Legend Of Zelda Fan Fiction ❯ Who By Fire ❯ Chimera ( Chapter 6 )

"We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell." – Oscar Wilde

He remembers warm days bathing in the springs, the scent of cut grass strong in the air -

Link breathes in, eyes blown open like windows in a thunderstorm, which so often shook the clouds below Skyloft -

He shakes his head, sweat running down his cheeks to dribble along his jaw, clinging precariously, before falling to the collar of his already damp tunic. Link has no time even to wipe his face, crouched low and terrified at the base of a tree in this spirit-world that isn't a world at all, not alike any he's ever known.

Time measures his fate, a brewing storm awaiting to be awakened, much like the Guardians of this realm.

He has thirty-five seconds to find the last tear before those same Guardians are revived again.

Link understands where Fi's magic originates, where that unearthly light she radiates makes its home. The Guardians and even the plants in this Silent Realm glow with that same magic. How different she is to the ones guarding this realm and the treasure within it.

With quivering legs, Link rises and bolts straight ahead, catapulting himself over a fallen log, lunging past trees and over rocks, faster than he's ever run in his life. A single green tear gleams before him, just up a hill -

Link trips, flying to the ground on his belly, smashing both hands and elbows to the earth. His jaw cracks on a rock, rendering him numb and sightless with pain, rolling to his back with a groan of anguish.

The sky above him pulses the brightest amber he's ever seen, alight from within, invisible bells clanging in the very air, counting down the time, time he doesn't have -

There is pain in every movement, but Link heaves himself up anyway, stumbling without grace up the hill, crawling on hands and knees, eyes only for the teardrop ahead. He's whimpering the names of everyone he knows, (very un-heroic behavior, some part of him sneers) though they're literally worlds away, unable to hear.

Three -

Two -

One -

He screams when the last toll bangs through the air, and all around him the Guardians awake from their slumber, clutching strange blades and cleavers larger than Link himself – every one of them made only to smite him.

Blood from his hands and mouth stains the grass Link crawls upon, but the tear is within his grasp -

He cannot see them, but he knows they're near, soundless footfalls all around, their clean-cut bodies afire with lucent light, a light that burns inside his nostrils -

Behind him, a Guardian raises its arm high, the blade it wields aglow for a strike -

Link's fingertips graze the teardrop, so softly as to barely make contact, and the realm goes silent once more, the Guardians back in their resting places.

Link smiles a bloody smile, clutching the last tear in both hands, warm with sacred power. It explodes into shimmering fragments before vanishing into his chest. There is no time for rest, and, wiping his brow, Link makes his way toward the circle of light far below, eager to return to his own realm.

There is nothing more she wants than to know.

Had she a kingdom to surrender, Zelda would give it to have only knowledge, an answer to the questions which keep her awake at night, not from terror, but from the unknown.

Questions steal her footsteps, plaguing the thoughts not on escape. Why's and how's and when's. They sneak into her ears as an insect might, until their buzzing is all she can hear.

Zelda wanders through the hallways, the still whiteness of the walls rendering her mute. She despises the feeling of uselessness above all, nestled closely to loneliness. She is not a prisoner in these walls of stone and silence, but one of her own mind, because where can you hide from your own thoughts?

She has no answers.

There is no one in this entire palace of mute white walls, no sound other than herself, but the solitude is a blessing in its own deviant way; with only herself to hear, Zelda can say whatever she wishes.

She stops, turning toward a window larger than herself, which lets in the saturnine-gray sunlight, typical of the sky after a storm.

"I want answers."

Zelda blinks at the sky above her. One hand comes to rest against her own throat, fingers spread against her collarbones, sharper now from fatigue. She hates that feeling, too, of weakness, the kind that can sink souls.

She draws in a breath. "I want to know why he keeps me here," her voice gains volume, "I want to know what those dreams mean," her whole body shakes, "I want to know! By any Goddess above or below, I only ask for answers!"

Zelda screams, a paroxysm of noise, smashing her fists into the enchanted glass, battering it with her palms and fingers and elbows, because screaming is the only thing she can do in this empty castle. She screams until everything aches.

She sinks to the floor, lower and lower, until she presses her cheek against its cold surface, sobbing silently, hands in her hair. She weeps not for herself, or her own circumstances, because she knows tears for oneself do nothing, so she cries for everything else, for the kingdom she cannot give.

"I want to know, Fi."

Link lounges, back against the wall of a ruin, legs out and crossed at the ankles. He's shed his equipment, which lies by his side. It is well past sunset, yet sleep evades him once more tonight.

He rests someplace in the woods, near enough to a waterfall that he can hear its quiet hiss through the gaps in trees, their sides covered in a mossy coat. Not even moonlight finds its way through the foliage above his head.

A potion has mended his injuries, and the Water Dragon's scale dangles from a string around his neck, flashing in the firelight. The scale is his only trophy from Farore's Trial.

Fi suspends herself before him, the firelight behind her like a blazing set of wings, glinting off the polished surface of her serene face.

"I will divulge whatever information you request, Master, if I should possess the answer."

Link bites the inside of his cheek, averting his gaze to the sword she was birthed from.

"I want to know more about the Old Gods, the ones who made the Triforce."

She tilts her head in such a way that, had she flesh, Link knows she would be grinning. He doesn't know what sort of grin, but he imagines it would be soft, with the prettiness of gems.

"You will have to be more specific, Master Link. I know a great deal about The Three."

Link huffs, lips flapping from exasperation. He fumbles, for a moment, unused to voicing his specific thoughts.

"That is, Fi, I want to know why they created the Triforce. I want to know why that, since they knew it held such great power, they trusted it in the hands of mortals. I want to know why they would be so cruel."

He blushes, shamefully, the blasphemy of his own words growing cold against his lips.

Fi nods, a graceful sweep, unperturbed.

"I do not believe they did it as an act of cruelty, Master. Being Goddesses, they have no concept of right or wrong, none that we, as mortals, are able to understand. However, I cannot calculate the percentage of this statement. I can provide an estimate, if you wish."

Link shakes his head.

"Very well. The Goddess has provided me with an innumerable database of information on The Three, should you have another inquiry, Master."

Link nods toward the sword by his side. "You said that the Goddess created you to aid me, and that you're the spirit of the sword. Did she create any other weapons, besides you? Were you made alone?"

Fi is silent. There is no movement of her, not even the weightless ebb and flow of her azure sleeves.

She is silent for the longest time Link has ever known her to be.

"Fi?"

He reaches a hand out toward her, as if to place it on the wing of her arm, instinctively – Link lowers it moments later.

"I lack sufficient information to answer that specific inquiry. My most sincere apologies, Master Link. Is that all you need of me?"

His shoulders slump. "Yes, that's all. Thank you, Fi."

For the hundredth-millionth time he's seen her do it, Fi vanishes into the sword with the grace of anything he's ever seen.

Link watches the fire, swallowing the cinders he's fed it, wishing it could talk, wondering if anything in this world will provide the answers he seeks.

The Goddess Din, patron of desire, strength and war, who wrought the earth with fire, favors those of ambition.

The Goddess Nayru, patron of thought, pride and water, who sown the seeds of law with magic, favors those of foresight.

The Goddess Farore, patron of spirit, bravery and nobility, who planted the teeth of dragons to cultivate life, favors those of conviction.

The Goddess Hylia, patron of time, death and birth, who guarded the Golden Power, favors those of mercy.

Zelda's lips still. In her lap rests an open book, a collection of scribbling glyphs, given to her by her father. It was the same day she was gifted a Loftwing, its blue feathers matching her eyes, the same day she joined the academy.

Although those days are dead, now, Zelda remembers them fondly.

(And sometimes wishes she can't).

She hates this, this sitting before windows and reading, waiting for something to happen, because she's never been good at waiting or making wishes. She is her father's daughter, she is a knight, and she is the creation of a Goddess herself. She is not one for weeping or rainfall.

She is unsure on whom to lay her hatred: Ghirahim, for capturing her, or herself, for making herself his prisoner.

She knows the only one to blame for this is herself, but knows that, if she could only wait a while longer (for the dust to gather on her book, perhaps) she will take any chance presented to her.

Her book falls to the floor when she jumps, the suddenness of noise filling the palace.

She turns in the chair to gaze at Ghirahim, lazing against the window behind her. He rests on the sill of it, one leg tucked under him, the other braced against the floor. He sits there as if the window is his very own throne.

This is his kingdom, and he is its Lord, though he has no subjects to rule.

He tips his head like a curious child, though there is nothing childish about him. With the sunlight behind him, the clouds are pseudo-wings, spread out, gray-blue and roiling.

"I hope all that tiresome reading has given you an appetite today. I'll give you all the books in the universe if it means you actually eat," he shudders, "though I will if need be, I have no desire to force-feed you as I've threatened in the past."

He looks at her for a moment, tapping his foot. She only lowers her brows.

Ghirahim actually giggles, clapping both hands together. "That was a joke, you stupid girl. It's getting terribly boring, watching you sulk like some whipped animal. The least you could do is entertain your Lord and ruler."

Zelda purses her lips, thumbs pressing hard into her palms where she fists her hands. "I am not your subject, and you are not my ruler."

He gives her an incredulous look, laughing oddly through his nose. "Think what you want, I suppose. It does not change your circumstances."

Then, unintentionally: "Why do you keep me here?"

He makes a noise closer to a sigh than a laugh. "I keep you here because I can."

She gives him an incredulous look, this time. "I'm not afraid of you."

He shrugs, dark eyes widening as he smiles cruelly. He holds up one finger, pointing it straight at the ceiling. "That's rather fortuitous. I never wanted you to fear me, though do not misunderstand me, I do enjoy invoking terror - you should focus your fear on other people, I think."

Zelda gazes upon the book, fallen in such a way that it lies wide open, on the lullaby she had been reading moments prior. Lullabies have no place here. She stares at it with all the focus she can summon.

"The only thing I fear in this world is what should happen if I let you win, Ghirahim." She looks to him, accidentally.

He turns supplicate suddenly, the sweetness of burnt sugar. "I promise you, Zelda," her name is strange when he says it, "that I have no intention of ever harming you. You are far too useful to me for that. As much as I may want to, as I'm sure you have the loveliest of screams - you are in no danger so long as you stay with me."

There is a shudder deep within her, between the emptiness of her belly and chest. "You do want me for something, then. Why don't you just take it? Why keep me here if you need it so badly? You know Link is looking for me. You don't strike me as a stupid man, Ghirahim."

He tosses his head, hair flying. "You're very simple, you know. Of course I'm not going to tell you those things. It would simply ruin all of my plans."

He rises to walk nearer, sighing. "This talk bores me. Come, now, you should eat – and I mean it this time – before the hour grows any later."

Ghirahim takes her arm, snapping the fingers of his free hand, and once again, Zelda finds herself at the massive table laid out with another dizzying feast, Ghirahim taking the seat across her.

He sweeps one arm across the table in what she assumes is a welcoming gesture. Then, he plucks a single apple from a platter full of them, tossing it to her. Zelda captures it with ease, its skin free of any bruise or blemish, as if he had picked it fresh only moments ago.

Ghirahim smiles mysteriously. "Does that seem familiar to you?"

Zelda turns the apple in her hands. Her reflection upon its glossy surface is warped. "It's an apple. I don't understand what you mean by that."

The demon clicks his tongue, shaking his head mournfully. "I thought you might say that. Enough of this, eat."

She stares at the apple a few seconds more, blue eyes moving to look at him, trained there, before raising the apple to her lips, biting softly into its flesh with a crisp, watery crunch. She swallows cautiously.

Ghirahim explodes into laughter, so abruptly a few plates crash to the floor. He laughs so loud and hard Zelda is certain he will suffocate if it continues.

"What? You think I poisoned that apple? You think that it would put you in some eternal slumber with a single bite? You humans," he knocks a great platter of fruit to the floor. "This is no fairytale, nor a fairy tail," he chuckles, the fruit rolling at his feet now bruised.

These outbursts of his no longer daunt her. Zelda stares at him from across the plates of food, the setting sun burning everything orange-red. She takes another bite of the apple, ignoring the too-sweet taste, nibbling it all the way down to its naked core.

She finishes three plates of delicacies that have lost their taste, doing so only because he's demanded it of her – because she knows he is not one to keep promises.

His smile is nearly sincere, just a little. "Oh? No begging you to shove something down your gullet this time? Impressive."

In her lap, Zelda clutches her book, pressing her fingernails so hard into its cover they split. She says nothing.

He scoffs, throwing both legs over the arm of his chair, one end of his cape falling across its back.

While he looks away, a single knife, resting precariously on the edge of her plate, catches the evening light.

There rests her chance.

Slowly, as steadily as she can, Zelda trails her fingertips up to its handle, easing it with a shaking grip down into her lap and between the pages of her book. Ghirahim looks back to her mere seconds after the blade is safe in her hands. She hopes he can't see the sweat glittering on her forehead.

He smiles sweetly. With a sweeping leap, he rises from the chair to flash-vanish to her side. He looms over her, significantly taller even when she stands, and Zelda gazes up at him, for the first time, with terror.

He leans in close, easing one of her slim hands away from her lap, grasping her wrist deftly in his own, before raising the upturned flesh of her hand to his lips.

Zelda stills a gasp of disgust between her tightly clenched jaw. She can't breathe. She can't think. She stares at him with the terror of a captured animal.

He mumbles softly against her skin, fangs leering against the fine bones of her hands, a dark omen.

This is no fairytale, child.

"Until tomorrow, then, my little nightingale."

He finds her sleeping in the antechamber of his castle, hours after.

Zelda lies on her side, one arm pillowing her head. Her golden hair falls over the edge of the settee, pale white gown tangled about her legs. Starlight shines through the window, making her gown almost, but not quite, transparent to his gaze. Beneath the cloth he can see the paleness of her flesh, the softness of her thighs, sinful teases.

How easy it would be, to slip his fingers around her neck, very softly so as not to wake her, and choke the air from her lungs.

She says something in her sleep, muffled words. Ghirahim feels them drip, drip, dripfrom her lips and onto his skin. It burns like no flame he's ever felt, and it turns his insides white-hot, an emotion without name. His hands fist at his sides, curling into the red cloak draped around his shoulders. His white lips quiver with unspoken rage.

But this time of year is cold, and it wouldn't do for her to become sick, not when her sacrifice is of such importance. Ghirahim knows she's of more use to him full of health than bedraggled with sickness. How weak, how humanto be brought down by something like illness.

When he kneels to take her into his arms, Zelda remains asleep, her head against his shoulder, hair tangled in his hands. The softness of her fills him with revulsion; the way she feels, the way she breathes, the shadows her lashes make upon her cheek.

Ghirahim reminds himself that she'll be gone soon, she and all of her kind, and he can watch this soft body of hers wither away into the clouds.

"As it should be," he mutters, scowling, though her eyes are closed, unable to see him and this hate of his unfold.

He takes her to her bedroom, wanting to laugh at the irony; men carry women to their beds to make love to them, an act he is incapable of, so he'll make love to her in a different way, the best way he can.

Ghirahim lays her down against the sheets, dipping his head very near to her face, his wintry hair tickling her cheek. One of his gloved hands comes to rest very delicately against her throat. Her pulse beats beneath his fingertips.

"Dream while you can, skychild," he whispers into her ear. "Dream whatever dreams you wish, however pleasant you make them to be. Dream well. They are all you have in the entire cosmos."

He stays that way a moment more, before disappearing altogether.

Zelda dreams.

AN: Revised this somewhat, a few sentences were bugging me. Thanks again for all the kind reviews, I really do enjoy getting them :)