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transskywardsword · 3 months

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it is past midnight but the need for ghirademi never sleeps.... anyways, im sick and tired of the insistence on ghirahim being brainwashed and demise being abusive so HERE have a battlefield meet-cute and consensual turncoating <3 also trying out a fun weird writing style

His Mistress has gentle hands and fierce, ferocious fingers. her touch is soft as a spring wind and bites like a winter storm. she is everything, eternal, indescribable, and she forms him of metal and sinew, steal and blood. She pours molten knowledge into him, forges divine strength into his bones and devotion to his master in his blood. Hylia is an artist and Ghirahim is art, a maker and creation, and God and a gift.

"Tell me of my master,” Ghirahim asks as she works. The days of bloodshed have become brighter and clearer, just beyond the horizon, and Link's freedom from imprisonment is soon to be traded instead for the prison of war. Hylia sings his praises as she plunges him in holy waters to cool, spills her love with a loose, smitten tongue.

Link, she tells him, is kind and courageous, with hands callused by hardship, and a soul that is bright and holy and perfect as she is.

“You must be holy and perfect, too,” his Mistress tells him, “for you are to be his, to have and to hold, to weld and to swing. Through you, he shall strike down evil and the Surface shall be safe."

And what an honor, to strike down evil, to have and be held, what joy, what divine providence—

Except.

Except Link is kind and courageous. His hands are calloused, and wrists are scarred from shackles. The marks of jailers marr his back, and his voice has been long since left behind.

He is utterly disappointing.

Hylia has spun tales of greatness, of power, of a man like no other, and instead, her Champion is short and soft. His hands are rough but his touch is gentle, unfitting of a soldier. He is weak, weak, weak—

He carries Ghirahim into battle and signs words of nonsense, nothing like the military strategy Ghirahim knows. He chooses a lowly soldier’s life over the potential of victory, and the enemy takes the front. They’re pushed back, back back—

Link celebrates the saved lives while the Surface burns. Ghirahim was promised a master of divine proportion and instead receives a child.

(Children, it seems will haunt him in this life and then the next)

(Will he ever escape big hearts and bright smiles and idiotic children?)

(Hylis gifted him to a child, and then, centuries later, the skies will bring him another one to finish him off)

Link loves his humans. Loves them, adores them, lifts them up when they fall, fills their drink when they thirst, hold them as they die, chooses loss over victory if it means that more of the hairless apes survive—

Ghirahim was promised a master like no other. Link is more than utterly ordinary—he is utterly pathetic.

“I made you with a heart,” his Mistress tells him, “so that you will love him. I made you with a mind, so that you will guide him. I made you strong, so you can destroy his enemies.”

He has a heart, and it yearns for different hands, deserving hands.

He has a mind, and he can feel it shriveling as his master acts against his promptings.

He is strong, but in Link's incapable hands, he is as weak as a bird's hollow bone.

He is held, owned, but he is wanting.

What sword did not love their forger? What weapon didn’t love their wielder?

What was he, without love for his owners?

Pointless. Meaningless.

Alone.

He was alone.

His Mistress tells him his master’s enemy is a vile beast of flame and tar. His heart is as cold as his mane is flaming, and he carries cruelness on his head like a crown. He writhes and rages on the battlefield, an ugly beast of a man, if he could even be called such.

He fights like a flame, and carries with him an electricity that even Link cannot match. He is as wide as a mountain, as tall as a corpse, and he carries with him the grandest of swords, each unable to hold up to his massive grip

He is, in short, beautiful.

“So you’ve found yourself a man to fight in a quarrel of gods, Hylia” he purrs when Link first rises to meet him, all lightning and flame and tar, “How disappointing.”

Ghirahim should defend his master, should despise the creature before him, but-- Link is disappointing. He will always be disappointing.

Demise is exhilarating

Demise does not falter, does not fall, and when Link holds Ghirahim in hand, the God looks at him with such hunger that Ghirahim’s heart yerns to be eaten. He has never been hungered after before. Created, made, wanted, gifted, but never hungered, and when Link falls under a shattered blade in the heat of battle, Ghirahim rolling from his hand, and the God plucks his hilt from the ground, the lightning that scorches his metal feels erotic and purifying in its wrongness, in its absoluteness.

He was not made for mortal hands that gave and gave and gave, and would give until they crumpled and died. He was made for a being who took, who had taken him.

"Shall I take your pretty little sword, human?" The God croons, "Since you seem to like leaving your things lying around?"

His trip tightens, and Ghiriham knows there is no need to take. Not when Ghirahim has already freely given what Link never had to begin with.

Hylia's words are full of bitter anger and despair when her sword spirit does not return from battle, settled happily instead in a far greater man's palm. Link, as usual, says nothing at all.

Ghirahim's heart pounds in his throat, three times the size it ever was, and as Demise holds tight to him, it seems he has found the worthy Master he was made for.

#ghirademi #ghirademise #ghirahim #demise #hylia #first hero #first link #my writing #skyward sword #long post

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