Legend Of Zelda Fan Fiction ❯ Who By Fire ❯ Surrender ( Chapter 13 )

"No one loses their innocence. It is either taken or given away willingly." –Tiffany Madison

Tonight, there are no dreams.

She doesn't know how or why. There is blankness, even when she is no longer awake, as if the walls have crawled into her dreams and made it their home; she feels like a bird in a cage without a key. These dreamless, wakeless visions are a sad blessing, because now, at least, she is no longer haunted by visions of a life that was never her own.

But Zelda does not sleep soundly. She rolls from side to side, moonlight glimmering on her skin. The crimson blankets have been kicked to her feet, arms curled into her chest. Her azure gown clings to her back with sweat.

Even so, she remains asleep, dreaming nothing, an endless, barren void.

There is something, someone, prying around the edges. Even in sleep, Zelda can sense it, if only she could open her eyes –

"Your Grace…"

"A dream, a dream," she says in her sleep, curling up, goldenrod hair spilling across the pillows. Her eyeballs move relentlessly beneath their lids.

The voice continues; strange and lulling, familiar and not, as if she has heard it before in a different life.

"Your Grace…Zelda. You must not wake."

Not even in sleep can she ask "why?"

The white void of her dream ripples out like water, like a rock thrown into a pond. The voice gains strength.

"Your Grace…listen to me, very closely. I do not know how long this connection will last."

Zelda mutters nonsense, eyelashes fluttering.

The voice which speaks to her echoes across thousands of years, burning past time and the empty, empty space of her dreams. It pauses, once, before continuing, gaining strength.

"The place you preside in is a fabrication, an illusion created by magic; Ghirahim is holding you in a place between worlds, where nothing truly exists. I do not know how is magic works. Your Grace, you must find a way out on your own. Link cannot find you there."

Zelda has no time to be heartbroken. In her sleep, she manages to croak:

"What do you mean? How do you know my name? Your voice…"

The whiteness ripples again; in her mind appears two crimson eyes; eyes Zelda feels, she has known all her life. The voice speaks softly, now.

"Oh, Zelda, Your Grace…I have known you longer than you have known yourself."

The whiteness vanishes, sucking back in on itself, as that gentle voice disappears altogether.

When Zelda wakes, she finds her cheeks to be wet with tears, with no one to dry them.

He comes to her at dawn, out of nothing, slipping into her bedroom without noise.

She has become dreadfully used to his appearing unexpectedly, like a specter in a nightmare, only she doesn't dream him; he's terribly real.

Ghirahim stands in a shadowy corner of her bedroom, with only the ends of his feet visible through it. His shadow envelops her entire body.

"Oh, how precious. I've never seen you quite this sullen before. It's pathetic, honestly."

Zelda stares blankly up at him from the bed; skin a whiter shade of pale, cheeks like withered lilies. Her dry lips are parted just enough to breathe through; she breathes slowly, as if each intake of air is difficult.

Zelda turns her eyes to him, as he steps closer, into the early daylight. Her mouth falls open with a gasp.

Where once was skin paler than ash, Ghirahim stands before her splintered with ebony, fine fissures opening up the flesh around his throat, crossing the slim bridge of his nose. His arms shine in the sunlight, alien, as if made from blackest metal. What little she can see of his torso is similarly cracked, the ebony marks snaking down his firm belly before disappearing beneath his yellow belt.

Zelda sits up, backing into the headboard, cramming her knees into her chest. Her eyes travel him slowly, squinting with disbelief. She licks her cracked lips before raising her gaze to his splintered face.

"What…what did you do?"

He crosses those shining black arms across his chest, tipping his head back in an arrogant manner. Ghirahim sighs dramatically.

"How awful! I see this new form of mine frightens you, but it can't be helped. I rather thought you'd find me fetching…disappointed as I am, however, I still have time to change your mind."

Zelda worries her bottom lip between her teeth, hands fisting into the arms of her gown.

He steps toward her.

Oh, please, no, go away, go away, go away –

Zelda closes her eyes as tight as she can, biting her lip so hard that it goes numb. Her shoulders, tense with fright, begin to shudder.

She can smell him as he nears; he smells like smoke. It clings to her clothing as water might.

There is nothing.

Zelda opens one eye, breath clogging her throat; he stands beside her bed, arms still crossed, smiling cruelly.

Then, he reaches down to drag one finger against her tearstained cheek, agonizingly slow, from her temple to her chin. Her flesh crawls over her bones. Zelda flinches away from his touch.

He makes tsking sounds with his tongue, withdrawing his hand.

"Now, that won't do! I can't have you looking so dreadful in my presence. I wonder what it is my darling little bird has been crying over, hm? Why don't you tell me, sweet. I won't repeat it to another soul."

Zelda clenches her teeth, burying her face in her arms.

Nothing I do will harm him, nothing I say will matter, nothing…

Softly, she begins to sob without tears, uncaring of him hearing.

Not even when his hand settles gently atop her head does Zelda stop.

His fingers comb through her golden hair, blunt fingernails scraping her scalp.

Ghirahim stares at her through lowered lashes, thin mouth in a frown. With care, he kneels beside the bed, one hand resting on the mattress, the other still running, slowly, through her hair.

She can feel more than see him smile again.

"It was that Sheikah, wasn't it?"

Zelda throws her head back up, cheeks ruddy, peering beneath her bangs at Ghirahim's face. He kneels so that their eyes are perfectly level; his the murkiest black, hers unsullied blue.

He raises one brow. "You look so surprised! It was an easy guess, really. I know all about that servant of yours, slavering about your heels like a dog in heat. Now that I know, there's no use in hiding it from me."

His fingers tickle beneath her jaw, as someone might scratch the chin of a cat.

"Tell me," he says, plying, "there's no use in hiding it, what did she tell you?"

Zelda's eyelids droop, even as everything in her freezes up like ice in winter. She sucks in a breath through her teeth, jarring.

"No."

His tickling fingers snap away to knot painfully into her hair, jerking her into his chest. Zelda screams, clawing at whatever flesh she can reach, her fingernails splitting as she claws at his metallic arms. She kicks and squirms and punches, even as both of his arms come around her, jerking her up on her feet.

Sensing an opportunity, Zelda rams herself into him, as hard as she can.

Ghirahim staggers for a moment, just long enough for her to escape his grasp. She darts away from his grabbing hands, stumbling out the door and into the hallway, dress billowing around her ankles.

She takes a mere three steps out the door before he appears in front of her, exploding into being out of thin air.

Zelda cries out, too late to stop, too late to turn – she slams into his chest, knocking the air from her own lungs. He catches her before she falls back.

"There there," Ghirahim coos through clenched teeth, eyes sharper than swords. "No need to exhaust yourself. Haven't you seen where this hall leads? It leads to nowhere. To nothing. Escape is futile, Zelda. Don't you remember our terms?"

Dizzy, Zelda tips her head up toward him, lips trembling, eyelashes fluttering. "I don't care," she mutters dazedly, blinking past the whirling dots banding around her vision, "I won't tell you what she said!"

His bare fingers curl, gently, beneath her chin, her breath washing over the sensitive hollow of his palm. Her stomach lurches violently.

Ghirahim leans in close, closer than he has ever come, so that when he speaks against her cheek his pale lips brush her flesh; warm and dry. Zelda squeezes her eyes shut. His breath smells like steel, and death and death and death and –

"Just because she has taken an oath to never tell a lie, it does not mean she is always truthful. Keep that in mind, Your Grace."

At last, Zelda frees herself from his grasp, faltering a few steps away.

"I don't believe you."

Ghirahim brings one hand to his chest in a gesture of sincerity, shaking his head, silvery hair falling across one eye.

"It doesn't matter if you believe me."

He snaps two fingers, vanishing with a flurry of crimson and gold diamonds, his voice crackling against the walls like static.

"There is no such thing as truth."

His words reverberate for a few, slow moments, before they disappear just as he had.

Zelda falls to her knees, slumped over, hair falling away from her neck, hands lying lifelessly beside her.

Through the window behind her, the sun begins to rise.

Outside of the Master Sword, Fi can sense Link's aura, pulsating and calm, as he wanders aimlessly around Skyloft. He had returned hours ago seeking potions and company. Seeing no need for her help, Fi had retreated back into the sword.

Within the blade, there are no walls, no distinguishable landmarks to give her a sense of space; all for the better, being kept in a cage with no bars. She floats serenely in that empty space, glimmering head held down.

Her sightless eyes close.

The air is sticky with smoke and the stench of corpses.

She stands beside her Goddess, hair so shot with gold as to be white, clutching the bloodied Master Sword in one fist. Hylia glows with such ethereal light it bleaches the charred earth where her bare feet meet it, the hem of her blue gown singed, caked with blood.

Fi watches, wordlessly, as Hylia bends down to retrieve a handful of barren, ashy dirt. It falls between her outstretched fingers, lifeless.

Hylia's striking face becomes sullen, eyes losing their brightness.

All around them lay corpses, the ground slippery with their blood. They step silently around the bodies.

Fi feels her foot hit something; she looks down.

Lying on the charred earth is a severed arm, flesh crisped from fire, a few strings of tissue trailing out from where it had been severed, savagely.

Fi raises her head, eyes searching for the body to whomever the arm belonged to, but there are too many to count.

She turns her sightless blue gaze back to Hylia, who stands amongst the dead she was unable to save.

"Your Grace," Fi says, voice echoing, "I calculate a 16% chance of there being survivors in this area. I advise that we leave to continue elsewhere."

Hylia does not answer. A gust of wind picks up her golden hair for a moment, sweeping it around her head. Then, she looks up, as far as she can, baring the elegant line of her throat. Fi follows her gaze toward the dark, roiling sky above.

"If only I could have saved them. They stood no chance, not against Demise and his hordes. Not against Ghirahim."

Fi lowers her head, blue skin shining like gems. She schools a blank stare toward the horizon.

"Your Grace, there is little we can do about them now. I suggest we move on."

Hylia moves nearer, her glowing fingers reaching out to rest, delicately, atop Fi's head. Fi is motionless.

Together, they stand amongst the corpses, the wind thick with death.

Hylia sighs sadly. "Oh, how glad I am that you are unable to feel death as mortals can. But there is still much for us to do, Fi. There are still those we can save."

Hylia lowers her hand as Fi turns to her, nestling closer, as a child seeking solace would do. Hylia drapes one elegant arm about Fi's shoulders.

"Your Grace, what will we do if you cannot defeat Demise? What will become of the humans, of the world? Of us?"

Hylia's shakes her head sullenly.

"I do not know. If my plans fail, we leave our fate to greater hands. My power can only stretch so far."

When her eyes open again, the reddened sunlight shines fiercely into them, hardening her gaze as she turns it skyward.

"This is why you are so integral in my plans, Fi. If I should fail, it is your duty to guide my Hero to defeat Demise, in whatever abhorrent form he takes, in the future. You must stay with him. You must grow with him. Do not forget that."

Beyond them, the sun begins to rise, casting away the shadows and smoke.

"Understood, Your Grace. May the Goddesses strike me down should I fail you."

As she has done many times before, Zelda sits before an extravagant feast laid out before her, covering the table from end to end. With each visit, the foods he presents grow increasingly lavish, more colorful, more exotic.

She examines her reflection in a brass plate, gleaned of every morsel of food.

Ghirahim sits across from her, far enough away that she can't feel the coldness of his breath, for once, but near enough to make her shiver.

Loudly, Ghirahim slams his feet onto the tabletop, a few pieces of strangely-colored fruit rolling to the floor. He leans back in his chair with both arms behind his head, moving one foot in metronomic rhythm to a song she cannot hear.

"I'm happy to see your appetite has returned. I was fearful that I really would have to tie you down and force-feed you! Could you imagine," he chuckles giddily, "Me, feeding a human girl as if she were a newborn babe! Absurd."

Zelda bites her tongue in raging contempt.

Then, from the corner of her eye – how? – appears a beautiful red apple, un-bruised, floating as if suspended by an invisible line of string. Ghirahim nods his head at her from across the table.

With pale fingers, Zelda tugs it from the air, grasping it gently, its red skin strangely warm, pulsating, like a heartbeat.

Magic.

Ghirahim regards her with half-open eyes, unsmiling. "Is this still unfamiliar to you?"

She frowns at the apple in her hands. "Yes," she says with finality, setting it on the plate before her.

Then -

It melts into a hissing snake, just like that, in a blink, and Zelda flings her arms up to shield her face –

This is no fairytale, child...

She cries out, but nothing comes, there are no fangs, no serpent eyes. Cautiously, Zelda lowers her hands.

The snake has metamorphosed back into an apple, sitting harmlessly on her plate. Now, it gleams with the blackness of crow feathers, a color so dark it reflects and refracts everything around it.

Ghirahim cackles, the shape of insanity rattling inside her skull. He flings another apple in her direction, where it lands harmlessly a ways behind her. Zelda sets her jaw, gripping the table with both hands, thumbs digging into the rosewood until her knuckles ache.

Ghirahim only laughs again, near to screaming.

"I never tire of how easily you humans scare!"

Zelda averts her gaze, darting her eyes to the great bay window beside her, which shines starlight into the room. Aside from a few candles spilling wax onto the table on which they rest, the room is obscured in darkness.

Everything seems to become darker, each time they meet.

Ghirahim rises from his chair, strolling to stand, wordlessly, before the window. The light and shadow cuts his form into halves. With a sharp snap! of two fingers, the apple bullets back into his hand. He turns it this way and that, examining it in the silvery light.

Where his metallic flesh meets it, the apple begins to slowly turn red again, glimmering bloody.

His lips quirk into a half smile.

"It may be just an apple to you now, but before it meant so much more. Do you not remember anything?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Zelda lies. It coats her tongue like oil.

He thins his lips so tightly they nearly disappear. "Hmph," Ghirahim sighs, placing the apple on the table.

Immediately, Zelda sweeps it away with one hand, leveling a glare at him from where she sits.

She expects him to rage at her. He doesn't.

With deliberate slowness, Ghirahim uncrosses his arms, muscles tensing, fingers twitching. He begins to laugh.

"You did that exact thing to me, thousands of years ago. How destiny makes fools of us, Zelda – Your Grace. Zelda. You truly haven't changed."

Zelda grasps her head, groaning.

"Your Grace…Hylia…Goddess†¦.Zelda, Zelda, Zelda, sweet, Zelda, Goddess…"

She shuts her eyes. Opens them. Breathes roughly through her nose.

Something within her implodes.

Zelda leaps to her feet, knocking her chair further back, platters of food smashing to the floor. Anger shakes through every inch of her skin.

"What does it mean!?" She shrieks, voice cracking, her eyes wide, glaring moonlight.

Her shrieking becomes more piercing. "What does it all mean!? What do the dreams mean!? Why do I hear things – hear things I've never said! Why!? It can't be…" Her words break off into a whimper.

Like color from wet paper, her anger drains in one sudden deluge, as she sinks, boneless, empty, back into the chair. Her hair hangs in long streams over her lowered head. She holds her face in her hands, gazing blankly through the slats her fingers make.

Ghirahim shakes his head mournfully. "Oh, you poor thing. Today has been so emotional for you, I'm sure. I do apologize, I forget how unstable human women are, I really should be more…delicate with you."

He comes to stand behind her, resting both ebony hands on the back of her chair. He doesn't touch her – but he stares, yearning, at the pale expanse of neck the part of her hair reveals.

He tames the urge to wrap his hands around it.

Instead, he grips the chair so hard it creaks.

"You've probably suspected it for some time, so there's really no use in me telling you. It's hard to believe that you – you tiny, frail girl, house the soul of Hylia herself. How different you two are, but how alike…."

Zelda peers at him from the long fall of her hair, unwittingly baring more of her nape to him.

Ghirahim hisses through his teeth.

"If you were still a Goddess, I would not need to be so gentle with you, so patient, if only you were of not such use to me…sweet, Zelda, Goddess. What I could do to you, were you mine…"

He ghosts a few knuckles down her nape, barely-there, just enough for her to feel it.

Zelda chokes, heart in her throat, skin crawling with insect legs, razor-sharp. It feels like the whole world is opening up in her chest, expanding past the borders of her being, spilling over like so much sand.

"Don't touch me," she whispers tightly.

His hand lingers for a moment, there on her nape, fingers curled softly into his palm.

Ghirahim growls, lips curling up like an animal's would, dark eyes thinning into ebony slits. His hand trembles with unspoken rage.

"If that's what you want, Your Grace…"

He withdraws his hand. Zelda breathes a sigh without thinking it.

The candles around them sputter out.

It doesn't surprise her when he comes to her, again, in the nightfall.

Zelda sits before her vanity, staring with detached coldness into the mirror. He stands behind her, casually propped against the doorframe, silvery hair shining in the candlelight. Though she can't see it, he holds something in his arms.

Her voice is clipped, tight, but emotionless. "Why are you here?"

Around her, the darkness chokes inward, shadows wanting to be hands, wanting to pull her deeper inside them. She stares at the tallow candle burning upon her vanity. The shadows seem to shirk away from it.

He steps into the light, wearing a soft smile so unfit for such a cruel face.

"Oh, I do feel terrible about my manners in our last meeting. How unkind of me, how uncivil, even! But you just had to know the truth, no matter how hard it is to swallow." He grins, catlike, madly.

Zelda picks up a comb, brushing her hair; anything but to look at him.

"You didn't come here to apologize."

He inclines his head at a queer angle, white hair falling away from his face.

"No, I certainly did not. How clever you are."

Zelda ignores his quip, continues to brush her hair; the comb finds a knot, and she hisses in pain.

He chuckles softly behind her. Zelda glares at his reflection, yanking the comb out to press it, with a final snap, onto the vanity. The candle beside her sputters.

With the casual grace of any feline, he strides, with quiet footsteps, into the light, so that Zelda is finally able to see what he holds.

In his palms he clasps a pool of black material, so dark it bleeds easily into the nighttime shadows.

Zelda watches, wide-eyed, as it expands, threading down to his feet and across the floor, like a spill of ink.

His eyes shimmer devilishly in the candlelight.

Ghirahim smiles, full of pointed teeth, thin white lips wanting to be knife-edges instead of flesh.

"Here," he says, offering it to her. "A small token of my gratitude, Your Grace. For all you've done, and all you will do. Indeed, this pales in comparison to what I will inevitably take from you. I think you'll look good in it; black is much more your color."

Mutely, Zelda takes the garment from him, examining it in the dim light; if she gazes at it a certain way, the fabric sparkles ever so slightly, smoother than even silk.

She tosses it to the floor.

Ghirahim snarls at her, teeth clashing, a vein bubbling up along his left temple. "You ungrateful urchin!"

He raises a hand as if to strike her, ebony fingers writhing – but Zelda neither flinches nor cowers away. Though her whole body trembles, she tips her chin up, blue eyes wide and vivid in the moonshine.

All at once, his anger vanishes.

Ghirahim lowers his hand, face suddenly lighting with insane mirth, that same hand coming to rest, in a strangely effeminate manner, on his hip. He laughs at her.

"Have it your way, sweet."

Zelda's lips part, carefully. "And if I don't wear it?"

Ghirahim smiles mysteriously.

It chills all the way through her.

"I could always undress you myself, if that's what you'd prefer…."

He reaches for the collar of her gown, and Zelda does flinch, this time, jerking away until her back meets a wall behind her.

Ghirahim chuckles, eyes so bright with wickedness they almost glow.

"That's what I thought," he says. He snaps two black fingers, and the ebony gown whisks up from the floor, pooling into her arms.

Zelda watches as he turns, white hair sweeping as he moves, to walk out of the room at last.

She looks to the dress in her hands, brows lowering; she knows it would be foolish, suicidal, even, to refuse his request. She can feel his presence just outside her bedroom, and she won't allow herself to wonder why he stays, or why he wants this from her.

Her white gown drops to the floor.

When she emerges from her bedroom, Ghirahim awaits, leaning on the wall across from her. His arms are crossed, one ankle thrown over the other.

The fabric is lighter – and more sheer – than Zelda has anticipated. She can clearly see the outline of her own arms and legs through the dark cloth. The dress clings to her waist and hips so as to leave little to the imagination, the rest falling lazily down her legs, drifting lightly with her steps.

Nervously, she tugs at the long, tight sleeves, embroidered with fine lace detail, which spools around her thin wrists, to reach across the back of her hands. The lace meets between her middle fingers. Her back is left bare, the dress opening up across her shoulder blades, dipping low.

The cool air has erupted gooseflesh on her skin, nipples hardening beneath the fabric. Zelda hides herself with her arms, hands fisted tightly around her shoulders.

Ghirahim grins, moonlight glinting off his pointed teeth and jewelry. "That suits you much better, I think. I was so weary of that awful blue thing, it hardly did you justice."

Zelda remains where she is, a good arm's length away. "Is that all you want?"

He tips his head, silvery hair falling away from his face, his blue earring glimmering enticingly. "Well, no, and yes. I only want to see you in it. Turn around for me, will you?" He makes a circular motion with one hand.

She bites her lips. Still covering herself, Zelda does so, the dress swirling away from her legs.

His grin is a lopsided slice, white lips pulled at a strange angle. He claps, slowly. "Very good. I knew that would look spectacular on you. I admit it not being very suitable for cold nights, but it's certainly better to look at. Come here."

Zelda goes cold all over. She stands awkwardly in the moonlight. Ghirahim makes an impatient noise, nostrils flaring.

"Come closer or I will drag you closer, girl."

With quivering knees, Zelda does so, stopping before him, partially hidden in shadow. He tilts her head up with a few fingers, that same jaundice smile curling his lips. She wonders, blankly, if his lips are naturally that color –

Zelda's insides twist into impossible knots, as he dips his head to press his mouth to her forehead, the edges of his teeth leering dangerously against her skin, his lips surprisingly warm for being so pale.

His hands settle firmly around her throat, fingers ghosting across the hairs on her nape. Zelda whimpers helplessly against his neck.

Ghirahim mouths rather than speaks against her forehead, erotic, repulsive, sending razor-wire stings down her spine.

"You'll never be the same…Zelda, sweet, Goddess. Not after this."

How can those terrified vague fingers push

The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?

And how can body, laid in that white rush,

But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

"Leda and the swan" - William Butler Yeats

AN: This chapter took forever! Consider this the end of "act one", per say. The next chapter takes place a few weeks after this one. I would really, really appreciate your feedback, and thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed so far.