Riots.

I am not even kidding. People are rioting all over the country, in every city and town of Hyrule. Students and youth groups did school walkouts this morning, and a lot of people called in to say they wouldn’t be going to work.

They’re all in the streets with posters, singing the national anthem, and thousand upon thousands of people are massing on the square, both to see the Indigo-Go’s play and to clearly state their opinion.

What’s their opinion? Let’s just sum it up with ―as Aryll squealed happily this morning to wake me up― ‘they’re rioting to get Princess Zelda Harkinian crowned!’

Seriously. The Godly Trio wasn’t kidding when they said they had power. Ever since the country saw the pictures of the photo shoot, women have been loudly requesting more power for women rulers, while men are just protesting to see more of, well, my legs.

Not, I consider when I look up at a giant poster, plastered on a wall just this morning, of me sitting with a beguiling look on my face ―I’d forgotten that one, I really don’t look half-bad on it… actually, I look downright sexy―, that I blame them. I can now freely admit that I’m easy on the eyes.

Now, if Link bothered to act on it, it’d be nice.

But Link is sitting with me in the backseat of our nondescript car, looking out the other window, stubbornly avoiding my gaze. Maybe he’s not doing it on purpose, but I definitely get this ‘I’m-trapped-in-a-metal-box-with-the-one-person-I-don’t-want-to-be-trapped-in-a-metal-box-with’ feeling emanating from him.

Needless to say, it sucks big time. Sure, I kissed him and he hasn’t given me any reason to believe that he cares for me that way, but come on. It was just a kiss, dammit! He should be glad I didn’t jump his bones, like I wanted to.

And then I recall what he said about wanting to leave the publicity world after the coronation ―he said the crown would be mine without trouble, which I’m starting to believe, in light of the riots and all.

I wonder why he wants to leave… and where he wants to go.

Gods. He still won’t look my way. I give up.

For now.

The radio in the car is the only thing that breaks our heavy silence. Our driver tunes it up for us to hear, because the announcer just came on and he’s talking about me.

“… The unexpected and unaffiliated protests in favour of throne candidate Zelda Harkinian continue into this early afternoon. Though Harkinian’s cabinet claims no responsibility for the alarmingly numerous walk-outs and sick calls that happened all over the country, public support has not wavered. In Kakariko, we were told, a public bus on which Ganondorf Dragmire publicity had been plastered was turned over by excited students…”

The speech goes on, and it’s music to my ears.

I notice that Link has glanced back into the car and seems pretty satisfied with himself. Now that I think of it, he probably didn’t organize the riots, though it wouldn’t be surprising if he had suggested the idea to a few key people.

One thing to be glad for, at least, is that his genius works for me, not against me, because frankly, I’d hate to be Ganondorf Dragmire right now.

Actually, just thinking about my ‘future’ prime minister’s reaction to the news this morning brings a grin to my face. Rauru Luz had burst into his own study, where I’d been sitting patiently, looking like he hadn’t had that much fun in decades.

“I have no idea how this happened,” he’d exclaimed, exaggerating because he did, in fact, know exactly what provoked this nationwide reaction ―my interview last night―, “but if the cabinet doesn’t approve of you with a safe majority, I’m buying myself a postiche and dyeing it blue!”

“Oh,” I’d answered with a giggle, “blue would look lovely on you.”

Link clears his throat, and the sound drags me out of my thoughts.

“We’re almost there,” he says, very straightforward. A part of me freaks out completely because he sounds exactly like he did when we first met: polite, distant, and terrifyingly impersonal. The other part is traitorously wondering if he likes to be on top or…

Still, the scared part wins out in the end. I have to say, if he’s about to brush me off as just another job, he’s in for a disappointment. The car slows down, and before Link can get his door open and before we enter the restricted area behind the stage, I take his arm and say, doing my best to keep my face expressionless, “After this, we’ll have to talk.”

Because, honestly, there’s no point in holding it back forever. Someday, I’ll have to get my heart officially broken. Might as well be while he’s still around rather than when I get an invitation to his wedding with a sexy celebrity.

I can’t read what he feels on his face, because I’m an awful judge, and probably because he’s being blank on purpose, but then I say, “In the meantime, you will treat me as you used to. We are grown adults and our behaviour is childish and leads to nothing but unnecessary tension.”

He stares at me blankly for a while, then his lips quirk upwards, and he looks shared between sadness and pride, “Spoken like a true queen.”

I can’t help a blush.

Thankfully, he obeys me, because he suddenly works up a broad smile and invites me to follow him. “Let’s introduce you to the Indigo-Go’s.”

We pass the security guards ―whether they’re there to protect me or the Terminian band is a mystery, though it’s likely both of us are at risk anyway― and around security barriers, so that we’re finally inside a tent backstage. The black backstage curtains and the brightly lit stage are somewhere out of sight, but I can guess where it is because of the ruckus the crowd is making.

Shockingly, they’re shouting for more than just the Indigo-Go’s.

“Are they screaming, ‘Go-Go’s Zelda’?” I ask.

Link snickers. “I might have hired a few crowd motivators to get them into the pattern.”

“What?” I try to keep my eyes from bulging out of my skull, then I grab his shirt sleeve ―ooh, soft Calatian cotton― and hiss, “What do you mean you hired crowd motivators? You mean, like…”

“I guess the closest parallel I can make is that I hired crowd cheerleaders,” he says, far more amused by my panic than he rightfully should. “So now they’re encouraging the crowd to scream for both the Indigo-Go’s and you.”

My jaw is not dragging on the floor. It most certainly is not. The fact that I can muster no discernable words is just a speech impediment I’ve had since childhood.

Right.

He smiles. I don’t know how he manages that. The knee-weakening smile, I mean. Is there some sort of club where all the hot guys gather to learn how to smile like that? Or do they all just have the innate built-in muscles to manage that gorgeous dimple?

I can’t ponder the question more because he says, “Crowds actually have the mental age of a three year-old. Someone who knows how to handle their emotions can make them believe whatever they please, and the crowd won’t know any better.

“Wave effect,” he adds. “A good political speech makes use of that. Once a crowd is used to scream ‘yes’, even if you suggest something to which they’d normally scream ‘no’, habit and the wave effect will make them scream ‘yes’ anyway.” He sighs. “Sad, but practical. Tyrants have been elected thanks to that effect alone.”

“But I’m not a tyrant,” I say, though what he just told me is both creepy and fascinating.

“I know. All the better,” he smirks.

“Miss Harkinian,” I heard a man croak from behind us. Both Link and I turn.

Ah. Great. My first encounter with the Indigo-Go’s has to start with Toto Busy, the publicity genius, the man behind the Go’s legendary success. He’s a stout, short manager, with a frog-like, blubbery chin and big, watery eyes that hardly blink. To be honest, he’s unattractive, but I figure if the Indigo-Go’s are so popular, he’s got to be good at his job.

Right before I step in his direction to introduce myself properly and shake his hand, Link whispers, in my ear, “This concert is your last chance to boost your popularity.”

I look back at him and say, “I doubt that’d be a very good idea, Mr. Cheer. We wouldn’t want a bigger riot to destroy the stage, would we?”

Somewhere, the crowd erupts in a loud, “Zelda!”

He smirks at me eloquently. “Fine. Then you go on ahead and do nothing at all to improve your chances.”

I roll my eyes, but I figure it’s best if I don’t tell him that I really don’t care for my chances right now. My thoughts, unfortunately, are mostly focused on how soft his shirt is and how much I want to see him lose it.

Dammit.

“Mr. Busy,” I say instead, turning on my heel and politely holding my hand out, so that Link won’t see that I pine after him senselessly, “It’s lovely to meet you.”

Ironically, the first thing Toto Busy says to me when he grasps my hand in his cold, wet ones ―he’s nervous and his forehead is sweating― is, “This concert is a great opportunity to boost our popularity.”

I hear Link behind me stifling a sneeze, and I know it’s probably because he’s trying not to laugh triumphantly. Gods.

“Bless you,” Toto Busy says to him, in that absent-minded way people pretend to care for other things than their own business. He overhears the crowd’s cries for both the band and my presence, then says, following up with his earlier thought, “Though I’m starting to think neither of us actually needs the extra popularity.”

“Oh?” I pretend not to have noticed this. “I was afraid I was getting overconfident.” Take that, Link.

“Indeed not,” Toto Busy comments. “But this tour is an important part of―”

“Toto,” I suddenly hear a young female voice call, “you’re going to talk her ears off!”

Perhaps my ten year-old fan-girlishness hasn’t died yet, because I could have sworn that voice belonged to Lulu Singer, a teen pop idol whose popularity would have died if she hadn’t joined a group of talented ―and hot― musicians during her tour to Labrynna.

“What?” Another voice asks with incredulity. “She’s here already?”

The voice is deep and bit wobbly. It’s probably Tijo Dram’s, because this is no singing voice and, as far as I know, Tijo never sings during their gigs. He’s the drummer only.

“Tijo, did you drink from my bottle?” Ah, yes. This is the one voice no woman can forget. Mikau Blue’s, I mean. So smooth, so relaxed, but so powerful. It doesn’t hurt that he looks gorgeous on the posters either, with only his guitar to protect his modesty ―it’s not that hard to believe that a guy that good-looking would want to pose in his birthday suit. Most women enjoyed that ‘naked gig’ concept, even though it only lasted a very short time.

“Japas, if you mess with those fingerboards again, I swear I will break every one of your fingers so that you’ll have to play the bass with your teeth.” The only one who could be so direct has to be Evan Keys, the band’s pianist. He has the reputation of being prideful and commanding, but I guess it’s just another side to genius composers.

“Mikau, Evan is threatening me again. Give him a piece of my mind, will you?” And this whining last voice can only be Japas’, the bassist of the Indigo-Go’s and the biggest troublemaker stardom has ever known.

“Do it yourself, you lazy bastard,” Mikau answers from somewhere unseen, “I already defended you twice today.”

“Lulu,” Japas continues in the same whining tone, “Mikau’s not being nice to me!”

Toto Busy glances at me with exasperation.

“Japas, Evan and Mikau. Inseparable and insufferable.”

“And damn sexy,” I hear Japas say. We all turn and, sure enough, the whole band is standing there.

I figure he has a point. Smiling Japas, frowning Evan, and especially Mikau, who looks exhausted, are just as sexy as on the posters of them I used to hang in my room. Tall and lanky, with a permanent slouch, Japas seems shared between laziness and a boastful humour. He wears his hair long and it falls over his eyes. I think it’s impossible not to like him.

Evan seems far more uptight and serious, though. He’s broad-shouldered, straight-backed and gorgeous. He always seems to be frowning, though his talent as a pianist and composer is unmatched.

Mikau, on his part, is thin, tightly muscled, stylishly tattooed and basically the heartthrob every girl once fawned over. I’ll admit, seeing him in person kind of rekindles my long-lost celebrity crush on him.

At Mikau’s side is Tijo. The largest of them all, he has a relaxed, likeable face. And he’s known for his sense of beat.

And last, but not least, Lulu, the only woman in the group and lead singer, though Mikau and Japas are often her back-up singers, is standing there looking radiant. And a bit annoyed.

“Excuse the boys,” she tells me amiably. “They’re stupid and immature with everyone.”

“Aw, Lulu,” Japas whines.

“Will you stop your childish imbecilities?” Evan suddenly asks him. “You’re tiresome and you make yourself look like an idiot.”

I glance at Mikau to check out his reaction, and he smirks back.

“Hey,” he greets me. “We’re the Indigo-Go’s, jazz-rock celebrity group and the biggest nut jobs in the business.” He bows reverently then says, “And you’re Zelda Harkinian, unlikely queen and,” looking me up and down, he adds with a wink, “total babe in the making.”

“Thank you,” I say, trying not to look too flattered. The fan-girl inside me is squealing, though. Mikau thinks I’m hot! Mikau thinks I’m hot!

“Oh, and everyone,” Toto says, “This is Link Forester, royal publicist, or something along those lines.”

“Not quite my title, but it’ll do,” Link smiles politely.

“Nice to meet you, man, but you’ll both have to excuse us. We have to figure out the final tuning for New Wave Bossa Nova.”

So follows a passionate ―and at times violent― musical terms exchange between the band members, the complexities of which I don’t even begin to grasp.

My confusion must show, because Link suddenly leans in to speak close to my ear. “They’re talking about adjusting their guitar levels so that they sound more in harmony with Evan’s keyboard. And,” he adds, listening to the conversation for a brief moment, “they’re changing their registry to match Tijo’s drums.”

For a moment, I’m interested by his explanation, until I realise what his translation implies. “You mean you actually understand what they’re talking about?” I whisper to him. “I stopped listening when they started discussing high cats.”

“Hi-hats,” he corrects me with clear amusement. Whatever. “But yes. I’m familiar with music. I used to take lessons.”

“You,” I say, trying to hide my admiration for him, “do not belong in the unrewarding world of publicity.”

“I know.” Which harshly reminds me that he intends to leave the unrewarding world of publicity.

Something akin to panic fills me and almost paralyses me. Oh gods. “Link,” I suddenly ask, “you said that you’re not staying― can’t you tell me wh―”

“We’re going onstage!” Toto Busy calls. “Japas, if you’re spiking Evan’s bottle again, I’m having you go on pants-less.”

“I know a couple of my fans who’d love that.”

“Princess,” Toto says, using my illegitimate title and effectively preventing me from asking Link the question that has been torturing me since yesterday, “we had our lead prepare an introduction for you.”

Before I can even open my mouth to ask him what that implies, he’s not listening anymore, instead shoving Tijo and Japas onto the stage, under the roar of an ecstatic crowd. I’ve never heard such a ruckus before. Somehow, that scares me out of my wits.

“Link!” I squeak over the now deafening howl of the crowd as the Indigo-Go’s let out riffs and solos, like musical introductions, “what do I do?”

“Take it easy,” he loudly says, as soothingly as he can over the howl of the crowd. “You’re supposed to have fun.”

“What about you?” I ask, trying to control my stress.

“I’ll be right here, backstage.” When I stare at him imploringly, he says, apologetically, “It wouldn’t do for me to appear at your side.”

Screw this, Link. You’re going down with me; even if it’s not in the way I want us to go down. “You’re certainly not staying backstage without sharing all the fun I’ll be having.” So maybe that was a little sarcastic. Whatever. I grab his sleeve and pull him towards the entrance to the stage, where Lulu has begun a surely moving speech in my honour, but of which I hear not even a word. “Come on, Link!”

I give him my best queenly stare. He tries to resist, but finally relents.

“This will make the journalists speculate,” he says, and though he tries to sound disapproving, he can’t hide his amusement. “I guess all that matters is that you get them to talk about you. Also, your glare is threatening.”

“Are you trying to justify yourself?” I ask. “Also, I like your shirt.”

With those words, Lulu calls our name and we both walk out onto the stage.

I think even without the deadly speakers and the impossibly loud instruments playing all around us, I’d have gone partially deaf. The crowd’s reaction to my appearance is overwhelming and nearly more enthusiastic than it was for the Indigo-Go’s.

I am rendered speechless. People are screaming as though I were a rock star.

My eyebrows go up. Way up.

And then, Lulu hands me the microphone, and I wonder what the hell I’m going to say because I didn’t prepare a speech.

Where’s Aryll when you need her?

“Um,” I say, and the echo of it over the booming speakers sends the crowd into hysterics ―this is insane― “Hey, everyone.”

Okay, that was lame, and it does cool the crowd off a bit. But hey, it gave me time to make something up.

And I hope Link is watching this, because he’ll be proud.

“So, everyone, are you ready to rock?” I unexpectedly cry into the microphone, and I can’t hear myself anymore because the crowd just exploded into a deafening howl of enthusiasm.

“Are you ready to party?” I ask, in the same tone, maybe a bit louder to cover their voices. The answer is even more powerful than before, and I feel something like adrenalin and elation course through my blood.

“Will you root for me?” I ask, adding a joking smirk to the phrase so that they don’t get the impression that I’m seriously publicizing myself. Even though that’s exactly why I’m here.

Wave effect. Link’s words come back to me in a flash and, as if to prove he was right, the crowd answers with even more force than before: “YEAH!”

Oh, yeah. This rocks.

“Ladies and gents,” I cry into the microphone, “the Indigo-Go’s!” And I motion to the band that happens to now be ready to start their first song.

As the crowd erupts into a final and continuous cheer, the Indigo-Go’s start with their most famous hit, the New Wave Bossa Nova, of which I bought the single when I was in high school. Best song ever.

I hand the microphone back to a grinning Lulu, and excitedly join Link on the side of the stage, where he is giving me an impressed look.

He says something, but I can’t hear him. We’re way too near to the speakers to hear anything distinct. Not even the music makes sense, but there’s something electrifying about the crowd and the energy going around the square that makes it amazing. Besides, I know the song by heart. Even distorted nonsense seems familiar.

Link takes my arm to keep me steady. I can’t help but hop excitedly, along with the crowd, and instead of calming down, I grab both his hands and encourage him to hop along with me.

“This,” I manage to read his lips more than hear him, “is undignified.”

I can’t help but laugh and he finally gives up, letting me jump happily all over the stage with Mikau and Japas, who seem only too happy to have me on with them. It’s like it’s the more the merrier where they’re concerned.

And they’re merry as hell. Any sign of Mikau’s drowsiness has vanished to leave place to some sort of energetic high, and it makes him strum along better than I’ve ever heard him play before.

As for Japas, he keeps making flirtatious but obviously friendly jokes about me, and I can hear the crowd laughing along. I let him do as he pleases, but I don’t let him exaggerate. I’m not a slut or anything, and it could easily seem that way if I let things be.

And gods, the crowd’s energy is like a drug, and I begin to understand all those artists’ claims. It’s not the crowd so much as its moving, howling throng that drives musicians and performers nuts. It’s like I could go on dancing forever.

Lulu’s voice, over the scream of the music, is powerful and glorious, both angelic and sharp. Evan’s constant stream of notes is enough to send everyone present onto a music-induced high. Tijo’s drumming, solos and beats keep timing how fast the crowd is jumping, and it’s like all that jumping could shatter windows and make a permanent dent into the pavement. Still, they don’t stop. It doesn’t stop. They’re amazing. It’s amazing.

I keep screaming along the lyrics until my throat hurts, and I know I’m off-key, but because I can’t hear myself over the sound, it doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters right now. I could be just another fortunate groupie and it doesn’t matter whether I’m princess, queen or waitress. Nothing matters right now. Just the crowd and the music and gods, the blissful obliterating noise!

I could go on forever…!

And yet, all too soon, the concert ends. I know the adrenalin will take hours to go away. I don’t care. I’m just too ecstatic and my heart is beating wildly. I haven’t felt this good for years.

My cheeks are flushed and my breath is short and I’m dying of hunger and thirst and I’m exhausted. But when I return to Link, who actually loosened up a little during the concert, I’m smiling from ear to ear, and nothing will rid me of my elation.

“Link,” I cry, and because the crowd is dispersing to buy t-shirts and popcorn, I can actually speak in a semi-normal volume, “oh gods, Link, wasn’t that amazing?” I can’t help laughing and smiling and I can see it’s contagious, because he grins back.

Until his grin suddenly dies on his lips and turns into a glare. For a moment, I think he’s going to spoil my mood by telling me I’ve done something horribly wrong, but he’s looking at something beyond my shoulder, so I turn.

My heart lurches to a stop.

Beyond the crowd, signing autographs and shaking hands amongst the throng, Ganondorf Dragmire glances up at the two of us, even as we stand motionless on the stage. He smirks, but doesn’t make any other acknowledgment of our existence in any way.

How he managed not to get pounded by angry protesters eludes me. He’s got something up his sleeve. That much I can guess. And it’s terrifying.

I make a step to go confront him. I’ve grown beyond being scared of him. I can do this. I know I can.

Link’s firm hand on my arm stops me from making another step forward. I turn to him. He’s not even looking at Ganondorf Dragmire. I’ve never seen anyone look like he does then. It’s like he just noticed something on the rooftops, and it fills him with tension. He looks livid, but when he turns his eyes to mine, they’re anything but scared. “No confrontations today. Let’s go.”

“What?” I say, trying to resist the pull of his hand. “But I haven’t said goodbye to the band―”

“You’ll send them a card. Let’s go.”

The insistent tone of his voice is enough to undo my defences, and so I let him drag me with incredible speed off the stage. He rushes me past the tents and towards the security gate.

“Orange alert,” I hear him hiss furiously to the security guard, whose eyes widen to the size of saucers. Before I can ask what is going on, Link has pushed me ―rather forcefully, thank you― into the backseat of the car, and, rather than enter it from the other side, he sits in after me, forcing me to scoot over.

“Link,” I suddenly snap when he commands the driver to step on the pedal now, “What is wrong with you??”

He looks back at me, and he’s as livid as before, except now, it’s in anger. His gaze bears into mine and he says, in the most serious and angry voice I ever hear him use:

“Ganondorf Dragmire was about to have you shot.”

Orange alert, in high-class security jargon, I later learned from an anguished and irate Tetra means, ‘imminent assassination attempt’.

And so, I consider, when two days later ―on Decision Day― it’s time for me to put on my dress and hear the final verdict, Ganondorf is my new archenemy. He is so royally dead.