gravity's rainbow

Lorule is a land of extremes, just as the dichotomy between it and its upworld mirror is an extreme contrast.

Its inhabitants are colorful, excessively so. Its monsters are vicious, excessively so. Its environments are drab, depressingly so.

There are no mild, sunny days, no romps in the plains. There are only thrashing storms and pitching nights.

Everything is masked. Everything is thrown shut with a sheet over it. Everything is chaos, if it's not deadly calm.

Hilda has enough problems on her hands just trying to keep the entirety of the world from collapsing, without worrying about which extreme Ghirahim will choose to court this day, this night, this week.

Dramatically attached to his own presentation, he is. The Master Sword of Lorule does not find itself blessed by the Triforce, so Ghirahim is in a fabulous rage, complete with canyons and sirens. Obviously.

Hilda would begrudge him his tantrums, if she could see her way clear to. Everything else, she has discarded. Everything else, she has driven aside.

If Ghirahim wants to claim to have changed himself, to have been present and alive and agent in the world to do so, then who is she to argue?

Especially when it matters not, as it doesn't (as it does).

For the attraction of no one. For the strength of no blade. For the permission of possibility to enter their domain, perhaps, but not to impress a wandering savior.

"You truly think a hero will come?"

"I would be a fool if I bided my time for the idea of them, dear princess."

Ghirahim's words are perfectly clear even as they should be muffled behind the cowl of his cape - the gaiter?

He knows all these things, and how to change them. Hilda has worn the same dress for an uncountable number of months and years.

"Not a fool, then. Merely a jester."

He scoffs to hear the way she speaks to the spirit of the sword. But maybe she's not entirely wrong.