String of Fate

There was an oddity to his behavior. His usual austere mannerisms seemed to have been forgotten and replaced with something more bashful. It was not noticeable to anyone unless they were extremely attentive to meticulous details: his clammy hands, his weasel eyes, and his perking ears. The wind often fooled him as it rustled the slender trees of the oasis. He remained seated, gritting his teeth impatiently.

"Ah... So you have been waiting for me?"

He turned abruptly. There was nothing; no, nothing but dunes as far as the eye could see - which was not very far considering how dark it was. Mistakenly assuming it was merely a voice manipulated within the chambers of his mind, he dismissed it. But there was still a looming presence. Perhaps his mind was toying with him, he thought. However, as he turned his head back to to oasis, his nose grazed another.

"You're too kind to have saved a spot for me."

"Ghirahim!" Zant beamed in relief. "You startled me."

"Did I?" His head lifted and their noses grew apart. "Well, that was not my intention." It was hard for Zant to believe that.

"I almost thought you were not coming."

He blinked, "Oh?" Ghirahim sat himself across from Zant. "You should not worry about that. Don't you know I never go back on a promise?" His graceful, clawed fingers glided his hair back only for it to return over his eye.

"I remember." He pursed his lips and held his hands together in his lap. His thumbs rubbed against each other eagerly.

Placing his hands on his knees, Ghirahim sat down and gazed up. "Do tell me why you asked me to come at such a late hour."

"I wanted to ask you something."

There, he perked. He pushed Zant to continue by leaning in, "Go ahead, then."

At that moment, Zant could do nothing but stare, dazed. Freeing himself from his trance, he lifted his head and inhaled. "I wanted to ask you," he paused, "about your tribe."

"My tribe?" Ghirahim never heard anyone ask about such an ancient topic, nor anything about his past for the matter. He was completely baffled. "Well, what about them do you want to know?"

"I just want to know what they were like." Zant heard Ghirahim mention them a lot during sword and battling lessons. "You always compare our battle skills to your tribe. I simply cannot help being curious. I have been wanting to ask for a while now."

"In all honesty, I don't know where to start." He had few memories of his tribe. "There isn't much to say." With a long, drawn out sigh, he turned to face Zant. "I suppose I should start when I was created..."

Ghirahim began, "I did not have many memories with them - none that I recall, anyway ..." He straightened his back, "But I recall they were a marvelous tribe! They were very loyal to me and my master; it was quite admirable." A soft hum escaped his mouth, though very out of tune, as he drifted through his mind, "They absolutely adored me. They adored my skill and albeit the demon form I was gifted with." Ghirahim brought Zant's gaze upon his body. He was not completely wrong. His body, to Zant, was facinating. For a demon, it looked oddly... Hylian. His attention was finally brought back to Ghirahim's words. "I lead every battle, you know?"

"Really?" Zant inquired.

He nodded, "Yes, yes." He shifted closer and said lowly, "I am quite difficult to tire out."

"I see," He turned his head, but still made occasional glances. Eventually, he cracked a smile.

A chuckle erupted from well deep in his throat, "Anyway, where was I?" He tapped his chin in thought. "Aha!" he snapped. "They were rather artistic." Zant perked up. "The rituals, the paintings, the architecture... I could go on in detail upon detail!" But he didn't. He simply rested the back of his hand on his forhead as he leaned back. "But they were strong. Their training, as I have watched, was so intensive. Only the dedicated would thrive."