Legend Of Zelda Fan Fiction ❯ Who By Fire ❯ Trust ( Chapter 5 )

"Without trust, there is nothing." - Unknown.

Fledge breathes in a deep lungful of fresh air, resting at the base of a tree beneath The Statue of Hylia, gazing with no particular intent at the sky.

Link has been gone for days, since Groose followed him to The Surface. As one of the few friends Fledge has at the Knight Academy, Link's company is missed more by Fledge than any other; a close second, he thinks, would be Pipit.

"You look awfully sad, sitting there by yourself."

Fledge yelps, looking frantically for the voice who has interrupted his thoughts, finding Pipit himself grinning down before him. Fledge sighs, a hand on his chest. He returns the grin uneasily.

"Well, sometimes I think best by myself. This is my favorite spot, and now that Groose is gone, I can stay here as long as I want."

Pipit chuckles, coming to rest beside him, legs splayed, arms folded across his yellow tunic. He raises one dark brow, that cordial smile forming dimples on his freckled cheeks.

"Thinking about Link, then?"

Color flushes Fledge's pointed ears. "You caught me. I'm not surprised, I'm awfully easy to read," he sighs, looking to the sky again, "I wonder how he's doing, mostly. We haven't heard from him in a while."

Pipit claps a hand to Fledge's shoulder, the weight of it reassuring and real, warmth spilling from it. Pipit points to the statue before them, all the way up to the gentle, smiling face, haloed by the blue-green sky.

"Have some faith in him, Fledge. With The Goddess keeping guard, I'm certain Link will pull through fine. He'll bring Zelda back, and everything will be back to normal. He's our friend – we have to trust him in this."

Fledge nods, smiling broadly.

"You're right. As long as we trust in him, Link will pull through. Thank you, Pipit."

If he were any other man, Link knows he would have given up by now.

But Link is not any other man – because he knows this, quitting is not an option.

Sweat wets the entire front of his tunic, cleaving it to his skin, everything in himself burning up, using whatever force it can to keep running, no matter the effort. The Imprisoned charges ahead of him, wriggling on its great belly, much like a snake would. At last, it drags itself up again, the spike on its head twisting to its original position.

His blade is out and flashing before he thinks it, flying down to strike the last jiggling toe on the beast's foot, the cry it makes slamming into Link's eardrums.

With a tremendous crash, The Imprisoned falls onto its back, and Link loses no precious time to sprint full-throttle to its head, bashing the seal once, twice, three times -

Link screams as the seal sinks in as far as it will go, and he staggers back when The Imprisoned thrashes upward. Link watches as its entire body flashes silver, blinking black again, only to flash once more – then to explode into numberless fragments, before being sucked back into the seal. It floats back to the center of the pit, and Link leaps down to join it.

With sweat dripping into his eyes, lungs aching, he inscribes the runes into the air with his blade, and with a final grunt, thrusts the spike back into its rightful place.

Groose joins Link moments after, jaw agape, speechless.

Link grins at him from over one shoulder, attention drawn to the old woman as she hobbles over to them.

"Though The Imprisoned had only begun to awaken, I'm impressed that you have so successfully resealed it. Unfortunately, brave boy, you have only bought us a little more time with which to act. Join me at the Temple, and I will explain to you the questions you surely have."

Still weary, Link nods, sheathing the blade and following her back up the pit, with Groose trailing behind them.

The irony of the number three is not lost to Link.

The mysterious Gods of Old must have had a certain affinity to it, because the number three follows him where ever he goes: Three triangles, three flames, three trials. Link can't seem to escape it, but that's what fate is, isn't it? The inability of escape. Imprisonment.

Imprisonment he feels all too well.

Link shakes the thoughts away, leaning down to run his hands across the ruff of his loftwing, the feel soft crimson feathers soothing him. He flies as quickly as he can toward Skyloft, wind drying the sweat on his clothing, bangs whipping away from his forehead.

Leaning down, he takes in one final breath before flinging himself from the loftwing's back, gliding down toward Skyloft, unleashing the sailcloth moments before landing. Link's feet touch down on familiar grass, the air light and perfect here, everything familiar, just as he left it.

He stands outside the academy, taking a moment to appreciate his surroundings, Link enters, closing the heavy doors behind him.

The hall is empty. Not even the bubble of cooking food from the kitchen sounds, yet nothing else is amiss. Still trapped in the mindset of caution, Link slowly ascends the staircase to the second floor, hand leaping to his sword when -

"Link! Welcome back!"

Fledge hurtles forward, grabbing Link's hand to shake it violently, grinning so wide it rounds his cheeks.

Link stands, bewildered, taking a moment to absorb this, the hand clutching his sword lowering slowly down onto Fledge's own. He returns the boy's smile, eyes alight from within.

"Fledge! Thank you, I didn't expect – where is everyone? Are you alone?"

"No."

Fledge drops his hand as they both turn to Pipit, striding easily to join them, each row of teeth revealed in a wide smile.

"I'm glad to see you back, Link. Fledge and I were just talking about you earlier today. You should return here more often, you know! People worry. It's not becoming of a Knight to make people worry."

Link brushes his fingers against the back of his head, an old habit unable to leave, not even after all he's seen. His laughter is soft, but it's there, it's there. It feels eons since he's done it, this simple act of smiling and laughing, appreciated now more than ever before.

Pipit rests both hands on each boy's shoulder, shaking them with rough, boyish affection. He jerks his head toward the first floor.

"Hey, let's go have something to eat, the grannie made some really good soup today, there should be some left. While we do, you can tell us all about your adventures, Link. I'm sure they would make fine stories."

The three of them walk together, side by side, laughter mingling.

Two figures kneel before her, blurred like wet paint, soft sfumato edges and featureless faces.

When Zelda hears herself speak, the voice is and is not her own.

"You are my creations. Your duties are to aid me in guarding the Triforce, to smite whatever evil makes to steal it, and watch over the mortals created by The Three. You are holy entities. I grant you your existence, and for this I expect your loyalty. You-"

Zelda tosses upon her bed, the sheets pulling around her legs. This dream-memory is familiar and it is not, this person that is her and isn't her mixing up. She whimpers, curling up, hands tearing into her hair -

"I have given you flesh; I have given you the ability to touch, taste, feel and relish in all the things that mortals do, but you are not truly humans, my children. You are weapons. You have been created to balance one another." Zelda raises her hand that is not really hers, pointing to the woman kneeling before her feet, blue like a summer day.

"You are Fi. You are to guard the Triforce of Wisdom, for you are a woman, and can see far beyond that of a man. You are the spirit of the Goddess Blade, and when I ask it, you will guide my chosen Hero to vanquish evil."

Fi nods. "Yes, Your Grace."

Her attention then rests on the other figure -

The memory stirs, blotting, and Zelda groans in her sleep -

"...You are to guard the Triforce of Power, for you are man, and have the ambition to take what woman cannot. You are the opposite of Fi – you are a weapon of destruction. You are to be the balance between she and I, as Nature demands."

The unnamed image nods. "Yes, Your Grace."

Zelda awakens, throwing herself upright, sweat gathering all over her skin, the hair on her arms and legs standing on end. The coldness of night seeps into her, cooling her feverish cheeks. Chest heaving, Zelda looks out her window, to the moon gleaming serenely in a dark, starless sky.

Dressed only in her blue gown, she shivers in her bed, afraid of falling back into that unfamiliar abyss, that half-world of dream and memories not her own.

They stand across from one another, moonlight burning through the stained glass windows.

Her image is broken into kaleidoscope-patterns, red and gold and blue; Fi stands before him, and he knows this is the last he'll see her this way, so Ghirahim takes in everything he can. She has yet to be committed into the sacred sword, and bears a human appearance like himself.

Her hair and skin is the pale blue of the summer sky. She wears her usual dress and cape, the mantle ends brushing the stone floor. He can see the barest hint of skin where her stockings end, laced with green and blue.

He knows that, once she is committed to the Master Sword, this flesh of hers will vanish (those lovely lips and soft blue eyes) and she will be as unfeeling as ice; what use will emotion serve a weapon? Nothing and no one.

They stand across from one another in the moonlight, and, wordlessly, Ghrahim turns to leave.

Then, those lovely lips part to speak, voice ringing through the Temple of the Goddess.

"Do you fear for your soul, Ghirahim?"

His hand, raised toward the door, pauses in ascent. The moonlight fizzles in through the windows, and, when he turns toward her, his face is lit by an entirely different light. She watches as his lips, sharply carved and paler than the moon, part to reveal a sickle-toothed smile, and the evil within it finds its way through her.

Fi shudders.

He tosses his head, tipping his chin up in a royal fashion. Fi can swear she can see darkness mottling beneath his skin. He laughs at her.

"Neither of us have souls to be fearful for. Aren't you angry at her for that, Fi? That our Goddess could only grant us a form – and not the fire within one? We are a mockery of her, girl. We are tools." He flings the last word from his lips and sneers.

Fi regards him cautiously. "There is no shame in aiding Her Grace. We were both made for a purpose greater than ourselves. You should be thankful she gave you life."

Ghirahim throws his arms out and turns, head raised toward the heavens. His laughter crashes against the temple walls in strange, shrieking tangents.

"She gave us life so she could use us. We serve no other purpose than to aid her in guarding the Triforce, a relic we cannot even take for our own! She doesn't care for us, Fi, don't mistake her guardianship for kindness!"

He approaches her as if to embrace her; Fi raises her arm, one finger pointed straight at him, the ends of her cape falling from her shoulders to brush the stone floor. Moonlight sizzles through her eyes. Power glints from her like sunlight on the killing-edge of a blade.

"Enough of this. You will return with me and speak no more of these things. Our feelings are irrelevant; your fate is to guard the Triforce of Power. Mine is to guard the Triforce of Wisdom. I will hear no more of this blasphemy."

He takes her hand, smile cutting right through her. There is coldness in everything he does; his rage is the violent tundra wind. He eases her closer, holding her hand in both his own, squeezing painfully.

"You could always join me, Fi. Demise has promised me more than our Goddess could ever hope to bring us."

He moves as if to kiss her palm, but he presses it against his cheek instead, just to feel her shudder. Fi wrenches away, leaping backwards with more fluidity than water. They stand apart once more.

"Your attempts to sway me are in vain. My loyalty to Her Grace is insurmountable. She has given me – us – all that can be given. Your greed has shrouded your ability to see it."

There is silence.

He glares. There is something like sadness in his face, but Fi knows it can't be so, because he was never meant to feel such things – they are the antithesis of one another, two shadows thrown on different walls; they are each the opposite scale, neither outweighing the other.

Balance.

Fi continues. "Demise has deceived you. The only usefulness he sees in you is to accomplish his own goals. He has no interest in your wants. You will be more of a tool to him than Hylia could ever make of you. He will cast you aside the moment your use has ceased."

Ghirahim shakes his head, groaning wildly, breaking off into half-mad chuckles or yells. His voice shakes the very windows.

"That's where you're wrong! He and I share the same goals: to conquer! To change this world into something more than it is! Why don't you see it, Fi? This world was doomed from the very start!"

He's before her once more, clasping her shoulders and jerking her helplessly back and forth, the madness seeming to clot beneath his skin; she can smell it, now, stronger than ever, the chemical stink of darkness, and he is lathed in it. His voice is so loud it crashes into her skull.

"What's the use of guarding," - Fi gasps in pain - "when we could take? Why should you and I subject ourselves to slavery," - his hands find her neck and squeeze - "when we could be free?"

Fi grasps his arms, skin sizzling where it meets his own. Her jaw works wordlessly in an effort to speak, panic blooming hot and awful in her chest, a prelude to an attack, or death, she's too overwhelmed to tell – and when he leans in to snicker in her ear, the panic bursts into a golden light, burning out of her. Ghirahim is flung away from her to land painfully on the floor, screaming in agony.

Fi pants, her own magic wafting off her in thin blue streams. Ghirahim lies, panting but otherwise motionless, beneath the rays moonlight shining through the stained glass window above him. Fi raises her eyes toward that light, onto the smiling image of Hylia herself, carved into the glass.

Ghirahim stumbles upright, groaning and clutching his head. His hands fall to his sides, balling tight, the muscles of his shoulders and neck cording with the strain.

"I'll be stronger than ever," he says with finality. He raises his head to glare at the image of Hylia above him, entire face pulled into a look of such rage and determination, Fi is certain it would light the world on fire if he gazed upon it.

That gaze drifts slowly toward her; Fi quivers before him as if preforming falsified worship, to this being no longer of the heavens like herself.

His voice borrows the darkness around them. "When your Goddess sentences you to that blade, and a life of servitude under her, I hope you think of me and the offer you so foolishly denied. I officially renounce my title as Sentinel of the Triforce of Power. Demise will make me a Lord," he laughs, "I will be a Lord of Demons, Fi, and you will be the slave to a doomed world. I will be free."

They stay apart a moment more, before his disappears into the darkness, yet his voice remains inside her long after.

Fi looks to the image of Hylia; in one hand she holds a blade, and in the other, a red apple.

Fi falls to her knees, awestruck. "You knew all along, " she whispers tightly. "You knew, Your Grace. You knew."