Chapter Text

Chapter 1

It was the first afternoon in nearly a week that came without political or ceremonial obligations, and Princess Zelda, ever the pragmatist when it comes to free time, had secluded herself in her study right away to resume her, well… studies. It was not immediately obvious to her which studies she would resume exactly—biology, archeology, alchemy—but she would take full advantage of her open schedule nonetheless. 

She sat, then, at her desk, poring over a collection of meticulously categorized notes, hoping that any one subject would spring out from the pages to seize her attention for a few hours. It was slow going at first; she spent a few minutes perusing her notes on the soil composition of Lanayru riverbanks, how the ratio of silt and sand changed as the soil eroded from banks in the northern part of the province and eventually accreted in the southern lowlands. This didn't excite her overmuch, not today, but it did get her thinking about agriculture, so she turned instead to her notes about the unique aeration of Tabantha wheat, and how it is particularly well suited to pastries and cakes when compared with other varieties of wheat. This didn't produce any enthusiasm either (though it did produce a loud growl from her stomach), but she did begin to feel her mind wanting to leapfrog from one subject to another, that frenzied internal dance that inevitably led to deep and productive research. 

Finally, as the gears began to turn, she pivoted to an unfinished essay hypothesizing the use of cool safflina plants as an anti-inflammatory. Her quill hit the page and she was off. The early afternoon passed her by as easily as an oar through water, and she was largely absorbed in her work until the door to her study creaked open. 

Even then, the sound only registered in the back of her mind, and her eyes did not falter from her work until a small plate entered her periphery. She turned just in time to see her assigned knight place a serving of cake on her desk, to hear the warble of the ceramic against the stone of her desktop. 

It was a slice of fruitcake, frosted evenly with a citrus cream topping and adorned with slices of strawberry and peach. The sight of it roused her fully from her studies and she smiled in warm surprise. 

"Oh, thank you, Link." She took up the fork eagerly and abandoned her papers on the other end of the desk. Link nodded and left her study without a word, though he did linger in the doorway long enough to see her take the first bite.

In the privacy of her study, the princess enjoyed her slice of cake with perhaps more gusto than her education in court etiquette would usually afford her. Truly, she couldn't believe her luck. To have a full afternoon in peace and a slice of fruitcake in the same day was a blessing indeed. She would have to remember to thank the royal cooks for their consideration. Everyone in the kitchens of Hyrule Castle knew that fruitcake was her favorite dessert—possibly her favorite food.

But of course, Link knew that as well.

The cake was smaller than what was typically made for the princess—there were only four slices left. But that meant he still had four more opportunities to offer her a slice, four more opportunities to watch her smile and hum in delight at the craftsmanship of it. He knew that she would not remember to eat otherwise, not in the throes of academic fervor, so she would surely be hungry.

This afternoon was a blessing for him as well, you see.

Chapter Text

The princess's schedule was packed today, packed before she had even awakened. She would attend to her morning prayers, participate in midweek religious observations, and meet with various guild leaders in Castle Town for the semiannual commerce summit. The latter of the three obligations would be the most grating for her, she knew, as she had never been overly interested in matters of trade. But her fear of being a poor monarch outmatched her disinterest, as always, and she would devote her full attention to the event when it arrived.

When she woke, Zelda's maids informed her that, given the day's tight schedule, she would be granted the rare opportunity to take breakfast in her room today. This was a pleasant surprise, and she was surprised again when her breakfast arrived, for it was not one of the maids who brought it as she'd expected, but her knight.

Perhaps the entire castle is busy today, she thought. It made sense that Link was already up, though. He'd be accompanying her on all of her errands, and he usually roused before her anyway. They probably sent the food with him because he was already coming up here.

He entered her room with a serving tray while she was brushing her hair, and set it gingerly on the sitting table opposite her vanity. She offered her thanks and he nodded, his face impassive, as it usually was. She set her brush down and turned to regard her breakfast.

She had a plate of crepes, soft and golden, and deftly folded. They were filled with oats and wildberries, and topped with very finely grated orange peel, accompanied by a cup of clotted cream to spread.

The princess eyed her meal up and down, inhaled its inviting smells, and promptly dug in. After she'd taken her first bite, Link excused himself to finish preparing for their day.

On his way down the hallway, he passed a pair of castle guards engrossed in idle conversation, one of the rare moments where members of the royal guard could be seen and heard.

"Mind you, I like eggs and sausage for breakfast as much as the next fellow, but I was truly hoping they'd serve something else today," one of them groused. "This is the fourth day in a row, what's a man need to do to get some biscuits and jam?"

Link continued to his room, where his own breakfast of eggs and sausage awaited him, probably cold by now.

He wanted to make her something a little more extravagant, but her packed schedule meant he too was pressed for time, and crepes were relatively quick and easy. He'd have liked to make them his favorite way: large and thin, spread with a chocolate hazelnut sauce and rolled up. That was street food, though, not how the castle kitchens would make it, and she would notice. No matter. The princess seemed to enjoy her breakfast thoroughly, and he was more than satisfied with that.

Chapter Text

Faron Woods was hot and muggy this time of year, just as it was any other time of year. The incessant thunderstorms did nothing to counteract the balmy temperature, and only exacerbated the inescapable humidity.

They were en route to Lurelin Village, where they planned to study the local shrines. Princess Zelda was particularly eager to determine whether the ancient shrines’ architecture and positioning changed relative to their proximity to the coastline. They would not reach the village for another day yet, but the princess would not let such a delay stifle her natural curiosity.

They had made camp along the banks of the Floria River, where Link had just caught two bass for them to eat and was now fully engrossed in preparing supper. Zelda, meanwhile, had taken it upon herself to explore the wonderfully diverse plant life of Faron Province. She scampered all about the perimeter of their camp, taking pictures, jotting notes, and generally marveling at the ecological display. She found thistle bushes, mushroom patches, and even a durian tree, though she steered clear of the latter once the stench had hit her.

She had been exploring for probably an hour before her stomach began to grumble. It was at that point that she took notice of the late hour and the setting sun. She began to wonder why Link wasn’t done cooking yet. She’d expected him to just fry the fish in a pan, perhaps with some mushrooms, since that was the most popular way for light-traveling Hylians like them to cook it. That certainly wouldn’t take him over an hour, though.

She returned to their camp to find Link still busy at the campfire, over which a small cooking pot was suspended. He poured a small jug of milk into the pot and began to stir it, and the tropical breeze carried the scent of broth and spices and other untold good things to Zelda’s nose.

She shouldn’t have been surprised. She knew that Link was a practiced cook, of course. Everything he had cooked for her on the road was delicious, even the simpler things; and he’d made proper meals on the go before. But that was back when she hated him, when she’d made a deliberate effort to ignore him as fully as possible. Now he was cooking again, actually cooking, and as with most things she observed, Zelda found her curiosity growing.

She’d never cooked before, of course. The castle had an entire staff whose job was to keep her fed and satisfied. She remembered helping her mother bake when she was much younger, but the memories were too faint to scrutinize, and too emotionally charged for her to revisit now.

“What are you making?” His head darted over to her when she spoke, and she’d wondered for a moment if she’d startled him. But that was silly; Link was not an easy man to surprise.

He paused for a moment as if thinking, then took his hand off the ladle to sign to her.

Soup.

“Fish soup?”

He nodded. I was going to make a bouillabaisse, but I couldn’t get everything before we left the castle.

She stared at the pot for a moment and decided rather quickly that now was a good time for an inflection point.

“May I help?”

In many ways, Link was as eager to be traveling again as the princess was. He felt very comfortable outdoors and relished the freedom it offered. But more importantly, it was a chance to be alone with the princess.

Out here, she was free from the doldrums of the palace, free from the oppressive weight of her father’s expectations, free from the murmuring of the court gossips. Moreover, she was free to pursue her studies, to allow her curiosity to take hold, and to bring her brilliant smile out of hiding.

It was his very favorite way to see her.

Traveling had some drawbacks, of course. To start with, he had to remain on constant guard, both for assassins and for the occasional band of monsters, the latter of which were becoming increasingly prevalent in the wilds of Hyrule. It meant that he had to make sure she didn’t run too far off in her excitement, lest he lose track of her.

It also meant that he couldn’t cook for her on the sly.

With just the two of them out here, there was no opportunity to surprise her with food, at least not indirectly. All of their meals were obviously made by him, usually right in front of her. While she enjoyed his food all the same, it did deprive him of the opportunity to spoil her without revealing his affections.

Oh well. He’d decided not to let it get him down. After all, he would still get to spend the better part of a week basking in everything the princess was, with no harsh realities to bring her down. And when they returned to the castle, he could get right back to cooking for her again.

He was already planning his next treat.

“What are you making?”

He was brought out of his reverie by her voice. He swung his head around to see her standing perhaps ten feet behind him, watching him cook their supper. Either he was so engrossed in his daydreaming that he hadn’t noticed she’d stopped exploring, or his swordsman’s talent for perception was fading.

He wasn’t sure which was scarier.

It took him a moment to realize that he hadn’t responded yet, and that she must think him both deaf and dumb. He found that the words weren’t coming to him easily at this moment, so he opted to sign instead.

Soup. As if she couldn’t already see that much.

“Fish soup?” she asked, because at least one of them wasn’t a fool.

He nodded, willing himself to focus more on her words than her mouth. I was going to make a bouillabaisse, he struggled with that word, but I couldn’t get everything before we left the castle.

“May I help?”

He blinked.

Help? Where did that come from? She’d never offered to help Link cook before. But then again, they were friends now, sort of. It only made sense that her all-encompassing curiosity would eventually reach his cooking pot.

It was a given that he would say yes, of course. He couldn’t refuse the princess even if he had a right to, even if “yes” wasn’t an answer he felt deep in his bones any time she asked something of him.

He nodded, and began looking around his makeshift kitchen for something she could do.

Unfortunately, the soup was almost done; the fish and most of the vegetables had already been added and it was all simmering beautifully in the pot. All that was left was to chop and add the shallots—he was not giving her a knife—and add a few more spices.

Link handed her a small earthenware cup of ground spices. Sprinkle these in and stir while I chop the shallots.

“What’s in here?” she asked, stirring the cup in her hand as if it were a wine glass.

He could not sign the names for many of the spices, so he had to speak instead. “Thyme, basil, peppercorns, fennel, and saffron.” His voice was faint from disuse. “And there’s, um, there’s garlic too, but I added that earlier.”

He averted his eyes from her to focus on the shallots, working his knife over them until they were finely and evenly chopped. He handed his cutting board to her once she was done with the spices. Stir these in too.

He sat back and watched for a few minutes while she stirred. Honestly, the soup was done now, but he hesitated, selfishly drinking in the contentment in her eyes and the firelight that danced on her cheeks. He could live in this moment forever, he thought. But new thoughts soon came to his mind—shameful thoughts of domesticity that would surely never come to fruition.

He cleared his throat. That should do. He took the ladle from her hands and gingerly served her a bowl, and then himself.

The princess enjoyed this meal just as heartily as any other he made, but Link made a point to not watch her eat this time. He trained his eyes on his own bowl instead, and willed himself to focus on his meal and not on the princess or the hammering in his chest that she’d brought him.

Chapter Text

Princess Zelda was growing stir crazy.

Today the castle would host dignitaries from a handful of different provinces, and such occasions usually demanded a formal meeting or dinner. Instead of spending her afternoon locked in prayer, the princess was free to prepare for her stately obligations however she saw fit. This would come as a welcome change for Zelda, were it not for one small wrinkle: Link was not here today.

Link had gone away to Akkala Province on a joint scouting mission with Sheikah spies, as he was pretty much the only Hylian soldier who could match their talent for sneaking. This meant the princess could not leave the royal properties. She could not venture outside the walls to visit a research site or cultural landmark. However the princess was to spend her day, she would spend it at home.

And so, while Link got to spend his evening running through misty forests, the princess would spend hers attending to affairs of state. To make matters worse, the king had assigned Zelda temporary protection in Link’s absence: not one, but five royal guards in full dress. They hounded her every step, chanting yes, princess; no, princess, all without making eye contact or allowing her more than twenty feet of personal space. Naturally, she’d decided the best way to spend her day was to sit in her study and pout.

Today would have been a perfect day to learn something, if only Link were here. . .

Wait just a moment. Since when must Link be present for the princess to pursue her studies? The library was well within reach. She still had command of her study. She even had access to the castle gardens if she wanted to be outdoors. Instead, she plays the archetypal princess, locked away in a tower, awaiting rescue at the hands of some knight.

Well, that’s enough of that.

She stood from her desk so abruptly that one of the royal guards standing in the corner flinched. Today was a good day to learn indeed, and so she would do just that. She reached for her notes and browsed as she usually did, waiting for the topic of the day to leap out and grab her by the shoulders.

A treatise on wandering constellations? No, too speculative. A half-finished report on the benefits of a multiyear crop rotation program in Keelay Plain? Too esoteric. There’s still that analysis of Tabantha wheat pastries that she never got around to finishing. . .

And there’s the stomach growling, right on cue.

The princess frowned. She had skipped lunch in anticipation of having a large meal with the aforementioned dignitaries, but of course that was pushed back to dinner. Normally, hunger wouldn’t interrupt her studies, but then again, she hadn’t needed to go hungry in a while, had she? Link had always brought her something to eat when she missed lunch.

Zelda glowered at her notes, and the list of research topics looked back at her with indignation. Prone to fidgeting, she tapped her pen against the paper, leaving a small cluster of black dots on the margin. Nothing on the list spoke to her at present. She thought only of Tabantha wheat pastries, and her hunger, and how Link was absent, and of the wholesome meals he cooked when they traveled.

At the bottom of her list of topics, she added one more absentminded entry in her tidy handwriting.

Learn to cook.

She gawked at the entry, surprised at having written it. The entry stared back, surprised at having been written.

Learn to cook? What a silly notion. She didn’t need to cook, not with an entire staff dedicated to cooking for her. And why learn to cook when there were greater pursuits: the sciences, the arts, matters of logic?

She pictured Link in front of a fire, scrutinizing a pan or a pot, measuring and adjusting, his hands moving with grace and certainty—working inexorably toward his intended result, not unlike Zelda working a chemist’s lab.

Cooking is a science as well, is it not? It has its principles, its formulas, its reliable outcomes, just as something like chemistry or botany. She couldn’t simply write off cooking as a subject of study just because it’s domestic. Why, she would be throwing away a greater understanding of the world! She couldn’t do that. It would be academically dishonest, it would be lazy. Yes, she would learn to cook, and she would begin her studies as with any other subject.

Princess Zelda knew the castle library like the back of her hand. Time and again, the books contained within served as valuable resources for her work, and so it would be today. She generally refused the help of the librarians, preferring to search by herself. It kept her sharp—attuned to the ebb and flow of the books as they moved about the shelves.

After about a half hour of searching, though, her results were less than promising. She found books about food preservation, which is not cooking. She found books about food as a facet of culture, which is not cooking. She found one book which ranked all of Hyrule's prisons by the quality of their porridge, which, while interesting, contained no recipes and was therefore not cooking.

Eventually she caved and sought the help of the librarians, who cheerfully informed her that the castle library contained no actual cookbooks, likely because nobody who visited or resided in the castle ever needed to read about cooking, aside from the kitchen staff.

Of course! Where better to look for cookbooks than a kitchen? She thanked the librarians and raced out into the hallway, nearly half a dozen exasperated warriors following closely behind.

Zelda went downstairs to the kitchens. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d ever visited this wing of the castle, most of them with her mother when she was still living. How good of a cook was the late queen, she wondered? Foggy memories of a much younger Zelda began to bubble up again; memories of kneading dough and washing berries, of biting into fresh braided bread. Zelda shunted them back where they came from when she arrived at the kitchens.

The head chef looked at her as if she had grown a second head, but nonetheless produced a selection of three cookbooks for her to borrow. She swore they would be returned in a timely manner, completely unharmed. She journeyed all the way back across the castle grounds to her study, planted herself at her desk, and inspected the cover of the first book: Classical Hyrulean Formal Dining Practices: Third Edition, Revised.

She cracked it open and perused the table of contents. Table setting, traditional lighting, dinnerware, cutlery, seating charts, wine tasting, course changes. . .

Zelda frowned and closed the book. While this was a comprehensive reference for planning formal dinner events, it was not a cookbook. She set it aside and reached for the next.

The Noble Kitchen Servant’s Guide to Excellence, with Annotations.

She cracked the book and thumbed through the first few chapters. It became clear after a few minutes that this was also not a cookbook, but rather a guide on the fundamentals of working in a nobleman’s kitchen. It claimed to teach all the finer points of serving the upper class: how to carry huge serving platters no matter one’s age or size, how to recognize when a glass needs refilled and when one has had enough without being told, how to track which guests hate each other and avoid seating them together. She sighed and set this one aside too.

The third book was titled Formal Staples from the Kitchen of Chef Clovis Tacitus, Abridged. She threw it open and smiled. Yes, she had finally found an actual cookbook, containing actual recipes!

The largest part of the book by far was the dinner section, so she decided to choose from there. She recognized a lot of the recipes as being staples the cooks served to her family, or to guests. As she flipped through the pages, though, she began to realize two things: One, the head chef had given her these books likely because he assumed she wanted to review the menu and plans for the upcoming diplomatic dinner; and two, these recipes were very convoluted.

She began to shrink her list of options to those that sounded simple, such as the single-protein dishes. Tuna steak and caviar mousse sounded easy enough, but as she read into it, she discovered that preparing the fish was actually a days-long process. The sirloin steak sounded even easier, but it called for a peach beer gravy whose list of ingredients was longer than the actual cooking instructions.

Zelda's smile grew pained as she realized that she was perhaps a bit in over her head. She sighed and resigned herself to an unfortunate truth: she couldn't do this alone. She bookmarked a handful of recipes that she thought Link might like before closing the book, and then begrudgingly settled in for an afternoon of waiting for him to return.

Link had never considered himself the type of person to get stir crazy. Patience had always been one of his greatest strengths. Everything he was good at—hunting, fishing, cooking, fighting—all required patience, so he learned from an early age how to content himself with staying quietly in one place, observing, thinking, waiting.

Even he had to admit, though, that there was such a thing as too much thinking and waiting. Endless days and weeks had wheeled by, each spent following the princess, watching the princess, listening to the princess.

Thinking about the princess.

And he enjoyed it, of course. It seemed like every day he discovered something new and wonderful about her. But he was getting comfortable, and comfortable was not something you could be when your primary job was to prevent someone from being stabbed, poisoned, or strangled. He needed to distract himself, or rather, he needed to distract himself from his distraction.

When he'd been asked to join the scouting mission, he'd readily accepted. It was an opportunity to be outdoors again, to recenter himself and remember what he was here for. He could enjoy being surrounded by singing birds and rustling branches instead of inquisitive smiles and breathtaking laughter.

The cold night air was working wonders.

The excursion had been a welcome change at first. He was accompanied by masters of stealth and combat, like himself, all of whom could communicate silently via the very same sign language he used. They all wore specialized gear which kept them hidden in the dark or against foliage. He was able to sharpen his skills and prove to himself that all his time in the castle hadn't softened him.

Perhaps it had, though, because he certainly felt softer. Sure, he could handle the running and sneaking and sleeping under the stars—he enjoyed it. But when they all made camp for the night and gathered around to eat pre-packed rice balls (no cooking—campfires give their position away), Link could not ignore the little pang of longing that crept up on him. He imagined a familiar picture: him sitting at a campfire with his Zelda, sharing a rabbit stew or some other meal that would warm her up on a cold night like this one.

It’s been fun, he thinks, but he’s ready to go home now.

It occurs to him then that the castle has become home to him—not his village, or the guard barracks where he used to stay. Except the castle wasn’t really home either, was it? No, home was wherever the princess was.

He realizes this as he lay on his back, staring up at the night sky, feeling homesick.

Link returns to the castle the next morning. He makes straight for the princess’s room, stopping at his quarters only to bathe and change out of his Sheikah gear. He knocks on her door in a manner that he thinks is normal, but which she can somehow distinguish from other people. He hears a faint call to enter, and he obeys.

She’s on her veranda, sitting in the morning sun and reading from a book of sonnets. She’s wearing a burgundy sundress, and she’s radiant. He stands at the doorway with his hands behind his back, dutifully waiting to be addressed.

She looks up long enough to smile at him in greeting. “So, how was the mission?”

“Productive,” he said. “Monster camps in the region have not grown significantly.”

“I was asking if you had fun.” Zelda looked up at him again with a different smile, one she used to scold him in good nature.

He shifted his weight to one foot and paused. He brought his hands around to sign.

I enjoyed it.

“Good,” she said. “If you like, we can try to arrange for you to join more military exercises. It’ll give you a chance to get out of the castle more often.”

Link shook his head. There’s no need. I should be here anyway.

“You shouldn’t have to wait around for me to be able to leave the castle—”

I’m happy to be back, he interrupted. She stared at him, no longer smiling, so he added, I’m comfortable here.

She gave him a pensive look that he wanted to cower under, but finally she gave a small smile. “That’s good. At the very least, you’re much nicer to have around than a cadre of guards.”

Speaking of which. . . “Where are they, anyway?” he asked aloud.

She jabbed her thumb behind her to the courtyard below them. He looked out over the stone railing of the veranda and saw five royal guards standing at attention in the courtyard walkway, looking up at them. At the sight of Link, they turned and exited the courtyard single file.

“I talked them into staying down there by saying that the courtyard below my veranda is the most likely point of entry for any assassin,” she said.

“It is,” Link replied. He’d studied the castle’s layout as soon as he was put in charge of Zelda’s security.

“Anyway, they wouldn't leave until they laid eyes on you. Not even when we heard you’d returned to the castle.”

Link did not tell her that those were the instructions he gave them. Better she thinks that those orders came from her father.

“So!” She snapped her book shut and stood up. “Now that you’re back, I could use your help with a new project of mine.”

He turned fully toward her, awaiting instruction. She raced into her room and returned bearing a large tome that he immediately recognized as one of the head chef’s cookbooks.

“I want to learn to cook,” she said, as if that was a completely normal thing for her to say, “but I can’t seem to decide which of the recipes in this book would be appropriate to start with. You’re better versed in this subject than I am; would you choose a recipe for me?”

He agreed, of course. Or, he would agree, just as soon as he got past the whole she-wants-to-cook thing. His train of thought was having quite a hard time parsing that. But here she was, using the same puppy dog eyes she used to convince him to help her test out ancient war machines. Oh, that wouldn’t do at all.

He took the book and began to peruse its contents. He didn’t honestly expect to see anything in here that would be appropriate for a beginner to try, and his assumption was confirmed after browsing for a minute. Everything in here was meant to be served to nobility, each recipe called for exotic ingredients and elaborate preparation. He did take a moment to sift through for any recipes he might like to try later, though. Salmon quiche? Pumpkin soup? Yes, there was stuff he could use here.

There was nothing appropriate for Zelda, though. He shook his head, closed the book, and handed it back to her.

“That’s not a promising look,” she said after taking the book in hand. He shook his head again.

“I need to get ingredients,” he said. “I’ll be back soon.” He made for the exit.

She called after him. “Which recipe did you choose, then?”

“Something else.”

Link returns to her room less than an hour later with a basket in one hand and a skillet in the other. While he’s starting up the wood stove in her sitting room, she peers into the basket, which contains only a half dozen eggs and a daub of butter.

He teaches her how to fry an egg.

How do you like your yolks? he asked, adding the butter to the pan. The princess had no answer; she'd never eaten a simple fried egg.

“However you like them,” she replied. He cracked the first egg with one hand.

He normally preferred a sunny-side-up egg, but they were best accompanied by something else to sop up the yolk. Since he’d neglected to bring any meat or bread, he opted for over easy instead.

“How long are you supposed to cook it?”

Depends on your heat source, and how done you want it.

“So cooking eggs is imprecise, then?” she asked.

Yes, but it’s easier than it sounds. You get a feel for it. He pointed to the egg as it sizzled in the skillet. See there, how the whites are cooked through?

She nodded.

It’s safe to eat now, but first. . . He flipped the egg over. With the spatula in his hand, he spoke. “We cook on the other side too.”

“For how long?”

“Just a few seconds. We want the egg to be solid and the yolk to be runny.”

Once he’s satisfied with the egg, he scoops it from the skillet onto a plate.

“It looks lovely,” Zelda said.

He hummed in response, and stepped away from the stove.

“Now, your turn.”

“But what if I ruin it?”

“Try again. We have six eggs. They’re cheap.”

She struck her first egg too hard against the lip of the pan, and it spilled out of its shell onto the stovetop. Link nudged himself in front of her and cleaned the egg away; then he gave her another egg and bade her try again. She struck the second too timidly, so Link guided her hand with his own, cracking the egg in one deft, practiced motion.

“It’s more in the wrist than the arm,” he said.

He let her continue on her own. As the egg cooked, she kept turning to him for a signal to flip it. Finally, she broke the silence.

“Does it look done to you?”

Does it look done to you? he responded. You’re making it to your taste, it’s done when you say it’s done.

She looked back at the skillet as if it would bite her, making no move to flip the egg. The whites had been cooked through for a while now, so he finally gave in.

“You can flip it now.”

She took up the spatula and offered her best attempt. It wasn’t a clean flip, though, and the egg rolled over itself in the pan before coming to rest upside down. Yolk began to seep out from underneath it.

“Oh, I broke it,” she mumbled.

It’s still good, Link assured her. Finish it up and add it to the plate.

The egg looked pitiful sitting next to Link’s perfect example, but her next two came out much nicer. She had just cracked her fourth—the last of the six eggs—when Link spoke up unbidden.

“Frying eggs is most commoners’ first experience with cooking.” He stood next to her, hands on his hips, watching the egg as it shimmered.

“Was it yours too?” He nodded.

Zelda looked at his face and imagined a much younger Link, cracking eggs and breaking yolks in some modest kitchen, guided perhaps by his mother. She smiled at the image.

“That makes sense,” she murmured.

What was Link’s mother like, she wondered? Did he even have one? Or did he have no one waiting for him outside this castle—no one he’d left behind when he answered the call of duty?

What was his childhood like? It was freer than hers, she was certain. Surely no parent could ever tame a child as headstrong as her knight. But then again, he was so obedient, so willing to be confined by social mores. Perhaps his childhood was not so far removed from hers.

Was he always so reserved? Or did he smile often, and maintain this stoic exterior just for her?

“Princess, the egg—” Link began.

“Oh! Right!” She turned her gaze back to the egg still sitting in the skillet, scooping it out onto the plate. No doubt the yolk would not be runny in that one.

Link split the eggs into two portions; he took the two unimpressive examples on a tea saucer, while she kept the remaining three on the plate. As was his custom, he waited for her to take the first bite. She hummed in delight.

“That’s good!” she said simply, through a mouthful of egg.

He nodded, having little to say in response. She took another bite and yolk began to trail down the side of her mouth. She caught herself after a moment and wiped it away with a tablecloth.

“So sorry about that,” she said, smiling all the while.

Link nodded again, ducked his head over his plate, and attacked his eggs, hoping his blush was not as visible as it felt.

Chapter Text

It’s difficult to examine Link sneakily when he stays a few steps behind her. Walking alongside her was simply not an option; she was the princess and he the protector. To walk alongside her would imply that they were equals, and would only encourage the court gossips to whisper all the louder about her shortcomings. Link knew this was the way of things, and so he stayed back. His movements were efficient and intentional. He always matched her pace even though she knew his own pace was quicker. He always placed himself just to her side, so that onlookers would see her first, gawk appropriately, and then see him and know that they had better behave themselves.

Zelda couldn’t very well observe him right now, while they marched down the hall from one meeting to another, but she didn’t need to. She’d been watching him all morning. He hadn’t said a word all day, which isn’t unusual on its own, but he’d also been looking pointedly away from her. 

He's like this sometimes—even quieter than usual, making himself understood with a nod or the quirk of a brow; never distracted, yet not quite present. She wonders if these are his bad days, when he needs to retreat from everyone. Or maybe they're his good days—when he feels like he doesn't need to put the work in. She could ask him now, she supposes. Now that they're friends.

She’s concerned about him, truly, but part of her is just happy that she’s learned how to read him. To everyone else—and to her, for a long time—he was the archetypal enigmatic Hero. Every day, she’d bear witness to at least one nobleman, soldier, or fawning girl falling over themselves to praise Link’s bravery and dedication. Yet none of them could say that they know him. They know Link, the Hero of Hyrule, destined to save them all. They don’t know the young man named Link who sweats when he’s nervous and coughs to hide a laugh, who subtly glares at anyone who talks down to her, who listens intently to her grappling with physics theories even when it looks like he’s only standing guard. That Link, it would seem, is reserved for her.

As she turned left into the state room where her next meeting was held, she caught a final sidelong glance at him, looking straight ahead, thoughts obviously elsewhere. She only wished she knew what went on in his head.

Fried chicken? Link thought.

It seemed suitable at first, but he quickly dismissed the idea. It was far too early in her cooking education. He just wasn’t comfortable letting the princess anywhere near a vat of hot oil. Between her inexperience and his inability to pay attention to anything but her, a horrible accident was bound to occur.

Pork chops, maybe?

Well, that’s definitely safer. It doesn’t sound all that impressive, though. Not for the princess, anyway.

Cooking for her had become infinitely more complicated now that she was actually cooking with him. For one, all hope of surprise was out the window. Also, his meal selection had become much smaller: Cooking only what could be cooked on the stove in her sitting room (which was only really meant for tea kettles) meant that he couldn’t bake or grill anything, and he would soon run out of things they could cook. Never mind that there was nothing preventing them from simply going to the kitchens and asking to cook there. He couldn’t do that, though, and he hadn’t really stopped to ask himself why. If she asked, he might say it was for Zelda’s benefit—it might reflect badly upon her to be seen taking up a new hobby when she already had so many pressing duties. That wasn’t quite true, though.

Fried potatoes? No, not that. Same problem as the pork chops.

The truth was that he was too fond of the time they spent together. He’d grown to covet those precious moments where he had her to himself. Letting other people—even just the castle staff—view those moments would ruin it; it would destroy the illusion of intimacy that he kept safely tucked away in one corner of his mind.

He looked over at the princess, sitting at the head of the conference table. She was already in the middle of a spirited discussion with one of the finance ministers present. He’d zoned out during the first few minutes of the meeting.

Sushi? It’s eaten cold, and easy to pick up.

No, it made no sense; Impa’s sushi rolls were better than his.

Now she was wearing one of her forced smiles that told him the minister was being rude. He fixed a glare on the man and resumed his pondering.

It used to be so simple: She would glare and scoff at him, and tell him off when he refused to leave her unattended for even a moment, but then she'd try a bite of whatever he'd made for their supper and her hatred of him would give way to tolerance, if only for the rest of the day. She couldn't hide that she enjoyed his food, no matter how much she wanted to cuff him on the side of the head. It wasn't exactly a happy arrangement, sure, but he understood it. He knew what the boundaries were, knew what was expected of him. And there was no room for misplaced hope.

Now they were friends, though, and this new dynamic didn't really sit right with him yet. He'd never worried before about being distracted by how she looked or smelled or felt, but that was when she made a point to stay at least three feet away from him out of sheer disdain. She smiles at him now, and jokes with him, and scoots in close to look over his shoulder when he's cooking—and confound it all, he'd never had to deal with that before.

He was in over his head now, he knew. Cooking for her in secret was already a tremendous risk, but he'd officially dug his own grave by agreeing to teach her to cook.

At some point, the minister had noticed Link glaring, and he'd lost whatever had possessed him to be so forward with the princess. He cowered in his seat now, and she took advantage of the moment and pressed her argument. Link watched her speak and marveled at her passion. Oh well; the grave's already dug, he might as well lie in it. 

Stir fry?

The meeting concluded, and she looked over at him with a celebratory smile on her face. She'd won this day.

Stir fry sounds good.

“Now you’ll add the slow cooking vegetables first, then add the fast cooking ones later.”

“What about the sauce?”

“No, we don’t add the sauce until the end.”

She knew he’d tried to be as hands-off as he could this time. He chopped the meat and vegetables because he still refused to give her a knife, but he’d let her handle everything else more or less on her own, offering advice from the sidelines.

She stood at the stove, wok in hand, stirring the food vigorously while Link sat on the chaise across the room. The silence was comfortable, but Zelda’s mind was abuzz, so she broke it anyway.

“Do you think we would have become friends if you hadn’t saved my life?”

Link stopped fussing with his hair and gave her a look, hands still frozen in his fringe.

“Er, well—not if you’d failed to save me,” she added. “I’d be dead, of course. I mean, if there never came a circumstance where you’d needed to save my life. Or, well, I suppose that’s not really a good way to put it.”

“If that day hadn’t happened?” he supplied.

“Yes!” she breathed a sigh of relief. “If that day in the Gerudo Desert had never occurred, do you think we would still have become friends?”

Link sat upright. He sensed some unknown danger approaching.

“But I did save you, princess.”

She looked away from the wok long enough to offer him a placating smile. “Yes, of course you did! And thank you, by the way. It’s just that. . .”

Link wiped his sweating hands on his knees.

“Do you think I still might have warmed up to you, eventually?” she continued. “Or. . . do you think I would have carried on as I was?”

Link pursed his lips and didn’t respond right away.

“I just find it silly that it took nearly being assassinated for me to muster some basic empathy.”

There it was—the danger. He licked his chapped lips.

“But it happened,” he said. “It’s pointless to wonder what could’ve happened instead.”

“It would be different, though, wouldn’t it?” She stopped stirring and looked at him again. “I wouldn’t have had any sense scared into me, and I’d never have stopped being so frigid.”

“You didn’t become a different person,” he muttered. “You’re just you.”

Zelda winced and turned away from him. That was the wrong thing to say, and he understood why as soon as he said it. His next words bunched up in his throat. He jackknifed off the chaise and rushed to stand where she could see him.

No, he signed frantically. Not what I meant. Not that you’re not better now. You weren’t worse then. That’s what I meant.

He waited for her response, hands hanging limp in front of him. She didn’t offer anything quickly enough, though, so he carried on desperately.

You then is you now. You had it in you to be like you are now. You were like you are now, just not with me. It could have been this way without the attack too.

She stared at his hands, eyes vacant in a way that he’d never seen before. He plowed ahead.

I think we would’ve been friends. His hands shook during his pauses. I do. You didn’t hate me as much near the end, right? You were already softening.

He really did believe that. During the time she hated him, she gradually became less abrasive. After a few months, she’d stopped yelling at him altogether. When they were alone in the wilderness, she’d talk to herself in front of him. After a while, she started talking to him, thinking aloud, using him as a silent notepad for her to jot her musings down on. That had to count for something, even if she wasn’t fond of him.

She still hadn’t responded, and Link was doing all he could not to breathe any louder. He thought of one final, last-ditch thing to say, before he too would close off for the time being.

I didn’t think less of you then. You were nice.

She looked up from his hands, into his eyes, and he stopped breathing altogether.

She searched his eyes for what felt like hours, and Link felt naked. She was a scholar—she would dig and dig until she found her answer. There was nothing to do but sit there under the magnifying glass until she was satisfied.

Nothing escaped her notice in the end, he knew.

Finally, mercifully, she blinked. Her face crumpled, and she fell into him. He stood still as a statue. She’d wrapped her arms fully around him, trapping his arms. His hands still jutted dumbly out behind her, frozen. She heaved a sigh against him.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Finally, he sucked in a ragged breath of his own, and tentatively folded his arms closed around her as well as he could.

He realized now that he was wrong. This was the danger.

As luck would have it, royal business brought them to the market district of Castle Town. While Link had long ago gotten used to the kind of endless bustle found in this part of the city, he still wasn’t used to the hunger. The entire district smelled of street food stalls, and he couldn’t come within a half mile of the place without his stomach growling. This was intentional; the district’s businesses had arrangements with local vendors to set up stalls on the street corners. People entering or leaving the district would grab a bite to eat, and those who came to browse might start at one stall and literally shop their way down the street to the other one. Link recognized the shrewd business tactic for what it was, even as he fell victim to it every time.

“Link, will you find me something to eat?”

He quirked an eyebrow at the princess.

“No, I mean, will you pick something out for me to eat? I have money, of course.”

“Your father has money, you mean.”

She gaped at him, and at first she thought he was being serious. But she noticed his lips pursing and could tell he was trying to hide a grin. He was mocking her!

“Why, you brute!” she gasped, though she couldn't hide her own smile. “I should have you drawn and quartered!” He snickered and bravely took her playful shove. “I never know what to choose at these sorts of places, so I think you should choose something for me.”

He couldn’t argue with that logic. Link loved street food every bit as much as he loved the ostentatious fare served in Hyrule Castle. He’s pretty sure he’s eaten at every regular stall in the city at least once. It’s a secret mission of his to eat at every stall in the entire kingdom. Then he’d truly be Hyrule’s ultimate authority on street food.

For now, though, he’d have to settle for being Hyrule’s savior from a world-ending calamity.

“Sweet or savory?” he asked.

“Savory, of course. It’s midday.”

He hummed his approval and looked around to see what was offered at this end of the street. There was a stall nearby that sold deep fried butter, but it was more sweet than savory if he was being honest, topped with sugar or a syrup drizzle. There was another stall that sold meat and mushroom skewers, but he made those for her almost every time they traveled, and she’d probably want to try something new. He found a fish and chips stall run by a portly fellow who seemed to know what he was doing, so that was his recommendation to the princess.

She approached the stall, where everyone present had already been staring at her for several minutes. In truth, the entire street was aware of her presence from the moment she arrived. The princess of Hyrule can’t walk down a public thoroughfare without making a scene. As she placed her order, Link stood behind her and stared hard at the vendor to discourage any funny business. When she attempted to pay, Link reached around her and slapped his own rupees on the counter. She thanked the vendor and turned away with Link in close pursuit. It was a pretty typical shopping trip for the two of them.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said as they continued down the street, and his pulse ratcheted up in response. If you asked him, the only thinking she’d been doing lately was about how best to send him into cardiac arrest. And being the genius she was, she’d been very productive. “We should try making fried mushrooms next. The first time I tried them was in Lanayru last year. Do you remember? The duke had a wedding or vow renewal or somesuch.”

Link did remember. The duke’s son had so openly and shamelessly flirted with the princess that Link and the king spent the whole evening boiling in silence.

“Anyway, they were delicious and I haven’t eaten them since.” They came to an empty pavilion and sat down to eat.

“Why not have the castle chefs start making them?” he asked. Instead of asking me to sit alone with you in a room while you torture me, he did not include.

“Oh, I intend to, after I learn how to do it myself.”

He crossed his arms on the table. “You know how I feel about letting you handle hot oil.”

“I think you’re worrying too much,” she said.

“People can get hurt mishandling oil.”

“Every time we travel, I ride a horse, which could throw me and trample me to death at any moment. You don’t object to that.”

“Horses are harmless if you handle them properly,” he said.

“And I presume oil is harmless if you handle it properly,” she fired back. “Also, my research involves me handling ancient war machines built with the express purpose of killing people.” She pointed at his face for emphasis. “You don’t object to that.”

He did object to that, actually. But it was one of the only things in this world that made her happy, so he held his tongue.

“Please, Link?” she continued. “I’ve been dying to try them again.”

Honestly, he’d already agreed in his mind. His ability to say no to her had wilted and died long ago, and today was just another reminder of that.

Even this was dangerous now—sitting outdoors, watching her eat golden fried cod, arguing with her in good nature. It was too easy to fall into it, to forget that it was improper, impossible, untrue. He’d already caught himself doing it. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep doing it before he slipped up.

The sword of legend hung on his back, heavy as the day he pulled it and changed his life forever. You can’t unring the bell, he knew.

“Of course, princess,” he said.

She smiled at him, wide and grateful. “Thank you,” she said, and began eating. “Oh, this fish is really good!” When she wiped her mouth and looked back up at him, he was eyeing the fried filets like they were a threat. “Oh, quit pouting, you. We both know you can do better than these.”

He’s grateful that they’re in public, and that royal etiquette keeps him on his side of the table.

Chapter Text

As appointed knight to the princess of Hyrule, Link had only one job, which was self-explanatory. But as captain of the royal guard, he had a litany of other responsibilities, one of them being to inspect the readiness of the guards from time to time. He didn’t particularly enjoy the position it put him in with the men. None of them disliked him, but he didn’t want to take that for granted. He wasn’t very close with any of them, he was much younger than all of them, and he wasn’t born from the same stock. Unlike the rest of the army, most of the royal guard came from noble families; it was a popular place to send younger sons who didn’t stand to inherit any titles. Link was the only commoner among their ranks, and he was meant to command them. It was his duty, though, and he would see to it, no matter his discomfort.

He decided to wait until late morning to visit the barracks; he’d at least give them time to wake up and prepare for the day. He remembered how much he hated wake-up calls when he was stationed in the barracks, and he didn’t want to give them something else to resent him for.

When he finally took his leave of the princess in her study, she broke with tradition. She didn’t bid him farewell over her shoulder or ask him to leave the door open to let in some of the warm springtime air. No, on the contrary, she asked to accompany him. Her schedule was open, she reasoned, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d visited the barracks—and wasn’t that good for morale? To visit the troops?

Link agreed. He figured that adding a surprise visit from a member of the royal family to the inspection should instill in the guards a healthy dose of fear.

He turned out to be both right and wrong. At first, when the guards had caught sight of him with the princess in tow, they dropped whatever they were doing to stand at attention. But after Link had finished his inspection of their quarters—once Zelda opened her mouth and spoke to them—he saw them start to relax. They didn’t break attention, of course. None of them slouched or moved unbidden or otherwise broke a rule that he could point out, and yet he knew the princess had put them all at ease. He couldn’t blame them. She had that effect on people.

He finally let the guards return to their business. The two of them continued to loiter around the barracks well into lunchtime, ostensibly to discuss the readiness of the guards, but really just so that Zelda could observe. They entered the mess hall and she watched as the guards lined up at the counter to receive a bowl of soup and a wedge of cheese.

“What are they eating?” the princess asked.

Ham and potato soup. They serve it here at least once a week.

“How does the military source its provisions? I don’t think that’s come up in my studies yet.”

They have to buy the meat and produce at market like everyone else, he signed, but I think they get the cheese from a milk tax or something.

Zelda’s eyes lit up in recognition. “Yes, of course! The Provisional Dairy Excise! I remember reading about it; it safeguards against food shortages by creating a government stockpile of cheese. Of course they would use it to feed the soldiers as well, that must save so much money!”

Link quirked a brow at her. Of course she’d know; she knows everything. The royal government is hoarding cheese?

The princess nodded enthusiastically.

When there’s an actual apocalypse on the horizon?

The princess nodded again with less enthusiasm.

Nice to hear they have their priorities straight.

The princess stifled her laughter so as not to cause a scene.

They each got a bowl of soup since it was their lunchtime as well, and they claimed a table for themselves at one end of the mess hall. She remarked that it was surprisingly good, and she asked him if the rest of the army ate similar meals to the royal guards. Link shook his head.

It varies. They make soup when they can, it’s easy and filling. More often, it’s a lot of grain, especially rice. Out in the field, it’s usually rations. Salted meat, cured sausages.

“Seems efficient,” she said.

Link nodded. It’s definitely not the worst thing they have to eat.

“What is?”

“Hardtack,” he said. “Meant for long trips without food. It’s like bread, but without all the stuff that makes bread good.”

She snorted. “It’s that bad?” He nodded without hesitation. She looked back at the soldiery enjoying their provisions, wearing her thinking face.

“I want to try it,” she said.

Link winced and shook his head. “No, you don’t.”

She gave him a wry smile; it’d been a while since he outright refused her something. “Yes, I do. Won’t you bring me some?”

“You won’t like it.”

“I know I won’t like it, that’s not the point. I’m curious.”

Link ignored her.

“Link, I would like to try it.”

He stuffed a spoonful of soup into his mouth, and she grinned.

“Link!” she whined. She glanced at the guards again and turned back to him. “I could order you to bring me some, you know. In front of them.”

He finally stopped and looked her in the eye. For a moment, he thought about keeping up the game, daring her to follow through. But it was always more fun in the end to just appease her.

“Okay.” He set his spoon down and rose from his seat.

Link returned with something that looked like an oversized cracker or unadorned cookie. He plopped it down on her tablecloth, and the clattering sound it made startled her. He sat back down beside her and returned to his soup.

“I suppose I just. . .” She picked it up with both hands and raised it to her open mouth.

“No, you’ll chip a tooth,” he said with a mouthful of soup, and she looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “Yes, really. Break it first.”

She tried to pull a piece off with her thumb and forefinger, but it wouldn’t budge. In fact, she noticed as she held the biscuit in her hand, it didn’t have any give at all. Where normal bread would roll and compress in her hand, the stubborn hardtack held its form. She might as well have been holding a rock. Link took it from her hands and showed her how to break it.

“Like this,” he said as he held it fully in both hands and, with considerable effort, snapped it in two. She took the two halves and noticed that they were, of course, just as hard and unyielding as the whole.

“How does one actually eat these?”

He slid her bowl of soup over and dropped one of the halves into it, using the spoon to push it all the way down.

“Like this. You soften it up.”

“Ah. . . And what if you have no soup at hand?”

He shrugged. “Coffee. Tea. Hot water. Cold water.”

Once the hardtack had softened enough that she could break it with her spoon, Zelda tried a bite with her soup.

“Oh! Well, that’s. . .” She grimaced. “. . .certainly a very nuanced flavor.”

Link nodded sagely. “That’s putting it nicely.”

She ate another spoonful and tried to focus on the flavor of the soup, not on the fact that the hardtack tasted at best like stale bread sitting in water. Honestly, she could get the hang of this, if she had to. It’s not pleasant, sure, but it’s not exactly unbearable—

“Oh, and watch out for bugs in there.”

Her spoon clattered back into the bowl. “Okay, I think I’m quite finished.”

Link slurped down the last of his own bowl and wiped his mouth. “Now that that’s out of the way, how about something good?”

They felt lazy, so they made oatmeal. Link had already snuck into the kitchen and made off with some butter and cinnamon, and an assortment of fruits. Zelda topped hers with apple slices, while Link topped his with blackberries. They sat together on the chaise in her sitting room and ate as the wind carried the scent of flowers through the open windows. Zelda observed the blackberries in his bowl.

“Aren’t blueberries the more common option for oatmeal?” she asked.

He nodded. “You have to buy them, though. But blackberries grow wild all over the place where I’m from.” He spooned another bite into his mouth and spoke as he chewed, which he’d never do when eating in public. “I always had it like this growing up.”

“Did your mother often serve you oatmeal?” When he nodded, she smiled and asked, “Is she the one who taught you to cook so well?”

He nodded again. “She grew up having to forage sometimes, so we ate a lot of wild stuff. Blackberries, venison, honey.” He took an even bigger bite and spoke again. “Stuff that’s easy to find.”

She frowned at the mention of poverty. “Did you have to go without meals?”

Link shook his head. “Dad’s guard salary kept us afloat. We ate fine, Ma just had a rough upbringing is all.”

It horrified the princess that, even in an age of relative prosperity, poverty still held sway over many of Hyrule’s citizens. She made a silent vow to address it whenever her time came. Or, better yet, she’d pester her father endlessly about it once this Calamity business was behind them. Assuming they survived it, of course.

“That’s why she likes cooking so much,” Link said, seemingly oblivious to her internal grief. “I think it’s her love language.”

She smiled again as he stared hard into his oatmeal. “That’s a lovely thought.”

“Dad came home from duty one day,” he murmured, “raving about some fancy ball he stood guard for, and how they had all sorts of crazy food. He kept coming back to the creme brulee, because he’d never had it before then. Wouldn’t shut up about it. You could tell he’d had a lot of fun.”

Link set his bowl down on the coffee table and leaned back on the chaise; Zelda hung onto his every word.

“So of course, Ma—she decides right then and there she’s going to learn how to make creme brulee in secret and surprise him with it. And she did; she tracked down a friend of a friend whose aunt worked in some nobleman’s kitchen and took lessons. Paid her by sewing her some clothes so Dad wouldn’t notice any money missing.”

“And did she surprise him? Like she planned?”

He nodded, staring off into space. “She had some waiting for him the next time he came home. She even found one of those little dishes they serve them in.”

“Did he enjoy it?”

“He loved it,” Link said. “He asked her why she went through all the trouble. It wasn’t his favorite dessert or anything, it was just a novelty.”

“And what did she say?”

Link looked her in the eye.

“She said ‘because I love you, that’s all’.”

Zelda found herself unable to speak, the story had struck her so. She almost wished she hadn’t heard it, as if the moment Link’s parents shared was too weighty and pure for other people to even know about. She felt guilty, as if she had stolen a piece of something fundamentally not hers. Link didn’t say more either, though, so maybe he understood that feeling.

“Your parents sound like the happiest people in all of Hyrule,” she finally breathed.

“Yeah. . . Anyway,” he coughed and retrieved his forgotten oatmeal from the coffee table, “that’s why I like blackberries.”

Chapter Text

It was only several days later that he had the chance to cook for her again, and he took it. His morning began just past dawn, and only after he’d already bathed and dressed did he learn that his morning obligations had been postponed for “logistical reasons”. So, with the restless energy of someone who got up early expecting to have to do things, Link looked for something to keep him from returning to his bed. He puttered around his room for a half hour or so, attempting to tidy up a space that had far too few possessions to ever be untidy. His rumbling stomach stopped him, and he realized that with his morning wide open, he’d actually be able to make himself breakfast for once. After a beat passed, he realized that he’d be able to make someone else breakfast too.

He brainstormed. Eggs would be the easiest starting point—easy to source and easy to cook. He still had some mushrooms left over from their recent deep frying adventure (a resounding success, she was delighted). With a little pork sausage, some greens, and good cheese, he could make a frittata. He nodded conspiratorially to himself as he eyed his cast iron cookware. It was all coming together.

By the time the princess rose from her bed, Link had already cooked her breakfast and placed it on a serving tray pilfered from the kitchens. She was at her vanity and brushing her hair when he knocked on her door. She smiled at him through her mirror as he approached and they exchanged pleasantries. Once her hair had been tamed, she tucked into her meal, and they reverted to an easy silence. Whether it was from the gladness of this fine morning or the muffled praise coming from the still-eating princess, Link felt a calm wash over him. The tension he’d been shouldering for the past few days began to ease off of him. The nervous energy building at his fingertips, threatening to crack and sizzle like a greedy tongue of fire, finally bled away.

In the ensuing quietude, he began to idly wonder what he should make next. His stomach rumbling again convinced him that, whatever it should be, he hoped there’d be enough for both of them. Yes, a shared breakfast, not unlike when they traveled. Perhaps they could share a table as well, or a plate or bowl—or a fork so they could share a bite, and a bite so they could share a glance—

Silverware clinked against tableware. The princess had finished her breakfast.

Link smothered the thought. A soldier fights with the weapon he has, not the one he wants. Why daydream about some hypothetical princess when the real one was right here, more brilliant and terrifying than any nymph he could dream up? They were friends; she enjoyed his company, valued his opinions, smiled at him through her mirror. That would always be enough.

The princess rose from her chair and poked a hole in his ballooning daydream. She was still in her robe, and her nightgown underneath it, so she shooed him away so she could finish dressing. Link’s morning may have been open, but hers would not be. With her attending state meetings and him soon to venture outside the castle gates to train visiting knights, they didn’t expect to meet again until later that evening.

Princess Zelda had grown accustomed to the lavish, ostentatious, or otherwise posh meals that the royal kitchens tended to produce. She was, therefore, caught off guard when Link delivered her breakfast that morning and lifted the serving cover to reveal a single frittata with no sides, adornments, or furnishings. It was, frankly, rather understated as far as royal breakfasts went. Then she took a bite, and her misgivings flew out the window and into the morning breeze.

It was a truly singular experience—rich and savory, with no hidden complexities, no needless twists. It was as warm as an unabashed hug and filling enough to make her want to crawl right back into bed to sleep it off. She hadn’t even fully wiped the crumbs from her face when she decided that it should be the next thing on her and Link’s cooking list. She understood what a frittata was, at least conceptually. How hard could it be to make?

Oh, certainly Link was skilled enough to make a frittata every bit as delicious as this one, but she was so enraptured by this example cooked up by the castle chefs that she wanted it to be her starting point. So, she resolved to visit the kitchens early that afternoon and ask for the recipe in person.

She didn’t walk to the kitchens without some hesitation, though. There was an unspoken agreement between her and Link that their cooking adventures should be kept more or less a secret. Equally unspoken was the reason why, which she couldn’t really figure out. It just made some sort of sense. What made sense now, though, was getting that recipe, so she shook off her remaining doubt and strolled down to the kitchens. It was only after she’d made her greetings and waved off several offers of still-fresh food from the cooks that she was able to get her question out.

“I was hoping you’d share with me your recipe for the delightful frittata that I enjoyed this morning.”

The head chef pursed his lips. “It would be my pleasure, your Highness,” he said, “but I regret to say that this kitchen did not serve frittatas for breakfast this morning.”

That was less than helpful. “Are. . . Are you quite sure?” She wore a pained smile—the kind that polite society understands to mean I know it’s not your fault, but that really wasn’t the answer I was looking for.

“Oh, I’m afraid so, your Highness. Breakfast this morning consisted of rhubarb pie and custard. A bit sweeter than usual for starting one’s day, to be sure, but I did not think you would find it disagreeable.”

“But it was just this morning; I remember it quite well: A frittata with sausage and those delightful little mushrooms,” She made a diminutive gesture with her hand, and then, as if to prove her memory was sound: “and-and crepes yesterday! With blackberries and a honey drizzle.”

“Erm, your Highness. . .” The head chef faltered, clearly unused to having to correct his superiors. “I’m rather afraid that we did not serve crepes yesterday.”

Zelda’s polite smile gave way to a look of plain bewilderment.

“For that matter, your Highness—even if we had, our recipe quite clearly calls for a spread of coulis, not something as derivative as honey.” He waved the notion away with his hand. The princess seemed no less confused, though, so he offered her a written copy of that week’s menu as proof. Sure enough, a frittata was nowhere to be seen in the week’s lineup—or crepes, for that matter.

“Perhaps your Highness was served a frittata by request?” he suggested. “Perhaps I simply wasn’t informed of it; I can certainly ask my cooks if you’d like to put the matter to rest.” It’s true; a member of the royal court could request a special meal anytime they wanted—but she hadn’t. At least he was being nice and only indirectly suggesting she was being forgetful.

That begged the question: Why’d she get different meals? The kitchen staff were nothing if not consistent, and Link had retrieved all of her meals for the past few weeks. How in the world could he have not noticed she was getting something different from everyone else?

“. . . we ate a lot of wild stuff. Blackberries, venison, honey.”

She flinched as if she’d been stung. That. . . No, that was silly.

She was prepared to dismiss the passing thought for what it was and just let the head chef make his inquiries. Perhaps one of the staff was just doing a little menu alteration without telling anyone, or maybe there was a mixup and she’d received someone else’s special order—her father’s, perhaps.

. . . she hadn’t needed to go hungry in a while, had she? Link had always brought her something to eat when she missed lunch.

No. She had to know.

“Ah, no, no, you’re right!” she blathered, laughing as if they were sharing a hearty joke. “Of course! I simply forgot—I had ordered those meals. Thank you so much for your help!”

The head chef gave a gracious nod, no less perplexed than before.

“Actually,” she continued, “I don’t suppose. . . Do you keep copies of past weeks’ menus?”

“Of course; for the entire year, in fact. For posterity’s sake.”

“Might I borrow some of them? For the past two months, perhaps? I’d just like to refresh my memory.”

He produced the menus without question and she thanked him once more. She retreated to her study with them in tow, throwing them all on her desk in a heap. She could recall having several meals in the past few months which had stood out to her in the moment. She wracked her brain, trying to remember them all in perfect detail—an impossible task for any mind but hers. While she couldn’t pin down exact days, she managed to frame them all within certain weeks, and that was enough to work from.

She’d just about convinced herself that she was mistaken and had prepared to haul the stack of papers back to the kitchen when she found the first one—a normal week with normal meals, but no mention of a dessert she knew she’d had around that time.

So it was him. It had to be. He knew what she liked and disliked; knew when she had off days or needed a distraction or just wanted something sweet. It wasn’t like anyone else could sneak strange food into her serving tray; he was too vigilant.

She didn’t exactly mind, but why not tell her? Why the subterfuge? Did he not want to receive compliments? He was humble, sure—frustratingly so. But it wasn’t a secret that he was an excellent cook. He was teaching her to cook now, and he never shied away from cooking for her when they were traveling. Surely he knew she’d appreciate such a friendly gesture, so why go to such lengths to keep it from her?

“I think it’s her love language.”

She froze in her seat. Then, she scoffed and shook her head.

No, that was too implausible, and it was quite a leap of a conclusion for her to jump to. She pointedly ignored that odd part of herself and stopped for a moment to really consider the image of Link as a closet romantic. She snickered at her own foolishness and carried on.

It wasn’t very easy to dismiss that particular suspicion, though, because once she noticed the first error, she had no trouble finding the others. Almost in perfect order, she began to single out all the areas that were missing culinary experiences that really should have been there. A different breakfast here, a missing brunch there, dinners with altered sides suited to her preference. Like a trickle of water they came at her, but it began to feel like cracks in a dam.

I didn’t think less of you then. You were nice.

She shook her head again as if she could shoo the thought away like a fly buzzing in her ear. It was a funny idea at first, but she really needed to focus; perhaps it wasn’t him, but a major breach in castle security, and she needed to get to the bottom of it! Perhaps she should get a report on the kitchen staff’s comings and goings. . .

Was it really all that funny of an idea, though? It surely would be an unpleasant secret to keep. She couldn’t imagine having to hide an infatuation with someone she had to follow everywhere, someone she couldn’t ignore or hide from. She’d probably be a nervous wreck, trying not to make a fool of herself and keeping her distance and avoiding eye contact and-and. . .

. . .and not talking.

She curled her hands into fists and stopped herself. No. She didn’t need to feel bad for Link because he was not infatuated with her, and cooking is not a vehicle for his affection, and she was merely entertaining a ludicrous idea because that’s how she liked to pass her time. And even if it were true, would surely have gone mad when she asked him to teach her to cook. . .

Again, it was mere coincidence, or so she told herself. At first glance, and only at first glance, it looked almost as if she had enjoyed a menu that was customized to her liking, filled with favorite desserts, lavish breakfasts, and decadent snacks which seemed to appear specifically during weeks when she was under the most stress—

It was absurd; hilarious, really. She could almost laugh. She felt like she needed air, but her window was already open to the breeze. Was she going insane?

It wasn’t true. No, she was quite sure of that, thank you very much.

“He asked her why she went through all the trouble.”

It was impossible.

“And what did she say?”

Wasn’t it?

Link looked her in the eye.

She slammed the menus back on her desk and backed away from them as if they bit her.

It was true.

Chapter Text

Zelda stood motionless for many seconds—a minute or two. She rolled the idea around in her head, feeling the heft and shape of it. It was how she learned to deal with difficult ideas. If she took the time to really look at it, and not shy away from it, then it would seem less frightening, and the solution would be less elusive. She’d be able to rationalize it and come to a decision. She needed that rational mind now more than ever, she thought.

She called a servant, canceled what meetings she had the authority to cancel for that day, and locked herself away in her study. She had much to think about, she decided, before her faithful knight returned to her side that evening.

Link heard a commotion across the clearing and turned just in time to watch yet another six-foot barrel of a man get thrown from the back of a horse, much to the enjoyment of his peers. Unsurprising.

These knights were used to riding warhorses—tall, muscled beasts trained to charge headlong into a skirmish, kicking, biting, and trampling. That was all well and good for a frontline soldier, but if they wanted to become royal guards, they would have to adjust their skillset.

Link’s task for the day was to help train aspiring royal guards on the finer points of horseback riding. To that end, they were situated in a picturesque clearing a few miles from Hyrule Castle—just Link, his fellow instructors, and about two dozen battle-hardened knights, all on horseback.

Dealing with trainees was always a grating experience for Link. These men were all seasoned combat veterans with years of military experience, and back where they came from, they were at the top of their social hierarchy, experts in their field. But here, as royal guard trainees, they were subordinates again, and they would have to take in orders and new information from a boy younger than the youngest of them. It usually took a while for them to adjust. Manly pride is a tough obstacle to overcome.

Today’s exercise was an excellent example. The royal guard did not employ warhorses in their stables; they had no need of them. Instead, they rode scouting horses, bred and trained for speed and deftness above all else. The logic was simple: If royal guards ever needed to leave the castle, then they surely needed to get where they were going as fast as possible. They wouldn’t be riding off into a pitched battle, they’d be delivering urgent messages, escorting important individuals, or engaging in covert missions for the king.

Scout horses are fast, smart, and agile. They’re trained to respond to the subtlest of instructions in the blink of an eye. This is why the training is necessary. The trainees are used to riding horses that need to be shoved and prodded and goaded into a frenzy. All of their instructions are equally urgent, and the scout horses respond as they’re trained to—with matching urgency. The first few hours of each field trip always consist of men getting thrown or unintentionally sending their horses jumping or sprinting every which way.

Link watched as the other knights helped their comrade to his feet while the instructors placated the angry horse. He asked himself the same question that came to him a few times a week: What’s he doing here, anyway?

The exact context of the question was different each time. Today it was: What’s he doing bossing around men much older and more experienced than him? Most of these fellows were old enough to be his father; unlike him, they were landed, accomplished, and probably happily married.

The question came to him again and again as the context warped. What’s he doing playing hero to a kingdom that expects the world of him? What’s he doing running puppy-eyed after a girl who he had no right to even pursue?

What’s he doing cooking for her, as if it were some cute game—as if there weren’t consequences to being found out? What’s he doing teaching her to cook, as if he could handle that—as if it wouldn’t eat him alive inside?

Though the question differed each time he asked himself, the answer was always the same: Link was being foolish. It was his most reliable trait; one that could be counted on to surface above all others.

An impatient rumble came from below him, and he returned to the outside world to see Epona eyeing a wild apple tree in the distance, seemingly oblivious to all the horse-business going on around her.

It really wasn’t good practice to encourage flightiness or impulse in a horse, he knew. They should both be focused on the matter at hand, on the real world. But then a breeze rolled in over the plain, carrying the distant scent of honeysuckle and the promise of rain, and Link thought that maybe his horse had a point. There were still things to look forward to, and maybe burying himself in his problems didn’t make them more bearable after all.

He led Epona to the apple tree, and she nickered happily in response.

Zelda sat and took in the full scope of the disaster she’d unknowingly caused.

Link was in love with her, or at least infatuated with her—or, no, it had to be love, he was far too purposeful and deliberate in his actions for this to be some passing fancy. He’d begun to cook for her in secret as his own private display of affection. She, in her infinite lunacy, decided at that exact time to take up cooking as a study, and practically press-ganged him into helping her. In effect, she had leaned too far into his advances and tortured him with a cruel mimicry of them.

She grimaced and chewed on her fingernails. How in the world could such a colossal blunder be accidental on her part? Did she really allow him to lower his guard with months of friendship, just to jab what might be his only weakness?

Would she ever stop hurting him?

Clearly he needed this as an outlet. Perhaps it relieved stress, or made him feel something meaningful. This whole debacle was a damning indictment of her abilities as a friend. She couldn’t make him feel safe enough to share this with her. Of course she would turn out to be just as underwhelming of a friend as she was a princess. Link deserved that safety just as much as she did—it was the least she could do to reciprocate.

She realized that Link meant safety to her. She would be dead at least twice over were it not for him, and the attempts on her life rattled her enough that she couldn’t bear to be in a crowd without him close by. Empty hallways and open wilderness made her blood run cold like they never did before, and it pained her to admit that she could probably never enjoy exploring nature again without knowing he was tending to a campfire nearby.

The old her would feel smothered by him; now she feels only warmth.

It was more than physical safety, though, wasn’t it? He knew her better than anyone else, and he was the only one who didn’t judge her. Pampered courtiers spread cheap gossip about her, and her father’s useless councilors remained perpetually disappointed in her for not somehow saving the world already. The rest of the kingdom was an entirely different animal; their opinion of her seemed to change each day. Through it all, though, Link remained steadfastly in her corner—safe, solid, and reliable. He understood better than anyone what kind of pressure she was under, since he felt it as much as she did.

She paced about the room, taking the occasional seat only to spring back up again once the angle of her thoughts shifted. She’d laugh about her antics if she only stopped long enough to notice.

Were they even compatible? “Birds of a feather”, and all that? Then again, people also say that opposites attract. Were they opposites? In a way, sure. She had mastered several areas of study, while Link had mastered the art of personal combat. But Link’s skills weren’t only physical. He was a skilled rider, he had a keen understanding of the wilderness and all that lived there, and it went without saying that he was an excellent cook. Link was frighteningly sharp; he could probably learn any subject she could teach. And he listened so well! She jumped down academic rabbit holes often enough to drive a normal person insane, but whenever she started rambling, he would offer her his full attention. He’d even chime in with questions and comments of his own when he understood the subject matter.

She rested her head in one of her hands and smiled. No, being with him would not be so bad, she thought.

She waxed hypothetical for a moment. What would an ideal courtship with Link look like for her?

They would travel more—find political excuses to journey somewhere and then take their sweet time getting there. Enjoy the wilderness, study the plants, bring home an absurd amount of samples. She’d veer off the roads and into the bushes at the first sight of something interesting, and he’d put up with it.

They would support each other. At the end of a long morning, she would pour her anxieties out for him and he would listen without judgment until she was downright ragged. On the quiet evenings, he’d take advantage of a moment alone, heave a sigh, and admit that he didn’t want to get out of bed that morning.

They would cook more. Oh, Link would do the bulk of it, of course, but he would keep teaching her. They could chat about their day over a boiling pot or a sizzling pan and tell each other, Oh, you wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. . .

It took her a moment to realize that the warm feeling she was brushing up against wasn’t comfort, or some wistful enjoyment of a pleasant idea. It was familiarity. She and Link already did most of those things.

Being with him wasn’t so bad.

Could she love him, though? She considered all the great loves in her life. She loved the sciences, but they existed in the abstract; they could not love her back. She loved her father, cold as he was, and she knew he reciprocated. She loved her mother, or what she could remember of her. She loved the Champions; they were dear friends even if they could not always be near. And, of course, she loved Link. He was one of the Champions, one of her dear friends.

Even as she thought it, though, she knew it was half-hearted reasoning. Link was altogether different. He was her best friend. His presence didn’t just feel natural, it felt right. Serendipitous, even.

They were destined to be together as heroes, saviors of the kingdom. Would it really be so bad if destiny had more in mind than that?

The final realization came easily, almost anticlimactically, and her supercharged brain almost tripped over it and sped right past. Without realizing it, she had burned through all of the conflicts and quandaries and obstacles piling up before her. She expected to have to do more reasoning and figuring to arrive at her answer, but it was already sitting in her lap, small and quaint, like a purring cat waiting to be acknowledged:

She’d like that very much.

She startled, as if it had threaded itself between her ankles. She stopped to greet this new presence, and couldn’t help but smile.

Was this what it felt like to fall in love, she wondered? Surely not. It was supposed to be sudden, loud, arresting. It was supposed to knock the wind out of her and set her heart aflame, but she didn’t feel any of that. If anything, she felt calm, and warm, as if she were enveloped by a blanket. In this moment, she could just as well be sitting in a big chair, mulling over a nap—or propped up against a shade tree with a book in her hand. It felt too simple, too familiar, like it hadn’t been that far away at all.

She realized with a certain satisfaction that this must be what it felt like to learn that you were already in love. . . and probably had been for a while.

Chapter Text

Spring gave way to summer in Hyrule in its typical fashion: The days grew longer, yet the weeks grew shorter. The sun blessed the citizenry with more hours of light, and extra work appeared out of thin air to fill the time. It was not so gradual this year, though. It took only one week for the new season to barge in and make itself at home, and the whole kingdom had changed accordingly. The craftsmen and cottagers bustled about a little quicker, the soldiers stood a little straighter, and the food ate a little better.

Even the princess had reacted to the change. She'd burrowed deeper into her work, flitting from meeting to meeting at an enviable pace. They were both so busy that Link had barely seen her all week. When he did see her, she looked harried and distracted, as if the weight of her duties had taken root in her head and wouldn't let go. He hoped they’d be able to travel again soon so she could put it all out of her mind for a while.

As it was, he’d been traveling on his own. He’d received a missive the day before from a small garrison nearby asking for his help in tracking and running off a band of monsters that had moved into the area. There were a lot of remote homesteads in the region, and the longer this group went unchecked, the more likely it was that some poor family would be set upon. He started his journey the same day with only the barest essentials in tow.

It would be a hard ride—two days there and back at a steady gallop, few breaks, and no detours. No campfires, either, which meant no hunting. He’d get by with cold rice porridge, dried peach slices, and a bedroll under the stars.

The first night, he chose to make camp at the edge of a large green clearing. It would be the last open land he’d see before his trip took him into a forest tucked away in the hills. Camping out in the open was always safer than in the woods; more so when monsters were about. You could see things coming from far away, and sound carried further across the open grass than through the trees. If you were unlucky and you needed to run, well, at least your horse would have plenty of room to gallop.

He lay on the ground under a clear, glassy sky, and thought back to earlier that day, when he’d told the princess he would leave on urgent business.

He found her at her desk, as usual. A formidable stack of economic reports stood on the left side of the desk and threatened to topple over into her lap. With a practiced hand, she grabbed the report on the top of the stack, considered it, signed and stamped where necessary, and deposited it at the top of a corresponding stack on the right side of the desk before repeating the cycle. It usually took about two hours for the entire stack of reports to cross from one side of the desk to the other. She looked only halfway done this time.

“Princess,” he said.

“Yes, hello, Link,” she replied without looking up at him.

This wasn’t what deep work typically looked like for her. She hunched forward over the desk, her eyes much closer to the pages than really necessary. The windows remained shut to keep the breeze from disturbing the mountain of paper, depriving the room of any ventilation. Warm, still air clung to his face and arms, and he pulled at his tunic. She felt it too, he saw. She’d rolled up the sleeves of her dress and pulled her long hair into a haphazard ponytail to keep it from suffocating her. Poor thing.

“Monsters are encroaching on some towns in the next county over,” he continued. “They’ve asked me to help deal with them.”

She nodded. “Yes, of course, that’s fine.”

“I need to leave today. I’ll be gone for at least two days, maybe three.”

She nodded again, and faster—one of her placating gestures. “Yes, yes, that’s alright. I should be fine. Go right ahead.”

Link paused again. He’d expected more of a conversation about this. He shifted on his feet.

“Is there anything you need before I leave?”

She continued to scan the paper in front of her as she listened, her eyebrows raised and her head pitched slightly in his direction to show she was indeed paying attention. “No, I’m quite alright, thank you. You’re free to go.”

Link paused one final time before nodding at her and turning toward the door.

“Oh! And while you’re gone. . .”

He whirled back around to regard her. She was still focused on the desk, signing her name and reaching for a stamp.

“You should think about what we're going to cook next while you’re out and about. If my memory serves correctly, it’s your turn to pick.”

Link pursed his lips and looked at the floor. It was better than nothing, so he took it.

“Of course, princess,” he said.

He thought about this exchange now, as he lay on his bedroll and watched Epona graze a few feet away.

She’d all but kicked him out of her study. It had been a long time since she’d spoken so. . .crisply to him.

His breath drew short and panic seized him for a moment as he wondered if she’d gone back to hating him, but it passed just as quickly. Princess Zelda was not passive aggressive; if she took any new issue with him, she’d have told him by now.

He looked up at the clear night sky and searched for constellations.

She was probably overworked. It wouldn’t be the first time the bureaucratic pipeline briefly decongested and left her with a sudden glut of paperwork. Link hoped she wasn’t trying to work through the night again. He’d worked so hard to dissuade her from wearing herself down like that.

Something stirred in the bushes next to him, and he sat upright. As he turned, a rabbit darted out of the bushes and into the treeline, kicking up little clods of black soil as it went. He looked down at his hand to find it gripping the hilt of the Master Sword beside him, ready to strike. He scoffed at himself. He knew what a rabbit in the bushes sounded like. All this worrying left him on edge.

He settled down onto the bedroll again and tried to put the princess out of his mind for now. He looked up at the sky again and resumed his search. A few sparse clouds had begun to drift into view overhead, and the sky was no longer an unspoiled pool of starlight, but there was still plenty to see. After a while, he managed to find Naydra’s Ladle. He smiled at how fitting it was.

If he’d spent most of that day buried in his own head, then he spent most of the next day as far outside of it as possible. In very short order, he’d arrived at the barracks which sent for him and had been debriefed. He and a party of soldiers soon journeyed back out into the wilderness to pick up the monsters’ trail. Of course, tracking them would not be the hard part; rather, catching up to them would be. The roving band never stopped moving, and so the better part of Link’s day was spent on horseback, trying to erase every possible inch of ground between them. When the monsters and the hunting party finally met, it was with an ugly clash. Link spent most of the melee on horseback as well, which he loathed. In the end, almost half of the stubborn creatures had to be put down before the rest turned tail and fled. Link and the soldiers chased and harried them several miles until they finally ran beyond the borders of civilization and back into the deep wild.

It was a punishing ordeal, but they had tracked the monsters down and driven them away in a single day—a task which normally took several—and none of the surrounding homes had been seriously bothered in the meantime. Link stuck around only long enough to be thanked for his aid, and then he was on the road again.

He’d crossed a small stream on his first trip through, and he came to it again on the trip back. This time, he stopped to rest at it, filling his waterskin and unsaddling Epona to wash off the foam that had accumulated on her coat. At length, he chose to bathe himself too, and both boy and horse left the stream feeling much more optimistic about the journey home. When he made camp that night, it was in another clearing. He sat under the stars and ate his meager dinner, and he wondered what he would pay right now for some meat. The little chef in his mind began to cycle through all the savory possibilities, and he decided that now was as good a time as any to decide what he and the princess would cook next. Goodness, were there plenty of options. Grilled fish fillets, pork tenderloin, roast duck, pot pies, piping hot sausages, meatballs. . .

Meatballs! He loved the fried meatballs one could find on a street corner in Castle Town, and that was usually his go-to, but quite frankly, they’d eaten quite a bit of fried food lately, and the summer breeze made him long for a taste of home. His mother had a fantastic pork meatball recipe that she served with pilaf. It was one of his favorites, and she trotted it out almost every time he went home to visit. It was simple enough to make, and all the ingredients could be found within Castle Town—he wouldn’t even have to take a detour.

Link grinned. He could think of nothing he’d rather share with the princess right now. He scoffed the rest of his porridge and turned in for the night, his mind awash with the rich color of pork and the airy scent of rice.

They sprawled across her chaise, happy and fattened. In a chivalrous gesture, Link offered Zelda the last meatball left on his plate, and secretly rejoiced when she declined. As he chewed it, he took stock of the meal. It wasn’t as good as his mother made it; something wasn’t quite the same. Maybe he got the seasoning wrong? Or maybe it was something that couldn’t be measured, some fundamental quality to a mother’s cooking. The princess seemed quite satisfied, though, so he shrugged it off.

“You know, there’s one benefit to learning to cook that I had not foreseen,” Zelda said with no preamble.

“Hm?”

“I’ve gained an acute appreciation for the utility of ground meat.”

“Mm.”

“It’s honestly quite odd that it isn’t used more in fine dining; it seems perfectly suited for it.” She licked a spot of cream sauce off the corner of her mouth. “One could grind up a few pounds of beef, and then eat it each night for a week and not have the same meal twice. Honestly, how has the gentry not capitalized on this?”

“Mm,” said Link, sagely, “poor people food.”

“Ah. Well, that’s stupid.” She folded her arms, and Link only shrugged.

After a while, Link rose to take their dirty dishes from the coffee table in front of them. The princess rose as well to rummage around in her roll-top desk. He placed the dishes on an end table in the back corner of her bedroom, well out of view of the sitting room, where they would wait until it was time for him to sneak them back into the kitchens. He returned to the sitting room to find the princess sitting upright on the chaise, having just placed a small, shallow ceramic dish on the table in front of her. He froze in the entryway as it caught his eye.

“Surely you saved room for dessert,” she said, and placed a clean spoon on the table.

Link’s easy smile disappeared as he noticed what was sitting on the table, and time slowed to a horrible, molasses-thick crawl.

There, on Princess Zelda’s coffee table, was a saucer of creme brulee, beautifully browned, with no sides or accompaniments—nothing to distract from the thing itself. Unavoidable. Damning.

Many seconds passed and Link remained perfectly still. Finally, and with a frown, he spoke.

“Where did you get that?”

The princess smiled.

“I made it myself,” she said with an adorable lilt to her voice. It was likely pride, but it felt to him more like brazenness—courting with danger.

His eyes flicked to her for just a moment, and then back to the dessert. She was busy all week, away from him, and she waited until he left the castle. . .

Nothing escaped her notice in the end, he knew.

He opened his mouth and inhaled as if to speak again, but hesitated and closed it again. He rubbed the fingers of his sword hand together.

He knew what he was supposed to say next, how the rest of it went. But did the gesture mean what he thought it meant? He had to be reading too much into it. It was platonic—a token of friendship, or a “thank you” for teaching her to cook. She was never one to leave gratitude unexpressed.

She rose and walked around the table so that they stood eye to eye, and he flinched when she spoke again.

“Go on,” she said with a reassuring smile, and when he looked at her in confusion, she elaborated. “Ask me.”

He shouldn’t do this, he knew. Their current dynamic, while not ideal to him, was appropriate. It was safe . They had their lives, they had their social standing, and they had each other—as great friends. That was enough for him, or so he told himself. He should snub her; he should implore her to drop the matter, to let it go, and wake up to a normal world in the morning. He should.

But it was always more fun in the end to just appease her.

“Why did you go—”

She knew that interrupting him would probably make the recreation a little less authentic, of course. But as she grabbed his collar and hauled his lips to hers, she decided that he’d just have to forgive her.

Chapter Text

“You know, the last time you tried to make this, you didn’t tell me that bouillabaisse is an expensive delicacy.”

He only shrugged in response and continued chopping the vegetables, his hands lit by one of the sparse threads of sunlight that managed to pierce the shade.

“And just how many times have you surreptitiously cooked lavish delicacies for me while we were out in the wilderness?”

“Not enough,” he mumbled. She would have tackled him to the ground and kissed him then if he’d not been holding a knife. She remained on her bedroll instead, open book in hand, and he carried on chopping, blissfully unaware.

They camped under a copse of tall, ancient trees, tucked away in some forgotten corner of Necluda. The branches stretched and yawned far enough to create a canopy that shaded them amply from the summer sun, and the cool, dense earth underneath would hold their tents and bedrolls very well.

She hummed in acknowledgement. “And what’s for supper tomorrow?”

“Leftovers,” he said. “It’s a big pot.”

“You don’t think the two of us will be able to finish it all tonight?”

He pursed his lips at the simmering pot between them.

“Maybe you’re right. I packed some smoked salmon too; we should be fine if we can’t stretch the soup through tomorrow.”

“So we’re having an expensive and famously cosmopolitan soup today, followed immediately by preserved fish tomorrow?”

Link looked up from his cutting board.

“Yes?” he said, unsure. “Is that bad?”

“Mm, no, I suppose not.” Her fingers strummed idly on the ground beside her, not quite digging into the packed earth. “It just seems like an odd succession of meals, don’t you think? Patrician to plebeian, if you will.”

Link shrugged. “They both taste good,” he said. “Who cares what rich people think?”

“If only most people thought as you did, Link. How much happier we’d all be.”

He scraped the vegetables into the pot and stirred. “I think most people do think that way; they just don’t want to seem tacky.”

As he shifted toward the pot, the sunbeam caught his hair and splintered, casting a blanket of light across his fringe. Zelda smiled at him.

The princess had made an accurate prediction, as usual. They each ate as much soup as they could take in that night, and by morning, just enough was left to serve as a wholesome breakfast. Smoked salmon would be their evening meal, along with whatever else they could scrape together.

They decided to camp here for another day. The air was warm and breezy, the shade was ample, and sure, they were traveling on official business, but Hyrule is a big place, and who hasn’t experienced the occasional delay? No one would bat an eye if they arrived a little late. Zelda found some lichens growing on a few of the trees and made a study of them, and Link busied himself by hunting around for some wild vegetables. The day passed easily as they alternated between tending to their own tasks and helping each other and getting lost in conversation. Link rested his head on Zelda’s shoulder as she lectured him on the taxonomy of lichens, and Zelda threaded her hand into Link’s as they traipsed through the trees in search of wild mushrooms. Neither frantic nor languid, it was a day that both of them would have paid a fortune for.

The sun painted all the sky with its orange hue in the evening, only to steal it all back once it slipped down beyond the treetops. Night crept in.

They never did find any vegetables, and so they contented themselves to a simple dinner of packed smoked salmon. Link had bought a jar of wild honey from a passing trader the day before, and as they heated their salmon over the fire that night, Link ate his with a healthy bite of honeycomb. Zelda looked at him as he chewed, cheeks packed, with honey and fish grease smeared across his mouth, and she laughed.

“Look at you!” she said, and he looked back defensively. “Honey and salmon—and such a mess! You’re practically a black bear!”

He set his food down and, with sticky hands, signed something to the effect of Don’t knock it until you try it.

She did try it, and while she didn’t care for the waxy texture of the comb, she found that the equally strong flavors of wild honey and smoked salmon were quite complementary, if unconventional.

Once the fish was gone and the honey was quite diminished, they sat in a comfortable silence by the fire. Link had licked his fingers clean and wiped the mess from his face, and Zelda had given up trying to read by firelight. It was nearly bedtime, they knew. They savored the final moments of the day together.

Link reflected on the week that had passed since the princess confronted him. He spent most of his time feeling delirious, as if he was dreaming. Sometimes he felt more like some thief who’d made off with the most valuable treasure in all of Hyrule—and that someday, he’d finally be caught by the authorities and all would be put back to normal. He didn’t have any right to her, or to the kind of life that her courtship would bring.

She caught his eye as he watched her from across the fire, and she gave him a radiant smile. It struck him that this smile was more important than all the others she gave him. It said new things and made new promises.

More than anything, though, Link felt hungry. He put his worries aside and started planning tomorrow’s breakfast.