. Saria’s Song plays and plays and plays. He stops being Link. It is only a Shade, now, of a hero long gone.

It has flashes, sometimes, of a demon with beautiful eyes and skin like a storm cloud. Someone the Shade thinks it may have loved. It isn’t sure. All it knows is violence and the surety that somewhere in the world, whether now or a thousand years hence, is a boy named Link who is losing his mind.

Ironic, that the Shade battled across time and saved its kingdom, only for time to be its reward.

And eventually, even that gift is spent, and its bones return to the forest.

THE HERO OF THE WILD

A stone archway is ahead.

A flame gutters beyond it.

Link stares at the Lost Woods, one thought in his mind.

This is a nightmare.

He steps through the arch, past the fire, into the mist and—

THE CHOSEN HERO

—the hatred in Ghirahim’s gaze knocks the air from Link’s lungs.

“Cut through my armies. Kill my soldiers. Stomp on my life’s work. And you have my tutelage to thank for how far you’ve come. I have indulged you long enough.”

“Let her go,” Link says. He doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s half-ragged between grief and fury.

“Or what? You’ll kill me?” Ghirahim laughs. “This was always our final destination, don’t you see? There was never going to be a happy ending. Just us, at the end of each other’s blades.”

Link points the Master Sword at the jewel on Ghirahim’s chest. “Draw your sword,” Link says.

They fight. Blades taste blood. Steel cuts flesh. Pain, grief, anger, rage. Link has never felt so betrayed. Zelda hangs suspended over the pit, motionless, while Ghirahim’s volcanic glass skin gleams under silver rays of moonlight. He is both beautiful and horrifying like this, a monster, a stranger.

But for all Ghirahim’s plans to use his weaknesses to best him, Link has surpassed him. He is the better swordsman, after all.

Link plummets from a platform to Ghirahim’s prone form below, driving the Master Sword into the gray jewel on his chest. Ghirahim snarls. The Master Sword sinks. And keeps sinking. Link rips it free, startled by the cracks of orange spreading over Ghirahim’s obsidian skin, but the damage is done.

Ghirahim says, “You know nothing of loyalty. Nothing of what it means to give your very existence to a cause. I was made for Demise. Forged for him. I am his sword. I am the blade that cuts apart his enemies and shapes his empires. I’ve given him everything I have ever had. He will see that. He will.”

But when Demise emerges from a hurricane of blackened smoke, the only reward he has for his most loyal servant is silence. Ghirahim gives a single choked-off laugh and becomes the sword he was forged to be.

Later, when Demise collapses, the only thought in Link’s head is Ghirahim, Ghirahim, Ghirahim, because Demise’s sword has turned to glittering dust.

“Listen well, boy,” Demise says. “My hate never perishes. It will be reborn anew, again and again, in a cycle with no end. You, and your goddess, and any who share your spirit will be trapped in an endless blood-soaked ocean of death. And always awaiting you at the end of that dark void will be me.”

Demise laughs.

“I bind you to this curse. I will rise again.”

Demise dies with the uneasy howl of an entire herd of animals tumbling from a cliff—cacophonous, then silent. His body turns to smoke even as he claws at the air one last time, as if it will stop his end. And then he is wind.

THE HERO OF THE WILD

Stone archway.

Firelight.

Mist, mist, mist.

Link does not fall to his knees, but it is only because the truth of his memories is a cage holding him upright. He has done this before. Again and again and again. How many times? How much suffering must he endure before Demise’s undying fury is satisfied? It’s too much to take in. The black space in his head, once so vast and empty, is abruptly full enough to burst.

A startled laugh slips from Link’s lips—how long until he goes mad, like the others? Every lifetime he has lived, every death he has endured, every heartache and battle and touch wash over him in tandem.

And Ghirahim.

Oh, Ghirahim.

Link remembers the quiver in Ghirahim’s lip when Link gave him the fireshield earring. The horror of learning that Demise ripped out one of his ribs. Skyloft burning in the trial, knights on loftwings falling from the sky, the bodies of his friends lying bloodied and broken across the courtyard.

His friends.

Pipit, Karane, Fledge.

Everyone Link has ever known is gone. He had an uncle in one of his lives, a sister in another. Parents. Lovers, sometimes. Is there a single soul out there alive who knows Link’s name? Is there anyone left in this life, even, after he slept one hundred years? Or is that Link’s other curse? To be alone?

Link rubs the burn from his eyes, fingers tingling. What color is the string of fate that binds him to Ghirahim, these days? Their destiny is a tragic one. The sensation of betrayal lingers, and Link thinks of yesterday at the stable, when he would have kissed Ghirahim without a second thought. And Ghirahim had looked so… tempted.

Another trick, maybe.

Link doesn’t know.

He wants his sword back.

Link lets out one shuddering breath, shuts his eyes against the fog. The whispers are fainter, more gentle.

“Goddess Hylia,” Link prays, and adds, “Zelda. I’m awake. Bring me to my sword.”

Dead leaves stir at his feet. Link crosses under the stone archway, lets the fire eat at the torch. Sparks flare and fade, pulled by a gentle wind. Link follows the trail of sparks, steps into the mist, and onto the path that was laid for him at the dawn of time.

Chapter Text

The Great Deku Tree is a spirit nearly as old as Link.

Link is passing through the last of the forest’s fog, whispers fading to nothing, when he spots the canopy of pink lifted above all the green. A strange sense of peace has taken hold of Link’s heart here at the center of the woods, Kokiri Forest opening before him like the pages of a beloved book. It looks different, of course. The inhabitants are not the same. But this place has been his home before, when Link was a boy who didn’t yet have a fairy of his own.

Koroks vanish in poofs of sparkling smoke when Link spots them, reappearing farther away to watch him distrustfully. Ground levels beneath his boots, grass turning pale green and soft, mist clearing entirely. The Deku Tree’s great roots tear apart the earth. It is much larger than when Link saw it last, centuries of rings added to its weathered bark. But before it, set in a triangle of stone, is his blade.

The Master Sword.

Link stops and stares.

That feeling washes over him, the one that has clung to him through all his lives—connectedness, inevitability, destiny. Link’s chest tightens. He sets his hand gently on the pommel.

“I’m here, Fi,” he murmurs.

The Deku Tree rumbles, a great creaking sound that tremors the earth. “The chosen hero,” it says, voice like a far-off earthquake. “Returned at last.”

“Hello,” Link says. “I remember you.”

“We have crossed paths,” says the Deku Tree. “I have watched over your blade; it awaits you, as it has every time you awakened.”

Link takes it in. Sharp as the day the final Sacred Flame forged it, white metal and violet guard cast in dappled light, the image of the Triforce pressed into the base of the blade. His gift from Hylia. His tool to vanquish the darkness. His. Link’s heart is in his throat. He glances at the Deku Tree. “Did you know who I was, each time?” he asks.

A warm breeze cards through long grass. “I did. You possess the spirit of a hero no matter the life, but you also bear the mark of the demon king. I was not yet a seed when Demise cast his curse upon you and the goddess. But I felt it when first I laid eyes on you, chosen hero. It would have done no good to tell you.”

No—because the more Link knew of his fate, the quicker he was swallowed by it. The faster he unraveled. “Can I end it? Can I stop this?”

“That is an answer only your goddess can provide,” says the Deku Tree.

A thought, horrible and arresting: Does Zelda know? Have the other versions of her also lost their minds? She is alone in that castle, battling the Calamity, holding off the rageful spirit of the monster that has so hated them. She is his goddess, yes. But she was his best friend before that.

He has stalled too long. It’s time he took back his sword and went to her side.

Link inhales deeply. Koroks pop into existence, whispering excitedly, watching in anticipation. Earthy tones mix with the scent of sweet florals. Birdsong twitters from distant treetops. Link steps fully into the stone triangle, wraps a hand around the Master Sword’s hilt, and pulls.

Heat rips into him.

Link grunts, a knee crashing to stone, fist tightening. His body is on fire, his bones breaking, flesh rending. The sword is fighting him. Link struggles to stand. His other hand grips the hilt as well, invisible wounds slicing up his arms and into his chest, fingernails digging into skin. Link tugs; the blade slips up an inch.

Link pants with exertion, agony twinging in each of his limbs, searing heat boiling his blood. This is going to kill him. Another pull, another inch. His vision blurs. Everything aches. Hot beads of water sting his eyes and cut down his cheeks. He has never felt anything like this.

A guttural roar careens from Link’s chest as he flexes his muscles, yanking the hilt with all his might. The Master Sword sings free and the pain evaporates, sweet relief washing over Link’s soul like the ocean. His back slams to stone and dirt, air rushing from his lungs. Link lies where he fell, panting, eyes screwed shut, tears sneaking through his lashes to roll down his temples. Koroks whisper to each other. A breeze rolls over his body, soft and sun-warmed.

Link clutches the sword, hilt pressed to his chest. And it is like coming home.

Lifetime after lifetime, the one constant Link has always had is this blade.

The whispers stop. Dozens of little pops. Silence.

Link keeps his eyes shut, tightens his fist around the hilt. Show me him, he thinks to the blade. Dowsing still works—a strong, steady pulse beats into Link’s palm. Stronger than it's been in an age.

“Blade and boy,” Ghirahim says. “Reunited once again. How quaint.”

Link blinks his eyes open. Ghirahim’s face sharpens into focus above him.

“Oh my,” Ghirahim says, leering down at him. “Someone has a temper.”

“You taught me swordplay so you could use it against me,” Link says. “You tricked me. All in the name of your master.”

Ghirahim hums. “Is that what I did?”

Link stands. Muscles shift in his legs, his back. Anger is a terrifying thing; each Link who came before him reached this point, where they recalled the demon’s betrayal. Never his name, though. Link says, “I remember it, Ghirahim. Like it happened yesterday.”

Ghirahim’s arms are bare, his smile serene and cold. “Finally awake, are you?”

“Why did you want me to come here?”

“I told you this was a trap.” Ghirahim winks. “Remember you agreed to walk into it anyway.”

“Don’t play games with me.”

“Everything is a game,” Ghirahim says, mirroring words he spoke lifetimes ago. “Right now, you’re losing.”

“Did you care about me at all?” Link asks.

Ghirahim’s smile cracks. “Don’t you dare say that to me, sky child. Whatever past you think you remember is woefully incomplete for you to have the nerve.”

The air darkens. A raindrop hits the back of Link’s hand. He doesn’t know when, but he and Ghirahim have begun to circle one another. Predator and pray. “It’s not that far-fetched a thought, is it? You approached me so that you could sweep my legs out from under me when it suited you best. But you didn’t count on me becoming the better swordsman.”

Ghirahim laughs, and it sounds how it used to, cold and cruel. “You are so disgustingly quick to victimize yourself. Do you know how ridiculous you sound? You are forgetting that the feelings you professed to have for me were rooted in fantasy. You never wanted me, Link. You wanted a prize to take home to show your friends. A rabid beast you tamed into a house cat.”

“That isn’t what I wanted.”

“Don’t,” Ghirahim snaps, “say that to me. You planned to strip me of my identity. You planned to take the parts of me that made me who I am and weaken them, make them human. You would have clipped my wings and called it kindness. Do you not recall your own words, after I refused you? I don’t understand,” he mocks, “ why you’d want to be a demon.”

The cruelty of Link’s own words strikes him, but he is too angry to care. “You are Demise’s sword,” he says.

Ghirahim laughs again. Another raindrop splashes to skin. “So why not have your revenge and slay me, since you weren’t able to last time?” Ghirahim throws his arms wide, cocky as ever. “Take your blade and plunge it into my heart. Do the cowardly thing. I dare you.”

There is a reason Link went to look for Ghirahim, but it escapes him. Everything escapes him. The memories are too loud, too bright, too vivid. “You can still leave Demise behind.”

Diamonds— “You will never be the hero your goddess wanted you to be,” Ghirahim hisses, so close his breath heats Link’s mouth. “You were born as nothing, will die as nothing. You are meaningless. I would do all of it again, but my only regret is from the night you banished Demise. If I could go back, I would make sure to slit your precious Zelda’s throat and force you to watch her bleed.”

Link sees red. A sound rips from his chest, all rage and spite, and for a moment they’re back on that glowing platform hanging over the pit at the Sealed Grounds, the fate of the surface in the palm of their hands. Time overlaps, lines blur, he doesn’t know where he is, when he is. The point of the Master Sword stabs directly into the jewel at the center of Ghirahim’s chest. Link jerks back to awareness, visions and lifetimes fading, regret tearing through his chest.

But the jewel does not crack. It does not break.

The Master Sword sinks.

And keeps sinking.

Link is so surprised he lets go, a gasp on his lips. A wicked grin spreads across Ghirahim’s, eyes widening in rapture. It’s the smile of someone who has gotten exactly what he wanted. The sword absorbs into Ghirahim’s body inch by inch. Hasn’t Link seen this before, but in reverse?

Memories, one after the other, relentless.

Ghirahim’s dark eyes, locked on a Sacred Flame. “I thought…” he had said, but never finished, and later, “The sacred flames aren’t made for creatures like me.”

A match in the forest, friendly and heatless. Ghirahim snatched the newly minted sword from Link’s grip, only to toss it away again, naked alarm on his face.

“She has Hylia’s blessing,” Link explained. “The blade is filled with a holy light that demons revile. Even you, I guess.”

“Revile?” Ghirahim laughed.

Demise’s massive, outstretched hand. A black, jagged blade emerged from Ghirahim’s chest. His body burst into fractals of light that swept into the blade. That same sword turning to dust before Link’s eyes. What he thought was Demise’s essence, absorbed into the Master Sword.

What he thought was Demise’s essence.

Link snaps back to himself, staggering. No. Impossible. Impossible.

The last of the Master Sword’s hilt slips into Ghirahim’s body, gray skin aglow with holy light for one heartbeat, two. It fades. He exhales. Meets Link’s gaze.

“Thank you,” Ghirahim says. “Master.”

Link reaches for him, too late—

Diamonds shatter on his fingertips.

Chapter Text

Link gives chase through the forest, but it is out of confusion and desperation more than thinking he can catch an ancient demon.

Snippets of other lifetimes trickle into his head with each pounding footstep. Practicing swordplay with half-rotted tree branches as a child; growing up in the castle barracks as his knight father clapped him on the shoulder for the last time; sitting behind the counter of his uncle’s shop with his chin in his palm, bored out of his skull; racing through the skies on his loftwing’s back, his tormentors hot on his heels; a shy kiss with a boy behind the mask booth at a festival, nice but wrong, not enough, not him.

The woods are done with chewing him up and spitting him out, but there’s something about the timeworn magics of this place that won’t stop showing him detail after detail.

Memories streamline.

Link, pulling the Master Sword from stone, a thrill of heat racing up his arm. Link, too young, swinging his blade atop the deck of his ship at gulls with beaks snapping for his lunch. Gripping, gutting cold in Link’s palms, where his sword should be, where it was when it was ripped from him. Ghirahim, gaze caught on Farore’s Flame, entranced by it, repulsed by it. Ghirahim, tossing the sword away the first time he touched it after Hylia bestowed her blessing. Ghirahim, becoming a black blade, becoming dust.

And the entire time, from the very beginning—

Link’s boot slips in dewy grass on an incline. He tumbles to his belly, landing hard enough to knock some sense into him. Moisture dampens his tunic and chest, fingers digging into soggy dirt. Link lies there, a cheek pressed to cool grass, and thinks.

What happened, after Demise?

Months of isolation. Of pretending everything was fine. Avoiding Zelda’s eye, avoiding any visit to the surface. Agreeing to help the expedition team. Fledge kissing him. A pulse. Ghirahim, alive. The Master Sword, pulsing weakly in Link’s hand, signal never strengthening, never weakening. But then what?

The rest of Link’s memories from his first life are trapped, shrouded in darkness, ever out of reach. He isn’t sure what happened, but he knows this:

Link has clawed for traces of Ghirahim, searching for him in dreams, seeing his face in visions but never knowing his name. Link looked for him in every life, even if he hadn’t known it. The tremorous thumping of Link’s heart slows minute by minute. Calm lays over him like a quilt. His mind goes as clear as the crystal waters of Zora's Domain. He needn’t chase his demon at all.

Link sits up, pulls his knees to his chest, stares out at the swirling fronds of sparkling mist. He takes a breath.

“Ghirahim. Come here.”

A beat, two. Diamonds flash into existence, bringing their charge along. A glare is set into the low ridge of Ghirahim’s brow bone, but it doesn’t eminate the hatred Link is accustomed to seeing. Frustration, yes. Annoyance. As if Link is a particularly bothersome pest.

Link presses his lips flat so as not to smile and feels a little mad. “You’re quite obedient.”

“And you are an imbecile,” Ghirahim snaps. “You think you can call me whenever the mood strikes?”

“You told me yourself that you came to find me because I said your name. I summoned you.”

Ghirahim scoffs. “I should kill you for this insult. I am not a lapdog drooling to be at your beck and call.”

“Says the man who called me ‘master,’” Link intones.

Ghirahim’s jaw goes tight, and he vanishes.

Link sighs. “Come back, please.”

Shapes, colors, demon. “I despise you,” Ghirahim says.

Link hums. Now that the memories have settled and his panic abated, taking Ghirahim in is the sweetest of comforts. Silky white hair cut at a sharp angle, wide black eyes, tight bodysuit with diamond after diamond of tempting skin. Goddess, but he is beautiful. Link knows how it flees to have those lips on his. The heat of Ghirahim’s breath on his mouth. The thrum of a pulse beating into his palm. The taste of salt on Ghirahim’s neck. Everything he feared feels so foolish now, after all of it.

Link says, “You kept the earring.”

“What an inconsequential detail in the grand design of our fates.” Ghirahim pops a hip, a subtle flush on his gray cheeks, of either anger or shame, Link doesn’t know. “Have you nothing else to say? You remember now, how you insulted me? How you lied to me?”

“That’s how it seemed to you?” Link asks.

“Don’t deny it. My fury has burned bright for millennia.”

“I—” Link pauses. The past is an open, festering wound, but Link’s head is clear for the first time in a long, long time. He picks his words the way he would flowers—delicately, with intent. “The fact you are a demon. I used to think, in the months after fighting Demise, that he made you that way. That he took your soul and twisted it, carved it away piece by piece. That he turned you into what you are.”

“I have always been who I am,” Ghirahim says, a cold wrath to his words. “You have never understood that.”

“No,” Link admits. “But now that I know” —he stops, a lump in his throat, the realizations forming seconds before he voices them— “who you are— what you are. I don’t think it was Demise who made you, after all.”

Ghirahim’s expression gives nothing away. He could be shocked. He could be bored. He could be planning Link’s gorey, gruesome end.

Link prays the silence is encouragement and continues. “It still feels strange,” he says. “That you’re a demon. But it isn’t what it used to be. I’ve lived a long time, Ghirahim. I’ve met so many people. I guess—” Link laughs, involuntary. “I guess you were there for most of it. Did I ever tell you about Batreaux?”

Ghirahim does not answer. Link stands to close the gap between them, because even this paltry distance hurts. Ghirahim is taller, his face stone, and Link lets out a shaky breath.

“He was a demon who lived on Skyloft. He wanted desperately to be human, to mingle and make friends. He asked me to help him, and I did. I saw how happy he was, when my kin accepted him. I thought you would want that, too. It all seemed so ridiculous a thing to be afraid of once I thought you were dead. You’re right, you know. I am an idiot.”

“An admission that shocks me,” Ghirahim says dryly.

A laugh startles out of Link and an impulse overtakes him. He risks it, reaches out to trace his fingertips along the curl of the fireshield earring. Ghirahim’s black eyes watch warily, but he does not pull away. “I went to look for you,” Link whispers, throat abruptly tight. “I don’t remember anything after that. I have all my other memories, for every other lifetime. Not these ones. I’m not sure why. Did I ever find you?”

For a long, tense moment, Ghirahim does not reply. Then his eyes shut, gently pries Link’s hand from his ear, and says, “Never. You spent years searching. Flew around the whole damn world looking. Delved into ancient caverns and forgotten temples, slew horrors who had stalked the deepest pits of the earth longer than even I.”

One of them is trembling. Link isn’t sure who. “Did I stop?”

“Eventually.” Ghirahim holds Link’s hand between their bodies as if it’s something both fragile and dangerous. “Your loftwing died.”

Link shuts his eyes.

“It was quite old. It led a very happy life with you, if that matters. You buried it on Skyloft, even though everyone had long since moved to the surface. Then you walked until your bones were brittle and your flesh weak. The Spirit Maiden tried to convince you for years to join her at the fortress your people helped build. The days blurred together.”

“And then?” Link asks, voice hoarse.

An exhale. “That great oaf with the ridiculous hair sent his and the Spirit Maiden’s son to find you.”

Groose. Goddess, Groose and Zelda were married. And now Groose is gone, and there is nothing and no one left but them.

“You returned. And you died. Holding the Master Sword to your heart. They had to pry it out of your hands.”

Something is changing inside of Link. This tragedy is archaic, unremembered, history. He is glad, then, that this is the one thing he does not recall. It sounds very lonely.

Ghirahim must take Link’s silence the wrong way, because he snorts. “Stop wallowing. You made your choice for how to live the rest of your days. You could not be more dissimilar from Demise. He took action. He had results.”

Link opens his eyes, startled. Demise’s name should not be here between the two of them. “Your loyalty to your master is still strong?” Link asks, and it comes out broken and strangled.

Ghirahim stares down at Link, lips parted. A second passes, then three. “You little fool,” he murmurs. “I should not be shocked by your lack of capacity for critical thinking, and yet you continually subvert my expectations. The time I spent as Demise’s sword is but a prick in the eternity I have spent as yours. I slayed countless enemies for him, yet I have slayed immeasurably more for you. This blade,” he growls, a fist thumping to his own chest, “has destroyed his reincarnations time and time again, in your name, by our hand, and you dare to ask if my loyalty is to him?”

Link’s eyes sting. “You hurt Zelda,” he blurts, and he must have forgiven Ghirahim for that as much as Ghirahim has forgiven Link.

“I did,” Ghirahim says. “I will not lie to you, despite you having no right to my honesty. I hurt her because I knew it would hurt you.”

“Because I hurt you first.” Link understands now. Regret wells up inside him, anger, self-hatred, confusion. He forces the words out. “I’m sorry, Ghirahim.”

“I am not.” Ghirahim’s grip is at once crushing, Link’s fingers blazing hot clamped in his vise as the forest chatters around them. “Understand me, sky child. My identity is as integral to who I am as your identity is to you. Knowing you has changed me, yes, but I am still who I will always be. The red string of fate that has bound us since my existence was forged into this world is stronger than ever. It has twisted and knotted, frayed, split, once for each new lifetime you have lived. I have taken what freedom I have back from you, reabsorbed my sword, but the strings have woven us so tightly together that we cannot escape one another. If you do not wish to escape me, you must accept me. A demon, a killer, a soldier.”

Link’s chest is breaking open. His heart, raw and red, beats for all to see. His fingers are throbbing under Ghirahim’s. He squeezes back, and it’s only then Link sees the tremor in Ghirahim’s jaw. The uncertainty that slipped through the cracks in Ghirahim’s armor and made him real, flawed, perfect. It’s proof that, despite Ghirahim’s anger, his thirst for revenge, his bitterness—

“You really do care about me,” Link says.

Ghirahim’s gaze sharpens. “For the last hundred thousand years, every conscious thought I had was about you. I was only awake when I was in your hand. Thousands of years of nothing, then you were there to pull me free. And I thought I was the one proficient in torture.”

It isn’t funny, but Link laughs a little, anyway. “You might be loyal, but you didn’t choose this. I couldn’t blame you for wanting to be rid of a nobody like me.”

Ghirahim stares him down. He exhales a disbelieving, breathy laugh. “Do you not know who you are, Link? You are the Hero of Time, of the Essences, of Wind and Twilight, of a hundred more things. You are the Hero of Legend. And I am your blade, you incompetent, preposterous, brainless fool.”

And Ghirahim leans down to close the gap.

Chapter Text

Farore’s Flame is when Ghirahim begins to suspect there is more to his destiny than meets the eye.

It burns a brilliant emerald, bewitching in a way no fire has been before. Ghirahim stands in the chamber, his enemy and ally in one at his side. He stares at the pedestal. Fire crackles, pops. It makes no other sound, yet it calls to him. Invites him in. Ghirahim is just beginning to wonder why this fire transfixes him so when he sees it—a thin gold string, linking himself to the flames. Ghirahim’s strings are historically impossible to categorize. A handful he can always reliably see, if he focuses, if he searches.

Black: a thick, winding cord that ties him to Master.

Crimson: a delicate, spider-silk thread that had no end for eons, until he found the end of it in Link.

Gold: a stunning, soft thing, almost warm, that binds him not only to the spirit maiden, but to Fi.

It’s the gold string Ghirahim sees, for barely a heartbeat, connecting him to Farore’s Flame. Before it vanishes.

“Ghirahim?” Link says.

“I thought…” But it cannot be. “Nothing. Finish your business.”

Later, in an old forest, Ghirahim eyes Link’s newly minted blade. It’s stunning with its pure white steel, deep violet pommel, and Triforce etched into the base. The gold string shimmers in and out of his sight, linking him to Fi.

“It’s lovely,” Ghirahim tells Link. “You’re finally using a sword that’s almost worthy of you.”

Bemused, Link says, “Almost? You’re hard to please.”

“Oh, I’m not saying this out of petty jealousy or simple insults. I mean it when I say it’s almost worthy. For all immediate appearances it’s nearly perfect, but there’s something…” Ghirahim pauses. Chews on his thought. “Incomplete.”

He can’t explain why. The sword is immaculate. Yet the nagging feeling that something isn’t quite right lingers. It’s missing something.

“And I suppose you know what it is?” Link asks, a laugh in his voice. Link’s laugh is a sound Ghirahim likes far too much.

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Ghirahim slips through space and appears before Link, plucks the weapon from his hand, observes it. “Now, let me get a good look—”

With no warning, the gold string usually binding him to Fi knots around his fingers and pulls. Ghirahim falls in. Invisible roots burst from the shaft and dig into his skin, tug him inward, hold him close. He is being absorbed. Swallowed. Voices call his name. It sounds like the spirit maiden. It sounds like Hylia.

Panic overcomes him and Ghirahim vaults the blade with all his might. The tendrils of gravity sucking him into metal evaporate the moment the hilt leaves his hand. The Master Sword thumps to the forest floor. Not far enough—Ghirahim skips backward through space, swallowing the bile threatening to rise from his gut. He stares at Link.

“That sword.” It takes everything to stop his voice from trembling. “What the hell is in those flames?”

Link picks it up like it’s nothing, like it hadn’t just tried to consume him. “She has Hylia’s blessing. The blade is filled with a holy light that demons revile. Even you, I guess.”

“Revile?” Ghirahim laughs.

It takes far too long for Ghirahim to understand he is being remade. Master returns at last. Ghirahim allows himself to hope things will be different, that Demise will see his loyalty. He longs for recognition the way most creatures long for oxygen. A word. A nod. He would even relish another lost rib.

But Demise gives him nothing.

Ghirahim expected it. His role was always to give and be taken from, never to receive. He was fine with that, once. Happy with it, even. But when Demise holds out his massive hand and rips his jagged sword from Ghirahim’s chest where it has sat for centuries, all Ghirahim manages is a half-choked laugh. And then he is inside the metal, trapped, stuck, helpless, and no no no this isn’t what he wanted. The red string shimmers in and out of his conscious thought, because Link is still here, he somehow hasn’t been struck down.

“So you are the chosen knight of the goddess.” Demise’s long-forgotten voice cleaves Ghirahim’s heart in two. “Do you even know how to swing that sword?”

The Master Sword. The blade that, moments ago, sank into the diamond in Ghirahim’s torso. Like it was trying to steal the space Demise’s sword occupies. Like it tried to become him. The black cord tying Ghirahim to Demise pulses thickly in his mind’s eye. The strings are tangled, overlapping, knotted.

Ghirahim doesn’t fear.

But whatever this coldness enveloping him is must be close to it.

Demise says, “Is it courage that makes you face me? Or overconfidence?”

Link doesn’t answer. The crimson string flares like the sun.

“A fight, then,” Demise says, and Ghirahim jolts. “Join me when you are ready, and we will see who between us will inherit the world.”

Thoughts are hazy, nonlinear. Ghirahim feels nothing but cold. There is a long quiet that falls over them when Demise’s black cord shifts and enters a new realm. The other strings—thousands and thousands of them—wink out of sight.

An exhale. “Ghirahim.”

Ghirahim is— Master?

“What took so long?”

Ghirahim is— Unexpected delays. But rest assured, Master, that every breath I have taken these last thousand years has been in your service. Every creature I have slain has been in your name. I have toiled endlessly for your release.

Ghirahim does not have a throat when he is a spirit, but Demise’s black cord winds around it anyway and, for a heartbeat, it’s how it used to be. His face smashed into a pile of furs, a heavy hand on the back of his head, nails digging into his neck, a solid weight pressing inside of him, ripping him apart. Ghirahim hates it. Ghirahim loves it.

“Endlessly, you say?” A chuckle, dark and humorless. “You’re as useless as ever. How am I to punish you for that? For now, silence—I’ve a boy to kill.”

No, he tries to say, because the crimson string blazes into their quiet realm, and how can Link fight his master? No matter how talented Link is, no matter what shape his destiny takes, Demise will end him, destroy him, slaughter him.

But Link is not slaughtered.

He wins.

Every strike of the Master Sword’s steel on Ghirahim’s vessel is pain. He burns, brittles, breaks. The crux of a fate Ghirahim never understood nears and nears, until at last, the holy light inside the Master Sword grips him tight and every atom in his spirit is crushed. He shatters into dust.

His last thought, fading rapidly with each moment; I taught him that. To fight like he had everything to lose.

And at last, Ghirahim surrenders.

It happens in stages. He isn’t fully conscious of it, broken and battered as he is. He is caught in a net of golden strings. Reassembled. For a while there is nothing. When thought returns to him, there is Fi.

She floats before him in a blank, black space. Unsmiling. Ghirahim can see himself again, look at his hands and run his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t know how long it’s been. He barely knows what he is.

“Lord Ghirahim,” greets Fi tonelessly.

“What,” he growls, “have you done to me?”

“You are where you were always meant to be.”

Ghirahim’s anger is a rising tide. “Let me go. Or I swear on all the spirits of the realms I will end you.”

Fi says, “My time has ended already, Lord Ghirahim. I remain to complete my final task, to say goodbye to Master Link when he lays us to rest at the temple. Then I will be gone, and you will remain.”

This nothing-world is empty and endless, but not cold. Not frightening. “What do you mean?” Ghirahim snaps, patience thinning.

Fi regards him blankly. “There is a 96% chance you possess all the information you need to make an accurate assumption. Would you like me to explain it to you?”

Ghirahim doesn’t need her to, because she’s right. He knows. He put it together when he saw her here. But he cannot believe it. He will not. He doesn’t want Fi to tell him, to make it real. She does anyway.

“My programming,” says Fi, “was hastily constructed to fill the role my predecessor was unable to. Hylia sees all, from the dawn of time to the end. She knew Master Link would be needed to save the world and that he alone, along with his unbreakable spirit, would be the force that would beat back the darkness. His weapon was meant to complement and strengthen his skills, as well as lessen his weaknesses. My capabilities are limited, as my predecessor was crafted especially for him. I was not meant to be the chosen hero’s sword. Master Link’s blade was always meant—”

“Don’t,” Ghirahim begs, sharp.

“—to be you.”

Ghirahim thinks of the crimson spider’s silk string. The first he ever saw. He thinks of opening his eyes for the first time, Master’s fearsome face filling his vision, the tilt of his head and curious way he watched him.

“What a gift you are,” Demise had said, and Ghirahim’s loyalties were set in stone.

He is a demon. He is a sword.

Fi is both of those things, too.

The sacred flames called to Ghirahim, not because they were filled with the goddess’s light, but because they burned for him. All the work Link did to reforge the Goddess Sword was to prepare it for him. This blade that they’re in, it’s Ghirahim’s blade. And Master, Master, Master—

How had Ghirahim ended up in his hands?

“You were stolen,” says Fi. Like she read his mind. “Rumors of the crafting of a holy weapon made their way to enemy armies. The Demon King took you from the forge himself. His touch corrupted your first blade beyond all means to cleanse it. Hylia made another, and saw that through the heat of the Sacred Flames and Master Link’s efforts, it would be made ready for you.”

“I want nothing to do with your hero,” Ghirahim says coldly. “He is a wolf masquerading as a sheep, a killer pretending to be kind. A boy who thinks he is a man.”

The red string flickers, in, out. Fi says, “You are too weak to leave the Master Sword at the present moment, Lord Ghirahim. Your spirit was shattered in order to shape it to fit your vessel. There is a 3% chance you may not be capable of manifesting physically until you have reclaimed your strength and Master Link summons you.”

Ghirahim laughs. “Three percent? I’ll be out of this damn cage in no time. And when I am, Fi, you and I shall duel until one of our voices fills all the realms with the piercing sound of screams.”

Fi smiles. It’s sincere and disturbing. She says, “He is about to set the Master Sword in its pedestal inside the Temple of Time. I have no more time, Lord Ghirahim. I have been instructed to leave you with one final message before I slumber within the blade forever.”

Ghirahim is aghast. “You can’t possibly be leaving. You wouldn’t.” Link needs you, he doesn’t say.

“‘Trust in the strings,’” says Fi in monotone, yet somehow warm. “‘They are my gift to you so that you may always find home.’”

And who could have said that? Who would dare leave him with these half-hearted, foolish words? Who would— “Fi,” Ghirahim says, because her crystal blue skin has gone translucent, her eyes wide and calm.

“I must go to say my farewell,” says Fi. “My programming was basic so I could fit the task given to me until you were able to assume your role. Despite this, I have found in these last months that I can make choices outside my designation. I have had thoughts of my own, particularly that the bond of fate that ties you and Master Link together goes beyond what Hylia intended. You were always meant to be his blade. But you found your way back to him on your own. So allow me to leave you with a request.”

“Fi,” Ghirahim says.

“Take care of him. Master Link cannot bring an end to the infinity awaiting him without you. He was never meant to.”

And Fi is gone, the world is dark, and Ghirahim is alone.

The next seventy years are nothing but one monster felled after the other and an internal prayer from the one who wields the Master Sword, projected into Ghirahim’s conscious thoughts:

Ghirahim, Ghirahim.

Where are you?

Sight is not the same inside a blade. Ghirahim senses shapes and feels presences, can reach out to run ghostly fingers along trembling threads that form massive webs of colors and textures. Eventually, Link dies. The bandages holding Ghirahim together are violently ripped away. The crimson string quivers and splits into battered fibers, twisting into knots and weaving new strands. Ghirahim chokes back tears because what will happen to him now, the strings wink out of sight, and he’s—

Nothing.

He has never been anything.

He is a newly forged sword staring into the Demon King’s cold face, besotted with the idea he could mean something to someone. He is a wild animal on the battlefield, covered in the blood of his enemies. He is panting on the ground, his master standing over him, a dripping rib in hand. He is nothing when Demise takes him for the first time, the third, the hundredth. He is worthless. Worthless. Worthless.

“You owe everything you have to me,” Demise tells him, whispering into the shell of his ear. “Without me you would not exist. Without me you would never have taken a single breath. I made you.”

He’s nothing.

One last ball of crackling energy rebounds on the Master Sword’s sharpened edge. It sends the attack straight back into Ganandorf’s chest and crumples him. Link collapses, too, alive but breathless, a sob of relief on his lips. “I did it,” he gasps, over and over. “It’s done.”

What Link does not know is that Ghirahim is sobbing, too, trapped in his blade, phantom tears welling up inside his soul that cannot be shed. The thick black cord tying Ghirahim to Ganondorf dissolves into flurries of dark sparks, and he is not sure how he feels. He doesn’t have time to find out—another cord takes its place, winding tighter around him, the other end out of sight.

It really will happen again, then.

This was but the first of an eternity of Demise’s curse.

Ghirahim feels it, then—the energy of his old master, rushing into the blade in colorless waves of power. It is like he has been half-asleep for the last few months since Link pulled him from the stone in the Temple of Time. This bolt of pure energy awakens him. Ghirahim is strong again, himself again, he can leave this damn sword and give the Hero of Time something to cry about.

Only when he makes to exit the sword, Ghirahim finds he cannot. Fi’s distant, flat voice floats through his mind: There is a 3% chance you may not be capable of manifesting physically until you have reclaimed your strength and Master Link summons you.

Ghirahim could kill her for that measly three percent. Link, as stubbornly similar as he is to his first life, has no memories of what happened so long ago. Ghirahim himself is barely conscious when he isn’t in Link’s hand. His old master used to call him into his blade for weeks at a time when Ghirahim displeased him, only summoning when he spoke Ghirahim’s name.

The emotion in Ghirahim’s soul crushes the life from him in blinding agony.

He’s stuck.

He cannot get out.

But as the castle begins to quake and the ceiling caves in, mourning Ganandorf’s final breath, Link stops crying. Gets to his feet. Continues on. Resilient, unbreakable.

Ghirahim hates him for it.

This Link shows cracks.

He is quieter and more thoughtful than the last one. Contemplative. Sassier. There are moments, when he traverses the Dark World—this era’s name for the demon realm—that Ghirahim is certain Link’s connection to the Master Sword is weightier than his predecessor’s. His gaze lingers on it. Ghirahim would give another rib to pry open his thoughts.

Bodiless, powerless, and mute within the blade, Ghirahim has no choice but to watch as Link’s quest unfolds. He shows skill beyond that of a fourteen-year-old boy, and sometimes talks to shopkeeps and travelers about his knight father who taught him all he knows. Yet there are instincts and movements that echo Ghirahim’s own, and that can be nothing but the past seeping through.

Link is mid-battle with a three-headed stone turtle that breathes fire and ice when he cries out, “Fi, report!”

And freezes.

If Ghirahim has a heart in this place, it stops. He can picture freedom, can taste the sweet tang of air on his tongue, can feel the heat of sunlight and icy splashes of rain on his skin. There has to be a way out of this prison. Ghirahim surges against the walls of his cage with everything he has, shouting his own name so Link will remember it, say it, summon him to the outside world.

But the battle rages on, no Fi to answer Link, and no other names on his lips.

When the turtle is chunks of stone at Link’s feet, he holds the Master Sword out and gazes at it. At Ghirahim.

“Thank you,” Link says, soft as a whisper.

Decades later, Ghirahim wakes from a long, black slumber at the touch of a familiar palm. Link. He’s a man, now. His spirit is so bright it hurts to be touched. Ghirahim aches for these moments, brief though they are, when Link comes to the Lost Woods to visit. To touch him.

“I’ve been having strange dreams,” Link says to no one. “Teaching at the academy keeps me busy, now that my uncle has retired. Her Highness wants me to move to the castle and become a knight, like my father was. But these days, I can’t seem to remember if my father really was a knight, or if he rode a giant bird through the sky.”

Ghirahim’s master shakes his head.

“It’s odd. The dreams are bizarre, creatures I’ve never seen and places I’ve never been, people I’ve never met. I feel like there’s someone I miss. And yet…”

Link’s hand slips from the Master Sword’s pommel. Ghirahim drifts into the black.

The curse is crueler than any torture Ghirahim could dream of.

The Oracle of Seasons works tirelessly at Link’s side to research the threads of his previous lives and find their source, but at the end of every string is a thick black cord that only Ghirahim can see. Din is powerful but not all-knowing, and Link has spent the last ten years with memories of lives he lived ages ago slipping into his skull. He’s almost thirty, shouting himself awake, Demise’s name on his lips, Phantom’s spectral image on his mind.

Ghirahim’s encounters with Phantom have solidified the idea that they are trying to resurrect his old master. This was always a possibility, but Phantom’s appearances throughout the lifetimes prove they’re getting closer to their goal. A strange split of emotion accompanies this realization. Part of Ghirahim will forever long for the recognition Demise refused to give him. But already he has spent more time in Link’s hand than he ever did the Demon King’s. Already the slow, sweet sunrise of that first touch after centuries of nothing is his favorite sensation. Link has changed him, irrevocably.

And he missed it with the others, because they always let him go, placed him back into slumber to await his next incarnation. But in this life, Link is losing his mind. Eventually he sets the Master Sword into its resting place in the Lost Woods, chokes out a tearful, “I have to send you to the next me. I’m sorry, Fi.”

Ghirahim hates him for it.

He loses track of time.

One life slips into the next without so much as a sigh, an eternity of slow darkness melting at the touch of a new but familiar hand. Ghirahim doesn’t remember what grass feels like on his feet, or wind on his face, or air in his lungs. He is a weapon. He is a sword. He is—

Nothing.

Worthless.

Useless.

Link is a monster when locked in combat. Memories return to him so much faster in this life, too fast. He embodies thousands of hours of swordplay in the body of someone who can barely harm a spider. Link’s mind begins to dissolve while he’s still a teenager, hacking at hoards of enemies and besting the incarnation of Ghirahim’s old master once more. Ghirahim feels a little mad, himself, seeing it unfold. But they win, like they always do. Demise’s incarnation is once again slain. Link is a hero again.

Then the spirit maiden comes. The goddess. She must not remember their previous lives, Ghirahim thinks, because how could she do this to her dearest friend? She must not remember that she determined this partnership before either of them drew breath, Ghirahim thinks as she commands her men to wrestle the Master Sword away. She must not remember that Phantom is trying to revive Demise, Ghirahim thinks as he is ripped from Link’s hands, his master screaming, darkness settling over him.

Because if she did, Zelda would look much more frightened.

This Link is a romantic.

Disgustingly so.

He’s very young when Ghirahim wakes, but Ghirahim’s spirit always seems to match Link’s in this way. They age together, and they are reborn together. The world changes so much in the periods of darkness that it is like new every time. This Link likes to reach over the side of the boat and let his fingers carve a wake in the ocean as he sails. He sunbathes on the deck and naps peacefully while drifting through fleets of pirate ships. He hums tunes to the seagulls who snap for his supper and doodles rainbow-scaled fish and pirate princesses with sharp grins.

Maybe this Link won’t remember. Maybe, after the horror that was last Link’s life, he will have a break. But the curse is a curse for a reason, and it catches up to him eventually.

Link is in his late twenties, by Ghirahim’s estimation, when he is lying on his back on the deck staring up at the stars and whispers, unbidden, “Who are you?”

He meets with handsome young men in newly-built port towns and spends the night, but always reaches for the Master Sword to strap to his back as he sneaks out before dawn, only to stare at the sky as if the answer is waiting there for him. He kisses strangers and shoves them away before it can go any further. He wakes shouting from nightmares, then stares at the sea and rubs a hand idly across his right thigh. One day he tells a hopeful blue-eyed man, “I’m sorry, I can’t.” He adds, barely a whisper, “You’re not him.”

Memories trickle in at last.

Link’s childhood doodles turn from fish to birds. Doodles become blocks of wood and sharp knives. He has always had an artist’s soul, in some capacity. Link carves his long-dead loftwing, a sword that looks like his first, a woman who resembles Fi. And he carves a demon cast in diamonds.

Years later, Link stands on the bow of his ship, watching the moon’s reflection rip into silvery shreds on uneasy waters. He says, to no one, “Were you real or not? Give me a sign. Give me anything.”

I’m here, Ghirahim thinks. I’m here, you spineless fool. Say my damn name.

“Ghirahim,” a voice says.

Ghirahim’s soul is ripped from the Master Sword with the thundering force of ten armies’ footfalls. One moment there is nothing, and the next there is everything. Air, in his throat. Tingles, on the back of his neck. Pounding, in his chest. He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s awake—

Ghirahim chokes in a sweet, clear breath, collapses to cool dirt, wet grass against his hands, dampening his clothes. He sobs. This can’t be real, he can’t actually be free. Link can’t have remembered. A metal glint catches Ghirahim’s gaze—the Master Sword, surrounded by the familiar sight of the Lost Woods. Ghirahim reaches for the hilt but his body betrays him, violently rejecting his touch. He’s blasted backward and his back cracks on a mossy stone.

Sweet, tender pain fills his senses for the first time in ages. Real pain. Someone is laughing, crazed—but no one else is here. When he calms down, it’s enough to note that Link isn’t present either, which has never happened in all the times Ghirahim’s darkness melted. Which means that, somehow, Link’s last battle didn’t kill him.

Ghirahim doesn’t want to.

But he thinks of Demise.

Of how his old master greeted him after their separation.

Ghirahim will never murder the part of himself that wants to be loved, despite it being impossible. If he is outside his sword, it means Link has summoned him. It means Link remembers. But Link doesn’t call Ghirahim’s name a second time. After this, after everything, if Link looks at Ghirahim and doesn’t know who he is, if he greets him the way Demise did…

Ghirahim would kill them both first.

He can no longer allow himself to be at the mercy of any creature who cares nothing for him. He must take back his freedom, his destiny. If Hylia chose Ghirahim to be Link’s blade, Ghirahim will make Link choose him right back. He will take the red string and wrap it around both their throats. He will die before he goes back into that sword.

Ghirahim’s eye catches the massive tree, gazing down at him silently. It doesn’t speak. For a moment, they share breath. Then Ghirahim travels into the space between worlds to learn what the last century of darkness has wrought.

Days later, looking at Link in the flesh, Ghirahim knows Link does not remember him. But the way Link is looking at him says that, soon, he will. And that is enough of a reason to wait a few more weeks.

Ghirahim even manages to convince himself that the flutter of his heart has nothing to do with it.

Chapter Text

The kiss is sweet as cream and tender as a bruise. Link’s eyes flutter shut as cool fingers grip his chin and tilt his face skyward. Strange—Ghirahim has spent so much time insisting he is a devil, yet he kisses like this. It’s softer than any kiss Link has had in any lifetime. Pulse cutting a hard beat into his neck, Link tries not to move, to ruin it. But Goddess, he’s dizzy. Something clicks into place that Link has been missing all this time.

He releases a soft breath.

Steady black eyes come into focus before him. Even now, there is hesitation in Ghirahim’s gaze. What keeps holding him back? Link touches Ghirahim’s bare shoulder.

“I don’t know what to say,” Link admits.

“Don’t say anything.” Ghirahim steps back. “You’ll spoil the moment.”

Warmth tingles down Link’s limbs and gathers in his fingers. He’s abuzz with possibility. “I’ll do right by you,” Link vows, and his heart sinks when Ghirahim laughs.

“What is there to do right by? I’m your sword, Master. Your only obligation is to keep your blade polished.”

Link reclaims the distance, his fingers twinging with Ghirahim’s. “Is that all you think you are to me?”

“Yes,” Ghirahim says. “No. You’ve only just woken up. You don’t know what you want.”

Link fights his smile. “And I will need time to decide if this is what I want.”

“Precisely,” Ghirahim agrees. “You should let go of all these troublesome emotions and observe this with a neutral mindset.”

“Indeed,” Link says.

“We’ve been apart longer than we’ve ever been together.”

“True,” Link says.

Ghirahim’s teeth clack shut. “Don’t agree to placate me.”

“I’m not,” Link says, squeezing his hand. “I’m just noticing this feels the same as it did in my first life. Perhaps I’ve pondered enough.”

Ghirahim scoffs. “One kiss and you think we’re lovers?”

“Maybe not today. But if you feel this the way I do, we will be.”

And there—a faint flush high on Ghirahim’s cheeks, though his expression stays hard as marble. “Have you already lost your mind?”

Link wants to laugh, but the reminder is a dark one. His heart pistons beneath his ribs, burning through the adrenaline of the last hour. He’s dizzy again, grip slackening on Ghirahim’s hand. “My mind,” he says. “I will lose it, won’t I? It happens every time.”

“Stop it.” Ghirahim releases Link’s hand and clutches his wrist with clarifying pain. “You have time. It takes years.”

“Not for Twilight,” Link says.

The forest whispers. “You have a decision to make, sky child. You know who you are and you know the entity that has haunted us. What will you do?”

What will he do?

Before the Lost Woods he was determined to reclaim the Master Sword and join Zelda’s fight. But the sword is locked in Ghirahim’s chest, and the idea of coming so close to one of Demise’s incarnations chills him. “I suppose, first of all, I need my sword.”

Ghirahim is ten paces away so fast that Link thinks for a moment he’s run off again. His demon stands beyond dark green shrubbery and glares. “No.”

“Ghirahim,” Link says, “it’s the only thing that can defeat the darkness.”

“Find something else.”

Frustration scratches brittle nails down Link’s throat and limbs. “So much for you being my blade. ”

“Damn you,” Ghirahim says. “You claim to hear but you don’t listen. This fight is mine as much as it is yours. I’ll amass an army for you. I’ll gather every ally you could have. I’ll fight by your side, now that I have my freedom. But when you wield the Master Sword, I am inside it. I cannot, I will not go back to that prison. Do not ask me to.”

Link could. They both know it. Link is Ghirahim’s master, and has to do as he says where it concerns the blade. But in the chaos, Link hasn’t had time to think about what Ghirahim’s eternity looked like. It is not a comfortable view.

“I don’t want to ask you,” Link says, and it’s the truth. “But I have to face the calamity eventually. Zelda is fighting.”

“She is the goddess of Hyrule,” Ghirahim says with a dramatic eye roll. “She’ll hold her own a while longer yet.”

So what to do now? Link considers his options, his lifetimes, the research he did with Din, the waking nightmares of his Twilight self, the longing of the young man who searched the sea for a dream. And there is only one answer. “I’m going to break the curse.”

Ghirahim laughs, but the sound of it dies when Link doesn’t join in. “You’re serious.”

“Of course,” Link says. “I don’t know how to do it. But I think I know where to start.”

Kakariko Village has changed a dozen times, but this iteration, nestled quietly in a valley between steep mountain peaks, is Link's favorite.

Link passes a cucco bird pecking stupidly at freshly turned earth, half a worm caught in its beak. One can only be pecked nearly to death so many times, even across multiple lives, before one grows to dislike cuccos. Link has long since passed this point. He clicks his tongue at his horse and cuts a wide path around it, hooves thudding softly on well-watered soil. The village unfolds like a storybook as he crests the hill and begins his descent, mist evaporating at sunrise’s amber touch.

Nerves bubble in his gut as the horse clops down the long, curved road into the village. Will Impa remember? It never occurred to Link that anyone other than himself and Zelda had been caught in Demise’s curse, but Impa’s appearances in several of his lifetimes is evidence he cannot ignore. Incarnations aside, his present body has been out of commission a hundred years, and that is a long time for a young woman. Alone, Link stops his horse at the hill’s base in front of the chief’s home, the fragrance of earthy vegetables mixed with faint perfumes of plum blossoms. He smiles politely and waits for the two men outside to let him in, heartbeat picking up speed.

Ghirahim would not join him for this.

“Mine and Impa’s bad blood is even older than you,” he had said, and vanished without further explanation. Wood creaks under Link’s boots as he climbs the steps. The door is open, candlelight flickering inside. Mouthwatering whiffs of grilled fish and salty broth tickle his nose and his empty belly. A small figure kneels on a cushion against the wall. Impa, once tall and youthful, is shriveled and ancient. She more closely resembles the old woman from the forgotten temple than she has in any other incarnation, her wrinkled skin barely disguising the sharpness of her gaze as she brings a bite of steaming rice to deeply grooved lips. Link shuts the door behind him and waits.

Impa sets her bowl beside her cushion. “It’s you,” she says.

Which could mean anything.

“You haven’t aged a day. ” Impa continues, “The Champion of Hyrule, in the flesh. One hundred years later.”

Link weighs his response. “It’s been longer than a hundred,” he says.

She says, “Which hero stands before me?”

He says, “All of them.”

Impa’s tree-bark face folds with sorrow. She calls for more food. Her granddaughter is a sweet girl, Impa’s spitting image from the same age of youth. Paya blushes scarlet when Link thanks her for breakfast and makes herself scarce. He’s reminded, not unfondly, of Peatrice, but the warmth cools rapidly with the reminder that she’s long dead. Link is halfway through his bowl of hot, salty broth when Impa asks, “What do you remember, Link?”

“Everything, mostly. What do you remember?”

“Pieces,” Impa says. “Fractions of worlds that died long ago. I decided decades ago to focus on the life I am living rather than the ones that have passed. Look at me, Link—I’m an old woman. I’ve made it to this age only once before, so I’d like to think of this as… retirement. But here you are.”

Link adjusts on the pillow Paya set out for him, ignoring the pricking discomfort in his legs. “Do you know why we come back, Impa?”

“I know this: I have been Princess Zelda’s protector in nearly every life. By whose design, I don’t know. But she is fighting against a great evil and she needs her champion.” Impa fixes him with a cold stare. “So why is it her champion is here?”

 A flash of gold and black shapes, a swirl of crimson red. Link snatches instinctively at Ghirahim to still his tongue, but he should know better than to dissuade this man of anything.

“That’s not very nice, goddess’s dog,” Ghirahim says, towering over them both.

Impa’s face drains of color. “The demon,” she croaks.

Ghirahim's grin is rapturous. “In the flesh.”

Link seizes Ghirahim’s wrist. “You said you were going to wait outside!”

“It was boring.” Ghirahim bends at his waist to pluck a ripe cherry tomato from Impa’s bowl. It bursts between his teeth. “Listen, pup. I couldn’t care less for your retirement. Link is your goddess’s precious hero that has annihilated this world’s evil time and time again, and do you know what that sounds like to me? A bandage.”

Impa’s jaw clenches.

Ghirahim descends gracefully to the floor, long legs stretched out before him, silky hair tumbling across his temples. He is too big for this simple space, larger than life. “Any wound will continue to rot if the infection is not cut from the meat. No amount of herb oil can cover the stench of necrotized flesh. This creature that battles your princess, this ‘Calamity’ is nothing more than a distraction to stop Link from severing the head of the snake. And what is the snake?”

Impa’s lips part. “Demise.”

“So you do remember him. How wonderful.”

“I remember his name and his presence,” Impa corrects. “What he is and why are answers I don’t possess.”

“He’s the Calamity,” Ghirahim deadpans. “He’s Ganondorf. He is every evil thing that has threatened your insignificant life since the wheel began to turn. This curse that grips Link and the goddess also grips you, pup. You and your Zelda will know no peace, no rest, until the curse is rent from your soul.”

Link’s mortification grows at Impa’s next words: “Demise’s own general, leading the charge for the dissolution of his reign? I remember you, demon. I remember how you plucked Zelda from the forgotten temple and laughed as you walked into the Gate of Time.”

Ghirahim's shoulder lifts in a half-shrug. “A lot has changed in the last few thousand millennia.”

Link scrambles to one knee. “Impa, I know this is strange. Please, I need you to trust me.”

“It’s not you I don’t trust.”

“He’s done more for all of us than you know,” Link says. “He’s helped so much. He’s the M—”

Ghirahim’s venomous glare stops the truth from leaving Link’s lips. He hesitates, redirects.

“—the only one who can give us an edge.”

Impa’s gnarled hands smooth the front of her tunic down her stomach. “If the demon truly wishes to aid us, his reasons may stay his own. They do not matter to me.”

Ghirahim inhales. “The ‘demon’ is right here, dog.”

Impa lifts an earthenware cup to her lips and drinks deeply. Steam curls like cat tails around her eyes. “This curse. How do we break it?”

Admitting he doesn't know is a discomfort. But one shared glance with Ghirahim confirms they share the same thought. “There was a life I lived,” Link begins, “where the Twilight Realm clashed with ours. I regained my memories fastest in that life. I met someone. He told me the key to breaking the curse was to remember everything.” Link does not tell her the tragic truth, that the stalfos was also him. There is no horror in Impa’s gaze, and he would like to keep it that way. “I’ve been thinking about that. He didn’t mean the memories of my lifetime. He meant to remember what’s been in front of me every time.”

Ghirahim says, “The Triforce,” and the ground begins to shake.

Golden motes of dust steam from the ceiling like waterfalls of sand. Link’s soup ripples. Impa’s face twists in alarm, a deep rumbling echoing up from the earth below. Ghirahim vanishes in a burst of diamonds and Link is out the door a moment later, cuccos squawking and villagers poking heads from windows to blink sleepily around. Impa’s guards at the base of the steps stand wide-stanced, fighting not to pitch to the ground. Link grips the wooden railing as a powerful quake turns his legs to ChuChu jelly. Ghirahim’s form has already appeared high above on a mountain peak, but Link needn’t stand beside him to see the threat.

Calamity Ganon oozes from the horizon above the castle, black and violet and furious, its maw hinging open at the jaw as it lets out a terrible keen. The roar is faint but terrible, chills tingling up Link’s spine and cold sweat breaking across his forehead. It swims upward through clouds, screaming, smoking. A flash of gold light  shimmers outward. Calamity Ganon falls back below the mountain ridge. The ground's death throes reduce to tremors, then quivers, then nothing.

Ghirahim appears at Link’s side as Impa steps onto the deck beside them.

“It’s trying to escape,” Ghirahim says. “Whatever time we have is running out. I don’t intend to wait another thousand years to fix this—I make my final stand in this life. Are you with us?”

Impa’s gaze doesn’t leave the clear sky. “I will put you up in a spare room for the next few days,” she says at last. “I need time to think.”

Ghirahim scoffs. “Think quickly.”

“I don’t keep the Triforce in storage,” she snaps. “If you both wish to be useful while I do research, you can start by retrieving Link’s sword from the Lost Woods. The blade of the hero is that which seals the darkness.”

Ghirahim’s will is stronger than Link’s, because Link flinches and Ghirahim does not. “I… found it already.”

Impa doesn’t notice his discomfort. “Where is it?”

“Safe,” Link says, and it isn’t a lie.

At last, Impa rips her eyes from the sky and motions to her guards, who hop up the stairs with urgency. “These are our guests. Prepare a room for them.”

“Not two, Chief?” asks one of the men.

Impa laughs. “Look at them, Dorian. Does it look like they want to sleep separately?”

Heat rashes through Link like the white-hot laser of a guardian’s beam. He’s hardly shy, but for Impa to know his game in such a short amount of time is an embarrassment from which he will never recover. Ghirahim is speaking—no doubt saying something clever and biting in that way he does—but Link doesn’t catch it over the roaring in his ears. Impa stares, unimpressed. And while Dorian leads them to a small guest house on the other side of Kakariko Village, a thought creeps into Link’s mind, unwanted, unwelcomed.

Did Zelda know, too?