Chapter Five

I left my blade with an easy azure somersault, straightening my floating figure in midair. I let my cloaked appendages swim gently in the air as I took in his appearance.

He had the cloak back on, I noticed, and his shoulders seemed stiffly stationed. I immediately recognized he was under some sort of tension unrelated to our current encounter.

In a fluid motion, Ghirahim transferred the blade from the balance between his gloved hands, and swung it in a downward arc, placing it under the crook of his arm, holding it by its hilt. He was watching me with a studious expression that held no taunt, examining my form; I could detect the subtle glaze of recollection shimmering over his brown eyes.

I knew he was waiting for an answer.

I gave him a fact – a reliable concrete fact, appearing so deceptively innocuous in the telling revelations that drowned it. "Your magic has improved," I commented.

He arched an eyebrow just the slightest, and I could feel the intelligent mind behind his gaze grasp swiftly upon the connotations, seizing on the logical inferences that followed it.

He lifted his chin by just the slightest degree, and seemed to shift his weight so he was leaning back on his booted heels while he observed me.

My expressionless eyes watched him, and I waited, the unknown variables of the ages, the events that had passed since our association so long ago muddling the accuracy of my calculations predicting his response.

The smallest of a smile flickered a cross his silvery lips, and I could see the question he wasn't voicing written plainly in his purple-rimmed gaze. ...But he didn't ask.

He easily swung the blade up to rest back on his palms, and he turned it over carefully in his gaze, with the similar grace of a cleric handling a blessed relic.

Ghirahim took in the changes since he had first handled the sword in the Skyview Temple. I watched him test its sharpness, saw his fingers delicately stroke the purple wings that had replaced its previous teal hilt, and saw his eyes rake the lengthened stature of the blade. Above all, the way he directed it away from his sleek pale form confessed he sensed the holy energy of the Goddesses emanating from its metal.

"I see you no longer have issues slicing through the handmaids of evil." His tone was easy, though it did not escape my notice that he was studying my glassy features, looking for some signal that betrayed the extent to which I'd recovered my memory.

He continued while I was considering his words.

He shook his head, his eyes narrowed behind his silky white bangs, no longer bothering to mask his confusion. "How is it possible...?" he murmured, asking himself more than addressing me.

His eyes caught mine again, and I felt his mind attempting to pierce my own. "You died," he began, and the words came so slowly, even while they increased in volume. His weight shifted backward gracefully, and I could see the puzzlement behind his eyes.

"I heard your blade shatter." He stated harshly, quietly, eyes glancing from the foreign blade back to me. The energy around us rose, and I recognized the flare in his temper as he continued, felt his grip tighten around the blade.

"I found your broken form laying like so many shards of glass in the burnt remnants of forest..." He cut himself off, and there was something in his voice, a distinct emotion I was attempting to recognize.

His next words came out in a hiss.

"I buried you."

My calculations arriving at a conclusion: Betrayal, I realized, served as the biting edge that bordered his words.

I remained floating motionless, and I saw frustration beginning to seep into his aristocratic features at my lack of response. He turned from me, an elegant spin that placed a pace between us.

His next words caused an energy to press against my analytic composure, an unknown force that nearly pierced through the logical calm that was my homeostasis.

"From all I've seen of you, spirit, I'm beginning to believe once more that she did perish in that battle."

His words struck me like a physical blow. And I felt a rush, a flash of recollection overtaking my consciousness. A blinding laceration, an excruciating pain as my very soul was eternally severed from the blade into which I was born. A last image, of my broken former body laying shattered, irreparably destroyed and now vacant of the life form that had inhabited it.

When I blinked, I saw he had turned in my direction, sensing a silent intensity as the memory of my original sword rippled throughout my consciousness. I remembered, more fully now...

There, again, an unrecognizable force threatening to press in on my composed state of being. I could feel it hammering at me, pounding against the walls of my calm.

I turned my head up to his, seeing expectation in his dark irises.

I whispered one word.

"Where?" If I didn't know any better, I'd have thought I detected...something...in my voice.

The Demon Lord's his facial muscles seemed to relax, his posture took on its easy, natural poise. He took several silent steps toward me, his movements that of a stealthy, prowling predator examining its target.

I could feel his grip tighten ever so slightly against my hilt, and I began considering the prudence of devising a method to cause him to relinquish possession of the blessed instrument.

He was close to me, I realized, perhaps a foot within my personal space. I watched him, a carefully guarded mask setting over his expression.

His words were calculated, I knew, and I wondered if he fully realized just how many memories his actions and statements had unlocked. His words came slowly, his tone a misleadingly low, casual timbre that was feigned. "In a plateau in the Lanayru desert, within sight of the Temple of Time and the desert mountain range."

My vision faded to a blackness that yielded fleeting images of a pale blue entity in the shape of a young woman, dancing, spinning with a tall, graceful white figure, twirling in an exquisite combination of ballet and more formal dances. For a few seconds, I heard beautiful notes, and realized the young woman was singing.

I now saw the same tall white figure standing directly in front of me, and I saw a slight satisfaction in his still wistful brown eyes. "So you do remember," he said lightly, quietly. His words were gentler, and I realized by the small smirk on his face that he looked rather pleased with himself. I frowned.

"I remember quite a lot of things, now." My voice was calm, a fact that was comfortable, reliable in this moment where uncertainty pounded on the jade border around my consciousness.

I inhaled deeply, spewing more unwavering, reliable facts.

"It was my fate to die in that battle." I paused, and he continued watching me, his closeness beginning to border on the unnerving. "But I...wasn't ready."

His eyes narrowed, puzzlement ebbing as he gazed once again at the holy blade in his hands, then back at my spirit, the purest of the two that inhabited the Goddess's realm.

I saw the evidence of realization dawning on his expression, and our sentences welded together as if in a smooth soliloquy. "Hylia..." he muttered disdainfully.

"She forged a holy blade."

"After the battle...?" his eyes raised to capture my own.

"...I offered anything."

A flash of energy. I felt an instance of dread, born from an old familiarity with this creature's unpredictable variances in temper. His grip tightened on the blade, and I drew in a sharp breath, feeling his temper zenith. With a shiver, I sensed his blood, dark and rich, beginning to stain the metal on my sword.

His voice carried within it endless depths of anger and betrayal:

"You gave her everything."

I blinked, my instincts flaring a second too late -

He had always been fast, I remembered. I felt him seize the back of my neck, not threateningly, but with a passionate violence, and even as I struggled to float backwards, I felt the familiar energy of his magic pulse over my spirit in waves, nearly paralyzing me in their intensity.

I felt a coldness seize my chest. It's only an illusion, I knew, a mere visual projection of the entity in his memory.

I looked down at my cloaked appendages, but I saw arms, instead, surrounded by a blue cloak, a pale yet humanlike tinge to what appeared to be soft skin. It's only an illusion, I reminded myself, seeing strands of shoulder length blue hair brushing my petite shoulders.

Instead of floating, my heeled boots lay firmly on the ground, my legs decorated with blue and purple stockings, laced with an intricate cross-stitch pattern. I was taller now, in the optical mirage of my previous form, but I still had to look up to meet his eyes.

And I saw the look in them, the storm of passions, violence, anger, sadness, possession, and greed shimmer. His grip on my neck loosened, and he smoothly stepped closer, and I stiffened, feeling his breath ghosting over my features. The violence in his eyes ebbed, and nostalgia eclipsed his features.

Up close, a familiar realization danced through my mind.

He's still beautiful, I thought, watching Ghirahim, the blood of tens of thousands of innocents now on his hands.

He's beautiful, I knew, even as he continued in his quest to destroy everything that was good and holy, everything my master and I were striving to achieve.

He would always be beautiful, this fallen angel looking at me with an unmatched, passionate zeal that I knew was overwhelmingly selfish in nature.

His lips were close now, nearly upon mine, and I stayed so still, so incredibly still as his presence overtook me, drowning me in a sea of memories that slowly pulled my eyes shut. His hand felt firm, cool and familiar, and for an instant, his warm breath that wafted on my lips made me remember what it was like to feel...

I leaned forward, enchanted by this sensation, drawn forward by this clue that promised the key behind the steel locks still guarding my memory...

He retracted his hand. The illusion broke, and I found myself floating in the air again, some distance between me and the pale spirit. I felt dizzy, discomposed by the transformative effect.

My eyes snatched up at him in question, but even as I did so, I heard a slight impact, felt a jolt in my spirit. I realized he had thrust the blade into the soft ground, releasing it with a violent charge.

"I'm afraid I have to run, Fi." He had replaced the space between us, and was watching me with his cloak thrown over one shoulder, stance effortlessly balanced and poised. "Your charming young swordsman remains in the hands of my servants, and while they are..." he paused, raising a carefully gloved, fisted hand, as if to study the outline of his fingers through the thin material. "Exceedingly loyal in their terror, they are, regretfully, not the most capable of minions."

Just like that, it was like our moment had never happened. He stood there, watching me with a rather aloof expression, rather much like one he would adopt when regarding my master.

The unrecognizable force attacked my jaded composure again, but this time, it found a crevice, a fissure of vulnerability.

I exhaled a sharp breath, and I stared down at my chest, half-expecting to see some wound, some other visible sign of the pang I felt in my chest.

It hurt, I realized.

I looked back up at the pale spirit, who appeared to be hesitating before his departure, a look of consideration half-hidden behind his pale bangs.

A war, behind his eyes, a bloody battle that was slowly producing a victor. He shook his head, and extended a flexible leg toward the exit.

He spoke as if to reassure himself. "I'll ensure my minions do not disturb you while I'm gone..." Apparently changing his train of thoughts, I watched as his silvery lips curved into a cruel smile; he flashed me a look of violent delight that left me greatly concerned, instantly understanding that its foreboding threat held no danger toward me.

"But in the meantime, I think I'll go pay your adorable boy a little visit."

I watched as he disappeared, immediately ignoring the lingering pain in my chest to begin running analyses on my current environment.

Eldin was nearby, I knew, I could feel his majestic presence radiating from a chamber nearby. Thoughts of my master returned, and with some surprise, I felt a different kind of sensation, this time a shifting discomfort radiating from my abdomen, as I began speculating on possible scenarios that would ensue upon Ghirahim's visit to my master.

Apparently, the demon unlocked more than just my memories.

I let my thoughts return to the illusion he created, that moment when I had leaned toward him, following intuition against the insistent indignation of my better judgment.

I thought back to the storm in his brown irises, the passionate waves that crashed against one another as they regarded me.

He was beautiful, I knew, the pale sword spirit that had once doted on me, this dark entity that remained fiercely possessive of my form.

He would always be beautiful; no matter how many times his dark ambitions and malicious intentions would devastate me.

I heard a series of explosions, and I heard sounds of a skirmish nearby. I recognized the cries and familiar sounds of my young swordsman.

I didn't dare estimate the levels of Ghirahim's rage when he discovered my master's escape.

A/N: Urgh, didn't have enough time to edit this... I promise I'll respond to reviews in the next chapter! Please Read/Review!