Chapter Text
Remarkably, it took only a week for Zelda to start calling Link’s house home.
He had actually apologised when they arrived, weary and filthy from their battle with Ganon. It was an unassuming little cottage, with a slightly crooked brick chimney and a stable built snugly against the west wall. The front door creaked as Link opened it, and he grimaced before stepping inside.
“Sorry. It’s not much, especially compared to what you’re used to…”
Zelda’s mind whirred, cataloguing every square inch of the place. There was the small clay stove, and a pot rack hanging just above it, with a cabinet filled with plates and cookware occupying the same wall. Every other wall of the house was crammed with displayed weaponry: bows, spears, shields, swords, and sickles of all types glinted in the weak light of the candles. A somewhat rickety set of stairs led up to the loft, with a crawlspace beneath the steps; the loft contained a bed, wardrobe, bookshelf, and a modest desk.
“I love it,” she said immediately. Link’s dirt- and blood-smeared face broke into a grin: the smile she had held out for a century to see once again.
All had been well that day. Zelda had her first bath in a hundred years, finally shedding the soiled rag that had once been her prayer dress. Into the flames of Link’s stove went her sandals, worn through from the long journey she had made to Hyrule Castle after the battle of Fort Hateno. And there was the bed: a mattress with real Cucco down, and a patchwork quilt that smelled faintly of pine and horsehair. At first she had felt guilty for taking Link’s bed, but he insisted that he would keep well in the crawlspace beneath the stairs. She buried herself in the blankets, and fell asleep as soon as her head met the pillow.
That was where the trouble began. Endless rows of the dead marched through her dreams. Her father towered over her, his disappointment radiating like clouds of Malice, only to disintegrate in a blast of excruciating blue light. Revali plummeted from the sky, trailing smoke and feathers before splattering onto the ground below. Mipha’s skeletal hands seized her by the ankle, dragging her into crushing black waters, and she looked up to see Link’s impassive face staring down, ignoring her desperate wails. An emaciated woman covered by a gauzy white cloth, who was somehow both Urbosa and her mother at the same time.
Each night, Zelda would wake drenched in sweat, her screams stuck in her throat. Each morning, she would wave off Link’s concern, insisting that she had slept like a rock. But the circles beneath her eyes darkened with every passing day, as did her mood.
To escape the ghosts that constantly plagued her, she threw herself into the routine of maintaining a homestead. She washed up after Link cooked, helped him feed the horses, scrubbed their clothes and hung them out to dry. She also pestered him with a million questions about the new features of the Sheikah Slate, which Link had temporarily confiscated after she nearly blew herself up with a bomb.
“But how does the teleportation work?” she asked, her fingers deftly finishing another row of braids in Fundamental’s mane. The horse whickered softly, and she patted his neck. “It only works with shrines and the towers, right? Is there some sort of energy connecting them all?”
Link shrugged, preoccupied with trimming the hooves of a beautiful bay mare he had named Maeven. “I really don’t know, Zel. Like I said before, you should ask Purah about that kind of thing.”
Zelda pursed her lips, turning her attention back to the stallion’s mane. She couldn’t admit it to Link, but the thought of visiting her old allies and friends paralysed her. They had relied on her, and had endured unspeakable suffering because of her inability to unlock her power until the worst had already occurred. Since they had teleported directly from the castle to Link’s homestead, Zelda had been mostly shielded from the toll that the Calamity and the passage of time had had on Hyrule. But Purah, Impa, Robbie… the Sheikah were capable of outliving Hylians by a good fifty years, but by no means immune to aging. They would be ancient by now, the familiar faces she knew enveloped by wrinkles and sagging skin.
That thought alone triggered a frightening sense of disconnection from the world. The movement of her fingers through the horse’s hair seemed far away, as though she were dreaming.
Is this some sort of trick? she wondered, her pulse drumming. Am I really here? Is this some vision that Ganon is trying to distract me with? If I lose focus, he might—
“Zel.”
She gasped, her hands shaking. Link’s hand was on her shoulder, heavy and reassuring, his worried face inches away from her own. Her fingers had gotten tangled in Fundamental’s mane; she carefully worked them free, trying to avoid causing the stallion any pain.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” said Link. “Is… is everything alright?”
No. Everything’s wrong. This isn’t how it was supposed to be.
Zelda forced a smile, and patted his hand reassuringly. “I’m fine. I think I just need to lay down for a while.”
She left the stable and thumped up the stairs to the loft, not even bothering to remove her mucking boots before climbing into bed. She drew the quilt up over her head, curling her body into a tight ball to quell the trembling.
She hated lying to Link, and knew she was rubbish at it regardless, but it seemed impossible to even begin explaining what was wrong with her. She could hardly make sense of it herself—one moment she was drowning in grief and guilt, and the next slipping out of reality altogether.
Zelda had been fully aware of the consequences of placing Link in the Shrine of Resurrection. She knew right from the moment that he awoke that he might not be the same man she had fallen in love with all those years ago.
What she hadn’t expected was for her to be the one who had changed.
…
I kind of thought she would be… happier.
Link felt incredibly guilty for even thinking it. In the old days, he often dreamed about when they would finally be free. Zelda would have nothing preventing her from doing her research, and Link would no longer have anything preventing him from being with her. Even with no memory or sense of who he was, it was her voice that guided him through his trials. Her face was the first he had managed to recall from the depths of his psyche.
Yet since they had returned victorious, there had been a peculiar barrier between them. Zelda was withdrawn, often gapping out mid-conversation, or seeming to forget that he was there. He wanted desperately to ask her what she had gone through, but he feared upsetting her even further, causing her to shut him out entirely.
And, although Link could hardly admit it even to himself, he also feared that she viewed him as a stranger.
It would make sense, he supposed. His entire life had been wiped away, and it was a struggle to recall even the simplest details about events before the Calamity. Mipha had supposedly been one of the closest people in his life, and he couldn’t remember what colour her eyes were. He even had a sister, but only a hazy image of a girl with twin braids came to mind when he tried to think of her.
“If I may ask… do you really remember me?”
Link frowned, releasing the hoof he had just been trimming. The first question she had asked him after finally seeing him again, and it was full of doubt and trepidation. Implicit within it was the question of whether he was really Link, or someone else walking around in his skin.
There must be some way I can prove myself to her… some way I can get her to confide in me. His mare chuffed softly, chewing the hair on top of his head as a gesture of affection. He good-naturedly swatted her nose away, thinking of how long it took to get the wild horses of Hyrule to trust him. It had taken lots of love, patience, and treats to gain their trust… maybe he should offer Zelda a crisp apple.
He shook his head, sweeping the dirt from the seat of his trousers. Women aren’t like horses, you dumb hick.
“Yoooo hoooo! Anybody home?!”
Oh, Hylia. Link cringed, steeling himself for the encounter. He dragged himself out of the stable, raising a half-hearted hand in greeting. There, on his front porch, stood a slight young girl overshadowed by a rather burly Sheikah man. Both had silvery hair, and could easily be mistaken as a father-daughter pair: at least, by anyone who didn’t know better.
“Purah,” said Link drily. “You’ve grown.”
The researcher-turned-child frowned, planting her tiny fists on her waist. The last time Link had seen her, she had appeared about five or six years old, but now seemed closer to ten. It wouldn’t be long before she hit adolescence, and Link did not want to be around that chaotic cocktail of hormones.
“Don’t patronise me!” Purah snapped, taking a menacing step forward. The effect was slightly ruined by her small stature and the absurd goggles perched atop her head. “You go and take down the Big Bad, and don’t even stop by to see me? What gives?”
Symin, her eternally beleaguered research assistant, turned his palms outwards in an apologetic gesture. “We’re sorry to have dropped by like this, Master Link,” he said humbly. “Ms. Purah caught sight of smoke coming from your chimney, and there was no stopping her.”
“I’m not sorry. I’m pissed off! Where’s my thank-you, huh? Who’s the one who got your defunct Slate up and running so you could—”
The front door creaked open, and a hesitant blonde head poked out. Symin audibly gasped before dropping to one knee, bowing his head. Purah, for once, fell silent, putting a hand over her mouth.
Zelda stepped out onto the porch, and Link felt the familiar sense of deja-vu that preceded a flashback. He saw her again, in another time, wearing an elaborate gown of deep blue, standing over three Sheikah warriors with her hand outstretched. She was tall and proud, her brows drawn straight over her eyes, every bit the monarch she was born to be.
But now… her shoulders were hunched, as though she were trying to hide in plain sight. Deep circles marked the skin beneath her emerald eyes, and her hair was ragged and straw-like, sticking out in strange places. It made Link’s chest feel tight to see her like that. He wanted to simply bundle her up and carry her away someplace safe, where he could protect her from all she had suffered.
“Please stand,” she said softly. “I just came to see what all the commotion was about.”
“P-Princess Zelda!” Symin stammered. He got to his feet, pushing his square spectacles up onto his nose with a trembling hand. “It’s an honour… I never knew that you survived your ordeal with Ganon.”
Zelda had that glassy look once again, seeming to stare right through Symin. Her eyebrows rose for a moment as her gaze landed on Purah. “It can't be... Purah?”
“That’s me.”
“Why are you a child?”
Link felt a laugh bubbling up in his chest, and fought hard to keep it back. Purah’s expression became downright stormy, her pointed ears reddening.
“Never mind that! Are you meaning to tell me you’ve been hiding out here all this time?”
“It’s only been a week,” Link interjected. Purah wheeled round, her eyes snapping.
“No, it has not been ‘only a week’.” Her tiny fingers traced scathing quotation marks in the air. “It’s been a century. I’ve been waiting an entire lifetime to see that horror put in its place, spent countless backbreaking years of work to help you two. And you’ve got nothing for me? Not even a ‘hey Purah, just letting you know we’re alive’?”
Zelda hung her head, clenching her hands together so tightly that the knuckles had gone white. Part of Link felt ashamed, but a larger part raged against Purah for daring to speak to her that way.
She’s been through more than you could possibly imagine. She needs rest, not a guilt trip.
“I’m sure Master Link and her Highness needed some time to recuperate,” said Symin, as though reading Link’s mind.
“It’s just Zelda.”
All heads turned to her. She had raised her chin, looking a little more like the woman Link had seen in his memory. Her cheeks went pink at the attention, but she held her ground.
“I’m not much of a princess anymore. Please, just… don’t call me that anymore.”
Purah scoffed, folding her arms. “And they say girls my age are the ones to watch out for. The dramatics!”
“Purah!” Symin squawked, his glasses sliding back down his nose. “You can’t say things like that—”
“Why not? She even said she doesn’t want to be a princess anymore.” She stepped closer to Zelda, whose hands were still clenched tightly together. “Have you even been to see Impa yet? I was just a researcher, but she was your friend. Are you really going to turn your back on her, like you’re turning your back on the throne?”
“Enough.”
Link didn’t say it loudly, but it cut through like a blade through sinew. Purah clamped her mouth shut, still bristling with fury. Without another word, Zelda went back into the house, shutting the door behind her. Purah made a move to go after her, but a shake of the head from Symin stopped her.
“We appreciate all you’ve done for us,” said Link firmly. “But I won’t allow you to come to my house and speak to Zelda this way. Feel free to return when you can behave in a civil manner.”
Suddenly icy, Purah turned on her heel and stalked towards the bridge that led back to the village. Symin made a few apologetic noises, bowing deeply before following the Sheikah girl, and Link stood rooted to the spot long after their backs had vanished from sight. He waited for the white-hot spike of rage to diminish before entering the house.
Zelda sat at the kitchen table, staring at nothing. Her fingers were still knotted together, the tips beginning to turn a pale blue. Link sat in the chair beside her, and laid a palm over her hands. She flinched, seeming to come back to reality. Her eyelashes glinted with unshed tears; the spike threatened to return in full force.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, forcing his voice to remain level. For a terrible moment, he worried she might ignore him, but she nodded tightly. Without thinking, he raised her hands to his mouth, pressing a light kiss into the glowing crest on the back of her hand. Unable to look at her face, he quickly busied himself with dinner preparations, throwing together a beef-and-broccoli fry.
They ate in silence, Link scarfing back his food and Zelda delicately picking at hers. Meals these days were hit-or-miss for her: some things she ate even faster than he did, but others she hardly touched. Beef, it seemed, was not agreeable to her. Tomorrow he would get her some fresh fruit from the market instead.
“I’m ready to see Impa.”
She said it so quietly Link nearly thought he had imagined it. He glanced across the table at her, and was shocked to see that she was actually making eye contact with him. Her eyes, flickering in the candlelight, were sharp and clear for the first time since he had brought her home. He reached over and squeezed her forearm.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go tomorrow.”
He barely slept that night, keeping an ear out. There was only silence, which meant that she was either sleeping, or had laying awake, alone in the dark with her memories of horror. Unable to bear the thought, he crept upstairs to check on her.
She laid on top of the blankets, still fully clothed and facing the wall. Her golden hair streamed out behind her; she hadn’t bothered to plait it before getting into bed, and it was terribly matted in a few places. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, which reassured him that she might actually be asleep. He turned to go back to the cot under the stairs.
“Stay,” she whispered.
Link sat at the foot of the bed, making the mattress groan. She rolled over, and stretched out her arms to him. Not one to disobey orders, he laid down on his side, allowing her to nestle her head into his chest. She was so warm, and still smelled of lavender somehow, as if she were still using the same soap from a century before. That deja-vu tickled at his brain, and he closed his eyes, resting his cheek against her hair.
The memory never came, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was this.