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“I have confirmed the eradication of the demon king.”
Link’s sword dragged downwards in his grip as the brilliant light beaming from his blade faded to a silvery sheen, the last of Demise’s darkness vanishing wisplike in its glow. The dark clouds dissipated from the sky above, leaving clear blue reflections over endless water. A faint smile split Link’s lips… and he slid down sideways, knees buckling helplessly beneath him.
He hit the watery surface with a resounding splash, agitated waves rippling out from where he fell. Breathing through his nose, face half buried in the water, Link watched through one eye as a deep red stained that perfect blue reflection in slow, lazy swirls.
The hilt of the sword pulsed in his hand, which still clung weakly to the weapon.
“Master Link,” Fi’s voice whispered in his ear. “You are losing blood at an unsustainable rate.”
She cut off, the silence lengthening as she failed to suggest any remedying course of action. Link’s smile twisted ruefully, a groaning cough spasming up through him. No potions. No fairies. The pain that he’d managed to shove aside through those final, crucial moments of battle had redoubled with Demise’s death, his wounds exacting all that was their due.
“Zel–da?” he murmured in question, and Fi responded at once.
“With the demon king’s death, I predict that the one you call Zelda will awaken very soon.” A short pause, and then: “I am certain that Impa and Groose will provide her with all the care she needs…”
…In his absence. Of course.
Link tried to nod, the breath rushing out of him in a long, relieved sigh. He had saved what he set out to save, and that… would have to be enough. It might have been nice to enjoy the fruits of what he’d done… maybe see her one last time? But if this was all he could have, then at least—
Splash splash. Splash splash. Splash splash.
A shadow fell over the water as an unseen figure limped towards him, its black reflection rippling behind his own. Link tensed slowly. He knew, even before the figure crouched down to tilt Link’s head with unexpected care, what he would see.
Milky white eyes met his half-lidded gaze, set against a darkened, muscular form Link could still hardly reconcile with the man whose path across the surface had entwined so often with his own. Vivid against the smooth skin of his chest sat a fractured red diamond as big as Link’s hand, pulsing with an angry light half-obscured by Ghirahim’s fingers pressed tenderly against it—injured but alive, like Link himself.
At this rate, Link suspected that Ghirahim would outlast him still.
With a final, feeble glare, the last of the fight drained out of him. Link’s eyes fell shut, awaiting whatever fate Ghirahim intended to mete out. He could only hasten the inevitable at this point.
It might even be nice, Link thought half-wistfully… an end to pain.
Ghirahim’s breath rasped over him, as agonized as Link felt. The hand cupping his cheek withdrew, leaving his head to splash back against the ground—and two arms worked their way beneath him, one around his shoulders, and one under the crook of his knees.
Link’s eyes shot open, a pained gasp pulled from his lips as his body was lifted up. Water poured off his form as he rose, dripping down the sword that dangled uselessly from his fingers.
Head draped back over Ghirahim’s arm, Link could only stare up at his tightly set jaw with growing confusion and dread.
“Wha…” he slurred, and had to stop to cough. “What are you doing?”
The blue sky faded above him, dissolving into darkness. Link’s breath caught in his chest as he thought dizzily that this might be the end… but then it reappeared again just as blue, dotted with distant white clouds. Canyon walls rose up on every side, spiraling up around them—the Sealed Grounds, where their final duel was fought and Ghirahim’s chest carved open.
Clank clank. Clank Clank. Clank clank.
Ghirahim limped from the center of the pit with Link cradled helplessly in his arms, dripping a dark path behind them of mingled blood and water. Link’s grip tightened compulsively around his sword, jolts of pain shooting through him with each of Ghirahim’s halting steps forward… and a swirling blue figure of metal and fabric emerged from the blade with a gentle run of chimes.
Ghirahim’s progress stopped, and Link gasped weakly.
“If you proceed at this rate, my master will die before you reach the top.” Floating in front of them both, Fi said it matter-of-factly—a simple calculation of blood loss over time. “His bleeding must be slowed if he is to have any chance of survival.”
Link’s dazed mind could still hardly comprehend that his own survival might be Ghirahim’s priority now when the opposite had so recently been his goal. Ghirahim’s blank eyes guarded his thoughts either way, his breathing still labored and harsh… but slowly, the arms holding Link lowered.
Laying him carefully against packed dirt and tufts of grass, Ghirahim knelt down himself, taking the hem of Link’s tunic in both hands. As easily as tearing through paper, he tore off a thick strip of fabric and got to work, pulling it tight above a bleeding gash in Link’s arm.
Ghirahim knew without searching where the worst of Link’s injuries were, having inhabited the sword that caused them. Link’s leg got the same treatment, with a strip tied against his thigh, and an improvised bandage wrapped around his chest so tightly that his ribs creaked. Then he was lifted in Ghirahim’s arms once more, the same halting pattern of steps carrying him out of the pit and up the spiraling path. The pain had dulled to a rhythmic throb under Ghirahim’s ministrations, his body beating in time with his heart—in time with the halting steps.
Thud thud. Clank clank.
Minutes lost their meaning as Link was carried laboriously up the endless path, jostled and jerked with every slow step up. Ghirahim’s harsh breathing filled his ears, pained but determined. Gray crept in along the edges of Link’s vision, and he wondered if he would make it to Zelda just in time to die in her arms.
“Demise is dead,” he said thickly, staring up at Ghirahim’s face from below.
Ghirahim said nothing.
“I killed him,” Link persisted.
Still nothing.
“Will you die too?”
Ghirahim’s steps slowed, the downward tilt to his head the only indication that those milky eyes were looking at Link.
“Do you want me to?” he asked in a hoarsely amused whisper–the first words he’d spoken. Link’s head fell back against Ghirahim’s arm, spinning.
“I don’t know.”
Clank clank. Clank clank. Clank clank.
Just when Link had convinced himself that the end to their journey would never come, the doors to the Temple of Hylia loomed abruptly in his vision. He let out a wavering breath as Ghirahim took his last, clanking step and went still.
Fi’s chimes rang out loudly in the sudden silence.
“You have saved my master’s life.” She spoke again for the first time since predicting Link’s death, spinning up from behind them to float out in front. “Despite the fact that you are dying your—”
“Then let’s not have it be in vain, shall we?” Ghirahim’s rasping snarl interrupted her. “I have brought him this far. Get help.”
Inclining her head, Fi floated backwards, rippling through the stone door. Ghirahim sank to his knees, jarring a weak groan out of Link that he barely noticed as the truth of his reality sank in. Zelda was behind that door.
“You saved me,” Link murmured. Ghirahim’s laughter came out as more of a pained hiss.
“So I did,” he agreed.
“But you’re dying.”
“So I am.”
Link bit his cracking lip, remembering Ghirahim’s wild laughter as Demise was raised—and the sword pulled ruthlessly from Ghirahim’s chest. “Can I save you?”
“Not everyone can be saved, little hero,” Ghirahim rasped. Link’s brow drew down, a dangerous sign of determination.
“I can try.”
Pale eyes met Link’s again, considering… and he reached for Link’s hand. Their smallest fingers entwined as Ghirahim led it up to the broken diamond embedded in his chest, pressing Link’s palm against it. With a sharp crack, it broke free of its setting.
“Then try.”
Link was sprawled out half-conscious when Impa burst through the door, the hilt of his sword in one hand and a fractured red diamond pulsing weakly in the other. Try as anyone might, neither could be pried from his stubborn grip.