Lately Link had been visited by others like him. He thought they were soft looking, when he looked into the mirror. All the training he did, it felt like chasing someone else. Like lag in his eyes, someone else's arms trailing ahead of his. Sometimes it helped him, but mostly it stuck in the back of his throat as inadequacy. While it sharpened his sword it dulled his concentration.<br/><br/>Between harrowing training sessions he'd been shamefully relieving himself of that budding frustration. No legend ever told of that. But it's all that he had. He couldn't hit the targets better with bow and arrow then the predecessors. He couldn't cover himself better with the shield than those who crowded his head. It made the blue eyes stony with anger, and it made the red blood behind the pale skin hot.<br/><br/>They said he was out of balance, and that he needed to find it, but when he walked ropes and was taught tranquility, all his mind did was roil. He kept it in, and tried to turn it into strength in his strike, but the arc faltered from the unfettered burst of power, and in the end the cuts were never truer than when he adhered to technique. He saw the way they looked at him. Not like he'd betrayed them, but there was a hint of foreign emotions in their patience.<br/><br/>And the young, vibrant, vital and virile man was haunted even when he slept. With great good in his destiny, he had mares of other things. His Kokiri trainers. Writhing and welcoming. It was the kind of sparring he could assume between lovers, but not ones he'd mastered. Through taboo, he'd tried it, but there were few opportunities for the waking to be like that in the village.<br/><br/>That's why he wore a crown, no, a halo of such imaginings when he slept instead. He was deep in it, that lithe body popping with long muscle, when Navi came. Her senses were not calibrated to know the scent of his engagement, and her touch was not trained to know the temperature of his skin, what it meant - but in interpretation and in cadence.<br/><br/>A young man, after all, able bodied and full of intentions.<br/><br/>He was burning with it, but she was jamming reality back into him. The boy rejected it at first, as strongly as any male does when he is faced with too much discomfort. His cheek collected a blush when she slapped it, but his skull was firmly nestled in the scene of having one of his trainers. When she shook him by the hair the image was cut through with visions of his room, the ceiling. Eventually the real world was more than the subconscious one. It was not a clean farewell.<br/><br/>He whapped her with the back of his hand and sat up, dizzy and frothing by the mouth, ruffling the hair she'd already started to unmake. Not that it was very orderly anyway, since he was sleeping. He coughed in anger but soon took enough breath to quell himself. The body trained for adventure took in and let go of breaths like a starved steam engine design. "W-whats going on?" he asked, unsure now that he saw who had visited him.