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Link had told himself that it wouldn't happen again.
His quest trudged on: follow Zelda to the ends of the earth, until the only barrier between them was the fabric of time itself. It was a simple enough objective, and Link had performed well enough up to this point, all things considered. His sword had already been reforged by Farore's flame, and the moment he visited the Isle of Songs again, he'd make his way to the next one. Things were well on track. Zelda was safe, and that was all Link could ask for.
And yet.
Occasionally, when rifling through his bag, Link brushed up against a particular piece of heart that he hadn't bothered to put with the others. It was a small oversight, really — in his haste to leave Faron woods, he shoved it in the same adventure pouch that held his bug net, slingshot, gust bellows, and most recently, the whip he'd found in the Ancient Cistern. The moment his hand would brush against the oddly-shaped souvenir, he'd once again be back in that clearing, his adversary willingly prostrating himself against that tree, and...
His thumb ran over the small, near imperceptible scar on his cheek.
He hadn't entreated it to the medical attention the rest of his cuts and bruises received. He thought that maybe if he ignored the thing, he would be taking away its power over him, or make its conception less real. Instead, a red dash had mellowed to pink, and pink had faded to stark white. Now it looked back at him from beneath his reflection's left eye, tainting every mirror and still surface of water with his presence. If he squinted, it appeared almost diamond-shaped, becoming a lighter twin to the obsidian blemish on the monster's face.
Not that it mattered, really. It wouldn't be happening again, and he'd forget in due time. Even if he still averted his gaze from the heart container in Beedle's flying shop.
He fiddled with the strings on his harp. He'd been practicing all night, preparing for the task of matching Kina's rather off-tune singing, though he was wise enough not to complain about it to her or her father's face. Kina was kind enough, or at least made an attempt to hide her distaste, but Pumm... he'd rather not think about the extra hours he'd have to work if he was caught with a bad word in his mouth about the man's precious daughter.
Pumm had sent him to wait outside while the stage was prepared. There was no doubt that Link was unwelcome in the humble atmosphere, not after he'd broken that chandelier. And for what? A piece of heart, spotted nestled between a couple of stray rupees and enough dust to nearly conceal it. Thrown up there by some careless patron, no doubt. And now it was his, resting in his bag with the others because he hadn't been able to stand the sight of it mocking him from above.
Surely that was better? He couldn't really tell if it had been worth it yet.
He could feel a soreness in his arms begin to form with each chord he plucked. In the morning, he’d felt oddly refreshed in a way he hadn’t in weeks. He was glad — relieved, even — that the enemy he had to actually fight in the last dungeon was an ancient automaton, and not the one calling him an irksome gadfly. He thought he would stop by the Lumpy Pumpkin for a bit of soup before he made his way to the Isle of Songs, determined to get an early start to the day and at least make his way to the next dungeon before the sun had started to set.
But. Well.
It had been a while since he visited. Pumm had asked him to wait while he finished up the batch of soup, and left to his own devices, there were a few things Link started to notice. First were the dusty rupees lining the top of the chandelier. He’d been trying to save up to get another adventure pouch from Beedle, and it was clear no one would miss a handful of rupees that no one ever looked at. Second, his eyes were drawn to the piece of heart looming over his head.
He thought about using his beetle to get them down, but using that inside felt like crossing a line. Instead, he made his way to the top of the balcony to get a better look.
It had been there as long as he could remember, but he was so woefully unprepared that seeing it that morning had struck something of a chord with him, and he…well. The signs on the balcony practically invited him to try and shake loose the things on top of the chandelier. He hadn’t meant to break it.
But now the sun was well set, Link’s limbs were sore from hauling pumpkins all day, and he’d made absolutely no progress today. He couldn’t help but feel like it was a certain someone’s fault.
His fingers plucked a discordant chord.
With a small groan, he set the harp down next to the back door leading inside. He’d give himself one lap around the back of the island — into the storage area, around the pumpkin patch, and back — and then he’d be fine. What was one day, really? It wasn’t like Zelda was being chased anymore. She was still waiting, but she was safe and out of harm’s way. He wouldn’t be late.
His arms burned for a flash when he got up, but faded almost immediately. The harp demanded precision, calling on muscle groups that had fallen into neglect since his quest started filling more and more of his time. Glancing through the window, he noticed much more laughing than stage prep. It annoyed him, being this restless when everyone else seemed content to just sit around and be. Be idle, be social, be distracted. He'd fallen out of touch with those particular habits and a small part of him longed to have them back. A larger part of him resented the small one for being so self-centered. It's not like the last time he'd gotten distracted had gone so well.
He shouldn't be thinking about that now. Then again, he shouldn't have been thinking about that when he'd knocked the chandelier down. Hell, he shouldn't have been thinking anything except for fear when it had happened to begin with. Who was he to refrain from that line of wondering when he'd failed so thoroughly before?
It just didn't make sense to him. He kicked a stray rock and watched it skip down into the pumpkin patches. Ghirahim was a monster — no, a demon, which was definitely worse — and in his experience, demons were supposed to be bad. Not that he had much experience with demons, aside from the one. He kicked another rock. And he was bad, because if he wasn't, then Link wouldn't be fighting him, and then he'd be allowed to do as much as he'd like with him and wouldn't even have to worry about — but, no. That's not where this line of thought should be leading. He should be angry, and disgusted, and so he kicked another rock to convince himself that he was grappling hard with his pent-up anger and not something else entirely.
The rock hit something. Something alive.
Panic shot through his veins at the flicker of movement. No. He couldn't be here. Not in Skyloft, not at night, when he was defenseless and cold and everything else that was wrong with him. And if he was, there was nowhere to run, and he'd have to either jump or play along, and he definitely wasn't jumping, not when he'd left his sailcloth inside with the rest of his gear and not when the alternative wasn't really all that bad and—
The thing mewled.
Of course. Pumm's field remlit.
He hated the prick of disappointment he felt.
The mew was followed by a growl, which was followed by a pair of sharp yellow eyes. Odd. The remlits back on the main island had calmed considerably since he'd handed over the gratitude crystals to Batreaux. This one didn't act aggressive, at least not any more than the threat display he'd just witnessed, but the longer he looked the more certain he was that the creature across the field was far from friendly. Batreaux hadn't been very specific about how exactly his presence disturbed the nightlife — there was probably just a lingering demon scent about the place.
Batreaux was a demon. And he hadn't been bad.
He pushed the thought away as he approached the pumpkin shed. Batreaux was different. He didn't try to kill Link at every turn, and he mostly certainly had never tried to distract him in such an obscene manner. The fact that remlits hissed and darted away from him was a coincidence; they'd probably really warm up to him if he didn't still reek of demon. That was what drove them away, he figured, not anything to do with him specifically. Any demon would have that effect.
Any demon...
He figured it out too late. The pumpkin shed was dark even on a full moon, and had hidden the demon as Link walked quite literally right under his nose. He tried to back out, but Ghirahim was faster, holding an arm out to bar his path. That same arm folded inwards and took Link along with it as soon as he made contact, hardly having even begun to process what was happening before he found himself wrapped up entirely and far less panicked than he should have been.
"Well, well," said the demon, pulling him deeper into the shed's shadow. "Aren't you a surprise?"
Link found himself tugged forward by a hand on the small of his back, and for a moment he felt a spark of anger. Who was he, to demand Link’s attention a second time? He’d meant what he said — that was going to be the only time. Ghirahim had already haunted him enough as it was without plaguing him with his presence. But, as Link’s eyes began to adjust away from the lanterns of the pumpkin shaped building, the sight of his biggest adversary came slowly into focus, and that spark of anger morphed into something else entirely.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, his pulse stinging under his fingertips. Link wasn’t supposed to be there either, but that was besides the point.
“And you weren’t supposed to be in that forest, yet there you were.”
Briefly, Link considered what he would do if he had his sword with him.
"Rest assured, I am still quite cross with you.” Ghirahim’s fingers trailed up his back, and threaded slowly into his hair. “I've been rather busy since last we met, no thanks to you. I don't even have the time to make good on my threats, but...hm. Perhaps a bit of distraction is an adequate compromise in the meantime, don't you think?"
As if this whole day weren’t a distraction to begin with. His own traitorous hands ran up the expanse of Ghirahim’s chest, fiddling with the diamond cutouts underneath the heavy fabric of his cloak as they went, and pushed until the demon's back met the shelves behind him.
What would he be distracting Ghirahim from, anyhow? Finding the second Gate of Time? It wasn’t as if he would just happen to stumble upon it with how well hidden it was. Link had time to waste while Ghirahim presumably floundered about the surface, searching here and there for any way forward in his own quest. He had the luxury of spending a day hauling pumpkins, a night playing the harp, and an evening of… this.
Even if the old woman in the Sealed Temple seemed to think that being discovered was an inevitability, had warned Link that somewhere, somehow, there might be information about a second Gate of Time, it…wasn’t as though it was only a matter of time before Ghirahim could uncover its location. Right?
“Well?” The hand that had been toying with the back of Link’s hair gripped suddenly, forcing him to meet the demon’s gaze. “Your indecision is almost adorable.”
Fine, then. Mutual distraction.
Link brought himself to scowl. The least he could do was pretend to have second thoughts. "You came all this way and now you don't even have the patience to let me think it through?"
But he didn't want to think it through, because he might discover things about himself that he'd rather not.
Or worse, he might make the right decision.
"Oh, it wasn't all that far," Ghirahim drawled. "It was on my way, really, and I figured I'd indulge. Don't fool yourself into thinking I'd spend all that effort on you."
"But you spent some effort."
"And you're wasting it."
This would be his last chance to back out before he did something he'd most definitely regret. Again.
"You waste my time, I waste your effort, I think it's only fair." He removed his hands from under the cloak, only to bring them to rest at the clasps. He took a breath. They were enemies. "I'm busy. You can come distract yourself when I'm not working."
"I think you misunderstand the point of a distraction if you think I'll wait around for when it's convenient for you."
As if it would ever be convenient. "I'm not doing this again. I already told you, I'm busy, and I'm staying here tonight anyways so it's not like you can just follow me home."
Maybe that was a bit too much shared.
"Oh? Sleeping in everyone's beds, are we? And here I was thinking myself special."
"No! No, not like— you know what, yeah, it's exactly like that. Different one every night." They both knew he was just messing around, but he couldn't help making a jab at the demon's ego. "In fact I— gods, this is embarrassing— I don't even remember your name." Link retracted his arms and crossed them. The hand in his hair had loosened enough to let him lean back slightly. Slightly.
"Then maybe," Ghirahim brought their distance back to his preferred proximity. "I should make sure you don't forget it this time."
He released Link completely, and made to stand in the doorway, striking a silhouette against the sky. He bowed low.
"I am the Demon Lord Ghirahim," He raised his head just enough to make eye contact, and winked. "But if you find your mouth full, just the last bit will do."
Gods, he was really going to do this.
It didn't take him long at all to figure out those golden clasps. Even less time was spent wrestling the demon lord into a less conspicuous corner of the shed; he was already failing at his own resolve, he didn't need his acting employer to doubt him as well. They covered each other in invisible, chaste marks with hands and closed lips, Link urging to keep it down and Ghirahim making no effort whatsoever to heed that request. It was almost childish, the way he was playing coy with this monster who had every means to kill him then and there.
At some point or another, Ghirahim must have wrest his hat from his hair, but he couldn’t find it in him to care as chaste touches turned to immodest groping. In the semi-privacy of their dark corner, Link found his awareness narrowed down to just Ghirahim, and fangs, and oh Hylia, his tongue.
For a moment, he wondered if he’d find his mouth full sometime soon.
“You,” Ghirahim murmured, breath ghosting against his jaw. “Can it be possible that you are the most divine thing to be hidden in these clouds?”
Link scoffed. “Flattery gets you nowhere.”
“On the contrary,” he purred. The hand in Link’s hair gripped harshly, forcing the hero to tilt his chin up. “I find it gets me everywhere with you.”
“Hah,” Link huffed, though it was more of a moan. “Do you ever— ah, shut up?”
Ghirahim’s lips twisted into a wicked grin, and then he bit.
Link could understand, now, why the demon had left in such a hurry the last time. He'd never been bitten before, not like this, but hylia help him now — he wanted to be eaten alive.
His gasp must have given him away, and the "do that again" that left his lips didn't help at all. Ghirahim drew back, looked him in the eye with his predator's teeth on full display, and then sank them back into his exposed neck like an animal claiming its mate. It hurt, but he didn't let go and Link didn't want him to. Silvery hands abandoned their stations to push his chin further back, and his own imperfect ones came to rest around Ghirahim's wrists. What the goddess would think now, if only she could see him.
Ghirahim had assured him last time that she couldn't, so he allowed himself to melt further into the cannibalistic scene he felt at his throat.
"Enjoying yourself?" said the red-stained teeth. "Or have you simply reverted to your indecipherable silence?"
Link took a moment, lightheaded, to wonder why there was a voice in place of sensation. He took another moment to observe half-lidded eyes and displaced strands of hair.
"Are you?"
"Am I... why should that matter? This is..." Ghirahim scowled. "This isn't about me."
And before Link could question what that meant, Ghirahim was on him again, and violently. He hardly processed the bloody tongue in his mouth before it was pushing deeper, threatening his gag reflex and then dismissing it entirely with the vibrations of a low chime. All the places on his neck where Ghirahim had touched became cold with the passing of a cool draft, and he remembered briefly where he was.
"Hir— Irah..."
Even the shortened title was difficult to pronounce in such an occupied state.
He could hardly breathe, and found that he was getting dizzier the longer this went on. Had he really fallen so far, he wondered, that being subjected to such sensations made his blood gather in places that hardly needed it? Had it been months ago, Link never would have dreamed that a hand in his hair, a dagger pointed at his throat, and a demon that threatened to asphyxiate him from inside and out would do anything more than terrify him. In the back of his mind, he knew that he was still expected to play the harp that night.
Ghirahim withdrew, and at once the air came rushing back to the hero.
“Care to try that again, Link?”
He tasted iron on the back of his tongue — his own blood — and slowly the burning in his lungs receded.
“Gh…” he panted. “Ghirahim.”
“Ah,” the demon said, sweetly. “Again.”
“Ghirahim,” he indulged. His hands roamed up the Demon Lord’s arms, over his shoulders, and up his neck. One traitorous hand caressed his face, a thumb running over the red tinged mess left behind. Curiosity getting the better of him, the other hand ran through the silvery curtain obscuring half of the barely lit face in front of him.
For a moment, Link felt—he felt stricken by something. He found he didn’t quite care if people were waiting on him to play the harp. They would wait.
“Ghirahim,” spilled the name from his lips.
The demon in question gave a smile that was almost charming, until it wasn't. Far too wide, then, to be anything but ravenous. Link found himself being gathered up against the demon's chest, a pair of lithe arms coiling around their prize and lifting his feet off the ground. "I didn't quite catch that," Ghirahim said, and now there was a knee sliding in between his thighs. "One more time."
Link said the name. And then again, and again, and he said it into the empty air and into cold skin, against white hair before whispering it on white lips. He said it like a prayer to a falling god, and didn't stop even after he'd desecrated every inch of skin on the demon's face and neck. Vaguely, he could hear another name being called — his own — but it was not coming from Ghirahim's mouth, so he dismissed it. Despised it, even, for imposing itself on his moment.
"They're calling for you."
Link looked up at him. They'd fallen at some point and now found themselves sitting on bare floorboards. Ghirahim's back was against one wall, his hands were, too, and Link was sitting between his legs and fingering at the diamonds teasing their exposure.
"Don't care."
"Hm." Link only saw the smug grin out of his peripheral, but he didn't care about that either. "I like that."
Link skipped up to the next cutout, hooking his fingers on the fabric separating the two. He flattened his palm against the skin beneath shimmering threads, roaming upwards. That name was heard again. His head turned, slightly, towards the sound, but Ghirahim fixed its alignment for him.
He reached the last cutout. He stuck his hand in up to the wrist, feeling out a hip that hadn't been concealed in the slightest under the garment's tight fit. Still, it was different, feeling Ghirahim's skin with his own. He wanted more.
"Ghirahim," he said, and this time the name was no hymn. Though it may as well have been a prayer in its own right. "I want you to lay down."
Ghirahim smirked, and gestured at Link, pointing out that he was crudely in the way. Link obliged the unspoken request, inching back to allow the demon lord to recline fully. The action was accompanied by no shortage of sighs, or tsks, or any more obscene sounds. Link had almost had enough time to think reasonably before the gentle thud of a back against the floor drew him back in.
"What are you planning to do now, hm? You have me where you want, and I, quite frankly, find this to be a rather opportune vantage." His gaze skipped lower for the briefest of moments. "A shame... I do believe your goddess frowns upon such undertakings, no?"
Link flushed at the delayed awareness of what he'd just done. Ghirahim's words were one question that really asked a second, entirely separate question, and Link struggled to find an answer that would suit both. He didn't even bother to work maintaining his dignity into the equation.
A voice interrupted his thoughts, not Ghirahim's but not distant, either. Somebody had come outside and was calling, for the third time, his name.
Link startled, but Ghirahim acted quicker. His eyes went wide and he pulled Link into something frenzied that wasn't so much a kiss as it was the fulfillment of a quota. Every trick was played in rapid succession: teeth punctured his lips and jaw, a dagger pricked his neck, gloved hands tangled in his hair, then pulled, and when he thought the pattern was being broken for a gentler flavor of kiss, that godless tongue snaked its way into his mouth again. And then further. He barely heard footsteps approaching from outside, but Ghirahim must have, and he at least had the sense or perhaps the shame to remain hidden.
Link could still feel the demon's teleportation magic tickling in his throat when the faint moonlight leaking in through the doorway disappeared. His head was foggy — choking on diamonds — someone was talking to him. In the shed.
"...told me to fetch you now," she was saying. His vision cleared enough to make out an ambitious updo streaked through with premature gray. Kina looked down at him, concerned. "Link? Is that blood?"
“I, um—uh, this, it’s not, um,” Link sputtered, sat upright on the floorboards with his trembling arms just barely supporting his weight. “Kina.”
“Are you…okay?” she asked, hand poised as if to reach out to him. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” came tumbling out of his mouth, perhaps a touch defensive, before he could think of something more wise to say. “That is—I mean.” He took a steadying breath. Forcing the demon-induced fog from his mind was proving to be more difficult than it had any right to be, and Link bought himself more time by standing up.
He was kicking himself now for letting it go on for so long—for letting it begin in the first place. None of that was supposed to happen. He was supposed to be safe from Ghirahim's whims up here, not completely subjected to and utterly haunted by them.
“I’m fine,” he said, trying to discreetly lean against the shelf behind him for support. He willed his legs to stop shaking. “Really. The, uh…the stage is set, isn’t it? I’m—I’m ready.”
He’d never felt less ready for anything in his life.
“Link, come on. You’re definitely bleeding.” She took a step forward. Her eyes narrowed to a squint, and Link resisted the urge to shrink back — to hide the marks that would surely haunt him for days, if not weeks to come. “It almost looks like you were attacked by some kind of animal.”
Yes. An animal. His tongue darted out to lick his bloodied bottom lip. That was an apt descriptor.
Link blinked.
“Actually,” he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “If I’m being honest, I…Well, this is embarrassing. I don’t think your remlit likes me very much.”
“Oh. Oh!” Kina laughed, nearly doubling over. “I’m—I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh! I should have warned you she was out here. She’s been fussy all night. But oh,” her expression turned sympathetic, “she got you good, didn’t she?”
“Heh, yeah,” he forced a smile. “S’no big deal though. I’ll just,” he shrugged, “drink a potion tomorrow.”
“You can’t wait that long, it might scar!” she protested. “Wait — come back inside, I’m sure we have something that might help.”
“Sure, just…hang on,” he pat his head, then cast a cursory look around. “I think I dropped something. You go on ahead, I’ll be right there.”
With a smile, Kina turned and started to walk the trail back up to the Lumpy Pumpkin.
When she was out of sight, Link mentally retraced his steps. He definitely had his hat on when he’d unwittingly walked into the… trap Ghirahim had laid. So, when had he lost it? He knew he had it on while they exchanged backhanded pleasantries, and when he’d had to wrestle the demon into the corner he now stood in. With a flush crawling up his neck, Link patted the ground around him, then the shelves, for any sign of his favorite part of the outfit. He even took three long strides back into the light of the night to view the storage area in its entirety, and suddenly came to the sinking conclusion that either it fell off the edge of the island somehow, or the bastard took his hat.
“Come on,” he groaned quietly. “Seriously?”
“What was that, Link?” Kina called.
“Nothing!” he called back, casting one final, distasteful look over the area. “Just, you know, tying my shoe!”
Cursing under his breath with the taste of his own blood in his mouth, he half jogged up the steps to catch up with her.
Inside was much brighter. Bright enough, he realized too late, to make out more details of his disposition. He nearly choked on the potion Kina had found for him when he glanced over at his reflection in the window. He was a wreck. He'd been made a wreck.
Even as he watched, blood lifted into nothing to reveal the pink but decidedly present outlines of incisors, and the still-dark patches of bruising across his more sensitive tendons. Kina cleared her throat and looked away. The potion certainly sped up the process, and the marks would be nothing but memories come morning, but it still took at least a full night for them to disappear completely. His reflection flushed, which only made the white lipstick stains stand out more. The potion was doing nothing about those.
"Link, I don't... we have to go out now," Kina said, still avoiding eye contact. "We were going to start half an hour ago, but nobody could find you. You'll have to hide— to, um, you'll have to wash up afterwards."
Link just nodded. The shock of his appearance was wearing quickly into resignation. He'd dug his grave, and he'd dug deep.
At the very least, he had the foresight to try and smudge away the white stains around his mouth.
Thankfully, Kina climbed the stage first, and once the patrons saw her, they didn't spare Link a second glance. Pumm had been right, they were all there to see her. Nonetheless, he spent the entire performance hoping — praying, even — that none of the crowd would take notice of the way he'd propped his collar up, and especially not of the disgraces it failed to conceal. In his search for something, anything to distract him from his sores and sore fingers, he found himself looking up at where the chandelier had been. He'd knocked it clean off the hook. Not bad.
And then, something else caught his gaze. He could have sworn, for only a moment, that a tall, lithe figure was perched on that very same railing Link had so unceremoniously slammed into. It waved a hand, much faster and more of a flutter than the audience's gentle sway, and he broke his rhythm for a moment, matching pace instead to the shadowy presence. He blinked, and it was gone, but he was brought back to diamonds tickling inside his throat and red, red teeth.
Those images occupied his mind for the rest of the performance.
He hurried off the stage before the musical spell could fade, hoping to get out of the spotlight and away from this whole affair. He didn't know where he was going. Not outside again, that was for certain. Well, logically it was. Who knew what traitorous beings were in control of his feet anymore, or where they might lead him? No. The loft, maybe, but the loft was dark and secluded, and he'd already made that mistake once. His borrowed-out bedroom, then— but, ah. Perhaps that wouldn't be wise.
No matter where he tried to go, Ghirahim followed him. And he wasn't even there.
He was jolted out of his thoughts by a large hand on his shoulder. Pumm stood over him, his expression... not gentle, but as if he were trying to be.
"The guests have gone home, boy."
Pumm got up to leave before something occurred to him.
"You did good," he said, awkwardly, and gave what must have been an attempt at a neighborly smile. "Tips are out on the stage for you."
"Oh, are you... really? I barely did anything." Except ask a demon to lay out for his taking. "Shouldn't Kina get it?"
Pumm sighed. "Kina never takes the tips anyways. Always insists they go to the restaurant. I don't understand it, really, but I think you deserve them this time."
Link relented and walked back out into the now-empty dining room. As promised, a lopsided hat sat upturned at the edge of the stage. He'd been low on rupees lately, and while he didn't expect to gain any more in tips than he could by exploring the surface, some extra pocket change couldn't hurt anything.
Inside were a few green rupees, a blue one, and— a shape wrapped in paper. His breath caught. He'd only ever seen something wrapped as such once before. A silver rupee that Groose had stolen and slipped into his bag, folded into such delicate paper that he knew it had been found that way. Link had gotten suspended for a week. At the time, he would have taken another week's suspension just to catch another glance at the concealed precious gem. This was far more than a standard tip. An admirer, perhaps, meaning for this gift to go to Kina.
Or, hoping it would bypass her entirely. He thought of the shadow figure on the railing.
The thought of that brought him some peace. It had just been Peatrice up there, or a former classmate who held secret feelings. Maybe he'd even feel them back. He hoped he would, because sweetheart crushes were far better than the raw desires he was plagued with now. He picked up the delicately arranged gift and felt its weight in his palm, noticing now just how ornate the handiwork was. Peatrice by far was the most likely suspect, with her nimble hands and profuse boredom practically folding the thing of their own accord. Or Stritch, maybe. That would be a surprise, but so had his penchant for bugs, and he did seem like he'd be the artistic type.
Link amused himself with such ponderings as he unwrapped the gift one fold at a time. His idle grin dropped— as did his heart— when his fingers touched the object hidden within. This was no rupee, and as he fingered along ornately sculpted grooves, a dread began to grow within him. He knew this shape.
Sure enough, when he withdrew his hand, it was accompanied by the crystalline fragment of a heart container. It was lighter than such an object should be, and seemed to nearly glow against his skin. He stroked it once with his thumb, and then drew that faithless digit away, despising his own willingness to accept this gift.
He should have discarded it, but something on the paper caught his eye. He unfolded it completely, making out loose sigils of some kind before realizing that this was supposed to be penmanship. He took his time deciphering it. Once he figured out what it said, he scowled. The bastard.
On the note, signed with a single diamond, was a review, of all things.
Excellent service. Harpsman put on quite the show.