A Moment of Madness

A/N: Did I mention that the alert-function is great? If your computer tells you that a rainbow has added your story, it's just cool. You guys have seriously fabulous names. Thank you again for reviewing so much!

(I have an annoying soft spot for hints; you'll probably know what I mean if you reach that point in the chapter. Can't help it.)

A promise of passion

A trailer of sin

A smiling assassin

The demon within

(Katie Melua, 'A Moment of Madness')

/

Ghirahim woke up and immediately had a fabulous idea.

It was not a normal occurrence because Ghirahim was not what you called a morning person. To be honest, he disliked waking up in general – everything was out of order, his hair had knots, his muscles were heavy and clumsy, his mouth was dry and his thoughts were stumbling drowsily. It was the moment when he was weakest, and that's why he preferred to wake up all alone. Allowing someone to see all his flaws and imperfections was a much too high price for a kiss or two and a body to curl around.

Ghirahim rolled onto his back and stared blankly at the wooden ceiling, pondering how his mind could be this lively when he hadn't even brushed his hair from his face. Maybe it was true what people said about healthy country air. Anyway.

What if he compensated Link's silence by communicating with him in written form?

Granted, that method heavily relied on Link's cooperation, and after yesterday's lovely first meeting, that boy wouldn't be too eager. But Ghirahim still thought it was brilliant. After all, Link was an author, so he craved to write, right? Even Ghirahim, who was an author in the broadest sense, knew that desire – though in his case, it had more to do with the delicious feeling of power and the guarantee that whatever he chose to say was law to a lot of people. Link had to have that manipulative side to him as well, he could not be that boring.

He'd be in trouble if Easy Rider was still sulking; Ghirahim doubted that the villagers would care to tell him where to find Link. He should have brought a homing device for that guy… But there was no use crying over spilled milk.

Talk about milk. Ghirahim sat up und slowly began stretching his limbs, waiting for his circulation to accept that there was not going to be any more sleep now. A part of his sluggish condition was the fact that he had not eaten in a while, and the smell of fatty bacon that began to leak through his door was not appealing his stomach – he had carefully trained that, so he was not giving in.

This hotel was loathsome, through and through. If Ghirahim wasn't harassed by sound or smell, he hated the very idea of being here. He would reconsider staying in the car, but this place at least had a shower.

Yes, it was always the little things.

/

Ghirahim opted for toast and turned the owner of the Lumpy Pumpkin into his mortal enemy by rejecting the very idea of having chocolate for breakfast – or anything sweet at all. It was rare for Ghirahim to experience that someone wanted to fuss over his eating (and suggesting that he should eat carbs, so it wasn't happening), and he immediately decided that he didn't cherish it. Ghirahim was not someone who enjoyed being taken care of. Perhaps there had been a time when he did, but it seemed like that trait had proven to be too weak to survive. He did not mourn it.

He briefly saw Kina again (apparently, she was the daughter of the house or something like that), and she gave him a weird look.

Oh, how could he have forgotten that these bumpkins were already preparing to burn him at the stake for getting close to their favorite frigid? If only they knew what blasphemy he was going to commit…

Ghirahim's mood hardly improved after breakfast. He was still grumpy about his stained jeans and his dirty boots, both looking like they were beyond cleaning. Of course, there was no bloody Laundromat around, he was lucky if washing wasn't still done with curd soap around here.

… There had been a fucking bar of soap in the shower stall! If Ghirahim hadn't wisely brought his own products, he would have shoved that thing down someone's throat rather than letting it touch his skin. He was seriously insulted. This place was technologically retarded and no one had at least opened a donation account.

Despite his personal grumbling, Ghirahim thought it better to dress more sober today. Not less fabulous, of course, and he simply couldn't leave without his beloved boots. The soft denim of his purple jeans nicely matched his eyeliner and didn't fail to highlight the curve of his buttocks – if Link hadn't noticed that by now, he would soon. Talk about a man who only knew knotholes and riding with a saddle… Ghirahim would get him on black ice, one way or another.

He paid close attention to the woods around him as he drove to the farm house. Sometimes he caught sight of small trails leading into the green, but most of the time, the brush was too thick to invade it. There was no way the coupé could make it through that wilderness without getting stuck, Ghirahim doubted that even a horse could move around freely.

As if the whole affair wasn't already complicated enough. He was getting the feeling that this was not an interview – it was a safari. Big game hunting.

It seemed to be another of these delightfully sunny days. Ghirahim blinked lazily, for once enjoying the warmth dripping through the glass and onto his skin. With the bumpy road going on straight for what seemed to be forever, he was tempted to close his eyes. This place was deserted anyway, and with the window slightly open, the breeze caressing his face felt wonderful…

Ghirahim's eyes snapped open when a brown colossus appeared in front of the car.

He slammed the brakes out of instinct rather than out of fear. The motor gave a strangled screech, the sudden drop of speed killed the engine. Ghirahim was roughly shoved forward before the safety belt restricted him and abruptly cut off his breath. It left him gasping for air, his heart beating wildly in shock.

Epona eyed him dispassionately. He guessed it was Epona because the horse was brown and there was that white mark on the head. Ghirahim didn't care – all it mattered was that this beast had violated his right of way and nearly his health.

"What the hell?", Ghirahim yelled and pushed his door open, fumbling off his safety belt with stiff fingers.

"What are you trying, you fucking suicide pony? Let me tell you, if I had gotten my hands on a truck, you'd be Carpaccio by now!"

His pulse was still racing. It was not like he could have avoided crashing into the horse with all these stupid trees lining the street; it was simply because of the rough surface that he had been driving slow enough to stop in time. Ghirahim chose to not think about the scenario if he had really closed his eyes. The collision with a body that big would have knocked him off the road and into a trunk.

Ghirahim walked up to Epona, momentarily forgetting his suspicion towards the horse. His knees felt shaky, and Ghirahim absolutely hated this lack of control. He reached out spontaneously and slapped Epona on its (this was certainly not the time to bend over and check the gender) soft, brown nose. The horse flinched back and jerked up his broad head to protect itself. Ghirahim only huffed.

"See that, pony? It's the whole wide wood, and you flea taxi choose to run around on my street in front of my hood and expect me to stop in time? You're damn lucky this isn't my car and I don't give a shit about the gears!"

Ghirahim had the faint idea that he was not making much sense, scolding a horse that seemed to ignore him from the moment on he had stopped smacking its nose. It stood on the pavement and was probably engaged in some incredibly important process of digestion.

"Get back to Daddy, you nag, move it!"

Epona did not move.

Ghirahim scowled and stepped closer and flicked Epona's nose, almost earning a painful bite. There was no head-collar or any sort of handhold on the horse, and Ghirahim was more cautious now. He had seen the large yellow teeth – now what about not looking a gift horse in the mouth…

He tried to shoo Epona.

"There's no food here, pony, get going. I don't have all day. We'll never look as fabulous as we do now again – well, I will, but you won't get to see it." Epona was unfazed by Ghirahim's logic. It swung his tail after some flies, and his ears shifted slightly.

Ghirahim swallowed his revulsion and have the broad backside a shove. It was like trying to push a fully enrooted tree, not moving an inch. Epona's hairy tail grazed his arm, and he growled.

"This is it, pony. Move."

He should have brought a taser. Ghirahim walked back to the car, having calmed down at least, and sat down. Even this dense animal would know that you didn't block the way of a car, even if hardly anyone seemed to use these vehicles around here. That was likely why the road was too narrow to pass Epona when that thing was standing right in the center.

The engine gave a gruffly cough when Ghirahim started it, but it seemed to have forgiven the sudden stop. He fully expected Epona to move away from the slowly approaching vehicle (after jumping over the fence yesterday, it couldn't be a challenge to take a few steps to the side), and was dismayed to stop once again, this time with the hood lingering centimeters away from the flank of the horse.

"What are you trying, pony? Is this supposed to be a barricade?"

Is it working?, Epona's large dark eyes seemed to ask.

And to be honest, yes. Ghirahim knew that being honest was not part of his job, still he had to admit that this development was becoming a real problem. Even if his car had been strong enough to force Epona to move (without pushing it all the way to the farm house), Link was probably not talking to him in even ten years if he made a scratch on that beast. Whatever sense that made. It was an animal, it would heal without costing money, that was one of the few perks of living creatures.

Well… He'd better come up with something. Ghirahim had never been the meditative kind, and how did you explain yourself to livestock whose brain only contained eating yummy grass and rolling in wet dirt? And making love to other nice, uh, ponies.

"You're doing this on purpose", Ghirahim concluded and flicked his hair, running his tongue along the corners of his mouth while he thought. Epona just stared.

This left the opinion of walking. Ghirahim was positive his boots were already ruined, but that didn't mean his feet were the next in line. He still had some distance to go, and considering the condition of this road, he'd be lucky if there were still feet beneath his blisters when he arrived. And his rented car would probably be hauled off, so that would leave him without any vehicle at all. Wasn't happening.

Ghirahim wouldn't be the Demon Lord of Skyward Serenade if he didn't know how to bribe.

"Since you can't name your price, we'll do this with method equus. You want this, pony?" He showed Epona the apple that he had planned as a snack for lunchtime. Epona sniffed it, but appeared hardly tempted, even after Ghirahim tossed the fruit into the bushes, the horse didn't follow.

Playing hard to get? Ghirahim went over the few things in his car that were harmless for a non-human. Perhaps the gender would give him a hint? Ghirahim sighed and walked up beside Epona, then he bent sideways to give an inappropriate stare. Looked like… a girl, so – would she be fine with being fed the Vague or something?

Ghirahim was about to straighten up again when something moist and warm nuzzled his neck, bristle-like hair poked his skin. Ghirahim involuntarily yelped and jumped back, this time his lips pursed in anger. "That does it, I'm knocking you over, and if it's the last thing I-"

Ghirahim stopped in his tracks when Epona titled her head to lick the fingers pointing accusingly at her.

It could have been sexy coming from someone at least human. Coming from a horse, it was neither harassment nor flattering. Ghirahim briskly wiped his neck with a towelette to get rid of the saliva and grimaced.

"Let me guess, pony… You like my body lotion."

Epona affectionately sniffed his skin.

He'd had a very different kind of delicious in mind when he'd bought that gooseberry-scented lotion.

Ghirahim took the bottle from his bag and eyed Epona with clear annoyance before squeezing some of the viscous substance on his palm. This time, Epona followed him to the side of the street and began licking the stone that Ghirahim smeared the lotion on.

Well… He guessed that the pony could stomach body care products. Either way, he could go on.

Ghirahim was getting seriously irritated. Hopefully, he had completed the spellbound rose garden now – so it was time to board the castle of the blistering virgin princess.

Sleeping Beauty was not sleeping. In fact, she was wide awake for the sake of giving her prince a splendid kick in the nuts.

Metaphorically speaking.

Link did look up when Ghirahim strode towards him with a notepad in hand (he had guessed something not that technological was better since Link had displayed such a caveman-mentality), he even showed a slight surprise when he recognized the familiar silhouette.

Then he lowered his head again and continued to peel potatoes.

Ghirahim was relieved to see that the author had returned, so he didn't really mind the lack of enthusiasm. The horse-barricade, whoever had had that amazing idea, hadn't worked out, so he was magnanimous. That state of mind wouldn't last long, so he should get started.

Link had seated himself at the table in the small garden and was using a short, straight knife to cut long, twisted garlands from the raw potatoes. The other chair was occupied by a pot with the prepared vegetables while the peels dropped into a bucket between Link's feet.

Ghirahim briefly wondered whether he had just been over-sensitive when it came to those two chairs. It could very well be that Link simply kept one chair as a replacement or additional furniture. After all, you didn't need a lot of things, and you still had them.

Ghirahim not, of course. His flat in Hyrule City didn't have space for unnecessary stuff.

"Good morning, sunshine. Look what I brought you!"

Link rewarded him with the usual silence, he didn't even look up when Ghirahim took the pot from the chair and sat down, presenting him the pristine and gently lavender-tinted pad.

Ignorant little jerk.

"Since you're so adamant about not breaking your vow of silence, I figured we could communicate by letters. You want to get started with something easy?"

Link dropped some potato peels and tossed the potato without glancing. If he pot had still been there, the tuber would have hit it – this way, it landed in Ghirahim's lap. The Demon Lord was controlled enough to not flinch, though he inwardly shuddered when the cold, slick ovoid slid across his thighs.

Not fab. Not fab. Plain disgusting, and he'd just love to fling this gift from Mother Earth in Link's face. But if ever word got out that Ghirahim had failed to make this guy talk, he'd never live it down. His power was absolute. It had to be.

"Very funny." Ghirahim took the potato between his fingertips and dropped it into the pot, then he took out a pencil (yes, nice and primitive, no buttons to press on this writing utensil) and offered it to Link.

"How are you feeling today?"

Link dragged the knife along another potato. The peel fell off before he was entirely done. Ghirahim smiled, enjoying a small, sadistic pleasure. "I'll note that down as I was fine until you came along, alright?" He didn't wait for confirmation and scribbled the words down in his curly, bold handwriting.

"See, it's not that hard, huh?" Ghirahim beamed with expertly faked happiness, feeling actual delight because he knew that Link detected the falseness. And with a little luck, he was too preoccupied with that matter to conclude that an interview in Ghirahim's handwriting was worth nothing. If simply coming here was proof enough for a successful meeting with Link, Hyrule would be full of people who knew what was going on in his mind. Some of them had written biographies with presumably a healthy percentage of own fantasy.

"Wanna do the next one all alone?" Ghirahim offered the pencil again, and this time, Link actually stopped pretending to be a housewife and looked at him. His blue eyes held a dull expression, as if peeling the potatoes took all his concentration. Ghirahim didn't like it; didn't like that he could not tell whether this was how Link truly felt or nothing but a deception to discourage him. This was his work, so he could not lose interest in the author – but it was a strange sort of shame if yesterday's fire was all there was to Link's temperament.

Link put down his knife and took the pencil. He snapped it with his hands.

You always deliver, don't you, my little caveman? Ghirahim smiled smugly and let his eyes follow the pencil-halves when Link dropped them into the bucket.

"Impressive." There was no need for a sarcastic undertone, but Ghirahim liked the idea of conveying that he thought of Link as too dumb to notice. The flash of anger in Link's eyes was like a beacon, a siren's call.

He pulled out another pencil (he'd seen this coming, though he had expected Link to throw the utensil away instead of breaking it like an angry infant) and lightly touched his lips with the end, giving the image of a pensive artist. "Well excuse me, princess… I didn't know writing would be such a pain for you. You used to say that you like storytelling." Ghirahim injected a disappointed note into his voice, as if Link had been lying to him on purpose. Though he still had trouble seeing the shy, green boy in the man sitting in front of him.

Of course, the honest yet very careless remark had triggered loads of fans who had wanted to tell Link their story in exchange. He didn't have a clue about human minds back then, and Ghirahim doubted he had found one, now. After all, Link had not even realized that it was useless to wait for his uninvited visitor to flounce away.

"By the way, your horse likes me." Epona liked the smell of gooseberries – but that was a note that Ghirahim had always favored, even though being a fashionista requited changing perfumes often, he kept that special scent for himself. So it wasn't wrong to say Epona liked him. Good thing the world was so simple.

Link took the last potato and dug his knife in. Perhaps he needed illustrative material, so Ghirahim sketched a horse on the notepad (he had never been talented in drawing, but there was a head with ears and four legs and a scrubby tail) and held it under Link's nose. The hermit continued peeling, but his eyes inevitably landed on the page.

One word about a potato on legs, and I will personally trim your ridiculous hair with that knife.

Ghirahim leaned forward as if to inspect the picture closer. "Impressive, isn't it?"

Link hissed – it was a very quiet sound that Ghirahim wouldn't have heard if he hadn't been so close to the hermit. Oh, Link didn't seem to understand that the key to ignoring someone properly was not interacting with that person at all…

Link glanced at his hand. His view had obviously been blocked by the notepad, and now there was a small, bleeding cut on his thumb. Ghirahim could have sworn that Link hadn't been really looking at his hands while peeling the other potatoes either, and he actually cut himself because of a talent-free drawing of his pony?

Ghirahim smirked and simply dropped pad and pencil into the grass, catching Link's hand before he could wipe the blood off with his shirt. Unless it wasn't the picture that distracted you, hmm?

It was natural for people to develop reservations if they spent three years pretty much isolated from human contact – but it was harder to tell whether reservations made someone resent or crave this contact. Ghirahim was ever-willing to try and find out.

His tongue darted out and swept over the small cut, taking in the coppery taste of blood, bitter potato juice and a hint of salt – it was not an appealing mixture and surely not the grade of sterility that Ghirahim was used to, and yet, it was a peculiar thrill to run his tongue along the callused, rough skin, to feel the slight twitching of muscles beneath that subtly indicated the shiver that rained down Link's spine; however, it remained mysterious what he thought of it. Link wouldn't know how Ghirahim's pulse quickened that very second, how the nerve endings in his lips tingled with longing to touch skin. How it was almost painfully disappointing when Link found the presence of mind to yank his hand away.

Ghirahim smirked, hopefully the expression covered whatever madness had suddenly beset him – Link wouldn't look too close.

It was not the fact that he had yearned for somebody, rather the suddenness, the intensity of that surge. For just a moment, he was insecure; but he couldn't afford to lose the opportunity.

Link stood up abruptly and gathered the pot, leaving both the bucket and the slightly bloody potato at the table. Ghirahim caught a glimpse of his barred expression, and also of the light reddening of his ears. The wounded thumb was hidden in a clenched fist.

"Excuse me again, princess – the sight of blood is always tolerable as long as it isn't your own, right?" He followed Link, who brusquely strode towards the back door of the farm house. His shoulders were tense, an unmistakable signal to leave him alone; Ghirahim ignored that, of course. In case Epona had magically teleported here, she would hopefully still remember the body lotion that she obviously liked.

Link glared at him, then he opened the door, blocking the frame with his body. He was neither bulky nor unusually tall, Ghirahim exceeded him by at least a hand's length. Nonetheless, it seemed like Link filled that space as effectively as a massive lock. He held the small kitchen knife in his hand – a weapon much less intimidating than the pitchfork, but also much sharper.

If Link ever decided to strike, which Ghirahim doubted. Try as you might, he lacked sangfroid to be brutal, or he would have sandbagged his intruder at their first meeting. This was his property, so theoretically, he had the right to do so, nobody would care.

And there it was again, that dangerous desire to provoke. Ghirahim couldn't help it.

"What's wrong, pony-princess? You can't get back into your blissful mourning until I get what I want. And by that time, maybe you can admit that you are wasting your youth out here."

Link's eyes narrowed a fraction, but he set the pot down somewhere near the door, not throwing it at Ghirahim. Had he actually misread the man? There was evidence that Link was mad at him, and still it seemed like the snide suggestion hadn't struck a nerve. How was that possible?

Link gazed at him, his expression once more clear. You understand nothing. Then he slammed the door shut.

They'd see about that. This time, Ghirahim was prepared for waiting.

Granted, it was uncomfortable.

Ghirahim was not used to the sun, so he got back into the car and watched the house. There were two exits, so he could not really be sure if Link didn't leave, but he was fairly sure the blond would not flee from him again, it would be disgraceful. Observing a house was, nonetheless, incredibly boring.

It gave Ghirahim more than enough time to think. That was uncomfortable, too.

How could he be wrong with his assumption? Perhaps Link was nothing but a good actor. After all, it made sense – that boy denied himself pleasure because the person he had wanted to share his life with was dead, and he was not. So he spent his days pretending she would come anytime from that jewelry store. He possibly suffered from writer's block, his creativity having run dry by the loss of his fiancée. The kind of tragedy you cozily enjoyed from your couch when it was brought up in a soap-opera.

So why was there no indication that Link felt this way? It was possible that he was very good at lying to himself, and he did get mad for jabs at his dead girlfriend. Ghirahim had a lot of experience with reading people; and the uneasy feeling was creeping up to him that there was more. He had not figured Link out yet.

Fabulous that no one knew that. After all, he had five full days.

When the evening colored the sky in a lovely shade of orange, Ghirahim decided to call it a day. He had grudgingly admitted to himself that he needed to do a little research – there was no internet in this hicktown, but he'd charm someone to talk, and maybe he would let himself get bored out of his ruined boots by those first two books that Link had written. Probably everyone in the village owned those tomes, and it was true that the style of writing always gave an insight into the character if you knew how to read it right.

It was not very satisfying, but it was better than thinking of the strange yearning that had befallen him when he had touched Link's skin for the first time. Reluctant to bring that up again, Ghirahim got out of the coupé and stretched languidly. He'd had enough time for yoga, at least, and the annoying horse hadn't shown up.

He would at least give Link a proper goodbye – unfortunately, the spoilsport was not in the garden, apparently he was determined to stay in his farm house until Ghirahim left for the night. The Demon Lord picked up his notepad, raising his eyebrows when he noticed that the page he had been writing and drawing on was missing.

It was pinned to the back door with the kitchen knife (very archaic, simply fab!). Ghirahim inspected it closer, smiling when he discovered a small, neat line that had not been there before.

Go away.

Ghirahim couldn't help it: he laughed, pulling out the knife and lightly touching it to his cheek before whispering a kiss on the small blade. The page in his hand was warm from the sun. Ghirahim had no idea if Link was watching him from inside that house; it was not important, not that much.

He wrote an answer, leaving the paper on the table, weighing it with the knife.

Next time, I'll make us blood brothers.