Legend Of Zelda Fan Fiction ❯ Who By Fire ❯ Omen ( Chapter 8 )

"As for omens, there is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that." – Oscar Wilde

She sits, still and quiet as she has ever been.

Groose has been outside for hours, still moping, she presumes. The old woman stills a sigh of annoyance, gazing hard at the stone doors before her. She shifts only to pop her knuckles and knees.

Still, she only has so much patience, and sighing, she hefts herself up, walking slowly toward the doors, then finally outside. Midday sunlight burns her weary eyes, yet the grass and trees are green, alive with birds.

Groose sobs pitifully nearby.

The old woman lets go a shaky laugh. "Boy, what do you wish to accomplish standing out here and mourning for yourself? Come now, it does not suit you."

Groose sniffles boorishly. "Go away."

She shakes her head, shuffling nearer to lay one hand against his meaty arm. "I cannot do that. Thinking of you out here pitying yourself like a know-nothing child troubles me. Sit with me, Groose."

He looks down to her, so bent with age she hardly reaches his waist. Sighing, Groose nods, wiping his nose on his sleeve. He follows her to the pit's edge, sitting down beside her in the grass. Groose looks away from her, tearing grass away from the earth, dropping its twisted remains into a pile beside his knee.

She pats his arm, chuckling, rough but no less musical. Groose bites his cheek, turning toward her, one hand smoothing his hair. She cranes her neck to look at him from under her hood.

"What is it you called that again? Your pompadour?"

Groose grins, nodding proudly. "Yup! And there's been no finer pompadour in history, Grannie. Girls are crazy for it me in Skyloft!"

The old woman snorts, rocking back slightly. "I'm sure. How did you come up with it, Groose?"

He flushes a florid shade of red. "Well! I just thought it would look nice, you know? No one else on Skyloft had tried it before – so I thought 'why not?' I even make the gel myself!"

She nods, one finger pointed to it. "It must have taken some creativity and ingenuity to come up with it."

Groose rubs his neck, shrugs. "I suppose. A lot of good that 'creativity' and 'ingenuity' or whatever you call it is doing me now, though."

A smile curls her thin, wrinkled lips. She slaps Groose lightly on his knee. "Ah, not that again. You cannot expect to be of use to anyone moping around and making wishes."

He leans forward to rest his chin in one palm, fingers curled up against his lips.

"Yeah, but what can I do? You said it yourself, Stink – I mean, uh, Link is the big hero and everything. All I did was stand around like an idiot while he fought that thing."

He gestures down to where The Imprisoned lies, sealed away.

The old woman shifts to pop her knuckles, Groose wincing as she does. She lays one hand against his own, her skin dry, fingers curled softly around his palm.

"Think of it this way: You can stand around like an idiot when it awakes again, or you can be useful and help. You want to bring Zelda back, do you not? Sulking will not help her. You have to use your skills to do that."

Groose lowers his brow, raising his head. "I do want to help Zelda. I was never like this before. Link might have that fancy talking sword, but I have myself! Ain't that good enough? I think it is!"

His amber eyes stray to the metal gate surrounding the pit's cusp, before brightening with a smile. "That's it!"

Groose laughs, hurtling to his feet, smoothing his hair back. "I think I know what I can do now, Grannie! I guess I do have creativity and ingenuity like you said."

The old woman smiles up at him. Groose offers one hand, helping her to stand, grinning down at her.

"Thanks, Grannie. I won't do anybody good feeling sorry for myself. I'm going to make that thing stay down next time. I'm going to do my part and help Zelda. Link shouldn't take all the credit!"

She makes an approving sound. "I'm glad, Groose. You can thank me by helping me back inside."

Groose chuckles. "No problem, Grannie."

Far away, she can see a pure white lamb, drinking from a deep black pond. A tree hangs over it, rich with foliage. Above it, night sky is bereft of stars.

Zelda calls to it. The lamb continues to drink, and where its mouth meets the water the blackness ripples out. Coming closer, Zelda finds that her pale white dress has been replaced, by one of sheer fabric as black as the pond from which the lamb drinks. But all she can think of is the lamb itself, and feels that it should not be drinking from water so dark and foreboding -

Zelda groans in her sleep, head buried beneath her blanket, her dream growing more vivid.

Grass stains her bare feet as she runs, dress and hair surging behind her.

The lamb remains as it is, looking up only as Zelda wraps her arms around it, its coat impossibly soft, and takes it away from the water. She pants heavily, pressing a kiss to its forehead, running one hand down its back –

She kicks the blankets off and away, curled tightly into herself.

Zelda turns it in her arms, smiling as it cries out, quietly, looking to her with glossy eyes. She can feel its heartbeat faintly against her fingers, its breath soft against her cheek. Though the sky is dark, she can clearly see the lamb in her arms, its coat many shades paler than her own skin.

The lamb's breathing grows shallow. Zelda frowns, holding its face, petting it gently, and the little lamb lays its head against her breast. She calls to it, blue eyes wide with fright, running her hands up and down its flank.

The lamb is still, dead in her arms.

Zelda's eyes flash open, lying with arms and legs spread, hands wringing into the sheets. The dream peels away any remaining dregs of sleep from her, the lamb's dying image still bright in memory. She breathes in long and shivering gasps, a few strands of hair sticking close to her lips.

She rises, the blanket falling away from her to fall across the floor. Biting her fingernails, Zelda ventures out of her bedroom, into the corridor, to stand before a great bay window. The heavens are dark, with strange shots of purple and gray winding through the clouds. Though she looks as far as she can, not a single ray of moonlight shimmers within.

A coldness makes its home in her, crawling into her belly, its spindly arms reaching deep within. Zelda presses one hand into the glass, her breath leaving warm imprints upon its surface.

The dream means nothing, she tries to reason.

But -

"It's nothing," she hisses, hand curling into a fist atop the glass. Her knuckles press hard against it, until her fingers ache from the pressure.

Zelda drags her hand down, hard enough that her skin makes shrill, halting squeaks against the glass.

But -

She sets her jaw, the fine muscles in her neck tensing, collarbones curved viciously out. Curiously, Zelda curls her lips away from her teeth, half expecting them to be pointed like his, yet finding them to be the same as ever.

She wonders if its possible to become a demon simply by being in the presence of one, or if he can, somehow, bleed his darkness into her in the form of nightmares.

"But," Zelda sighs, "it was just a dream."

She nods in affirmation, as if doing so will assure her doubts.

Zelda turns away from the window, her shadow branching across the wall before her, its edges barely visible against the nightshade, and it follows her down the hall as she re-enters her bedroom.

Sitting at the edge of her bed, she retrieves her book from between the mattress, turning to a random page. It is blotted with age, and she is only able to read the first few sentences.

Breathing in, she reads.

The Goddess Hylia created a holy blade to aid her Hero on his quest, and only he is able to wield the blade -

The lamb's dying face appears in her head, and Zelda gasps, so startled the book crashes to the floor. She presses both hands against her forehead, bending over. With time, the image fades again, and Zelda stares fiercely at the book. It has fallen on its front, spine sticking up, a few pages crumpled beneath it.

Gingerly, Zelda picks it up, doing her best to smooth its wrinkled pages. Sighing, she closes it, placing it between the mattress.

The knife, which has fallen to the floor, gleams by her toes. Zelda picks it up, gazing at it intently.

When? Where? How?

She bites the inside of her cheek. She knows her chances are slim – so small, it may as well not exist – that she will be able to injure him enough to escape, somehow. There has to be an exit. There has to be a way out. She holds onto this hope, because hope is the only real thing in this castle, this place that is and is not, all at once.

"...this is no fairytale, child."

Zelda grits her teeth in determination.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

The cold air bites down her throat as she inhales, deeply, eyes closed. She stares at the blade a moment more, before slipping it beneath the mattress.

She falls back against her bed, golden hair fanning out, eyes open and staring at the hanging veils above her.

It was just a dream, she reasons, before closing her eyes once more.

There are endless calculations, numbers and facts and figures, streaming steadily through her.

Fi's world is a place full of light, empty spaces without corners nor walls. She floats, knees pulled to her chest, her billowing sleeves fluttering without a wind to move them. She can sense the world outside, and calculates that her Master has almost finished the Ancient Cistern's puzzles and traps.

He has not called her forth for some time.

There is an 86% chance that Master Link will encounter Ghirahim again.

Fi lifts her head, gazing with sightless eyes toward the sky of this place. There is something else amongst the calculations streaming into her consciousness, somewhere between the estimations and data. Fi concentrates on it, this thing without name, shorn at the edges of her memories.

It vanishes completely.

She lowers her head once again, goes back to calculating -

There is a 50% chance that Ghirahim will challenge Master Link to a fight.

"...And is that not what you want, Fi? To realize your true talents?"

Fi uncurls swiftly, searching for the voice which has disrupted her thoughts; she is alone. She searches the data in her mind, tomes and tomes of information, but no such question has ever been asked of her. Yet there is no mistaking it, her data is not incorrect: that voice was not imagined.

There is an odd sensation trickling up her jewel-slick skin, something which humans call déjà vu. It is not exact, as Fi is certain she is unable to experience such a feeling, being not-human, a thing made from magic –

"…Talent is irrelevant. Feelings are irrelevant. We are incapable of feeling."

She curls up again, pushing the unwelcome incursion of these words that are not hers away, back into the recesses of her calculations.

Link throws his head back, downing the last of his healing potion.

Wiping his mouth, he puts the bottle back into his pouch, inhaling deeply through his nose. He stands in the final chamber of the Ancient Cistern, having fought his way through its watery tunnels and hellish caverns.

Before him beckons a stairwell, to which surely leads another monster, another hellion of magic or malice, which he will have to vanquish, like so many before it.

Raising one hand to the hilt of his sword, Link feels Fi's aura warm his fingertips, and she floods him with invigoration.

Gritting his teeth, Link ventures up the staircase, each step leading him closer and deeper to the darkness, until at last he emerges into a room.

Taking his hand away from his sword was a stupid move, Link thinks in hindsight.

He misses a kick to his head by barely a second, so close he can feel the force of it rip through his hair.

Link hurls himself to the side, shoulder slamming painfully into a wall, stumbling back from another kick aimed at his gut. Twisting, Link backflips away, knowing at once who has made him their target; there is no mistaking the burn of that magic against his skin.

His sword is out and shining, though Link does not remember unsheathing it, and parries the swinging black blade, sparks erupting from where the metal meets.

Laughter fulls the dim chamber.

"Still a novice, I'm afraid! That sword of yours may be different, but your skill in wielding her is still rough, at best!"

Link glares as Ghirahim comes into being, a flurry of white and red diamonds, a substantial length away from him.

The Demon Lord makes a tsking sound with his tongue. "If only I were her Master, I could bring about her true capacity. In your hands, she is no more than a plaything."

Link bares his teeth. "She would never allow you to wield her."

(He wants to run, run anywhere, because like the gods forsaken hell is he going to let that happen, because he's already lost someone else, but there is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide).

Ghirahim rakes the end of his sword into the ground, one hand placed against his hip in an oddly brazen way. He tips his head up, smirking. "You think so? It seems she has been detaining information from you, Hero. Such a shame, when you cannot even rely on your companion to be truthful."

Link lunges, driving his sword forward, meeting nothing, before being thrown forward as Ghirahim kicks him furiously across his back.

Link slams down hard on hands and knees, the skin of his knuckles peeling away, trousers ripping from knee to shin.

He stumbles up, whirling around to catch Ghirahim's sword, cross-guards locking. They're so close to one another that their reflections are thrown back into their respective swords, face to face.

Ghirahim licks the entire length of his tongue down the edge of his own sword, and Link shudders with disgust.

He takes that moment to sweep one leg beneath Link's feet, and the boy topples to the ground, elbows smashing into the stone. There is no time to think, before Ghirahim cracks a fist against his cheekbone, then again to the other, laughing the entire time, drawing his sword back -

Link thrusts forward, the killing-edge of his sword slicing into the Demon's hip, and he grunts in pain, stopping for just a moment.

Link wastes no chance to stumble upright, cheek throbbing painfully, blotched red and blue. His bottom lip is swollen, bleeding, from where he has accidentally bit into it.

The Demon Lord is entirely unfazed. "Oh," he sighs mournfully, "I thought you could do better than that. Had you aimed just a little better, you may have even impaled me!"

Link wipes his mouth with the back of one hand. "You can't be here just to challenge me again."

"You have impeccable powers of deduction, little Hero. I have little time to fight you, but I can spare a few moments. Humor me, will you?"

And their blades crash together again, swinging, hissing, meeting with bone-shuddering violence.

Ghirahim draws himself close, cross-guards linked once more, blades shuddering. His smile is so wide and strange and wicked it sends icy dread up Link's arms.

"I'll tell you a secret, boy," the demon breathes, each word a slow, precise growl.

Link's face drains of color, jaw slackening when the Demon leans in, so close he can feel his icy breath, so close, that when he speaks again, their breath mingles intimately.

"Zelda no longer thinks you can save her, Heerrrooo," he hisses wickedly, serpent-smiling, "as you dawdle here playing catspaw to the Goddesses, she fades away each passing moment, and she'll be mine soon."

And he laughs in Link's face, letting him wrench away, before they meet blades once more.

Link's entire body shudders, jaw clenched, blue eyes wide and flashing-fierce. "She wouldn't give up so easily. You're lying."

That smile is back. "Oh? What makes you so certain?"

Link jabs, dodging a killing-swing, neither able to land a blow to the other. There, an opening in his guard, just between shoulder and chest -

Link takes the hilt of his sword in both fists, screaming as he swings his entire weight into a slice, but he's too slow, and Ghirahim disappears.

The Hero whirls around, looking up as Ghirahim re-materializes atop a metal figure in the center of the chamber, balanced on the ends of his toes. Ghirahim gives him a grand, sweeping bow, bent so low his head nearly brushes his feet.

"While it pains me to leave so suddenly, I am afraid I have no more time to toy with you. Thank you, Hero, for being so unfailingly entertaining. I must get back to my duties. Keep the spirit maiden in your thoughts, for she is certainly in mine."

Link almost thinks his fight is over, but as Ghirahim disappears once more, the room alights, and the previously slumbering monster within it comes to life.

Link thinks of her, and it alone is enough. He fights again.

AN: Reviews really do brighten my day :) So please, if you read, a review would be nice too.