Title: The Perception of Belief

Author: Alex Foster

Category: Mystery

Rating: R

Summary: After a woman is murdered in Hyrule Castle Town, Link immediately launches an investigation, but soon finds that the killer is much more than he first seems. When another person dies, a startling truth is revealed: the killer has named himself a Knight of the Triforce.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Nintendo. No money is being made and no infringement is intended.

Author's Notes: I have two lovely ladies to thank for helping make this story into what it is today. First, my skillful beta reader, Hugh Jasse. Her nit picking truly made this story better. Second, my friend and fan, Laura Celeste. I have her to thank for not only the dustjacket but for the quote down below, as well. For this story, I used the mytharc that Nintendo set down in LttP. For those unfamiliar with that story line, Link is the last of the Knights of the Triforce and never realized his heritage until being called upon to pull the Master Sword. My stories do not favor that game over the others, but that mytharc reveals the most about Link, and that is the one I feel offers the most room to expand. Lastly, I used characters from another of my stories Darkness Rising, but one does not have to have read that to understand this--it is a complete stand-alone story. And if you have made it this far, I congratulate you. Now, let's fly...

Every minute of every day we choose. Who we are.
Who we forgive. Who we defend and protect. To choose a
side or to walk the line. To play the middle. To
straddle the fence between what is and what should be.
This was the course I chose. Trying to find the
delicate balance of interests that can never exist.
Choosing by not choosing. Defending a center which
cannot hold." The X-Files

It was called Russo’s House. It stood at an unsavory end of Hyrule Castle Town with little adornment. It was called Russo’s House, but the soldiers and villagefolk knew it by other names; some called it the Unholy Inn while others just the Inn. Palace guards would wink at each other and say they were going to pay a visit to the Inn after hours. Everyone knew what happened there, but few openly talked about it. Everyone knew the type of women the man named Russo employed, but few dared to whisper the name of their profession out loud.

The Killer walked down the shadow strewn hallway of Russo’s House. Flickering flames danced in the lamps on the walls, spreading quivering pools of light against the darkness.

The Killer kept his pace slow and even, so that every step would be smooth and graceful. The sword at his hip gave a reassuring bounce with each stride. The Killer let his fingers drift down to the sword’s hilt and touched the carefully wrought gold pommel. The sword was a symbol of who he was, of who destiny demanded him be. He was justice given life.

As he walked down the empty hall, he strained his ears listening to the sounds around him. It was late, but he could still hear the sounds of moaning and grunting coming from the rooms on both sides of the hall. In houses like this one, there was no time; there was always a pair of spread legs for paying customers.

The Killer stopped at the third door from the end of the hall. There was no noise coming from inside. He knocked once and then opened the door. After walking over the threshold, he pushed the door shut with one finger. It gave a gentle click at closing.

The windowless room was small and claustrophobic, and was lit by a single lamp on the nightstand. A bed was pushed against one wall, but still took up most of the room. It was covered in rumpled, stained sheets. A small ornament hung by a leather strap over the bed. A woman stood in the center of the room with her back to him. A simple white robe hung loosely over her shoulders. She turned at the sound of the door closing.

Dark, curly hair fell just past her shoulders. It was in a state of disarray that most men would have found alluring. Her painted lips held a grimace that many would mistake for a small smile, but the Killer knew better. Her eyebrows were neatly trimmed and arced down slightly, providing a frame for her large, brown eyes. The Killer could see tiny cracks in the makeup around those eyes. Were it not for the excess of paint, the whore might have been pretty.

"Are you free?" The Killer asked, his voice a breathy whisper.

The woman smiled, the cracks around her eyes deepening. A tiny flake of makeup broke off and fluttered down her face. The Killer followed it with his eyes, fascinated. "As free as I ever am, darlin'," she said, her voice was soft and pleasant, but holding little real interest.

"Good." The Killer moved a step farther into the room and took a deep breath of the air the woman had been forced to breathe. He could smell the warmth of the coals in the pan underneath her bed. He could smell the cheap, sickly sweet perfume she coated her body with.

She showed no fear of him, or of the sword at his side. She apparently held confidence that Russo downstairs, with his long knife and club, would assure her safety. Nor did she ask about money; again, Russo would handle that by making sure not one foot touched the staircase without first offering up rupees. The Killer idly wondered how a woman such as this could put any trust in a man like Russo.

"So what do ya like, darlin'," she asked moving toward him, her hips swaying provocatively. Her long, firm legs appeared briefly through the loosely cinched robe as she moved. The Killer could see the hints of brown nipples press against the inside of her robe with each jiggle of her bosom. "I’m yours to command," she continued. "Anything you want."

"I’m sure," the Killer said, watching her.

She reached him and ran her hands down the front of his green tunic. She gave a falsely seductive smile when she reached the waist of his trousers. Her red tongue slid across her top lip as her fingers fumbled with his belt. The Killer wondered how many men actually believed the show that she preformed for them. In the blink of an eye his hands went down and gripped hers lightly by the wrists, and he lifted them away from his trousers.

Still, her eyes were empty of fear. "What is your name?" he whispered, knowing she could feel the heat of his breath against her face.

"What does it matter?" she said in the same tone. "Don’t pay me to have no name."

"I wish to know," the Killer replied. "I wish to know the name of the one I will do this to tonight."

The woman’s eyes glanced down briefly and then back up to his. "Hasna," she said softly. Another man might have taken that brief gesture as a sign of vulnerability, but he knew better.

The Killer thought for a moment. "That means beautiful," he said. "You were named well."

The compliment didn’t register in her brown eyes. The veneration of men at the completion of their selfish pleasure had no doubt made her immune to such praise.

"Thank you," she said. "But ya didn’t pay to hear me talk. Let’s go." She took a step backward to the bed, her hand pulling open her robe and letting it fall to the floor in a heap.

The Killer refused to look away from her eyes. So many men had come to this poor creature only to ogle her female flesh, but he would be different.

He could feel the power growing in his chest. Although he wasn’t touching the sword, he could already feel it. His shaking hand moved toward the hilt. "Close your eyes," he whispered.

She glanced at where his hand was and obviously thought something different than he. She smiled and said, "Whatever you like, darlin'."

The Killer took and deep breath and wrapped his hand around the hilt. Instantly the power exploded in him. Every muscle in his body tensed as the mysterious energy that was his birthright raced through his veins. He lowered his head and committed himself to the act he was about to perform. His eyes looked to the ornament hanging on the wall, the symbol under which he served.

"Are you ready, darlin'?" the whore asked.

"Yes, darling," the Killer said through clenched teeth. He was panting with the need of releasing the power. He slowly drew the sword from its scabbard. "I am ready." He brought the sword around. The blade flashed in the dim lamplight.

Hasna opened her eyes in time the see the gleam of magic in her killer’s eyes, and then she knew no more.