If there’s one thing Ghirahim hates, it’s feeling rusty. He can’t quite see when he’s resting in his natural state, can’t taste or smell or even hear, but he does have some sense of what’s going on around him, and he knows when he’s getting soaked. He deserves a proper sheath, but not all of his master’s clothes allow for one. He knows when Link’s trekking through the rainier regions, and he hates it.
He hates it even more when he’s left, casually discarded as though he isn’t the greatest weapon his master’s ever held. He knows he’s been abandoned the second he leaves Link’s body—he can always feel where his master is, and it should always be adjacent to him.
For a long, brooding moment, he gives Link the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps Link is simply resorting his inventory. When Ghirahim isn’t immediately picked up again, he surges up into his other form, frown at the ready.
Sure enough, his feet coalesce on soggy grass, a large, rain-slick cliff veering up before him. The very tip of a shrine is visible above. The downpour is thunderous, and lightning flickers in the distance. A messy assortment of battered equipment is scattered around him, all of it metallic.
His master’s halfway up the cliff face, desperately clinging to precarious footholds. He’s in one of his more absurd outfits—scant scraps of brown fabric with white fur and thick binding. Purple body paint twists along the large swaths of exposed skin. He moves his right foot for the next notch in the rock, which spreads his legs wide open, and Ghirahim’s eyes are automatically drawn to his creamy thighs.
The skirt he’s wearing doesn’t cover much at all—Ghirahim can see everything. The shadows don’t stop Ghirahim’s superior eyesight. His mouth was open because he was going to yell his head off, insisting Link return and collect him, but at the new show of skin, Ghirahim’s cries stop dead in their tracks. He can’t make any noise. He just stares blankly up as Link pants and strains to make headway against the rushing water.
Lightning comes shooting down, striking the pile of swords and shields, and Ghirahim only manages to leap back just in time. He understands then—metal conducts electricity, and Link wanted to reach the shrine above the cliff without getting electrocuted. Presumably, he’d come back for it all—upon closer inspection, there are a number of pieces Link worked hard to get, including a few rare and valuable Lynel items. He’s not as clever as Ghirahim would like, but he’s certainly not dumb enough to leave those.
Still displeased but placated by the view, Ghirahim waits while Link slowly scales the cliff, disappears out of sight, turns the shrine’s veins blue instead of orange, then leaps over the cliff and sails right back down. He casts Ghirahim a look of surprise as he hurriedly collects the rest of his equipment, then offers an apologetic smile. Ghirahim, conspicuously flushed, huffs and looks away.
He returns to his master’s hip where he belongs, pleased when Link warps somewhere warm.