Legend Of Zelda Fan Fiction ❯ Who By Fire ❯ Soothsaying ( Chapter 11 )

"Control your own destiny, or someone else will." - Jack Welch

Ghirahim can barely contain his excitement.

It trembles into his joints, lighting color on his otherwise pallid cheeks. His excitement is so great that it lends his hands an uncharacteristic shudder, settling as a deep, warm throb in his belly. Ghirahim has never recalled such a feeling of elation, not in his many-thousand years of existing.

He gazes, wide-eyed, at the ancient etchings upon the walls, the stones themselves seemingly oscillating with power. Despite their age, the words and drawings are pristine, as crisp as if they have just been carved into the rock.

The Fire Sanctuary's many locks and tumblers have proven to be of little resistance to his magic; Ghirahim stands in the final room of the Sanctuary, the room which has guarded this valuable secret.

There is a second Gate of Time.

The stone floor is warm beneath his feet, as he paces excitedly around the large, circular room, shaking with equal parts agitation and enthusiasm. Nearby, he can sense that boy's energy, drawing ever closer; they will surely fight, as they have fought many times before – always coming together, inevitably in battle, destined to spill one another's blood.

He is bound to Zelda in a different way, a way Ghirahim cannot explain. They are all bound, somehow, by a red string of fate, pulling them closer and closer with each meeting.

Ghirahim stops before the picture of a great bird, its wings outstretched in flight, soaring, uninhibited, to an invisible point on the horizon. He gazes at it with an intensity that would rust iron, pressing the flat of one palm against it. Now, he trembles with wrath.

"I will sever these threads, one way or another."

Link is certain of three things.

One, that Ghirahim is quite a bit more insane than he first realized.

Two, that he is, perhaps, the vainest creature to ever exist.

Lastly, because of these things, he is far more dangerous than Link has anticipated.

It feels as though a weight has been pressing down upon his chest, becoming heavier and heavier with each passing moment. Although the Fireshield earrings have taken the brunt of the heat's anger, sweat still soaks through Link's green tunic, rolling down his neck in slick streams.

The heat is the least of his worries.

With barely enough strength to do so, Link throws his sword above his head, blocking Ghirahim's black, shining blade from smashing into his skull – and dodges the second with little space to spare. He rolls clumsily away, back slamming against a wall, and Ghirahim paces, ever so casually, nearer.

The demon cackles with a madness that shakes through Link's bones. In both hands Ghirahim clutches twin rapiers, their blackness matching his bare arms. The blackness has splintered across his face and chest like cracks through porcelain. Link knows by only looking that, somehow, the demon has metamorphosed his limbs into solid metal, and he has no desire to test their strength.

"What is it, Skychild? You seemed so resolute in our last battle; has the sight of my new form stolen your fervor?"

Ghirahim grinds the tips of his blades into the stone floor, sparks erupting in their wake. Though lunacy still lingers upon his face, his expression has grown firm with resolution, dark eyes narrowed, thin white lips parted just so. Ghirahim does not pause, even when a silvery strand of his hair drifts across his gaze.

Link rises from the wall, breathing hard, clutching his sword so tightly his knuckles bleach white.

There is one, solitary moment of pause –

Link pivots into a whirl, launching himself up off the floor, sword thrown behind his head, swinging it down upon Ghirahim – but his blade crashes messily into the demon's own swords.

Ghirahim drives Link backwards, neither laughing nor smiling, that hard, resolute look stilling his face. Link twists his arms to the side, unlocking their blades for a mere moment, before they slam together again with a metallic sting.

They stand, locked together at the guards of their blades, each trying to shove the other back, with little result.

Though he shakes with effort, Link finds enough breath to speak, smirking. "I think you looked better the other way, at least then you didn't look diseased."

Ghirahim's face slacks with rage for an instant; just long enough for Link knee him in the gut and backflip away –

-but Ghirahim is faster, and reappears behind him just as he lands, with no time to dodge –

Link sees everything in slow-motion; the walls whirling around him as he tries to twist away, the carvings blurring together, and Ghirahim, struck in sharp contrast, raising his sword to the sky, the cutting edge gleaming savagely –

Everything hurdles back into motion.

Link screams as Ghirahim's blade tears open a gash in his back, grazing past flesh and into muscle, blood splashing down his tunic. Stumbling, Link falls to his hands and knees, sword sliding uselessly from his grip.

Through a nauseating rush of pain, he can hear the demon laughing again, from everywhere at once.

He reappears just inches away from Link's hands, the tips of his shoes close enough to touch.

Ghirahim kicks him in the face.

There is the crunch of bone, and Link knows that his nose is broken, the leaden taste of blood filling his mouth. He lands painfully on his injured back, curled up as if with a stomach wound, blinking past shooting stars in his eyes.

He can hear footsteps slowly approaching, the lazy tap tap tap of Ghirahim's shoes on the stone. Link turns his head to the ceiling, breathing shakily through gritted teeth, vision blurring black and white and red around the edges. Through the murk, he sees the demon standing above him, silvery hair falling away from his splintered face, eyes smoldering crimson.

Link's nostrils burn with the stink of dark magic, which now wafts as invisible but no less potent streams off his opponent, so strong it nearly blinds him.

Then, terribly, Ghirahim kneels before him, balanced easily on his toes, elbows resting against his knees, rapiers still clutched in his hands.

Link grows completely still.

"Poor little Skychild," Ghirahim coos, "outmatched and outwitted as always. You may have won our last battle, but you will not be so lucky today."

He grins, drawing the flat of his sword against his mouth, wetting it with blood. A few drops of it land upon Link's cheek.

Link spits his own tooth onto the floor, lifting his head to gaze blearily into Ghirahim's pale face.

"You're wrong," he croaks.

The demon tilts his head, hair falling away from his face, splintered with ebony. There is no amusement in his voice. "What -"

There is an explosion of impossible blue light, so intense it bleeds the walls of their color, fizzling into the back of Link's eyelids.

Someone is screaming, louder than Link has ever heard, with such shrillness and agony it makes his ears ache – when the light fades, he sees Ghirahim, backed into a wall, form alight with blue electricity.

Link rises painfully to his feet, limping hastily to retrieve his sword. It glows with the same blue light which has injured Ghirahim. As his fingers graze the hilt, Fi's voice drifts weakly into his mind.

"Master Link, I have successfully fired a blast of energy from within the blade, and temporarily stunned Ghirahim. However, this has significantly weakened me. I will not be able to communicate with you for some time. You must defeat Ghirahim without my aid."

Wide-eyed, Link gazes disbelievingly at the sword clutched in his hand. How is not important, he knows. He is covered in sweat, with blood crusting his tunic to his back, whole body alight with pain.

Link ignores it, gazing steadily ahead, sword clutched in both hands.

Slowly, the magic disappears from Ghirahim's body. Gone is the fixed concentration from before, now his eyes are dilated with rage, pale lips quivering. Groaning, he rights himself, raising one hand to snap his fingers, materializing a circle of daggers.

Link has seen this before – he knocks three of them away as they fly toward him, dodging one, the last nicking the shoulder of his tunic. Unfazed, he stands, the end of his blade pointed steadily forward.

Ghirahim snarls, baring his pointed teeth, nostrils flaring; Link can practically see the blood boiling in his veins.

Ghirahim bellows at him, words losing their demonic lilt; his voice is more murderous and desperate than Link has ever heard it.

"Damn you, you petulant whelp! How dare you ridicule me…I will break the string which binds us together…I control my destiny!"

Ghirahim appears before him suddenly, swinging both blades down with a growl of rage, and Link knocks them back, jabbing forward, opening a sickly black wound on Ghirahim's outer thigh.

This does nothing, and with renewed intensity Ghirahim swings again, once, twice, three times, each move becoming hastier – Link parries, lands another blow, a deeper laceration across his belly, splitting his pale flesh. From the wound boils more dark blood.

Something within Link changes; the red twinge of adrenaline is gone, replaced with an icy calmness which numbs his limbs. Gone is the pain and fear, the doubts and insecurities. He moves with such ease Link expects there to be strings dangling from his arms, as if guided by a different hand.

It's like waltzing, he thinks blankly, recalling a distant time when Zelda had said the same to him. Just like a waltz, only with swords.

Ghirahim steps forward – Link steps back. Ghirahim feints left, Link moves right. When Ghirahim blocks, Link falls back. Their breathing, rapid and shallow, falls into rhythm, each gazing hard into the other's face, Ghirahim's distorted with rage, Link with blank calmness.

They are two puppets in a dance, their strings weaving together, stitched with blood.

Through the haze of battle, Link can picture Zelda in his mind, smile like spring, hair like the sun, beckoning him to her –

Adrenaline comes rushing back in one great surge, strong enough to knock the air from Link's lungs; raising the sword, he charges one last Skyward Strike, teeth bared in a scream, and flings it forward, straight into Ghirahim's shocked face –

Ghirahim is thrown off his feet and onto the stone floor, crashing with a hard grunt of pain, swords disintegrating from his hands.

Link stands before him, breathing ragged.

He watches as Ghirahim rises, one hand clutched before his face, the whites of his eyes shining in the reddish light. That same hand lowers to point straight at him.

"No more of this! I am Ghirahim, Demon Lord! You only prevail because of her – you are no more than a child! A human child! You will not defeat me again, you little green rat. Whatever it may take – you will not defeat me the next we meet!"

A rush of something unfamiliar tingles up Link's spine. He shudders, not with fear, but with the knowledge that this threat is not to be ignored.

Link tips his chin up, face bloodied and bruised, triumph in his eyes. Ghirahim vanishes, as if he never existed to begin with.

Din's flame waits.

When Fi emerges from the sword, her glow is less radiant, as if someone has shaded a candle with their hand.

She floats wordlessly before him, Din's flame roaring behind her.

Link stares, his wounds healed with a fairy, its magic bubbling through his veins.

Fi turns away from him, sleeves outstretched to welcome the blazing red fire, which engulfs her in one, luminous flame.

For one, small moment, Fi turns her head, her profile silhouetted against the flames, to peer at him from one shoulder – a moment so unexpected Link feels the bottom of his stomach drop – and she leaps into the air.

When the sacred fire engulfs his sword, Link feels a deluge of power of such strength it lights him from within, a power which flows from him and back into the blade. Raising it above his head, it glows for a moment, before transforming once again, longer and more streamlined, the hilt burned deepest blue.

Link swallows thickly, swinging it from side to side with a new rush of energy, before sheathing it again. Withdrawing his hand, he looks on in wonder as the last triangle upon its back illuminates, a thrumming prickle washing up his arm.

Fi materializes once again, aglow with new magic, brightening the room in which he stands.

"Master Link, now that your blade has been tempered by the final flame, you hold its final form, the Master Sword. With its greater power, you can now open the second Gate of Time. I suggest you make your way there as soon as feasible."

She stops. Link holds his breath.

"Master Link. During your last battle with Ghirahim, I aided you with a power I had no knowledge of possessing. I do not know if I will be able to use it again. Master Link, I advise you to heed his threat the next you meet."

Squaring his shoulders, Link nods firmly. Fi leaps back into the sheathed blade, her words echoing within the walls.

"I make you this offer one last time: Fi, join myself and Demise, to regain your freedom and shape this world anew…or stay as you are, a servant with no cause."

The wind carries with it the rank of dead bodies, smoky embers whirling within it. It flutters through his crimson cloak and between his outstretched fingers, beckoning her toward him.

Fi remains as she is, glistening face completely still.

Ghirahim lowers his arm, frowning at her from across the barren field, still smoking from a burnt-out fire. With the other, he touches his own face, pressing gloved fingertips into the flesh of his ashen cheek.

The sky is roiling with the glow of destruction.

Ghirahim wets his lips before speaking, in a voice so soft not even the wind carries it.

"You could regain your flesh, Fi. Can you not even feel the wind upon your cheek? Being in that form denies you so much. Now, you are no more than a thing. We may not be truly living, Fi, but we still exist! Does that not mean anything to you?"

Fi floats across from him, as serene as if suspended in water. When she speaks, her voice vibrates with an ethereal cadency.

"Flesh is unimportant. Feeling is unimportant. My existence means only to aid the Hero in his quest. Your temptations are futile."

She remains still, even when Ghirahim appears closer, lording over her smaller figure. Fi tilts her head up to his face, unblinking.

Ghirahim moans mournfully.

"Look what she's done to you," he chokes, reaching toward her face. "You're nothing more than an automaton! Oh, my lovely Fi, she's destroyed you!"

His fingers stop just before the arch of her brow, tracing over her upturned face; unfeeling, her eyes that of a statue's, stripped of sight.

From within her sleeve Fi lifts one small hand, edging it closer to his own. Ghirahim's mouth parts, eyelashes lowering and –

-she blasts him away with a ball of sacred light.

Ghirahim lands uneasily upon his feet, the ground slapping harshly against his shoes. Bent slightly, he clutches his burnt hand, jerking his head up to glare at her.

"Do you not find it ironic that, time and time again, we meet in this war? Somehow, although we are now worlds apart – you of the sky, myself of the surface – we come together?"

Fi remains unchanged.

Ghirahim rights himself, the blackened wind blowing through his hair, whirling his cloak around his rigid form, the sky boiling red behind him. His shadow submerges her into darkness.

"I believe not in coincidence, Fi."

He turns away – and for one, small moment, he peers at her from over one shoulder, his profile silhouetted against the sunset.

"Be a servant, then. She will force you to watch this world turn to cinders, and I'll be there behind you. I wonder how far you may fall, my lovely Fi. You may be content with your destiny, but I am not."

Fi stares at him from across the ashes. She vanishes, silent.

The smell of moss and greenery is a much welcomed change.

Drifting with it Link can sense a taint of evil, yet he pays it no mind; he has just returned from the Fire Sanctuary, and he's certain the sourness comes from his encounter with Ghirahim. It comes as no surprise to him that the demon's darkness can linger like smoke.

Taking in a breath, Link unfurls the Sailcloth, drifting slowly down to the ground. Landing easily on the grass, he faces the ancient temple nestled within the Sealed Grounds, its crumbling walls oddly friendly to him now.

Within it lies the second Gate of Time. Hands shaking, Link pushes open the gates, stepping inside the temple, greenery twining between the stone floor and up the walls. In the center of it stands the Gate of Time, still unopened.

The old woman is the first to greet him, Groose standing stiffly behind her.

"You have done very well, Link. You now have the power to open the final Gate of Time. Stand before it and raise your renewed blade skyward."

Groose eyes him from across the room. Grinning uneasily, he nods. Link returns the hesitant smile, before stepping before the gate, raising the sword and lighting it with magic.

He's thrown off his feet just as the magic warms his hand.

Link frowns, staggering to his feet, the ground beneath him roaring – just like the last time.

The old woman grabs his hand, bony fingers wrapping tightly around his own. Her voice trembles like the floor.

"The beast has awakened again, likely as a response to the sacred power of your sword. There is no other way to open the Gate. Link, you must defeat The Imprisoned once more."

Link parts his lips to speak – only to be interrupted as Groose bellows from beside him.

He is almost startled by the redhead's enthusiasm, realizing, shockingly, that Groose was neither cowering nor arguing.

"No way I'm sitting this out again! I've built a fine piece of weapon, just waiting to be used on that flabby sack of teeth. Link, what are you waiting for? I'll join you, and we'll have that thing back in the ground in no time!"

Groose looks to Link expectantly, amber eyes wide, his fists clutched tightly at his sides.

Link grins, the ground continuing to rumble beneath his feet. Together with Groose, he steps outside into the sunlight, startling at the massive tracks laid around the pit's circumference, Groose standing proudly at its front.

"I call it the Groosenator! Try not to drool too much, we have a monster to defeat!" He motions down to the center of the pit, "Come on now, Hero!"

They look at one another through the quaking, for only one second, but it is one second enough. Nodding, Link ventures further down the pit, every step bringing him closer to another evil – another evil he is sure to vanquish.

The Imprisoned awaits.