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The spirit maiden danced with a grace befitting her divine origins, little though Ghirahim liked to admit it. Moving so lightly through the lively steps that her feet might have been floating, he could almost believe that she still bore Hylia's feathered wings on her back, tucked somewhere outside of physical sight. Link danced like a log in comparison—though on second appraisal, Ghirahim had to give him more credit than that. The boy wasn't stomping on Zelda’s toes, after all, unlike Fledge dancing nearby with poor Karane. Link's style consisted of accuracy without artistry, though with enough enthusiasm to almost make up for it. How odd that all his light-footedness seemed reserved for the more violent dance of swords, where he moved nimbly enough to keep even Ghirahim on his toes… a nod to his true calling, perhaps?
Privately savoring the notion, Ghirahim lounged against the wall of a newly erected building, only half noticing the wary looks he received as he watched the festivities unfold. These Skyloftians-turned-surface dwellers still feared him, despite the months he had served already as their hero's sword—a primal fear, perhaps, unless that fool Groose had secretly run off at the mouth. Link and Zelda had agreed from the start that certain aspects of Ghirahim’s past were best kept hidden, his previous master and role in Zelda’s disappearance highest among them. He had certainly not done anything overtly threatening to the residents of this tiny, budding village. And yet, they feared him.
The whole situation fell well beneath his notice, though he’d caught Link frowning over it more than once. Link was frowning at him now, Ghirahim realized, directing it over Zelda’s shoulder as they turned in sync, and he met it with a scornful expression of his own. What had Link expected him to do here tonight? Mingle?
The music finally paused as the lively song wound to its end, prompting the dancing couples to bow and switch partners (in Karane’s case with remarkable alacrity). Link leaned in towards Zelda, whispering something in her ear before vanishing into the milling throng, and Ghirahim half raised an eyebrow. Likely he'd just gone for more food, though Link might have finally tired of this tedious celebration. Compared to the more demonic gatherings Ghirahim knew, this less raucous human affair contained a disappointing (if expected) lack of bloodshed—though of course, those had often erupted haphazardly in the throes of battles won. Not like this one, which commemorated nothing more than the laboriously slow growth of food and its eventual harvest.
Another song started up, slower than the last but no less cheerful. Fledge had moved on to his next victim—some girl in a bandana and horrifically flared pants whose name Ghirahim had never bothered to learn. Zelda had produced a harp, wandering to join the musicians with plucked out harmonies that flowed from her fingers with ease, and Link…
Ghirahim frowned when Link’s bobbing green hat still had not emerged among the dancers. The food tables remained conspicuously absent of green, as well. If Link thought he could escape on his own while leaving Ghirahim here waiting—
A hand grabbed his arm, pulling him from his perch by the wall, and if he hadn’t had that hand memorized from the hundreds of times it had gripped his hilt, Ghirahim might have expressed his surprise in regrettably drastic fashion. Instead he let it pull him through the crowd until they reached their apparent destination, and it slid down his arm to grasp his own blackened hand, while another reached up to rest lightly on his shoulder.
Ghirahim blinked. Link smiled blandly up at him.
"Care to dance?" he asked, a bit too late for etiquette's sake considering that the dance had already started. Link's cheeks shone pink from the exertion of tromping around with Zelda, and his messy hair, mercifully absent the hat that always covered it, felt deceitful in how easily it had disguised his presence. Sweat clung to the base of those dark blonde locks—the reason for the hat's removal?
Ghirahim's legs moved automatically through the simple steps as he considered his young master, who made a brave attempt at leading him with an unfortunate portion of his usual grace.
"Presumptive of you," he murmured, just loud enough to be heard over the din of laughter and music. "Any particular motive for such impertinence?"
Link had the nerve to look confused.
"You like to dance," he said, as if that was answer enough. Perhaps it was. Link wore his cheerful naiveté like a cloak sometimes, and even Ghirahim couldn't always sort out how much of it was real, and how much artifice. "Someone had to ask you?"
The hint of a question?
A number of potential reactions ran through Ghirahim's mind, considered and discarded in quick succession. He could extract himself easily enough, leaving Link clutching nothing but vanishing diamonds. He could also stand stubbornly still, refuse to dance, and let Link discover just how easily he could drag around a sword that didn't want to move. He could reject Link quietly—dramatically—at knifepoint, even—but…
A quick glance around revealed their audience. Though most had the sense not to stare openly, nearly every couple surrounding them shared the same nervous, almost scandalized smile, as if they feared the consequence of making their amusement too obvious. The spirit maiden in particular watched him closely, keeping a pointed eye on him over her harp though her lips shared the same bland smile as Link.
There would be no consequence, of course—Ghirahim wouldn't risk this precarious arrangement with Link simply to save face in front of some humans—yet neither could he let anyone think him scared off by something as innocuous as an invitation to dance. The steps themselves were straightforward enough, easily gleaned through his brief time spent observing… and as Link had pointed out, he did enjoy it.
His lips curved into a grin.
"I accept your request," Ghirahim said, and the moment Link started to relax, added, "but I will not be led."
Link's eyes barely had the chance to widen before Ghirahim spun him around, reversing the position of their hands.
Backpedaling to match Ghirahim's smooth advance, Link's startled face swiveled between watching Ghirahim and his own two feet in a desperate attempt to avoid being trampled. Lack of practice in this secondary role made him even less sure of his steps than before, though Ghirahim managed to steer them without incident through the greater pattern of dancing couples, humming in amusement as Link fought with surprise against an unexpected dip backwards.
"Come now, Link, have I ever allowed you to wield me with so little poise?" he hissed, the tip of his tongue whipping out mockingly as he raised Link back up. "If you favor only my sword with your attempts at finesse, I will begin to be jealous of myself."
Face red now from more than mere exertion, Link opened his mouth as if to protest—and closed it again, his lips forming a thin line of determination. An abrupt change swept over him, as drastic as if a switch had been pressed, and his stance shifted along with his center of gravity. Back straight with just a hint of fluidity, eyes blazing with the same defiance that had caught Ghirahim’s interest from the very start, Link danced, the superior reflexes he showed in battle at last made manifest.
Ghirahim's own eyes glowed. So Link had finally remembered that he held a sword.
"You've been holding out on me," he whispered, uncertain if Link could hear him or not. Experimentally, he directed Link with a light hint of pressure through a gliding spin, and found him as responsive an opponent as ever. "I should punish you for that."
Except that Link had held out on the spirit maiden first, and only for Ghirahim revealed his true potential. There was a pattern to that, he decided, glancing once more at Zelda and relishing in her look of surprise. Her chosen hero could never have defeated Demise without trying himself again and again on Ghirahim's sword first, and he hoped at times that his necessity haunted her.
The music picked up in pace and volume, the steps coming quick and intense. Link said nothing—he never did in the midst of battle, as silent as stone and just as unyielding—but perspiration broke out in beads along his face, trailing down the edge of his jaw. His hair swept and stuck in strange patterns across his forehead, disheveled but not wholly unappealing. Link might still have lacked a certain flair to his movements, too direct and to the point for Ghirahim's taste… but style could be taught. Idly, Ghirahim considered other dances he might teach this man if he was amenable, of perhaps less wholesome origins—dances whose quick, subtle movements pushed the bounds of even his own abilities, requiring strength in muscles Link likely didn't know existed. What was a dance without challenge, after all… without something a little more physical?
For now they moved through this tamer dance of Hylia's people, both withdrawing and rejoining as the pattern of steps demanded. The outer world fell away as their attention narrowed in on small details—the clash of eyes and brush of skin—blue on black and flushed tan on cool, steely gray—
And the music ended in a moment of silence that rang out unexpectedly. Laughing chatter burst to life, as abrupt as it was unwelcome, and the spell between them broke. Panting, looking slightly dazed, Link gave Ghirahim a bow that he returned with almost his usual smoothness, convincing himself that he had not been nearly so affected.
"Satisfied?" he asked softly, with the hint of a smirk—and was taken aback by the positively sly look Link gave him in response.
“Well…”
Brushing his hands together and placing them on his hips, Link gave a show of looking around meaningfully, and only then did Ghirahim realize how the tenor of the voices surrounding them had changed. Those glances sent his way felt more curious now than wary, and the bubble of instinctive fear surrounding him had all but vanished—his presence made human in their eyes at last by his part in the harvest dance.
"It's a start," Link decided, wiping sweat from his brow and settling his pointed green hat at a jaunty angle on his head. "I’m done dancing for the night, but you keep going if you want. You looked like you were having fun.”
With a wink, he turned to leave, and Ghirahim couldn't help but admire his exit. Link really was as conniving as any demon he’d ever met at times, though to completely different ends.
A nervous cough caught his attention, and he glanced down to see Fledge looking up at him anxiously. From the flurry of motion around them, it was time to switch partners for the next dance.
“U-um,” he managed to squeak out. His face, torn between pale white and deep red, had settled on both in splotches. “Everyone else is, so do you… I mean, are we supposed t-to…?”
Ghirahim snapped, leaving Fledge gaping at vanishing diamonds, and as he left caught the edges of Link's laughter. Conniving indeed, he thought, though in that as in so much else they were equally matched.