Who By Fire [ch 7]
Title: Who By Fire (Ch7 - "Possession")
Characters: Ghirahim, Impa, Zelda, Link
Rating: PG
Summary: She is at once the seed of his every desire, and the origin of his every wrath.
A/N: AU exploring the idea of Zelda being captured, too late for Link to save her - of Zelda, facing Ghirahim herself.
Thanks so much to
impa for betaing this chapter!
Previous chapter.
____________________________________________
“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned.” - William Congreve
____________________________________________
Before him blazes a fire.
Ghirahim hovers, swinging lazily to and fro, in a dimension of darkness. The fire before him bleeds into the void, illuminating the paleness of his face and glittering upon the jewels on his cloak. This place is lonely and silent, a dimension amidst the one of Twilight and Nothingness.
He postures himself lazily, legs crossed at the knee, reclining as if bathing in sunlight. He gazes into the fire, born to life with magic, as if doing so will provide him the answers he seeks.
It spits and writhes angrily.
Holding out one palm, he twists his fingers, shaping the fire into monstrous figures, awful shapes of unearthly origin. They roar and growl, deformed mouths and arms and legs, curling into themselves.
His hand wrenches into a fist, and the fire extinguishes.
Ghirahim closes his eyes, breathing in.
He imagines her hands in his hair and on his face, so close the light of her permeates through his pores. She exhales the sweet efflux of a storm in springtime.
He reaches as if to rake his fingernails against her cheek -
Ghirahim lurches, eyes opening to the dimness. Breathing in, he brings the flames back to life, a slow-burning sunrise of copper and gold.
Within it emerges the figure of a woman; she pulses, breathes, as much a living thing as he can ever create. She twirls her make-believe skirts and beckons him forward, long hair storming around her figure. Her face, smiling bewitchingly, is both majestic and fierce.
This phoenix, this woman of flame and smoke, is the closest thing he will ever have of her, untouchable to him in mind and flesh. Should he reach for her, she will surely burn him to ash.
She is at once the seed of his every desire, and the origin of his every wrath.
Rising, Ghirahim inhales hard through his teeth, tensing, sinewy muscles coiling up beneath his pallid skin.
Within one hand he manifests a great ebony rapier. Ghirahim curls his other hand around its hilt, each finger coming slowly to rest, gripped so tightly the material of his gloves chafe against the metal. With the firelight gleaming off it, he raises it high above his head, stretching his body so tightly the hollow of his ribcage protrudes -
She screams as he cleaves her through, the remnants of her lingering as the flames on his sword, the closest thing she has to blood. She flickers, for a moment, before snuffing out altogether.
Darkness surrounds him once more.
____________________________________________
“Your Grace, there is no forgiving what I have let transpire. I give my most fervent apologies, and graciously accept any punishment.”
Fi kneels on both knees, palms pressed flat against the stone floor of the temple. Behind her, the awakening gold of dawn glimmers through the stained glass windows. They preside in the Temple of Hylia, the world outside fresh with life.
Hylia nods grimly. She lifts one hand to place it upon the crown of Fi's head, blue hair soft beneath her palm. Her voice has the warmth of sunlight.
“There is no need for punishment, Fi, for you have done no wrong. It is Ghirahim who has betrayed me, not you. Rise now, and speak no more of penance.”
The spirit does so, soft azure lips parted with wordless thanks, nodding. She falters, for a moment, averting her eyes before her Goddess, standing radiant so near to her. Fi's lips quiver very faintly, when she asks, finally:
“You knew he would betray us, didn't you? You knew Demise would tempt him to join his demonic hordes. You knew.”
Hylia looks to the ceiling, face aglow with light, golden hair falling away from her cheeks. One elegant hand comes to rest against her chest. When she lowers her head to cast her eyes upon Fi, she smiles, very faintly.
“You're as clever as your namesake, Fi, lover of wisdom. I knew you would discover it eventually. You are right in everything; I did indeed know that Ghirahim would turn his back on us, although I wish it did not have to be so. “
Fi looks toward the doors of the temple, where Ghirahim had been standing little hours before, the same doors he had shut between them. She shakes her head, sadly.
“I do not understand why he left. It is illogical. You gave him all that he could have ever desired, and is that not all one such as him could want? He viewed himself as your slave. My protests did nothing to deter him in joining Demise,” she sighs.
She dips her head, elegant blue profile struck against the golden sunlight. “Now that Demise has his power, our battle will be more daunting than ever. He is no longer a holy blade - if he was ever one to begin with. We will be forced to smite them both.”
Hylia is silent. Outside the temple walls, the sounds of nature flourish, uncaring of the two beings within.
She outstretches one hand, palm forward, and brings forth the very sunlight, condensing it into two solid figures, dazzling white. So bright are they that the walls are bleached yellow. One figure bears the appearance of Ghirahim himself, and the other, Fi.
Fi watches, quietly, mouth parted, watching as the two forms draw near; the mock-Ghirahim offers his hand to the mock-Fi, and they join together to dance.
Hylia continues. “When in harmony, the elements of light and dark can turn the world into a prosperous, golden land. The light and darkness have always co-existed.”
Hylia clenches her fist, and the shining figures part, Ghirahim turning a piceous, inky black. The form sneers at the real Fi, murky face full of lunatic fury. He offers his hand to her, body oozing onto the floor to pool at her feet.
Fi only tips her chin bravely.
Hylia grins. The light-beings evaporate, back into glimmering sunbeams.
“Ghirahim betrayed us because his own darkness clouded his vision, no matter how bright your shine. Those of Power are also those of ambition. He is the element to balance yours, Fi.”
She raises one arm to sweep it across the air before them, stars crackling to life, the temple now a glowing galaxy.
Fi stands in awe, so near to the stars that she could touch them, their light a phosphorescent silver-blaze. Around the stars is the blackest color she has ever laid eyes upon.
Hylia comes beside her, plucking a star from its refuge in the dark, holding it between them both. It flickers in her palm like a captured firefly.
“You are the light, Fi, the calm to his lust, and the reason to my courage. We three cannot exist without the other. Your role in vanquishing Demise is greater than you might think.”
Hylia coaxes the star back into place, gazing at its brightness. She turns back to Fi, and takes both blue hands into her own. Her voice grows somber.
“Oh, Fi. I only wish you could keep this form and all that comes with the pleasures of mortals. But your role is to guide my Hero, and mortals are impure - there must only be light within you as the spirit of the Master Sword.”
Fi's eyes flicker shut, everything within her washing out, a numb tingle filling her being. She nods, stiffly. Her chest heaves with each quivering breath.
Hylia lowers her head, and where their hands meet, begins a slow ribbon of light, creeping onto each of Fi's fingers. It crawls up her arms and shoulders, bleeding down her breasts and torso. The light hardens into a luminescent blue shell, turning her flesh into crystal.
She watches as Fi's flesh disappears beneath her new form, and all but her head remains, the shell twisting slowly up her neck.
Then, Fi's eyes open, shimmering with starlight. Her voice quakes.
“How will I know who the Hero is?”
Hylia smiles gently. “You will know, Fi.”
They gaze at one another, silently. Then, Fi nods, breathing in.
The last of her vanishes into her new crystalline form, silent and still. Hylia drags a few fingers down that cold, impassive face, free of the impurities of flesh and all the darkness of man.
“You are the light, Fi. Where there is darkness, the light must be present.”
____________________________________________
Before her blazes a fire.
Zelda sits, legs beneath her, atop her bed. Her hands rest easily against her knees, head bent just slightly, flaxen hair falling over one shoulder. Her windows have been covered, so that the only illumination comes from the fire. It saturates everything bright orange and the charred black of shadows.
In her lap, laid carefully across her thighs, the stolen knife flashes menacingly.
Cautiously, she brings it into one hand, the wooden handle smooth and finely grained against her skin. She presses the pad of one finger against its pointed blade, hesitating a moment, before dragging it across her flesh, opening a neat red slice.
She watches the blood drizzle down her palm, splashing her dress and staining it, though she hardly cares.
Zelda sticks her wounded finger into her mouth, laving her tongue against the sore, brows lowered. The blade is, at least, sharp enough to kerf human flesh - whether or not it will work on him is unknown to her.
She tears a strip of cloth from her gown, now worn and faded of its powder-blue color, to wrap the strip tightly around her wounded finger. The blood seeps quickly through it.
Most women would pale at the sight of blood, but Zelda is a knight in her heart, and blood is commonplace when training at the academy.
She chuckles, weakly. In her mind emerges memories of bandaging the wounded knees of her classmates, or cleaning the cuts and scrapes Link often acquired when handling a sword.
“Stop squirming,” she would demand, a hand pressed to his arm or his shoulder, “'You will just make it worse! A future knight must grow used to blood! Oh, Link,” and she would laugh at the blush of shame on his ears, “just think, what if I wasn't here to do this for you?”
Zelda winces, shaking the thoughts away. Back then, she never would have thought that her jokes would become ironic reality; here she sits, away from those she loves most, unable to attend to their wounds, no matter how fiercely she wishes to.
She inhales, jarringly.
“There's a chance I'll fail,” she says to herself. Zelda looks solemnly at the knife, her best chance of escaping this soulless castle and the demon which rules it.
She turns slightly to regard the fire twisting in the hearth, its heat harsh against her cheekbones. She moistens her lips, pressing them into a flat, determined line. She holds the knife in both fists, bringing it close to her face.
She compares the wicked gleam of it to his eyes, often looking upon her with such cruelty and malice; Ghirahim himself is like the blade she holds in her hands, a thing made only for destruction; harsh, sharp, unforgiving.
Zelda recalls the faces of her loved ones, bleary around the edges, but they bring strength to her, even now.
“There's also a chance I'll succeed.”
____________________________________________
Her mind is a torsion of color and shapes, rushing by faster than she can fathom.
Impa's dark, lean shoulders shudder as she inhales. Her young, noble face is relaxed, thin sable lips slightly parted. Her eyes move ceaselessly beneath her closed eyelids, pale lashes fluttering. She sits in a meditative style, elbows on her knees.
Through her mind's eye, she sails past mountains, rivers and forests, down into caves and beneath the earth itself. She searches the clouds, the volcano, the desert, the forest. She looks in every crag or hollow she can find, yet Zelda's whereabouts remain elusive.
Redwater eyes come slowly open. Struck against the starlight behind her, Impa's dark skin glows ashen, pale blonde hair shot through with white. She stares into the murk ahead of her, as much a home to her as the walls around her. For she is a Shiekah, a woman of shadow and secrets, most at ease with the warm, musky veil of darkness.
She has searched to the very ends of her known world, past and present, yet still there is no proof of Zelda ever being there.
Impa shifts, rolling her shoulders, cracking her elbows, stretching the tenseness away from her legs. The temple of Hylia is hushed, enclosed with night. She has been searching tirelessly for days, but knows no rest must be had, no matter how weary her mind is.
She stares into the darkness, frowning.
“Where is she?”
The shadows have no answer.
Impa sighs, shaking her head. Her gaze roams toward the window she sits beneath, Hylia's image pieced into the glass. It does her little justice, Impa thinks, her otherworldly radiance barely captured.
Impa startles, jaw falling open, eyes wide and glittering.
“I've only searched the world I know,” she whispers feverishly, “I never thought of looking for her in another one.”
Once again, her posture relaxes, eyes closing, mind falling back into her magic. She retreats far into herself, willing her consciousness up into the night sky, even beyond the clouds. She shakes with the effort, sweat pearling on her forehead.
No Shiekah has, in her time, ever surpassed another dimension with their ability of Sight.
There are stars and bodies of light she cannot name, comets thundering across the galaxy, great clusters of rock. Her stomach twists, whole body lit up, heartbeat clapping beneath her ribs, as Impa wills her mind past the fabric of space itself.
When it feels as though her mind will shatter, she finds herself beyond her own dimension, in a one of total and absolute darkness. She can sense the edges of Twilight brushing past its expanse, along with another realm of Nothingness.
Impa concentrates. There's something else, too, something she's felt before, a familiar pulse of energy. She ventures farther in, cautiously. Though her physical body remains in her world, the coldness of this realm shudders into her mind.
“I thought I was finally rid of you, Shiekah.”
His voice rumbles into her head, and Impa gasps in pain.
Ghirahim stands before her, arms crossed, in the dark dimension she resides in, the whiteness of his skin and hair creating a glaring contrast to it.
Impa never wavers. “Where have you taken Her Grace?”
Ghirahim growls, baring fangs. “I have to hand it to you, never have I seen a Shiekah so disgustingly persistent. You've even traveled between dimensions in search for your little Goddess!”
Though Impa's body shudders, her mind remains strong. “Nothing will deter me from finding Her Grace and keeping her safe. It is my duty as a Shiekah.”
Ghirahim flings himself into a rolling backflip, holding his sides and laughing. His laughter is so hysterical it quakes through her bones.
“Indeed!” He shrieks, coming to a stop, chuckling at intervals. “I must say, you have done an atrocious job of it, unless your idea of 'protection' is different from my own.”
Impa glares. “One such as you knows only hatred and rage. What you do is nothing like protection.”
Ghirahim grows very serious then, stilling completely. He tosses his head, silvery hair falling away from the black diamond cut into his cheek.
“Now, that was very rude. Not that I expected any better from you, but there is something you should know about me.”
A terrible grating feeling overcomes her then, like a blade shearing away at the fabric of her mind, past her magic and into her chest. Impa doubles over, arms clenched tightly around herself, crying out.
He's so close in her mind that she can see every pinpoint of gray in his eyes, and Impa realizes that they are not black, but the deep, burgundy color of coagulated blood. He reaches past her consciousness with his own, invading her being, splintering slowly through her body.
His grin has the feral edge of a cat toying with a mouse before he eats it.
“I hate people without manners,” Ghirahim continues, now a voice in her head rather than a physical being, “and you,” a raw, icy feeling creeps into Impa's chest - “are being,” Ghirahim's breathing grows labored - “intolerably rude.”
Impa is thrown from the dark dimension and back into her own, but the feeling of him lingers inside her. She pants shallowly, sweat pouring down her back and wetting her clothes, throat parched, cheeks alight.
Her teeth rattle as the demon speaks again, crowding every corner of her mind and washing away any other thought.
“She's changed, you know,” he says, very carefully, voice the slow run of oil.
Impa sobs in pain, forehead crushed against the stone floor, entire body wracked with shivers, though she manages to croak:
“What do you mean?”
Suddenly the coldness disappears, replaced by a sickly warm feeling, a greasy, slick flow pooling deep into her belly. Impa gags, vision swirling, pushing back against it with all her strength.
His voice becomes dementedly sweet, a mockery of reassuring. He laughs.
“You will know, Shiekah. You will know.”
Impa whimpers when, at last, Ghirahim's presence leaves her. Quaking, she breathes in great breaths of air, folded into herself, lean arms wrapped tightly around her stomach. She licks the sweat away from her lips, a few strands of pale hair clinging close to her mouth. With great effort, she sits upright, head bowed, eyes tightly shut.
“What did he mean,” she breathes hoarsely to the shadows, “oh, Goddess, what did he mean?”
Above her, the image of Hylia smiles serenely, as the first light of dawn chases away the shadows.
______________________________________
Next chapter.
Characters: Ghirahim, Impa, Zelda, Link
Rating: PG
Summary: She is at once the seed of his every desire, and the origin of his every wrath.
A/N: AU exploring the idea of Zelda being captured, too late for Link to save her - of Zelda, facing Ghirahim herself.
Thanks so much to
impa for betaing this chapter!
Previous chapter.
____________________________________________
“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned.” - William Congreve
____________________________________________
Before him blazes a fire.
Ghirahim hovers, swinging lazily to and fro, in a dimension of darkness. The fire before him bleeds into the void, illuminating the paleness of his face and glittering upon the jewels on his cloak. This place is lonely and silent, a dimension amidst the one of Twilight and Nothingness.
He postures himself lazily, legs crossed at the knee, reclining as if bathing in sunlight. He gazes into the fire, born to life with magic, as if doing so will provide him the answers he seeks.
It spits and writhes angrily.
Holding out one palm, he twists his fingers, shaping the fire into monstrous figures, awful shapes of unearthly origin. They roar and growl, deformed mouths and arms and legs, curling into themselves.
His hand wrenches into a fist, and the fire extinguishes.
Ghirahim closes his eyes, breathing in.
He imagines her hands in his hair and on his face, so close the light of her permeates through his pores. She exhales the sweet efflux of a storm in springtime.
He reaches as if to rake his fingernails against her cheek -
Ghirahim lurches, eyes opening to the dimness. Breathing in, he brings the flames back to life, a slow-burning sunrise of copper and gold.
Within it emerges the figure of a woman; she pulses, breathes, as much a living thing as he can ever create. She twirls her make-believe skirts and beckons him forward, long hair storming around her figure. Her face, smiling bewitchingly, is both majestic and fierce.
This phoenix, this woman of flame and smoke, is the closest thing he will ever have of her, untouchable to him in mind and flesh. Should he reach for her, she will surely burn him to ash.
She is at once the seed of his every desire, and the origin of his every wrath.
Rising, Ghirahim inhales hard through his teeth, tensing, sinewy muscles coiling up beneath his pallid skin.
Within one hand he manifests a great ebony rapier. Ghirahim curls his other hand around its hilt, each finger coming slowly to rest, gripped so tightly the material of his gloves chafe against the metal. With the firelight gleaming off it, he raises it high above his head, stretching his body so tightly the hollow of his ribcage protrudes -
She screams as he cleaves her through, the remnants of her lingering as the flames on his sword, the closest thing she has to blood. She flickers, for a moment, before snuffing out altogether.
Darkness surrounds him once more.
____________________________________________
“Your Grace, there is no forgiving what I have let transpire. I give my most fervent apologies, and graciously accept any punishment.”
Fi kneels on both knees, palms pressed flat against the stone floor of the temple. Behind her, the awakening gold of dawn glimmers through the stained glass windows. They preside in the Temple of Hylia, the world outside fresh with life.
Hylia nods grimly. She lifts one hand to place it upon the crown of Fi's head, blue hair soft beneath her palm. Her voice has the warmth of sunlight.
“There is no need for punishment, Fi, for you have done no wrong. It is Ghirahim who has betrayed me, not you. Rise now, and speak no more of penance.”
The spirit does so, soft azure lips parted with wordless thanks, nodding. She falters, for a moment, averting her eyes before her Goddess, standing radiant so near to her. Fi's lips quiver very faintly, when she asks, finally:
“You knew he would betray us, didn't you? You knew Demise would tempt him to join his demonic hordes. You knew.”
Hylia looks to the ceiling, face aglow with light, golden hair falling away from her cheeks. One elegant hand comes to rest against her chest. When she lowers her head to cast her eyes upon Fi, she smiles, very faintly.
“You're as clever as your namesake, Fi, lover of wisdom. I knew you would discover it eventually. You are right in everything; I did indeed know that Ghirahim would turn his back on us, although I wish it did not have to be so. “
Fi looks toward the doors of the temple, where Ghirahim had been standing little hours before, the same doors he had shut between them. She shakes her head, sadly.
“I do not understand why he left. It is illogical. You gave him all that he could have ever desired, and is that not all one such as him could want? He viewed himself as your slave. My protests did nothing to deter him in joining Demise,” she sighs.
She dips her head, elegant blue profile struck against the golden sunlight. “Now that Demise has his power, our battle will be more daunting than ever. He is no longer a holy blade - if he was ever one to begin with. We will be forced to smite them both.”
Hylia is silent. Outside the temple walls, the sounds of nature flourish, uncaring of the two beings within.
She outstretches one hand, palm forward, and brings forth the very sunlight, condensing it into two solid figures, dazzling white. So bright are they that the walls are bleached yellow. One figure bears the appearance of Ghirahim himself, and the other, Fi.
Fi watches, quietly, mouth parted, watching as the two forms draw near; the mock-Ghirahim offers his hand to the mock-Fi, and they join together to dance.
Hylia continues. “When in harmony, the elements of light and dark can turn the world into a prosperous, golden land. The light and darkness have always co-existed.”
Hylia clenches her fist, and the shining figures part, Ghirahim turning a piceous, inky black. The form sneers at the real Fi, murky face full of lunatic fury. He offers his hand to her, body oozing onto the floor to pool at her feet.
Fi only tips her chin bravely.
Hylia grins. The light-beings evaporate, back into glimmering sunbeams.
“Ghirahim betrayed us because his own darkness clouded his vision, no matter how bright your shine. Those of Power are also those of ambition. He is the element to balance yours, Fi.”
She raises one arm to sweep it across the air before them, stars crackling to life, the temple now a glowing galaxy.
Fi stands in awe, so near to the stars that she could touch them, their light a phosphorescent silver-blaze. Around the stars is the blackest color she has ever laid eyes upon.
Hylia comes beside her, plucking a star from its refuge in the dark, holding it between them both. It flickers in her palm like a captured firefly.
“You are the light, Fi, the calm to his lust, and the reason to my courage. We three cannot exist without the other. Your role in vanquishing Demise is greater than you might think.”
Hylia coaxes the star back into place, gazing at its brightness. She turns back to Fi, and takes both blue hands into her own. Her voice grows somber.
“Oh, Fi. I only wish you could keep this form and all that comes with the pleasures of mortals. But your role is to guide my Hero, and mortals are impure - there must only be light within you as the spirit of the Master Sword.”
Fi's eyes flicker shut, everything within her washing out, a numb tingle filling her being. She nods, stiffly. Her chest heaves with each quivering breath.
Hylia lowers her head, and where their hands meet, begins a slow ribbon of light, creeping onto each of Fi's fingers. It crawls up her arms and shoulders, bleeding down her breasts and torso. The light hardens into a luminescent blue shell, turning her flesh into crystal.
She watches as Fi's flesh disappears beneath her new form, and all but her head remains, the shell twisting slowly up her neck.
Then, Fi's eyes open, shimmering with starlight. Her voice quakes.
“How will I know who the Hero is?”
Hylia smiles gently. “You will know, Fi.”
They gaze at one another, silently. Then, Fi nods, breathing in.
The last of her vanishes into her new crystalline form, silent and still. Hylia drags a few fingers down that cold, impassive face, free of the impurities of flesh and all the darkness of man.
“You are the light, Fi. Where there is darkness, the light must be present.”
____________________________________________
Before her blazes a fire.
Zelda sits, legs beneath her, atop her bed. Her hands rest easily against her knees, head bent just slightly, flaxen hair falling over one shoulder. Her windows have been covered, so that the only illumination comes from the fire. It saturates everything bright orange and the charred black of shadows.
In her lap, laid carefully across her thighs, the stolen knife flashes menacingly.
Cautiously, she brings it into one hand, the wooden handle smooth and finely grained against her skin. She presses the pad of one finger against its pointed blade, hesitating a moment, before dragging it across her flesh, opening a neat red slice.
She watches the blood drizzle down her palm, splashing her dress and staining it, though she hardly cares.
Zelda sticks her wounded finger into her mouth, laving her tongue against the sore, brows lowered. The blade is, at least, sharp enough to kerf human flesh - whether or not it will work on him is unknown to her.
She tears a strip of cloth from her gown, now worn and faded of its powder-blue color, to wrap the strip tightly around her wounded finger. The blood seeps quickly through it.
Most women would pale at the sight of blood, but Zelda is a knight in her heart, and blood is commonplace when training at the academy.
She chuckles, weakly. In her mind emerges memories of bandaging the wounded knees of her classmates, or cleaning the cuts and scrapes Link often acquired when handling a sword.
“Stop squirming,” she would demand, a hand pressed to his arm or his shoulder, “'You will just make it worse! A future knight must grow used to blood! Oh, Link,” and she would laugh at the blush of shame on his ears, “just think, what if I wasn't here to do this for you?”
Zelda winces, shaking the thoughts away. Back then, she never would have thought that her jokes would become ironic reality; here she sits, away from those she loves most, unable to attend to their wounds, no matter how fiercely she wishes to.
She inhales, jarringly.
“There's a chance I'll fail,” she says to herself. Zelda looks solemnly at the knife, her best chance of escaping this soulless castle and the demon which rules it.
She turns slightly to regard the fire twisting in the hearth, its heat harsh against her cheekbones. She moistens her lips, pressing them into a flat, determined line. She holds the knife in both fists, bringing it close to her face.
She compares the wicked gleam of it to his eyes, often looking upon her with such cruelty and malice; Ghirahim himself is like the blade she holds in her hands, a thing made only for destruction; harsh, sharp, unforgiving.
Zelda recalls the faces of her loved ones, bleary around the edges, but they bring strength to her, even now.
“There's also a chance I'll succeed.”
____________________________________________
Her mind is a torsion of color and shapes, rushing by faster than she can fathom.
Impa's dark, lean shoulders shudder as she inhales. Her young, noble face is relaxed, thin sable lips slightly parted. Her eyes move ceaselessly beneath her closed eyelids, pale lashes fluttering. She sits in a meditative style, elbows on her knees.
Through her mind's eye, she sails past mountains, rivers and forests, down into caves and beneath the earth itself. She searches the clouds, the volcano, the desert, the forest. She looks in every crag or hollow she can find, yet Zelda's whereabouts remain elusive.
Redwater eyes come slowly open. Struck against the starlight behind her, Impa's dark skin glows ashen, pale blonde hair shot through with white. She stares into the murk ahead of her, as much a home to her as the walls around her. For she is a Shiekah, a woman of shadow and secrets, most at ease with the warm, musky veil of darkness.
She has searched to the very ends of her known world, past and present, yet still there is no proof of Zelda ever being there.
Impa shifts, rolling her shoulders, cracking her elbows, stretching the tenseness away from her legs. The temple of Hylia is hushed, enclosed with night. She has been searching tirelessly for days, but knows no rest must be had, no matter how weary her mind is.
She stares into the darkness, frowning.
“Where is she?”
The shadows have no answer.
Impa sighs, shaking her head. Her gaze roams toward the window she sits beneath, Hylia's image pieced into the glass. It does her little justice, Impa thinks, her otherworldly radiance barely captured.
Impa startles, jaw falling open, eyes wide and glittering.
“I've only searched the world I know,” she whispers feverishly, “I never thought of looking for her in another one.”
Once again, her posture relaxes, eyes closing, mind falling back into her magic. She retreats far into herself, willing her consciousness up into the night sky, even beyond the clouds. She shakes with the effort, sweat pearling on her forehead.
No Shiekah has, in her time, ever surpassed another dimension with their ability of Sight.
There are stars and bodies of light she cannot name, comets thundering across the galaxy, great clusters of rock. Her stomach twists, whole body lit up, heartbeat clapping beneath her ribs, as Impa wills her mind past the fabric of space itself.
When it feels as though her mind will shatter, she finds herself beyond her own dimension, in a one of total and absolute darkness. She can sense the edges of Twilight brushing past its expanse, along with another realm of Nothingness.
Impa concentrates. There's something else, too, something she's felt before, a familiar pulse of energy. She ventures farther in, cautiously. Though her physical body remains in her world, the coldness of this realm shudders into her mind.
“I thought I was finally rid of you, Shiekah.”
His voice rumbles into her head, and Impa gasps in pain.
Ghirahim stands before her, arms crossed, in the dark dimension she resides in, the whiteness of his skin and hair creating a glaring contrast to it.
Impa never wavers. “Where have you taken Her Grace?”
Ghirahim growls, baring fangs. “I have to hand it to you, never have I seen a Shiekah so disgustingly persistent. You've even traveled between dimensions in search for your little Goddess!”
Though Impa's body shudders, her mind remains strong. “Nothing will deter me from finding Her Grace and keeping her safe. It is my duty as a Shiekah.”
Ghirahim flings himself into a rolling backflip, holding his sides and laughing. His laughter is so hysterical it quakes through her bones.
“Indeed!” He shrieks, coming to a stop, chuckling at intervals. “I must say, you have done an atrocious job of it, unless your idea of 'protection' is different from my own.”
Impa glares. “One such as you knows only hatred and rage. What you do is nothing like protection.”
Ghirahim grows very serious then, stilling completely. He tosses his head, silvery hair falling away from the black diamond cut into his cheek.
“Now, that was very rude. Not that I expected any better from you, but there is something you should know about me.”
A terrible grating feeling overcomes her then, like a blade shearing away at the fabric of her mind, past her magic and into her chest. Impa doubles over, arms clenched tightly around herself, crying out.
He's so close in her mind that she can see every pinpoint of gray in his eyes, and Impa realizes that they are not black, but the deep, burgundy color of coagulated blood. He reaches past her consciousness with his own, invading her being, splintering slowly through her body.
His grin has the feral edge of a cat toying with a mouse before he eats it.
“I hate people without manners,” Ghirahim continues, now a voice in her head rather than a physical being, “and you,” a raw, icy feeling creeps into Impa's chest - “are being,” Ghirahim's breathing grows labored - “intolerably rude.”
Impa is thrown from the dark dimension and back into her own, but the feeling of him lingers inside her. She pants shallowly, sweat pouring down her back and wetting her clothes, throat parched, cheeks alight.
Her teeth rattle as the demon speaks again, crowding every corner of her mind and washing away any other thought.
“She's changed, you know,” he says, very carefully, voice the slow run of oil.
Impa sobs in pain, forehead crushed against the stone floor, entire body wracked with shivers, though she manages to croak:
“What do you mean?”
Suddenly the coldness disappears, replaced by a sickly warm feeling, a greasy, slick flow pooling deep into her belly. Impa gags, vision swirling, pushing back against it with all her strength.
His voice becomes dementedly sweet, a mockery of reassuring. He laughs.
“You will know, Shiekah. You will know.”
Impa whimpers when, at last, Ghirahim's presence leaves her. Quaking, she breathes in great breaths of air, folded into herself, lean arms wrapped tightly around her stomach. She licks the sweat away from her lips, a few strands of pale hair clinging close to her mouth. With great effort, she sits upright, head bowed, eyes tightly shut.
“What did he mean,” she breathes hoarsely to the shadows, “oh, Goddess, what did he mean?”
Above her, the image of Hylia smiles serenely, as the first light of dawn chases away the shadows.
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Next chapter.