Title: The First
'Verse: Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword
Warnings: violence against bokoblins and blood. I did mention Ghirahim... also, spoilers for Skyward Sword.
Disclaimer: I'm not making money off of this, and I don't own the characters or universe.
Summary: a theory on Ghirahim's origins
Ghirahim was the first.
He watched from the shadows as the sky boy spoke to the spirit within the sword he carried, and something in him that wasn't tied to Demise twinged. Jealousy budded into rage. He'd heard her whispers in Skyview Temple. No data. There wouldn't be. Wretched, wretched Hylia. Traitor and companion, creator and mother, indifference and beloved. The dichotomy made his head throb and the crystal core in his chest ache.
Love. Hatred. Mostly hatred now. Demise's power, corrupting and liberating, buzzed in his skull. Hate her. Wound her. Tear her apart. But part of him, a part becoming stronger of late, just a tiny bit, whispered in turn. Remember her. Honor her. Return to what you were.
Ghirahim did remember. He had a long memory, photographic, every last detail rendered in perfect clarity. He and this new sister were not so different. He remembered awakening as a spirit much like her, green and yellow instead of violet and blue, uncoiling from the newly crafted blade that was his body, looking upon the glory of his creator for the first time.
Unlike Fi, Ghirahim could feel. From the very beginning, he was a personality not unlike a human. And he had to admit, grudgingly, that for a while things were perfect. As perfect as the whole “fight evil to defend all that was good and right” thing could get.
Then came Demise.
In the heat of the battle he had been seized from Hylia's grasp. Inspected. Proclaimed a truly beautiful sword. Then flooded with Demise's power.
The pain had been excruciating. Everything that he was fractured, shattered, rearranged and shattered again. When the pain became beautiful, misery became music, and the smell of blood on the battlefield around them flooded him with giddy excitement, his screams of agony became laughter.
Demise was his new master after that. Ghirahim swung through the air at his command, his blade singing until it bit into flesh. So much blood...and he enjoyed every minute of it. Even now the memory made him lick his lips in anticipation.
When Demise was sealed, Hylia took him up again. Her touch was foreign to him at that point. He knew what the look in her eyes meant—she pitied him. Him! The favored blade of Demise! Was she not proud of her creation? She should have pitied herself, her wounds were so severe.
The guardian goddess of the creators' power cradled him like a child and used the last of her life's energy to imprison him in oversensitive, soft physical flesh. Corrupted by blood, purified by blood. It would take thousands of years. And Hylia's seal on Demise was pathetically weak. She could not hope to purify him now.
And now, a sister. A pretty translucent doll to repeat information. No real personality of her own.
Ghirahim was the first.
The chattering of the bokoblin standing next to him snapped the last thread holding his rage in check. He grabbed the thing by the neck and slammed its head into the rock. Over and over. Again and again.
It left a beautiful red stain. But it did nothing for him.
He watched the boy run off, his sister returning to the sword at his back.
How he hated them both.